Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (218 page)

What happens in this place, Stacy thought as she took a sip of her drink,
definitely
stays in this place.

After a short hunt she finally found him, at a card table in the back: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick-link gold chain around his neck, an old-style metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon Velcro watchband on the other wrist with its protective watch flap closed. He had an impressive stack of chips in front of him, and only two players and the dealer at the table with him—and the other players definitely looked perturbed, their chip stacks much lower than his, as if they were frustrated at being beat by this young punk. One of the other players had a cigarette in an ashtray beside him; Noble had an ashtray beside him too, but it was clean and empty.

Now that she saw him in his “native habitat,” she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular—a naturally toned body without having to do a lot of weight lifting, not like McLanahan's chunky muscularity. His hair was short and naturally teased,
without having to mousse it, which had to be the most unmanly thing Stacy had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and easy, although she noticed his quick eyes when cards and chips started flying across the table in front of him. He certainly didn't miss much…

…and at that moment his eyes rested on
her
…and he didn't miss anything there, either. He smiled that mischievous naughty-boy smile, and his quick eyes danced, and she instantly felt herself being visually undressed once more—then, just as quickly, his attention was back to his game.

It was not too long afterward that Barbeau saw Martin supervising the dealer counting up Noble's winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the host responded, and soon he sauntered over to her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. “Pardon me, Miss Gilliam,” he said, speaking very formally but with that same mischievous smile, “but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were, and I thought I'd introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I'm not intruding.”

Barbeau sipped her drink but eyed him over the rim of the glass, making him wait while she surveyed him. He simply stood before her patiently with that playful boyish smile on his face, standing casually but provocatively as well, as if he had no doubt that she would invite him to sit down. Well,
shit,
she thought, the guy flies hypersonic spaceplanes for a living—a mere
woman
isn't going to rattle him. “Of course not, Mr. Noble. Would you care to sit down?” Barbeau responded just as formally, enjoying playing the game of being strangers.

“Thank you, I would.” He took a chair beside her, set his drink down, then leaned toward her. “Senator Barbeau? Is that you?”

“Captain Hunter ‘Boomer' Noble,” she said in response. “Fancy meeting you here, sir.”

“Fancy nothing, Senator. Did you track me down here?”

“I don't know whatever you mean, Captain,” Barbeau said. “The assistant hotel manager here happens to be a friend of mine, and he invited me to this wonderful VIP room when I came to town.” She looked him over once again. “Where's your RFID tag, Captain?”

“I don't wear those things—I like tipping in cash and I can unlock my own room door without Big Brother doing it for me.”

“I think it's fun, being surveilled all the time. Makes me feel very secure.”

“You'll get tired of it,” he said moodily. “You're here to shut down Dreamland, aren't you, Senator?”

“I'm here to talk with the SEALs who tried to assault the place, speak with General Luger about his actions, and report to the President,” she replied.

“Then why are you
here
? Are you spying on me?”

“Why, Captain Noble, you sound like a man with something to hide,” Barbeau said. “But I am surprised, quite frankly, to find a young Air Force captain who makes less than seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes here in a VIP gambling room, where the price of admission is usually a fifty-thousand-dollar line of credit with the casino, with such a large stack of chips in front of him.”

“Playing poker for money is not against Air Force regulations, Senator. Neither is spending a good deal of my bachelor take-home pay on playing cards. Do you investigate guys who spend that much on cars or cameras?”

“I don't know of anyone who's been blackmailed by bookies or loan sharks because they buy camera gear,” Barbeau said. “Being a habitual gambler certainly does look…how shall I say it, unseemly? For someone in such a highly critical job as yours, being such a gambling devotee—or perhaps even a gambling addict?—might look very suspicious to some.”

“I'm not addicted to gambling,” Boomer said defensively. The senator's eyes twinkled—she knew she had hit a nerve. “But why this charade, Senator? Why this campaign to destroy the program? You're opposed to the Black Stallion and the space station—fine. Why take the political opposition so personally?”

“I'm not an opponent of the XR-A9 project, Captain,” Barbeau said, sipping her drink. “I think it's a remarkable piece of technology. But the space station has many very powerful opponents.”

“Like Gardner.”

“
Many
opponents,” Barbeau repeated. “But some of the technology you use is of great interest to me, including the Black Stallion.”

“Not to mention scoring some points with folks in the White House and dozens of defense contractors, too.”

“Don't try to play politics with me, Captain—my family invented the game, and I learned from the best,” Barbeau said.

“I see that. You're more than willing to destroy military careers for your own political gain.”

“You mean General McLanahan? Perfect example of a smart, dedicated guy wading into political waters that were way over his head,” she said dimissively, taking another sip. She was finally starting to feel relaxed, immersed in an atmosphere in which she was very comfortable…no, not just comfortable: one in which she was
in control
. McLanahan had destroyed himself, and because Hunter Noble cared about him, he was going to
go down
next.

Captain Hunter Noble was pretty, and obviously smart and talented, but this was business, and he would become just another one of her victims…after she had a little fun with him!

“He'll come out okay—as long as he backs off and lets me tell the White House what is best for the Air Force,” Barbeau went on casually. “McLanahan's a war hero, for God's sake—everybody knows that. Very few people know what happened in Dreamland and Turkey.” She snapped her fingers with a wave of her wrist. “It can be swept under the rug like
that
. With my help and with his maximum cooperation, he'll get off with a general court-martial and loss of his pension. But then he can get on with his life.”

“Otherwise, you'll let him rot in prison.”

Stacy Anne Barbeau leaned forward, giving him a good look at her bosom underneath her silvery low-cut neckline. “I'm not here to make
anyone
miserable, Captain—least of all you,” she said. “The truth is, I would like your help.”

“My help?”

“Next to McLanahan, you're the most influential person attached to the space project,” she said. “The general is done for if what he's
done in Dreamland and in Turkey gets leaked out. I don't think he'll cooperate with me. That leaves you.”

“What is this, a threat? You're going to try to destroy me too?”

“I don't want to attack you, Captain,” she said in a low voice. She looked him straight in the eye. “To be honest, I'm quite taken by you.” She saw the look of surprise in his face and knew she had him by the balls. “I've been attracted to you since I first saw you in the Oval Office, and when I saw you here, looking at me like you were—”

“I wasn't looking at you,” he said defensively, not too convincingly.

“Oh yes you were, Hunter. I felt it. You did too.” He swallowed but said nothing. “What I'm trying to say, Hunter, is that I can take your career in a whole new direction if you'd let me. All you need to do is let me show you what I can do for you.”

“My career is just fine.”

“In the Air Force? That's fine for eggheads and Neanderthals, but not for you. You're smart, but you're savvy and in control. Those are special qualities. They will get suppressed in the military under layers upon layers of old-school bullshit and endless, faceless bureaucracy—not to mention the possibility of dying in combat or up in space, flying a jet built by the lowest bidder.

“I'm offering you a step out of that hellish cattle-call existence, Hunter,” Barbeau went on in a low voice, pumping as much sincerity into it as she could. “How do you think other men and women rise above corporate Pentagon mediocrity and advance their futures?”

“The general did it by being dedicated to the mission and his fellow crewmembers.”

“McLanahan did it by being Kevin Martindale's whipping boy,” Barbeau said firmly. “If he died in any of those missions he sent him on, Martindale would have just found another mindless robot to activate. Is that what you want? Do you just want to be McLanahan's sacrificial lamb?” Again, Boomer didn't reply—she could see the wheels of doubt churning in his head. “So who's looking out for you, Hunter? McLanahan won't be in a position to do it. Even if he
doesn't go to prison, he'll have a federal conviction and a less-than-honorable discharge on his record. You'll wither away too out there if you blindly follow idealistic men like McLanahan.”

He didn't say it, but she knew what he was asking himself: How do I get out of this? He was putty in her hands, ready for the next step. “Come with me, Hunter,” she said. “I'll show you how to rise above the swamp that McLanahan has stuck you in. I'll show you the
real
world, the one outside of spaceplanes and shadowy missions. With my help, you can
dominate
the real world. Just let me show you the way.”

“And what do I need to do?”

She looked deeply in his eyes, took a deep breath, then gently placed a hand on his left thigh. “Just trust me,” she said. “Place yourself in my hands. Do what I tell you, and I'll take you to places, introduce you to the most influential people who really want to hear what you have to say, and take you through the
real
corridors of power. That's what you want, isn't it?” She could feel those rock-hard thighs jump at her touch, and couldn't wait for those long legs to straddle her. He was practically gasping for air like a marathoner at the end of a race. “Let's go.”

He stood, and she smiled and took his hand as he helped her to her feet. He's mine, she thought…
mine
.

She felt a little dizzy as she got to her feet—one glass of whiskey, after a half day of skipping meals preparing for this trip, was doing her in. After she dealt with Hunter Noble, she vowed to treat herself and Colleen to a late-night supper in the suite and toast her success. First Gardner, then McLanahan, and now this studly hard-body military astronaut.

“May I help you in any way, Miss Gilliam?” her waitress Jesse asked, appearing as if out of nowhere. She reached out as if to help steady her.

“No thank you, Jesse, I'm fine,” Barbeau said. She watched as Martin came over and looked as if he was going to physically restrain Noble, who was discreetly following her, but she raised a hand. “Mr. Noble and I are going to take a walk together,” she said. “Thank you, Martin.”

“If you need anything, Miss Gilliam, just pick up a phone or give a signal—we'll be right there,” Martin said.

“Thank you so much. I'm having a wonderful time,” Barbeau said gaily. She tipped him fifty dollars, then headed for the door. Hunter opened the door for her; Martin took the door from him, and she noticed him giving Noble a stern warning glare…and he didn't tip him either. Well, she thought, maybe “Playgirl's” reputation was wearing a bit thin in here. That would be another weakness of his to explore if he didn't cooperate.

They walked together without talking until reaching the elevator, and then she took him by his slender waist, pulled him closer, and kissed him deeply. “I've wanted to do this ever since I first saw you,” she said, pressing herself tightly against him. He whispered something in return, but the music in the elevator seemed a little loud, and she couldn't hear him.

At their floor they were met by a floor attendant. “Welcome, Mr. Noble, Miss Gilliam,” she said brightly, obviously notified by the ever-present hotel security system of their arrival. “Is there anything I can do for you tonight? Anything at all?”

“No, I've got this one all taken care of myself,” Barbeau heard herself say, reaching down between his legs and stroking him. “But if you'd care to join us a little later, sugar, that'd be fine, just fine.” And then she heard herself giggle. Did she just
giggle
? That Southern Comfort was hitting her harder than she thought. Never party on an empty stomach, she reminded herself.

As she passed Colleen's room she pretended like she stumbled a bit and banged into her door just to give her a warning that she was back, and then they were at the door to the suite. “You just relax and let me do the drivin' for now, big boy,” she said, starting to untuck his shirt from his pants even before he had the door open. “I'll show you how we like to party down on the bayou.”

 

P
RESIDENT'S PRIVATE RETREAT
, B
OLTINO
, R
USSIA

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER

“Why haven't you answered my calls, Gardner?” President Leonid Zevitin thundered. “I've been trying for hours.”

“I've got my own problems, Leonid,” President Joseph Gardner said. “As if you hadn't noticed, I've got to deal with a little mutiny over here.”