At Any Cost by Cara Ellison

“Okay. Daddy?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œStay calm,” he answered. He mumbled, “One minute,” to someone else—a personal assistant, press secretary, chief of staff. This was just another to-do in her father’s long list of action items. She was interrupting him with her problems. She hung up and turned to Tom.
    â€œI need to go home.” She moved toward the door of her office, but Tom grabbed the sleeve of her coat. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me get the limos lined up first.”
    In the haze of terror that had enveloped her, she recognized, dimly, that he was trying to protect her. No doubt word had spread through the office that a search warrant had been served, but if she ran out, white with shock, and he was issuing orders into his cuff mike, it would only excite more gossip.
    â€œOkay,” she nodded. She shut her eyes, trying to find some equilibrium between extreme happiness and pure fucking hell .
    Tom quickly conveyed the information and then opened the door for her, walked with her to the elevators, pushed the buttons, and got her the hell out of there.
    At the door of her loft, Fallon was shaking so violently she could not fit her key into the lock.
    â€œLet me,” Tom said, and inserted the key. “Check it out. I’ll wait here.”
    Leaving the door open, she disappeared inside. Tom pushed the door wide on its hinges, looking for any obvious sign of disturbance in the apartment. He watched Fallon hurry up a staircase of wide, broad glass or Lucite stairs—they were clear, which Tom found unsettling for some reason. Entering a protectee’s home was beyond the purview of his job. Nevertheless, he took a step inside the foyer to get a better look around. Everything looked normal, but his neck was crawling weirdly.
    â€œAll clear?” he called from the doorway.
    From the interior depths of the loft, Fallon called, “I’ll be right there.” After a few tense moments, she descended the stairs. “Would you come inside? I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared they’re going to show up any minute.”
    After a moment of hesitation, he entered, leaving the door open.
    Fallon’s loft was full of Bohemian charm. Overstuffed cream and jewel tone furniture was spread over what seemed to be an acre of clear space, made more dramatic by the cathedral ceiling and a sinuously curved glass wall extended the entire length of the loft, admitting a sweeping view of the Potomac River and green-gray hills of Arlington, Virginia. She was a woman who needed to see the world—literally. African masks and several good pieces of modern abstract art hung on the walls. Colorful vases and figurines were placed unobtrusively throughout the room—collectibles from the farthest reaches of the world. On one wall, an assortment of black and white photographs showed Fallon in various exotic locales: Fallon in a Jeep with a family of giraffes behind her; Fallon at the Taj Mahal; Fallon and her friend Gwen with their arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning into the camera with the Eiffel Tower behind them. Several pictures featured Fallon with her young brother Evan. He was tow-haired with a stiff, lopsided smile. Tom averted his eyes from those pictures, unable to tolerate the creamy sweetness of them.
    Fallon’s jittery, unsettled movements and restless energy reminded him of a hummingbird or bumblebee. She looked beyond scared as she whipped open the cabinets in her immaculate, modern kitchen. Even terrified out of her wits, she was so stunning that Tom’s breath arrested in his chest. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to think of her as just a protectee.
    Fallon poured two glasses of soda, then added a generous splash of rum to one. She kept that one and offered the soft drink to Tom.
    She took a long swig then set it on the counter. “Tell me again what the warrant