The First Councel

Finally, I’d like to thank all of the talented and wonderful people at my new publisher, Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, Claire Zion, Bruce Paonessa, Peter Mauceri, Harry Helm, and all of the incredibly nice people who made this book a reality and always make me feel like part of the family. Special thanks also go out to Jamie Raab, not only for her editorial input, but for being one of our biggest supporters. Her warmth and energy never cease to amaze. Finally, I want to thank the two editors who worked on this book, Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon. From the very start, Rob Weisbach lent his creative talents to every level of our publishing experience, and we wouldn’t be here without him. His influence can be felt on every page, and though I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Rob has real vision and we’ve always been blessed to be a part of it. I owe him my career and I cherish his friendship. At Warner, Rob McMahon is a true gentleman who picked up our proverbial ball and ran with it. We couldn’t be luckier. His editorial comments were insightful beyond belief and he always pushed me to reach beyond what I thought was possible. Rob, we’d be lost without you. So to Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon, I will always appreciate your energy, but I am far more thankful for your faith.

CHAPTER 1

I’m afraid of heights, snakes, normalcy, mediocrity, Hollywood, the initial silence of an empty house, the enduring darkness of a poorly lit street, evil clowns, professional failure, the intellectual impact of Barbie dolls, letting my father down, being paralyzed, hospitals, doctors, the cancer that killed my mother, dying unexpectedly, dying for a stupid reason, dying painfully, and, worst of all, dying alone. But I’m not afraid of power-which is why I work in the White House.

As I sit in the passenger seat of my beat-up, rusty blue Jeep, I can’t help but stare at my date, the beautiful young woman who’s driving my car. Her long, thin fingers hold the steering wheel in a commanding grip that lets both of us know who’s in charge. I could care less, though-as the car flies up Connecticut Avenue, I’m far more content studying the way her short black hair licks the back of her neck. For security reasons, we keep the windows closed, but that doesn’t stop her from opening the sunroof. Letting the warm, early-September air sweep through her hair, she leans back and enjoys the freedom. She then adds her final personal touch to the car: She turns on the radio, flips through my preset stations, and shakes her head.

“This is what you like?” Nora asks. “Talk radio?”

“It’s for work.” Pointing to the dashboard and hoping to be cool, I add, “The last one has music.”

She calls my bluff and hits the last button. More talk radio. “You always this predictable?” she asks.

“Only when I-” Before I can finish, the shriek of an electric guitar pierces my eardrum. She’s found her station.

Tapping her thumbs against the steering wheel and bobbing her head to the beat, Nora looks completely alive.

“This is what you like?” I shout back over the noise. “Thrash radio?”

“Only way to stay young,” she says with a grin. She’s kicking my shins and she loves it. At twenty-two years of age, Nora Hartson is smart. And way too confident. She knows I’m self-conscious about the difference in our ages-she knew it the first moment I told her I was twenty-nine. She didn’t care, though.

“Think that’s going to scare me off?” she had asked.

“If it does, that’s your mistake.”

That’s when I had her. She needed the challenge. Especially a sexual one. For too long, things had been easy for her. And as Nora is so keenly aware, there’s no fun in always getting what you want. The thing is, that’s likely to be her lot in life. For better or worse, that’s her power. Nora is attractive, engaging, and extremely captivating. She’s also the daughter of the President of the United States.

As I said, I’m not afraid of power.

The car heads toward Dupont Circle, and I glance at my watch, wondering when our first date is going to end. It’s quarter past eleven, but Nora seems to just be getting started. As we pull up to a place called Tequila Mockingbird, I roll my eyes. “Another bar?”

“You gotta have at least a little foreplay,” she teases. I look over like I hear it all the time. It doesn’t fool her for a second. God, I love America. “Besides,” she adds, “this is a good one-no one knows this place.”

“So we’ll actually have some privacy?” Instinctively, I check the rearview mirror. The black Chevy Suburban that followed us out of the White House gate and to every subsequent stop we made is still right behind us. The Secret Service never lets go.

“Don’t worry about them,” she says. “They don’t know what’s coming.”