The New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Fern Michaels delivers her signature mix of thrilling twists and relatable heroines in this exciting novel following an independent woman driven by passion and bound by duty in Washington, DC. Resourceful and steadfast FBI agent Quinn Star has always relied on herself—how else could she have survived the boys club of the FBI or navigated the heartbreak of a thwarted affair with her boss? Today, Quinn risks her life every day in the Secret Service as she protects the First Lady of the United States. But unfortunately, she can’t safeguard her from the ruthless advisors who are intent on hiding the President’s debilitating illness for their political gain. Suspecting a conspiracy that places the fate of the President, his wife—and the nation—on the line, Quinn whisks the First Lady out of the capital to her South Carolina home. But are they truly safe from whoever is pulling the strings in this lethal game? And Quinn’s fortitude is tested further when a mysterious lover emerges from the shadows of the past... "Fern Michaels's characters are so real and endearing...that it seems you are witnessing the story rather than reading about it." New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels has a passion for romance, often with a dash of suspense and drama. It stems from her other joys in life—her family, animals, and historic home. She is usually found in South Carolina, where she is either tapping out stories on her computer, rescuing or supporting animal organizations, or dabbling in some kind of historical restoration. The Real Deal 1 Washington, DC November 2007 The sun was barely over the horizon when Quinn Star exited her narrow four-story house in Georgetown. She locked the door, jiggling the knob to be certain it was locked before she pocketed the key in her baggy sweatpants. She ran in place, her mind whirling with what was on her agenda for the day. She took a moment to savor the cold, crisp November air, taking deep breaths and watching the little puffs of steam when she exhaled. She loved this time of the day in the nation’s capital. The day was new and fresh, not yet tarnished with smog, corruption, and deal making in the most famous city in the world. Not that she was a part of the corruption and horse trading, but she did read the papers. There was corruption everywhere, even in the heartland, and the real deal making, as everyone in Washington knew, went on in the cloakrooms on the Hill and behind closed doors. Sometimes on the golf course or tennis court. She thanked God the way she did every morning at this time that she was no longer a part of the federal government. On those rare times when she couldn’t fall asleep, she thought about Ezra Lapufsky and their time together, her face burning with her thoughts. Their relationship certainly hadn’t been perfect, neither had her job. In fact, both had been riddled with problems. Both she and Puff should have known better than to get involved with a coworker, but they’d gone ahead and forged a relationship anyway. For almost three long years. Puff had been everything she’d wanted in a man. He was kind, gentle, had a wicked sense of humor, and he’d said he loved her. The only problem was, he loved his job more. An eerie feeling settled between her shoulder blades as she looked over her shoulder, not once, but twice. She didn’t see anyone lurking about, but the feeling stayed with her as she started off at a slow trot. Her feet didn’t pick up speed until she hit O Street, where she ran at full throttle till she came to the crossroads of Wisconsin and M. She waved to other runners, people whose faces were familiar but whose names she didn’t know. There was Super Stud and his chocolate Lab. He waved. She waved back. Directly behind him was a woman she called Gypsy Rose Lee, in skimpy shorts and something that looked like a bustier. “I hope your tits freeze,” Quinn muttered to herself. She turned to look behind her again because of the hard, clomping footfalls she heard. The donut man, puffing along at an uneven gait, so bundled up he could barely move. Quinn concentrated on the pavement in front of her. Time to turn around and head home. She was a block ahead of herself today. On M, she was just in time to see a figure dart behind a tall, bare sycamore tree. A chill raced up her spine as the donut man chugged past her. Is someone watching me? Who? Why? Some lunatic with a penchant for a woman who looks like a bag lady at a quarter to six in the morning? If it’s a stalker, why isn’t he stalking the hot-looking chick in the bustier? Quinn lengthened her strides and flew down the street. She careened around the corner ten minutes later and galloped up the steps to her tall, skinny Federal house. Safe inside, she turned the dead bolt. Her breathing was ragged as she leaned back against the door, her body trembling. She didn’t know why. Federal Circuit Court Judge Alexander Duval, Quinn