Midnight Secrets (12 page)

Isabel licked his lips, moved her mouth over that strong, stubbled jaw, licked his ear, bit his earlobe. With each movement of her mouth, his movements grew stronger, faster. She bit his mouth and he jolted, lifting his hips off the bed, moving incredibly deep inside her.

Isabel moaned and Joe wrapped his arms around her so tightly she could feel every movement he made inside her and out. As he started thrusting hard, she was riding him with her body, her belly feeling his rock-hard belly against her, the hair on his thighs abrading the insides of hers, his hands holding her to him as he thrust inside her. Every single inch of her felt possessed by him, touched by him, her body as an extension of his, their excitement rising together, identical, until with a hoarse groan that felt wrenched from him, he started spilling inside her just as she rose over the top. With him.

Spent, Isabel fell bonelessly forward, lying on Joe’s hard, muscled body, breathing heavily. She felt like she’d run a marathon at the spa. Exhausted, yet jazzed. Her body was humming but her mind was completely empty.

When she moved, he slipped out of her and she was sorry but the rest of his body was exciting enough. There was no sexual energy left in her, all fizzled out, though she was still able to appreciate the perfect specimen beneath her. Her hands came to rest on the balls of his shoulders, the muscle there so hard she couldn’t dent it with her fingers.

“Wow,” she murmured, eyes closed. A little nap right about now sounded just great. Vast physical effort, blinding pleasure, a little nap. Perfect sequence of events.

She could feel Joe pushing his chin down to look at her. All he’d be seeing was the top of her head. Her tangled bed-hair head.

“Not so fast, Sleeping Beauty.” He tensed beneath her.

Another round?
God no. She couldn’t possibly. The newly awakened sexual part of her brain consulted her body for a second, but nope. Not happening. This was the time of lax muscles and that little nap. Besides, he wasn’t growing erect. If he had he’d have been a wonder of nature or else he’d swallowed about ten little blue pills.

“We’re not sleeping.”

“We’re not?” she asked, not really caring what he said. She wasn’t getting up for anything or anybody. “Yes we are. At least I am. I’m staying right here.”

“Nope, honey. I’m really sorry to contradict you, but we’re getting up.”

In your dreams.
With difficulty she dragged her hand out from under the warm covers where it had been perfectly happy to clutch his shoulder. In comparison to the warm cozy space under the covers, the air felt cold. She held out her index finger and wagged it back and forth in the universal “no” sign, then put her hand back under the warm covers against his hot skin, where it belonged.

He grabbed her hand, kissed it and sighed. “We gotta get up, honey. Sorry.” And the beast threw the covers off!

Without opening her eyes, she reached down blindly to grab them, pull them up and huddle deeper in the warm blankets. Then, in an act of incredible cruelty, he pulled them away again.

She sat up, indignant. Joe smiled into her eyes and tapped her mouth. The one he’d kissed all night. “God, you’ve got a sexy pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” she huffed.

“World-class pout. A real champ. I’d love to let you sleep, but I can’t, because in about an hour’s time Metal and Jacko are coming over and I don’t think you want to find yourself opening the door in your nightgown.” His smile was pure sex, eyes narrowed as he glanced at her nightgown on the floor, where she’d tossed it. He could have no idea that in her pre-Joe stage, a nightgown of hers would
never
be on the floor. Ever. Apparently fabulous sex made you lower your housekeeping standards.

“Wait.” She frowned. “I thought they were coming over in the afternoon to play poker in your house. What are they coming here for this morning?”

“We’ll play poker all right. Later.” Joe’s face went from pure male sensuality to sober soldier in an instant. “This morning we’re all going to work to make your place more secure than Fort Knox. Remember I said that last night? No one is ever going to creep up close to your house and look in your bedroom window.” He gave a short, sharp nod. “You can take that to the bank.”

Something loosened inside her, something she hadn’t realized was twisted tight. “You really believe me then. That there was someone here last night.” It mattered. He wouldn’t have called in his friends and colleagues if he thought she’d conjured up an intruder in her sick mind.

Joe’s face pulled tight. “Of course I believe you. The fact that I couldn’t find evidence doesn’t mean anything. The ground was too cold to bear prints and I imagine he wouldn’t be foolish enough to smoke a cigarette and throw the butt on the ground. But someone was here. And he had night vision. That’s not ever going to happen again.”

“Thank you,” Isabel said quietly. She was wide-awake now. Joe and his friends were going way out of their way to help her. She knew only one way to pay them back. “I’ll fix lunch for all of us and then snacks for the poker players and then dinner for Felicity and Lauren. It’s the least I can do.”

“Breakfast, too? Or is that pushing it?”

Pushing it? After the best night of her life, after he was going to spend his morning and afternoon making sure she was going to be safe, breakfast, lunch, snacks and dinner were definitely not pushing it. His friends were going to dedicate at least a half day to her safety. And Felicity and Lauren? She was starved for female company. She was going to take enormous pleasure in preparing a light dinner. It used to be her specialty—chick food.

This was going to be fun.

Isabel rolled that idea around in her head, tasting it, savoring it.

Fun.

Something that had fled her life six months ago.

She cupped Joe’s bristly, square jaw. His skin was hot, the unshaven beard rough. She hoped he never grew a beard, fashionable as they were nowadays. It would hide the crisp clear lines of his jaw.

Isabel smiled into his eyes. “Breakfast coming right up. And if your friends are going to help me make this house more secure, I am more than happy to feed them. Particularly since, according to local gossip, they’re going to lose their pants to you at poker. Consider lunch and snacks their consolation prize.”

Chapter Six

Washington
,
DC

The rally was held in the Sentinel Hotel, two blocks from the Burrard, which was still being restored. Party leaders would have wanted the rally to be in the Burrard itself, but the reconstruction work kept getting bogged down in setbacks.

Which, of course, Blake was organizing. A broken, burned-down Burrard, still in ruins, was a potent symbol of failure. Of an inability to pick up, restore and move on.

Exactly what he wanted and what his team of men orchestrated. Every night a team of men went in quietly and undid the repair work and set little traps guaranteed to slow work the next day.

The consortium of owners had gone through three construction companies and was about to fire the fourth. Of course nobody knew he held a majority share through lawyers. That was how he’d gotten the blueprints to set the explosives.

The Burrard was gone and would never come back. Hector Blake would make sure of it. And in a year or two, when the plan was complete, it wouldn’t be just the Burrard that would be a smoking ruin. Half the country would be a wreck.

So today’s rally was in the Sentinel, old and staid and not giving off the vibe the Burrard, all sleek glass and steel, would have.

After their talk at the Voyagers Club, Blake hadn’t contacted London in any way. Neither had any member of his staff been in touch. London would be puzzled. He might even wonder if he’d imagined their meeting, imagined Blake handing him the nomination on a plate.

Because this was Blake’s event, no question. His face was on a thousand posters, on banners held high in sweating fists, on screens set throughout the huge ballroom. The crowd spilled out from the hotel, lining the sidewalk. His handlers had herded them out here so that the journalists could shoot him emerging from his limo walking straight into a warm bath of wildly enthusiastic supporters.

The car parked smoothly by the sidewalk and his driver emerged to open his door. As soon as the door was open and he was visible, the dark afternoon lit up with the strobe lights as reporters used their flashbulbs. It was half-and-half. Half old-style reporters working for the dailies, holding out boom mikes, half bloggers with messy hair, sloppy jeans and cells held up.

“Senator Blake, Senator Blake! Who will you choose to be your veep candidate?”

The question was asked—shouted—by a young journo. Or maybe blogger? Hmm. Very pretty. Auburn hair cut short, green eyes accentuated by smoky eye shadow. Slim, great tits. Blake’s eyes fell to the lanyard around her neck.
Area 8
, an up and coming political blog.

There was something familiar about the blogger. Maybe Blake had seen her on TV. He was good with faces and he never forgot a pretty one. So it was strange to find that face familiar but not know where he’d seen her before.

Never mind. She was as good a place to start as anywhere.

He stopped right in front of her, clearly ready to answer questions. But instead of gratitude, the minx, she looked up at him, eyes narrowed. Not intimidated, not grateful.

“Senator Blake, word on the street has it that you might not be running after all. That you might endorse someone else. What do you say to that?”

Shit!
Did that fuckhead London talk
? If that preening, empty-headed moron spilled the beans, Blake would have his balls on a plate. But London wouldn’t have talked. Too much depended on discretion. The presidency, no less.

Blake’s heart beat hard in his chest and he had to school his face to blandness. He smiled down into the reporter’s eyes, momentarily nonplussed to find them so familiar. And intelligent. This was a sharp one and he had to tread carefully. She was getting info from somewhere.

Blake smiled. His patented you’re-not-getting-anything-from-me smile. “Why, where would you get that idea?”

She didn’t smile back, simply held her cell up. “Rumors swirl in this city, Senator. You know that better than anyone.”

The little bitch. Blake wasn’t going to play this game. He held up his hand and turned his head slightly. When played back, the viewer would see a palm and a one-quarter profile. Of no interest for a podcast.

“This country doesn’t run on rumors, it runs on facts,” he said flatly and moved away. He motioned to his chief of staff and assistant. They came in fast and spearheaded his way through the crowd as he moved forward in a babble of voices.

Hands reached out to touch him, heads swiveled to follow his progress along the walkway.

Thank God the plate glass entry doors were wide open. His staff would have insisted on that, knowing he liked to get into buildings fast. He hated revolving doors, they made him feel trapped, shuffling slowly at everyone else’s pace.

With each step, he realized he had made not only the smart move but also the right move. Politics at this level wasn’t for him. He’d had to glad-hand thousands of Virginians to be elected senator but the presidency? A year and a half of touching thousands and thousands, maybe even millions of voters. A year and a half of bad meals, hotel rooms, smiling at crappy jokes, pretending to like the local pols who endorsed him.

No, very soon, within the hour, all this would be behind him and he himself would be behind the throne. London would obey him and he’d be Cardinal Richelieu, crafty and strong, to the weakling Louis XIII.

He, Hector Blake, was going to bring the country to its knees, and it was going to bow to him and the masters he served. But he would stay in the shadows, as real power must.

Suddenly, the clutching hands, anxious faces, fevered voices got to him. Years ago he’d perfected the art of moving fast without looking like he was hurrying. He couldn’t wait to get this farce over with. He lengthened his stride and watched as his aides and chief of staff scrambled, startled, to keep up with him.

Blake was only a few yards from the big entry doors of the hotel when someone bumped into him, hard. He was knocked back a step and almost fell. A hard hand grasped his neck, steadied him.

A vet. A homeless vet, by the look of him. Matted filthy hair, long beard, dark round sunglasses, a BDU that looked like it had been slept in for weeks. And the smell. God. Blake barely kept from wrinkling his nose in distaste. The man smelled like a sewer, with an additional layer of stale beer breath.

“Don’t forget the vets!” the man shouted, spewing saliva.

Blake closed his eyes and stepped back in instinctive horror. God only knew if the man was carrying a disease. He was shouting slogans, rambling phrases, as one of the security guards placed at the hotel’s entrance rushed forward and wrestled him away from Blake. The man struggled but the guard was strong. Blake saw the back of his head, tangled dirty hair straggling over his shoulders.

Blake cricked his neck, a little ache coming from where the man had grasped him.

God, he hated people. And he particularly hated poor people. He could never have put up with the farce of a presidential campaign.

He moved ahead again, eager to get this over with. As he entered the huge ballroom, thousands of people shouted when they saw him. Those who weren’t near the doors saw him enter the room on the huge monitors on the walls.

Unnerved by his encounter with the vet, Blake made his way forward, touching as few people as possible. Clearly expecting him to glad-hand his way slowly to the podium, his handlers and the security people behind scrambled to catch up as he walked up the short staircase to the podium.

The roar of the crowd intensified, grew deafening. Blake appeared to bask in it, head uplifted, smiling. Though it was a crowd of politicized people, mostly wealthy, he could smell sweat under the thick haze of perfume. Some women down under the podium were screaming and jumping up and down in a frenzy. Very close to what looked like an epileptic fit.

They weren’t crazy for
him
, but for what he represented—the Delvauxes, who had been taken from America. He represented pre-Washington Massacre America. He represented the America that kicked ass, not the weakened giant everyone perceived but no one could say. The crowd wanted a Delvaux but if they couldn’t have Alex, then they’d take his best friend.

Well, they weren’t even going to get the surrogate Delvaux.

They were going to get a puppet and Blake’s job now was to make sure they’d scream for that puppet.

The crowd swayed to the piped in beat of “Happy”, waving banners with 3 x 5 posters of his head, as if he or any politician could make them happy. The song had been chosen by his PR team and would do for London, too. “Happy” was a perfectly fine anthem for unhappy times.

Blake stood at the podium, spotlights honed in on his smiling face, seemingly soaking in the adoration, taking in the frantic crowds, foot tapping to the music, arms up, embracing everything about the event.

The lights blinded him but he was able to pick out people he knew in the crowd nonetheless. But most of the screaming enthusiastic men and women were complete strangers who had no idea who he really was. They were screaming for an idea, not a man. And even the idea was nebulous. Bright, shiny future. Prosperity while saving the environment. Inclusion, as long as it wasn’t of people
too
different from them. Helping the third world as long as it didn’t affect their lifestyle.

That’s what they were screaming for.

They were so ripe. This time next year or maybe the year after, they’d have overlords and he’d be one of them and all the confusion and panic of freedom would be gone forever. They’d be told what to do and when to do it and they’d be happier.

Finally, when he judged the peak of enthusiasm had passed, he held his hands up. He bent to the microphone, judging it would take three passes.

“Dear friends,” he began, but they were still enthusiastically shouting and waving. Blake put an indulgent smile on his face and bent again. “Dear friends.”

They started shushing each other as he waited, kindly smiling at them all.

He patted the air and finally there was silence in the great hall, an expectant hush.

“Dear friends.” Blake looked out over the crowd once everyone had settled down. He’d perfected the paternal smile, a loving father surveying his beloved progeny.
Each and every one of you is precious to me
, that smile said. “This city, our country, suffered a grievous loss half a year ago.” When the crowd understood that he was opening with the Massacre, even the rustling stopped and they listened reverently. “Our attackers hate us, hate what we represent. And the only way they know how to deal with that is to kill what they don’t, and they can’t, understand. Not only did we lose many of our best and brightest, including the man I believe from the bottom of my heart was to be our next president, but we lost something even deeper. Our hope for the future. But the enemy cannot be allowed to win. They didn’t destroy our spirit!”

Spontaneous applause. He waited it out. The smiling politician was gone, replaced by the somber statesman.

“We need a special kind of person to lead us in these perilous times.” Blake bowed his head and when he lifted it again, there was the sheen of tears in his eyes. He could see himself on a monitor to the side and he had to admit, he was good. He had a sad cast to his face, a man who’d known tragedy and had survived, but it had marked him forever. “I intended to be that man. I wanted to be that man with all my heart. But my soul is troubled. I must admit this to you, my dear friends. I am not the man I was. I have worked hard to be what I once was. I have talked to my friends and my pastor. I have prayed on it.” Another head bow and he bit his lower lip. You could hear a pin drop in the room. Something unexpected was coming and everyone felt it.

Blake lifted his head, looked out over the crowd, everyone still, watching him.

“Dear friends.” His voice was hoarse and he coughed to clear it. He drew a hand down his face, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Every single person in the room took note. If possible, the crowd grew even more silent. All eyes on him. “Dear friends, fellow Americans, as I said, I have prayed hard over this decision. I have searched the depths of my soul and I find I must bear open my heart to you.” He allowed his voice to wobble. “I am—I am not the man I was before the Massacre. Before—before, I was willing to go all the way to support my friend, Alex Delvaux, in his voyage to the White House. I believed with all my heart that he is—” Blake stopped, put on a horrified expression as he corrected himself. “He
was
the right man for the job. The job of leading these great United States forward into the third decade of the twenty-first century. Alex Delvaux is—
was
—a man of the future who understood the values of the past. He was one of a kind, and we will not see his like again for generations.”

Blake’s voice broke and he conjured up a tear or two, enough to make his cheeks glisten in the glow of the spotlights. Flashes from journalists’ cameras started up, creating a strobe effect.

Blake heaved a sigh. “I knew it would be hard to fill Alex’s shoes. Almost impossible. He was a man with a strong vision for our country and with the strong hand necessary to make that vision come true. I knew Alex well. He was my best friend. His family was like my family, and I honestly thought, unworthy though I am, I could pick up the fallen torch. But—” He held up his hand. Utter silence in the room. Not even a rustling of clothes. “The Massacre broke something in me. I lost my best friend. I lost friends I’ve known since childhood. I cannot stop grieving and my heart is too full of sorrow to be an effective candidate. After much thought and prayer, I realize that I am not the man who can pick up that fallen torch. There is a better man than I for our party and for our country.”