Page 1 of Edge of Honor

CHAPTER 1

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY

Scot Harvath’s six-month honeymoon had been fantastic. He and Sølvi had traveled the world and had spared no expense.

Upon landing back in the U.S., he’d introduced her to his favorite ritual. Once they had cleared passport control and Customs, he’d sought out the best cheeseburger and coldest beer he could find.It was good to be home.

Despite the length of their trip, it now all felt like a blur. After getting married in Oslo, they’d spent a week on the fjord; a “mini-moon” as Sølvi had called it, before buttoning up her apartment and requesting an open-ended leave of absence from the Norwegian Intelligence Service.

With those boxes ticked, they celebrated an early Christmas with her family and then hopped a flight back to the States. There they attended the christening of their goddaughter, celebrated Christmas with friends, and passed a few days as Scot tied up some of his own loose ends.

He had wanted to make a clean break with his past, which meant officially resigning from the Carlton Group—the private intelligence agency he had worked for. Once that was complete, they were free.

After visiting his aging mother on the west coast, they booked a flight to New Zealand and spent their new year chasing the sun and warm temperatures across the Southern Hemisphere.

In the spring, they headed north to Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand before dropping in on Scot’s friends in India.

From there they traveled to Greece, where they rented a beautifulvilla with an uninterrupted view of the sea and swam in the clearest, bluest water either of them had ever seen. On many nights, after multiple glasses of wine, there was talk of never leaving; of making this their new permanent home.

But despite how much they enjoyed the island lifestyle, they eventually grew restless and wanted to get back on the road.

They sailed to Italy next and, after exploring it thoroughly, traveled through Austria, Switzerland, and France before surrendering Europe to the throngs of summer tourists and flying back to D.C.

The crowds notwithstanding, their goal had always been to return by the Fourth of July. Sølvi was married to an American now, and outside of attending a couple of celebrations at the U.S. Embassy in Oslo, she had never properly experienced the holiday. Harvath intended to change that and to give her an Independence Day she’d never forget.

Washington, D.C., was renowned for putting on the ultimate July Fourth fireworks show. Next to the Inaugural Ball and the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, the only thing harder to score prime seats for was the annual fireworks display.

You could drag a blanket or a couple of folding chairs down to the National Mall but it would be beyond packed. And if the Park Police caught you with any alcohol whatsoever, you’d be in front of a firing squad by morning. Not exactly Harvath’s idea of a good time.

Better would be to score one of the coveted VIP invitations to watch the display from the South Lawn of the White House or the Speaker’s Balcony at the U.S. Capitol.

The Canadian Embassy was also known for throwing a nice, invitation-only event on their rooftop, but Harvath was hoping not to have to “leave” the United States in order to celebrate America’s birthday.

He had put a few feelers out, but with a brand-new administration having just been sworn in, he didn’t have the kind of White House connections he once had. He had even less pull in Congress and the new Speaker’s office.

The Fourth of July was a week from Friday. All of the swanky hotel rooftops and bars had already been sold out. Anyone who owned a boat and planned to watch the show from the water was at capacity. Short ofchartering a helicopter and hovering just outside the restricted airspace, he was running out of options.

Making matters worse, Sølvi had received a pair of invites to the Norwegian ambassador’s Midsummer party within days of their D.C. arrival. Apparently, being a deputy director for the NIS, even one on an open-ended leave, had its perks.

The fact that she had scored such a coveted D.C. invitation only amplified his desire to create the perfect Fourth of July experience. He was nothing if not competitive. So, too, was Sølvi.

She also had a fantastic sense of humor. If she ended up delivering the better summer celebration, he’d have to hear about it for the rest of the year. That wasn’t something he was going to let happen. It was red, white, and blue—or bust.

Getting ready for the embassy Midsummer party, Sølvi had been blasting ABBA. When Scot brought up the fact that the group was from the country next-door to hers and that she was appropriating Swedish culture, she smiled and gave him the finger. Closing the door to their bedroom, she turned it up even louder.

Twenty minutes later, the music stopped, and he heard her coming down the stairs. When she stepped into the kitchen, he was blown away.

She wasn’t wearing the traditional Norwegian folk dress known as abunad. Instead she wore a very sexy, white sheer dress that showed off her long legs and toned, tanned arms.

Her blond hair was pulled back and up in a high ponytail, just the way Scot liked it, allowing you to see a thin blue line of script that ran from the base of her neck to the midpoint of her spine. The words were from French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre.Il est impossible d’apprécier la lumière sans connaître les ténèbres. It is impossible to appreciate the light without knowing the darkness.

The quote summed up Sølvi perfectly. She had known hardship and heartbreak—both in her professional and her personal lives. Instead of allowing those things to beat her down, she had used them to make herself stronger. It was one of the many things Scot loved about her. The fact that she was off-the-charts smartanddrop-dead gorgeous didn’t hurt either.

“Come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close so he could kiss her. “You look gorgeous.”

“And you look very chic,” she replied, kissing him back.

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