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you. And don’t worry, I’m fine. I made it out alive.”
    “Barely,” she heard her rescuer say.
    Ignoring the angry mumble, she raised her arm and waved a few times. “You see me?”
    “I see you.” Jesse sighed. “Don’t move. Dave ’n’ I will make our way over to you.”
    “No, stay there,” she said, shoving a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Get some footage of the riot. I’ll head back in a minute and do a live report.”
    “Are you frickin’ kidding— ”
    “From the van,” she quickly cut in. “Promise.”
    “Fine. Get back here, Becks. This crowd is nuts.”
    They hung up, and Rebecca glanced at the man who’d saved her life. “So...” She tilted her head. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
    “I’m Nick. Nick Prescott.” He ran a hand through his hair, which was dark and thick, with a slight wave to it.
    Again, that appealing scent floated in her direction. Subtle aftershave, soap, pure masculinity. She studied him, taking in the dark blue T-shirt that clung to every ridge and contour of his defined chest. The long legs encased in olive-green cargo pants. That classically handsome face.
    It was odd—the man moved and behaved like a soldier, yet he gave off an aristocratic air. He came from wealth. She’d wager anything on it, even her most prized possession: the certificate listing her as a Pulitzer prize finalist, which was pinned to her bulletin board back home. Because she’d worked the White House beat when she’d first started out, she’d grown skilled at figuring out who was rich and who wasn’t, sometimes from just one quick look.
    And this man was definitely rich.
    Nick.
    The name suddenly registered in her head. Wait a minute...
    “What?” he muttered, seemingly uncomfortable by her scrutiny.
    “Nick Prescott,” she echoed, fighting a rush of suspicion. “And what exactly do you do, Nick?”
    He shrugged. “I’m a journalist, same as you.”
    Bullcrap.
    She narrowed her eyes. “Print or television?”
    “Print. Freelance.” He answered smoothly, his previous discomfort having vanished. “Most of my pieces are featured in smaller publications. Nothing quite as impressive as your résumé.”
    He flashed her a boyish grin, but Rebecca saw right through it. Ha. Did he honestly think he could distract her by stroking her ego? She was a shark, for Pete’s sake. And sharks never got distracted from their course, not after they’d caught a whiff of blood.
    That feeling of familiarity grew stronger, teased her, nudged the back of her mind. Darn it. Where the heck did she know him from?
    She swiftly scanned her mental databases, recalling the sources she’d relied on over the years, the conflicts she’d covered, the political figures she’d interviewed, the—
    Back it up, Becks.
    She frowned. Political figures. All right. Was this man a politician? A member of an influential family with fingers in the White House pie?
    As far as she knew, there weren’t any powerful Prescotts in D.C. She worked the name over in her head a few times. Nick Prescott. Prescott. Nick. Nick Pres— Recognition slammed into her like a tidal wave.
    No, she wasn’t familiar with a Nick Prescott.
    She did, however, know of a Nick Barrett .
    Holy crap!
    Rebecca nearly gasped, but managed to curb the reaction at the last second. She couldn’t let him know she’d figured it out. If he was using a fake name, then that meant he didn’t want to alert anybody to his presence, and if he was going out of his way to hide his presence, then that meant...
    Oh yeah, there was a story here, all right. No doubt about it.
    And there was also no doubt in her mind that she was, at this very moment, in the company of Nick Barrett.
    The son of America’s secretary of defense.

Chapter 3
    D amn, this woman was appealing. Her mouth fascinated him entirely too much. Sexy and pouty and rosy-red, with a plump bottom lip that made Nick’s own mouth tingle with the urge to kiss her. And his fingers