Betrayal (2 page)

“Yep. I’m calling from my cell phone. I got your office number from information. Why don’t you come down and have a drink with
me? I’m in the Leopard Lounge. I’ll be the woman in the pink mask with silver rhinestones around the eyes.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to ignore his rising erection. He’d made a promise not to fuck around with the clients anymore, but the wicked voice in his left ear kept saying,
Why not? Michele will never know
.

“Aw, come on, sexy, don’t be a spoilsport. It’s just a drink, and if you’re good, maybe I’ll let you take me to one of the private booths in the back of the lounge so I can whisper nasty sexual positions in your ear.” Lexi was a relentless temptress, saying all the right words, breaking down Trey’s resolve. She had desired him from the first moment she laid eyes on him, and though it had taken her a year to have a conversation with him, she was still determined to win him over.

He looked at the invoices and checks on his desk and thought,
Fuck it, it’s just a drink
. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be down.”

After hanging up the phone, Trey crossed the office to his private bathroom. He changed from a white oxford shirt into his signature black wife beater, and kept on his bulge-hugging jeans. He opened one of the bureau drawers to his left, took out his black leather, onyx embellished mask and strapped it on. He abandoned the paperwork on his desk and headed out of the office.

The second floor of the Black Door was bathed in soothing indigo lighting. Trey strutted down the long hallway like a panther en route to slay his prey. As he made his way toward the Leopard Lounge, he caught sight of a statuesque woman wearing a red negligee and a familiar looking red mask. He squinted his eyes against the dim lighting, trying to get a better view.
No, it can’t be her
, he thought.

The last time he’d seen that red patent-leather mask was when it concealed the face of Ariel Vaughn, his father’s then fiancée, as he fucked her into another realm of ecstasy. At the time he had no clue that he was coveting his father’s woman. Life could be cruel; just when he thought he had found “the one,” she turned out to be someone else’s “one.” Trey had put Ariel out of his mind, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. She was now married to his father, and strictly off limits. He knew that “man law” totally forbade him from
looking at her lustfully anymore, but deep down inside, he still desired her, and he felt like a Judas every time those thoughts entered his head.

The woman in red retreated into another chamber of the club, and out of an animalistic instinct, he followed closely behind. When he was within touching distance, he reached out and gently put his hand on her shoulder. The moment she turned around to face him, his heart caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but was speechless….

JUSTICE PRESTON
Hendricks sat behind the masculine mahogany desk in his home office, perusing the mail. This task was normally left to his personal assistant, Michele Richards, but she was out of the office at the moment, so Preston decided to do the honors himself, since he had no other pressing matters to attend to. He picked up an invitation from the two-tiered in-box, and looked at the writing. Written in gold calligraphy across the front of the envelope was
Justice and Mrs. Preston Hendricks
. He touched the lettering and smiled as he read his name, not once but twice. He never tired of seeing and saying his official title. Preston had worked tirelessly throughout his career—from lowly associate, to respected law partner, to federal appeals judge—to achieve his lifelong dream of sitting on the Supreme Court. The dream began for him as a young man growing up in the turbulent civil rights era, watching helplessly on television as countless men, women, and children in the South were brutalized on a regular basis as they tried to demand the same rights as their Caucasian counterparts. It infuriated Preston as he read about the struggles of his people, who were being persecuted in order to have the right to vote, to attend integrated schools, to dine where they pleased,
and to sip water out of a fountain that wasn’t designated
colored
. He made a promise some forty years ago that one day he’d be in a position to affect the laws that governed not only his people, but the entire U. S. of A. However, that promise was nearly broken when Preston suffered a mild stroke during the prenomination process. The stroke threatened to ruin his chances of sitting on the Supreme Court, but with the help of his friend, Senator Oglesby, who used his considerable clout in the media as well as politics to keep Preston’s medical records from becoming a negative sticking point, his vision was now a reality. Besides, his doctors assured him (and the senator), that aside from the short-term memory loss he was currently experiencing, he was as healthy as a thoroughbred. Preston had lost track of the last seventy-two hours prior to the stroke, but the doctor told him not to worry, that eventually his memory would return. Preston attributed the stroke to all the hard work he had been doing trying to secure the nomination. Now that he was confirmed, his schedule was considerably lighter. He didn’t have to split his time between working as a judge in New York and flying off to Washington for an impromptu meeting with the senator. Though he kept his town house in Manhattan, he and his wife took up permanent residence in the nation’s capital.

He reached for the silver-plated letter opener to his right, slid the blade into the top of the envelope, and sliced it open. He took out the invitation, read it, and then discarded it in his wastebasket. When Preston and his wife Ariel first arrived in Washington as newlyweds, Senator Oglesby and his wife, Angelica—who were well connected—made sure that the Hendrickses were included on every major guest list in town. And they attended functions almost every evening during their inaugural months. Now that their social standing was well established, Preston didn’t feel the need to attend every party that they were invited to.

“I thought going through and disposing of the mail was my job,” Michele said, walking into his office the moment the invitation landed in the trash.

Michele Richards had been working as Preston’s personal assistant
for over a year, and was extremely loyal and efficient. He had hired her to coordinate his Washington agenda before he won the nomination, and she had done a stellar job. Now that he was a justice, he was grateful to have such a dedicated person on his team. He only wished that Ariel shared his enthusiasm about Michele. From the first day the two women met on a trip from New York to Washington, Ariel had her doubts about the brazen young assistant. Michele’s personality was extremely outgoing and friendly, and she often referred to Preston by his first name instead of addressing him by his official title, only fueling Ariel’s suspicions. Initially, Ariel thought that Michele had the hots for Preston, which he thought was totally absurd, since he was old enough to be the young woman’s father. But the age difference didn’t stop Ariel’s paranoia, so to quell her suspicions, he encouraged his son Trey to date Michele. Only then did Ariel ease up on her accusations, but Preston could sense that his wife still had an eyebrow raised when it came to Michele, because whenever he mentioned his assistant’s name, she would cringe slightly.

“Well, if you were here to do your job, I wouldn’t have to do it for you,” he teased, looking up at her. Preston and Michele shared a comfortable working relationship and joked easily with each other—to the chagrin of his wife.

Michele took off her coat and folded it across the arm of the sofa that was near the door. She wore a royal blue knit dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her midsection was cinched with a wide, black leather belt, making her small waist seem even smaller. She was fond of sheer, unconstructed bras that didn’t restrict the movement of her breasts, or repress her nipples. Since she was a full C cup, she didn’t need padded push-up bras for enhancement like some women. As she made her way toward Preston’s desk, her boobs bounced freely with each step. Her raven hair was swept back in a long ponytail. Her makeup was minimal, with just a touch of blush, mascara, and a dusty rose lip gloss that complemented her copper-colored skin. If it wasn’t for the imprint of her thimble-sized nipples against the snug knit fabric and the tight belt, her appearance would have been considered politically correct instead of enticingly provocative.

Michele reached into the trash, retrieved the invitation, and quickly read it. “You’re
not
going to the cocktail party for Bill and Hillary?” she asked with a quizzical expression on her face.

“I would love to, but I have a previous engagement the same night, so I’ll have to decline,” he said, writing on a piece of paper in front of him.

“Where’s the response card? It’ll look bad if you don’t at least send back the RSVP. You know, D.C. is all about protocol, and you don’t want to be known as the justice who never responds,” she said, talking to him as if she were the boss.

“The RSVP card is right here. I didn’t throw it away,” he said, putting his pen down and holding up the card. “I had no intention of not responding. Thank you very much,” he said sarcastically.

Michele stepped closer and took the card out of his hand. “I’ll make sure this goes into the outgoing mail today.”

“Good. Can you also send an arrangement of flowers to Mrs. Oglesby? I spoke with Senator Oglesby earlier today, and he reminded me about the birthday dinner he’s hosting at their home tomorrow night.”

Robert Oglesby and Preston’s friendship dated back to their college days at Georgetown Law, and they had remained close ever since. Even though there had been a few bumps in the road as of late, they were friends nonetheless.

“Sure, and I’ll have the card signed
Happy Birthday, Love Preston and Ariel.”

Before Preston could issue another task, the telephone rang. Michele reached over and picked up the receiver. “Justice Hendricks’s office. Michele speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Well, hello, Michele. It’s Laird Forester. How are you?” asked the man on the other end of the line.

“I’m fine, Congressman Forester, and yourself?” she asked out of politeness.

“Great, now that I’m speaking to you,” he said, in a come-hither voice.

Michele ignored his tone, and said, “Hold on. I’ll see if Justice
Hendricks is available.” She depressed the hold button and asked Preston, “Do you want to speak to him?”

“Yes, but before you go, can you take the mail out of my in-box and sort through everything?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, scooping up the contents of the box.

Once Michele had left the room and closed the door behind her, Preston picked up the phone. “Hey there, Laird, what do you know good?”

“I know you have a good-looking assistant. I saw her today at lunch, and couldn’t help but notice how delectable her knockers looked in that tight outfit. She must have been cold, because her nipples were firm and poking against the dress. I don’t know how you work with her and not get a hard-on. If my assistant was as hot as yours, I’d have her taking dictation on her knees, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled.

Laird Forester was a seasoned congressman, and a well-known figure on the Hill. Though he was in his mid-sixties, he was well preserved. He jogged five miles every morning and steered away from eating red meat. He didn’t smoke and only drank socially. He still had a full head of blond hair, and even though the color came straight out of a bottle, it was the same shade of his youthful locks. The hair complemented his ice blue eyes. In his heyday, he had been called the “golden boy” and was on the radar of every woman in Washington. Laird did his fair share of sleeping around, but eventually got married, since it was expected of a politician. But marriage didn’t stop him from keeping a mistress on the side. He exercised, ate well, and didn’t abuse his body with toxins. His only vice was sex. He fucked—with the help of Viagra—like a teenager in heat.

“Come on, Laird, don’t talk about my assistant like that. I realize that some of her outfits are inappropriate, which I intend to talk to her about, but she’s still a professional and should be treated as such,” he said sternly. Preston had been so preoccupied with his own agenda for the last few months that he hadn’t addressed Michele’s lack of discretion.

“Oh, come on, Preston, don’t get so defensive. You know as well as I do that she’s one hell of a sex kitten.”

Laird had first spotted Michele at B. Smith’s, one of Washington’s premier restaurants, and was captivated by her curvaceous body. That night, she wore an emerald green silk blouse, which clung to her breasts like plastic wrap, and a pair of black slacks that hugged her round ass suggestively. Even though it was just pants and a blouse, she made the simple outfit look provocative and sexy. Laird had played it cool and didn’t approach her that night, even though watching her from across the room made him salivate with lust. He was determined to find out who she was, so he used his resources and learned that she worked for Justice Hendricks. He knew Preston in passing, but didn’t know him personally. Laird wasted no time befriending the new justice. Even though he had ulterior motives, he genuinely liked Preston and valued their new friendship.