The Scarlet Pepper Read Online Free PDF Page B

Milo, the overgrown presidential puppy, would happen.
    The fluffy fifty-pound, six-month-old goldendoodle had developed a bad habit of digging in the lawns and gardens. Lately the task of cleaning up both the garden and Milo’s muddy paws fell into my lap.
    Lorenzo conveniently kept his distance whenever Milo was in need of a bath, claiming to be allergic. I suspected he wasn’t allergic to dogs, but to dirt.
    “I thought you were looking forward to the volunteer appreciation tea. What’s happened?” Gordon asked Lorenzo.
    Lorenzo’s tanned cheeks turned a strange shade of puce. “I…um…will be busy that afternoon. I…I have a date.”
    “You do?” I shouted, overjoyed to hear it. His former girlfriend had been tragically murdered this past spring, which had crushed him. Both Gordon and I had been worried about his dark mood for months. “That’s wonderful news! Who is she? Do we know her?”
    “Um…” Lorenzo rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s stick to talking about gardening.” He swiveled his chair back around to face his desk.
    Although I was the new girl in the group—Gordon and Lorenzo had worked together for the past seven years—I had hoped Lorenzo would have accepted my laurel leaf of friendship by now. We worked long hours together, sacrificing nearly all of our social lives to make sure the grounds always had a showroom shine. Apparently, because the First Lady had personally hired me to develop and implement an organic gardening program at the White House, Lorenzo would always view me as an outsider and a threat.
    “Ohh-kaay,” I said as I frowned at the back of Lorenzo’s head. “Perhaps we could—” I stopped when my desk phone rang.
    The brisk, no-nonsense Secret Service agent on theother end of the line skipped the greeting and said, “Ms. Calhoun, we have a situation at the northwest gate.”
    “A situation?” I sat up straighter, causing my desk chair to let out a loud squeak.
    There was no reason for anyone in the Secret Service to contact me, an assistant gardener, about any kind of situation that would concern the security ofthe White House, unless I was somehow responsible for causing it.
    After that disastrous training session at the Secret Service training center, I’d been trying to keep a low profile and avoid any and all “situations.”
    Oh, hell, whatever it was, I’d simply have to fix it.
    Lorenzo had turned around and was watching me with an expression of concern until he realized I’d noticed. He quickly spun back to his desk.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    The Secret Service agent didn’t answer right away, which wasn’t a good sign. “Mrs. Dearing is at the northwest gate.”
    “Francesca?”
    “Yes, ma’am. She’s brought a guest that she insists you need to meet. She said you asked her to bring him here.”
    “She did?” I hadn’t asked Francesca to bring anyone to the White House. And I still had no idea why the Secret Service would consider anyone at the gate a situation. “So what’s the problem?”
    “Mrs. Dearing’s guest hasn’t been properly vetted. We can’t admit him. You should have known that,” he scolded. “You’ll have to come out here.”
    “That’s not a problem. I’ll be right out.”
    I started to hang up, but stopped myself. There had to be something else going on.
    Secret Service agents didn’t rattle easily. On a day-to-day basis they calmly dealt with dozens of suspected threats against the President in addition to managing overzealous protesters and the occasional mentally ill patient looking to make the six o’clock news. The men and women who protected the White House and its important residents were too well trained to be bothered by something as simple as an unexpected visitor. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
    “Ma’am…” A low chuckle garbled his words. “Mrs. Dearing’s guest, well, he seems to be wearing a skirt.”

Chapter Three

    Sometimes I wake at night in the White