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ONE

Lexi Carmichael

Mid-May, three weeks after the wedding

We were being stalked…again.

Not by a serial killer, vicious animals, or high-paid assassins. No, it was even worse. We were being relentlessly pursued by groups of paparazzi that had followed our every move since our wedding.

It wassonot cool.

My name is Lexi Carmichael, and if you ask me, I’m not worth following around for even one minute. I can’t imagine a single sane person in this entire world who would care about what I’m wearing, where I’m going, or what I’m bringing home to eat. I’m just a girl in love with numbers, code, hacking, and my new husband, Slash. Being chased by grown men and women hiding in bushes or running down grocery store aisles trying to photograph us while screaming stupid questions is mindboggling. Why people care so much about a couple of geeks just trying to do their jobs is a complete mystery to me.

Sure, we have friends and family in powerful positions, but that’s no reason to follow us around like a pack of hyenas. We’re entitled to our privacy.

I glanced in the passenger’s side mirror. The car tailing us since we’d left the house had edged closer as the traffic became heavier. Clearly, the dark-green Subaru following us was more concerned about losing us than being spotted. I glanced over at Slash. He drove as if he was unaware of the presence behind us, but I knew he knew the precise location of the car. He was calm, a pro at evasion. But for me, it was different. I’m an anxious introvert and loathe attention of any kind. This paparazzi thing is an introvert’s nightmare, and it was far too common of late.

I hate it.

Slash must have sensed my distress, because he reached over to pat my hand. “Forget about it. We’re going to have a lovely evening.”

None of this was his fault, and I didn’t blame him for it. He was as much a victim of the attention as I was. He couldn’t help that the pope was a surrogate father to him, as much I couldn’t help my friendship with the US president and his wife. We also couldn’t help that the world had gone bonkers and warfare had moved largely into the shadows of cyberspace, where we happened to be experts in demand.

Anonymous experts.

At least, we were trying to keep it that way. We preferred a veil of secrecy to properly conduct our work, but a lot of crazy people were suddenly out to destroy that just because we had friends in high places. People wanted to know who we were and why such powerful people had attended our recent wedding. Many of our friends and family had been contacted or followed. They’d had to block numerous calls and ignore multiple cash-for-information requests. Fortunately for us, our friends were mostly amused, with a touch of annoyance, over the attention they were receiving.

So, I’d be damned if I let it ruin an important night in our lives.

Not tonight, you idiots.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my dress over my knees. I was in a dress…again, which was a bit of a shocker. These last two years I’d transformed from a complete loner who didn’t know a thing about fashion, gamed incessantly, and ate Cheerios for dinner to a married woman with nice clothes who had lots of friends. Well, lots of friends by my standards. And to be perfectly clear, I hadn’t given up either gaming or Cheerios, I’d just widened my horizons.

But right now, my emotions were a mixture of anticipation and weariness. I’d put on a cream-colored dress with a mint cardigan perfectly matching Slash’s tie and pocket square, because tonight was an important evening for us. We were going to share a private and romantic dinner and decide where we were going for our honeymoon. We’d been doing research on potential locations independently. While I was confident in the quality of my recommendation, I could read Slash well enough now to know he’d come up with something special, too. This discussion was long overdue after the hurricane of our wedding and the media whirlwind ever since. But if we wanted a quiet dinner and a private discussion on this fine spring night, we had to take care of something else first.

Our tail.

Three of the four cars that had started tailing us from our house were lost long ago. Slash had detected several tracking tags hidden on our car, so he’d scooped them up and placed them on random cars in large, poorly lit parking lots with multiple exits as we drove around. He now seemed unconcerned about the remaining tail, who was clearly following us by sight and not electronics.

“Showtime,” he said, skillfully swinging the car around to the front of a small French café in downtown Washington, DC, that we liked.

He gave me a smile, so I gave him one back. When we exited the car, I noticed the Subaru parked not far away. The driver was fussing with something in his lap.

Probably getting a camera ready.

Slash made a big deal of opening the car door on my side and made little effort to remain unobserved. I let my long hair fall across my face like a curtain. No need to provide a free shot. The restaurant, with large, glass front windows that reflected the lighted view of several historical statues in the park across the street, was a known location where we had shared a meal a few days after our wedding. We’d been filmed through the windows as we ate by almost a dozen paparazzi. It made me sick when I saw the pictures.

I hoped tonight’s dinner would be a lot more private.

Slash handed the car keys off to the young man operating the valet parking and briefly spoke with him. After giving him a nice tip, Slash took my arm, steering me inside through the double doors.

The maître d’ was waiting to greet us and nodded to his left. “Your table is waiting, as requested. I hope you’ll find all the arrangements satisfactory.”

“I’m sure we will,” Slash replied. “We appreciate your assistance and discretion.”

“Of course, sir. You’re welcome here any time.”

The small table was partially obscured from the front windows by a partition. Slash offered me the seat with the view out the windows, then took my cardigan and hung it over the back of the chair as he seated me. Slash took a seat out of sight of the windows and partially facing the dining room. We made small talk until the waiter brought water to our table. A brief nod of Slash’s head as I sipped my water indicated it was, indeed, showtime.