“How about high heels?” Natalie asked.
“Actually, I like those on the right occasion, and on the right woman,” he said. “But I like going barefoot, too.”
“Nicely put. Give a girl her choice. I like that.”
She kicked off just one black slingback, then laughed at her joke. A choice -- one shoe on, one off.
“Silk dresses?” she whispered against his neck. He was rock-hard now. His breathing was labored. So was Natalie's. He considered making love to her first. Was that fair game? Or was it rape? Natalie had managed to confuse the issue for him.
“I can do without those, depending on the occasion, of course,” he whispered back.
“Mmm. We seem to agree on a lot of things.”
Natalie Sheehan slid out of her dress. Then she was in her blue lacy underwear, one shoe, black stockings. Around her neck was a thin gold chain and cross that looked as if it had come with her all the way from Ohio.
Jack still had his trousers on. But no white shirt, no tie. “Can we go in there?” she whispered, indicating the bedroom. ,'It's really nice in there. Same view, only with a fireplace. The fireplace even works. Something actually works in Washington.'
“Okay. Well, let's start a fire then.”
Jack picked her up as if she weighed nothing, as if they were both elegant dancers, which in a way they were. He didn't want to care about her, but he did. He forced the thought out of his mind.
He couldn't think like that, like a schoolboy, a Pollyanna, a normal human being.
“Strong, too. Hmmm,” she sighed, finally kicking off the other shoe.
The picture window in the bedroom was astonishing to behold.
The view was north up Sixteenth Street. The streets and Scott Circle below were like a lovely and expensive necklace, jewelry by Harry Winston or Tiffany. Something Princess Di might wear.
Jack had to remind himself that he was stalking Natalie. Nothing must stop this from happening now. The final decision had been made. The die was cast. Literally.
He forced himself not to be sentimental. Just like that! He could be so cold, and so good at this.
He thought about throwing the high-spirited and beautiful newswoman through the plate glass window of her bedroom. He wondered if she would crash through or just bounce back off the glass.
Instead, he set Natalie down gently on a bed covered with an Amish quilt. He pulled out handcuffs from his jacket pocket.
He let her see them.
Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.
She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.
His voice was very low. “No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy.”
There was a sudden and very sharp knock at the door to the demi-apartment. He held up a finger for Natalie to be quiet, very quiet.
Her eyes showed confusion, genuine fear, an uncustomary loss of her cool demeanor.
His eyes were cold. They showed nothing at all.
“That's Jill,” he told Natalie Sheehan. “I'm Jack. I'm sorry. I really am.”
I EASED MY WAY inside the Jefferson Hotel just before eight in the morning. A little Gershwin was rolling through my head, trying to soothe the savage, trying to smooth out the jagged edges.
Suddenly, I was playing the bizarre game, too. Jack and Jill. I was part of it now.
The cool dignity of the hotel was being scrupulously main-rained; at least, it was in the elegant front lobby It was difficult to grasp the reality that a bizarre and unspeakable tragedy had struck here, or that it ever could.
I passed a fancy grillroom and a shop displaying couture fashion. A century-old clock gently chimed the hour; otherwise, the room was hushed. There was no sign, not a hint, that the Jefferson m indeed the entire city of Washington -- was in shock and chaos over a pair of grisly, high-profile murders and threats of still more to come.
I am continually fascinated by facades like the one I encountered at the Jefferson. Maybe that's why I love Washington so much. The hotel lobby reminded me that most things aren't what they appear to be. It was a perfect representation for so much that goes on in D.C. Clever facades fronting even morfrom his jacket pocket.
He let her see them.
Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.
She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.
His voice was very low. “No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy.”
