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attends the tournament at Flushing Meadows.”
    â€œInterpol? So how did you get this information? Don’t the Secret Service and Homeland Security have primary responsibility for protecting—”
    â€œInterpol sent its information to the Central Intelligence Agency,” he interrupted. “Tennis is an international sport, with players and coaches from a lot of nations with grudges against the United States, and presumably someone who might want to kill the president. The CIA decided the threat deserved investigation, so they contacted me. I work for them on occasion.”
    Kristin felt like laughing, but there was nothing amusing about Max’s stony expression. “On occasion? So you’re what? A private investigator or something?”
    â€œA covert operative,” he said.
    â€œA spy?” she asked incredulously.
    He nodded curtly.
    Then she did laugh. “That’s crazy, Max. I don’t believe you. Show me some credentials.”
    â€œI work undercover. I don’t carry credentials. Or a gun,” he added, anticipating her next question.
    â€œWhy would the CIA hire you? I mean, you’re just a rich playboy.”
    He raised a sardonic brow. “Who better to hobnob with wealthy drug czars playing polo in Argentina or attending the Carnival in Rio. Or munitions dealers gambling in Monte Carlo, or Arab terrorists playing tennis in Dubai?
    â€œI have infamous parents. Outrageous siblings. I’m a peer of the realm, Lord Maxwell, youngest son of the Duchess of Blackthorne and her cruel—or is it crazy?—billionaire husband. Who would ever suspect me of spying? Which is why I’m so good at what I do.”
    His explanation made surprising sense. She asked the next obvious question. “Why me?”
    â€œShort answer? You’re a world-class tennis player who also happens to be a trained FBI agent.”
    â€œI still don’t get it,” Kristin said.
    â€œFoster drew the logical inference that if an attack was going to be made at a tennis locale in the States, the attacker might have some connection to tennis. He—or she—might be a coach, a player or someone working for a player or in a player’s family. He figured we might intercept the assassin if we send someone undercover to another tennis venue in advance of the U.S. Open. After some discussion, Wimbledon was selected over the French Open.”
    That also made sense, Kristin conceded. The French Open was at the end of the month, which didn’t leave much time for planning.
    â€œThe CIA figured since I have a tennis background, and I live in London, I’m the logical person to infiltrate the professional tennis locker rooms at Wimbledon and listen for what I might hear about an assassination attempt on the president.”
    Kristin made a face. “I haven’t played professional tennis for the past ten years.”
    â€œNeither have I,” Max replied. “Which is why the CIAarranged with Scotland Yard—and the cooperation of the All England Lawn Tennis Club—for an exhibition mixed doubles match to be played prior to opening day at Wimbledon. Since Foster knew you and I were friends when we played junior tennis, he suggested you as my doubles partner.”
    â€œI didn’t know your uncle knew we were friends.”
    Max didn’t reply to her non sequitur. He rubbed a hand across his nape and said, “I told him this was a bad idea.”
    â€œBecause I haven’t played tennis for ten years?”
    â€œThat. And because of what happened between us.”
    There it was. The elephant in the room. Kristin said nothing, because she had no idea what to say.
    He eyed her and said into the silence, “I knew it would be hard—maybe impossible—for us to work together. But I couldn’t very well explain why to my CIA boss or my uncle. Especially since I’m not quite sure myself what happened.”
    He’d