Cries of Penance (7 page)

“Why would a neighbor complain? In suburbia, you wil be Celia Brentwood not Kitten.”

“Exactly,” I agree. Can’t he see that that in itself is a problem?

Thomas laughs. “I wish I was there to see your face, to hold you and tel you that reintegrating into Vanil avil e won’t be as horrible as you think it’s going to be.

To show you how much fun it is to go in and out from under the veil of darkness, sneaking around, being more than one person, being a different person to everyone you meet.”

“That’s you. I like being Kitten.”

“You also like being Celia Brentwood, CEO of The Darkness. You like dressing for work in your stockings and garter belt, your high heels, and then hiding al that incredible naughtiness under a skirt, a button-up-the-front blouse and a jacket.”

I don’t deny the truth because he knows me better than I know myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it either.

“Do me a favor,” he says.

“Anything,” I answer.

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“I’m sending you information for a house that I want you to go look at. Look at the photos and tel me what you think.”

I sigh, resigned. If both of my Masters want this, I don’t have much to say. I wait for the download on my PDA, frowning. It sits on the corner of a busy street in Russian Hil . This isn’t suburbia. This is minutes away from everything. Garrett wil never agree. He wants away from the city. The description reads seven bedrooms—which seems like overkil , even adding a ful -time housekeeper and a nanny, but as I do the math in my head, I realize it is about right—and seven baths.

As I start clicking on photos of rooms, I do not want to know how much this house costs. It has wood floors throughout, like Garrett’s condo, wal s of windows, like Garrett’s condo, and a gourmet kitchen, no, not even close to Garrett’s standards. “The kitchen would have to be redone.”

“Obviously,” he agrees. “But there is room enough for him to make the kitchen of his dreams.”

“Yeah.” My heart drops. It seems Thomas has found the perfect place for us. I have no arguments. It is Garrett’s penthouse only on a grander scale…a house…with an insane view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. “Tel me what you know about it.”

“I’m in Washington DC. I can tel you what the realtor told me over the phone.”

“Peachy.”

“Don’t sound so glum. It’s a modernistic Neo-Classical residence that boasts soaring double height ceilings in the living areas with grand-scale Pal adian-style windows.”

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“I see that,” I agree, looking through the photos, not admitting how real y beautiful the windows or their view beyond is.

“Sleekly designed staircases and an elevator to service the four levels.”

Four levels? Holy crap. That isn’t obvious from what he sent me.

“Do you see the patio photo?”

I scrol . “Found it.”

“It’s directly off the kitchen, and those raised beds are fil ed with herbs and it’s surrounded by citrus trees.”

God, Garret is going to die over this place.

“There are actual y two patios, there’s no photo for the second but I am assured by the realtor that it is a flower lover’s paradise with mature trees and ample room for children to run and play. There isn’t one now, but when the babies are old enough for it, we could add a play set.”

I snort, imagining what my Thomas would consider a play set. Probably one of those extravagant wooden monstrosities with swings and slides, a fort on stilts, and a climbing wal . It would be perfect.

“There’s a very private terrace off the master bedroom.” His voice al udes to our shared memory of me tied over the railing at his beach house. My lower bel y tightens in memory. I want him so badly, I ache. Sighing heavily because wishing him home won’t make it true, I tel him, “I’d like to see it.”

“Real y?” He sounds like a kid promised a pony.

“Real y. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult. It’s perfect, but I don’t think Garrett wil agree to it. He wants acreage away from the city.”

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Thomas chuckles. “Unless he has changed, he’s stil al ergic to grass and fresh air. He doesn’t have to make the kinds of sacrifices he believes he does just because babies are entering our lives. I’l make arrangements for you and Garrett to have a private showing and text you the details.”

I feel the wave of his happiness through the phone, and it makes me glad that I’ve made him so jubilant. “I love you, Lord Fyre. I miss you.”

“Me too, sweetheart. More than you can know.”

He hangs up, no final goodbye, no additional I love you, just the silence of the disconnect. I smile, strangely cheerful. I made him happy. I pleased him. Even from almost three thousand miles away.

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“If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together…there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart...I’l always be with you.”

A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Of ice of Senator Abigail Wainwright-Ful er, Washington , DC

Sitting behind a desk isn’t my style, I have too much energy and end up feeling chained and caged, especial y this morning. I woke up from a dream of Garrett and Celia and it has ruined my day. Last night I was able to view some photos of her Garrett sent to my email, and I fel asleep missing her terribly. I want to be there with her, experiencing her pregnancy with her, and instead I must trust that Garrett is taking good care of her, meeting al of her needs. I’ve never been a jealous man, but in this I envy him.

I cal ed her. I shouldn’t have, my mind has been distracted ever since.

Around me there is a bustle of activity as interns and aides al prepare for Glorianna’s first big speech. They don’t cal her Glorianna of course. Nor do I to her face, but it is important for me to remember at al times just exactly who this woman is that I work for, how dangerous she is, and so in my mind she is always Glorianna.

Her entourage cal s her Ms. Ful er; I cal her Abbie, and it pleases me she blushes when I do so. It also pleases me that there isn’t another person on the planet who would dare be so familiar with her. She is a fearsome woman with 63

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many enemies. It is with that truth in mind I do my job, the ful -time safe-keeping of her person, in the guise of executive personal assistant, though I have three people who report directly to me. One maintains her schedule, one screens her cal s and fields her emails, the third takes care of al the tedious details from dropping off and picking up dry cleaning to walking her little dog, a Bolognese named Zita. The mutt is her Achil es heel, making the animal a liability in my mind. She’s too easily distracted by it and worries about it incessantly. Until I came to work for her in this capacity I had no idea she could be emotional y manipulated, but seeing her with Zita, I know she can be.

The hairs at the back of my neck prickle and my gaze goes immediately from Abigail, who is sitting behind her desk and staring at her monitor with furrowed brow, stil working furiously on her speech, to Zita, who is curled asleep in a desktop doggie bed. From my seat, I concentrate, trying to pick up on any subtle nuance, any shift in pattern or deviance of sound. There are littered conversations, soft and monotone, some one-sided spoken into phones. Two televisions play almost silently, one tuned to CNN, the other BBC. From the other side of the door comes the normal sounds of a large corporate office building, ringing phones and chatter. Everything seems boringly in order, but I don’t discount the premonition of danger. Trusting my gut has saved my ass more times than I care to remember.

Late morning sunlight streams through the windows, casting a sheen of gold across surfaces. Everything is perfectly normal.

I am just about to credit my paranoia to the guilt I’ve been feeling over the Celia distraction when through the open office door I notice a flower delivery guy 64

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in the outer office. One of the agents is giving him the third degree, messing with him.

The young man is sweating bul ets.

Abigail stands, smiling, seeing the flowers.

My gaze travels from woman to agent to courier and the prickling sensation intensifies. Standing, I command, “Close the door!” and immediately race to Abigail’s side.

I have no reason to believe the flowers are a threat. I know they have been scanned, checked and double checked. Al I have is my gut.

Thankful y, Abigail had instructed every person present, including the agents, to fol ow my every command, and as the door latches closed an explosion blows it off its hinges. I cover Abigail with my body, pressing her to the floor. In a split second, splinters and debris are showering over us.

“Oh God! Oh God,” Abigail swears beneath me.

Standing, I scan the room to make sure everyone is al right.

“Zita!” she cal s out, and the yapping Bolognese jumps into her master’s arms. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay? Mommy’s here, mommy’s here. God, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

Grabbing Abigail’s hand and helping her to her feet, I’d say she is quite shaken if her trembling hand is any indication. Three secret service agents shield her as we hurry from the office building and to a waiting car in case that was only a first wave attack.

Clutching Zita to her chest with one arm and holding my elbow with the other, she demands, “How did you know?”

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“I didn’t know, not for certain, and in times like this I real y wish I’d been wrong and left standing there looking idiotic for my paranoia.”

“Wel , thank God for your suspicions or we might al be dead. Is there a body count from the outer rooms?”

Timothy Watters, one of the agents, answers, “Two confirmed dead, including the courier, and seven injured. It could have been much worse if not for Mr.

Karros.”

Our gazes col ide and not for the first time. Tim doesn’t trust me, or so it seems, and I don’t think he believes for a second I’m only a personal assistant as evidenced an hour later when he asks, “What’s your story, Mr. Karros?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re obviously ex-military.”

“I have some training,” I admit, knowing my vague answers wil send him digging through the paper trail of Lex Karros’s invented life. He wil find that I served the United States with loyalty, valor, and was a decorated Marine. That should soothe his curiosity.

We are driven to a hotel and locked into a suite for safe-keeping until a thorough search of Abigail’s office and home reveals if it is safe for her to return to either. She asks, “How long are we going to be stuck here?”

“A few hours at least.”

She paces in front of a large bank of windows. “I need to work on my speech.”

I stride past her, pul ing closed the curtains before stepping in front of her and stopping her mid-stride with a hard hold on her shoulders. “Talk to me. You shouldn’t be this shaken over a little bomb. What’s going on?”

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“I don’t know.” She glances way.

I tip her chin back to me gently. “Tel me what you’re thinking.”

She pul s away and wraps herself in her arms, admitting, “Self-doubt, okay?

Why am I doing this? Why isn’t The Guardians enough for me?”

I watch her with interest because this is a new side to Glorianna, one I’ve never seen before. “Who’s behind your run for office?”

She jerks her chin, looking at me.

I prod her harder. “Who’s holding your strings?”

Affronted she retorts, “I am no one’s puppet.”

I laugh at her, and when she moves to slap me I grab her hand. “A strong reaction. An emotional reaction. You don’t want to be control ed but you are, and now you’re worried that this assignment might actual y get you kil ed.”

She glares at me, and I pul her against me.

“You’re worried that has been the plan al along, a way to get you out of the way. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

She lets out a short sob when my mouth crushes against hers. I might not be able to identify the who but I understand how it feels when you know someone else decides if you are useful or a burden. I know how it feels to be burned. I kiss her soundly but don’t let the kiss’s passion extend beyond a kiss.

“They want you to cancel your speech.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’d be disappointed if you quit now.” I kiss her nose, vowing, “I’l keep you alive,” and knowing exactly what that means for me: over a year of campaigning, four more years if she’s elected, and if she’s re-elected…

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I’m putting the cart before the horse, but I have to be honest with myself and the truth is the ménage won’t survive if I am away for an entire decade. My sons wil be strangers to me. I only have to remind myself of the years my brother already gave up for me to remember just exactly how bad my life could have gone. This is a smal sacrifice by comparison.

I close my eyes and push my face against Abigail’s neck, not wanting her to see my pain. She takes it as an overture and rubs against me, whispering.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

She kisses my closed eyes, my forehead, my cheeks.

She unties my tie and unbuttons my shirt.

I wil my body to respond as she lowers her mouth to one of my nipples and bites.

“Lex?”

I open my eyes in time to see her walking away from me…toward the bed.

Christ. This could be my life for the next decade. I try to not feel sorry for myself as I watch her disrobing. I see that she took my advice and bought a garter belt and stockings.

I put on my company-issued smile and join her by the extra high bed, seeing a little two step riser beside her for assisting with the climbing into and out of the bed. She reaches behind herself to unhook her bra, but I stop her hands.

Catching her gaze, I force myself to smile wider, leering a little. “Uh-uh, leave it on.”