more socially desirable. She wasn’t a wife; she was an asset. At least-as long as she remained proper.
The hell with Mother. Who cared what she might or might not think? Belinda had been proper all her life. She was ready for something different. She wanted to be loved passionately, to be taken forcibly in parking garages and chained down with handcuffs and taken from behind. She had never once had an orgasm with Jeffrey. Never once. At some point, Belinda had decided she just wasn’t a very sexual person, that whatever gene it was that caused people to be swept away in paroxysms of passion wasn’t included in her DNA strand.
Then she met Jason.
The whole thing had started at an office Christmas party, trite but true. They’d both had too much eggnog, and since Jeffrey was planning to stay at the office all night, the dutiful chief of staff offered to walk her to her car and somehow he went from opening her car door to squeezing her right breast, and the next thing she knew they were humping like rabbits in the backseat of the Jaguar. She had an orgasm that night, the first time in her life. It was so explosive, so unaccustomed, at first she thought she’d had some sort of stroke. Jason laughed at her, and then, just to prove what had really happened-he made it happen again. Two O’s in half an hour, in the backseat of a small foreign car. She was hooked. It wasn’t at all proper. But she liked it.
Tonight, when he took her forcefully after making her stand in the corner, she had her forty-second orgasm. Yes, she counted. And it was quite possibly the best one yet. She didn’t care about social functions or politics or visiting the White House. She just wanted to have sex with Jason, over and over again. She wanted this to go on forever.
“It could, you know.”
She looked up at his handsome face. “Excuse me?”
“Go on forever.”
Had she actually said that out loud? “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do.” Jason put down his papers. “We have a terrific sex life. And I like to think we love each other, but as long as the sex is so hot, who really cares? The problem is”-he glanced at his watch-“in about fifteen minutes, I’m going to have to leave. And tonight, your husband is going to lie down right where I am now. And he’ll be naked and hairy and even if he can’t actually have intercourse, he’ll fumble and grope and paw you until you want to vomit.”
Belinda shuddered. “Don’t. You know I cringe every time that man touches me. Every time I even think about him touching me.”
“You could divorce him.”
“And live how?”
“Family money?”
“You know there isn’t any.”
“Property settlement?”
“All the loot is in trusts. Plus, I signed a prenup. I won’t get a penny.”
“Well, if it’s not too radical a notion…you could work.”
“No, thank you. Tried it once. Didn’t care for it.”
Jason reached across and cradled her in his arms. “Well, then. That makes it more complicated.”
“Try impossible.”
“Oh, nothing is impossible. If you’re sufficiently creative. And…adventurous.”
She arched an eyebrow. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He smiled. “See all these papers in my lap?”
“I do. And just for the record, I don’t think bringing your work to my bed is sexy. Especially when you work for my husband. And we’re fornicating in his bed.”
Jason ignored her. “All these papers relate to the various contingency plans being tossed around in the event of further attacks like the one in Oklahoma City or the one on Senator Hammond. Everyone expects another attack- it’s a question of when, not if. That’s why we’re still at DEFCON-Three.”
“It’s so sexy when you talk politics.”
“Make fun if you want. But I think this presents us with a perfect opportunity.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Then let me spell it out for you.” He reached over and slid his finger under the cup of her bustier, pulling it away from her breast. “Someone already killed the Senate minority leader. Would it really be unusual if the majority leader got offed, too?”
Belinda stared at him. “I’m-not sure what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I think you are. Doesn’t matter how it happens. Anyone important dies in the next few weeks, people are going to assume it was terrorists.” He leaned over and began slowly stroking her nipple with his tongue. She closed her eyes and moaned.
“You can’t divorce him, darling, and sadly, he’s in excellent health.”
“Yes. Ohhhh, yesssss…”
He reached inside her panties and went to work. “So what do you say? Let’s kill the son of a bitch.”
18
Ben stumbled home as tired as he ever remembered being in his entire life. Since five a.m., he’d been with the president’s advisors, preplanning every aspect of the press conference. They considered the proper tone to strike, the common themes, what Ben and DeMouy would say so they didn’t contradict each other. For that matter, they considered tie colors, makeup, and who would walk forward in which order. The president’s media experts left nothing to chance. And in the end, the entire conference had taken less than twenty minutes.
But it was viewed, he had been informed afterward, by more than twenty million Americans, despite the fact that it aired in the middle of the morning. Millions more would see excerpts on the evening news or the 24/7 cable news outlets and the Internet. Ben wondered which excerpts would prove most popular. He hoped it wasn’t his lame invocation of “the American way.” He always claimed he wasn’t really a politician-where had that come from? Some vestigial memory of the Nixon administration? Or maybe The Adventures of Superman with George Reeves? He had no idea. Somehow, when the klieg lights went on and the reporters started slinging questions at you, your mind traveled to a different dimension, one where everything you had planned to say was forgotten and weird stuff like “the American way” came out of nowhere.
And to think that, once upon a time, he had thought speaking in a courtroom was difficult.
At any rate, he had survived that round of questioning. Would he survive the next? The one that was bound to begin the moment he opened the door?
Christina was already home-he saw her coat on the hook. Fine. Gird the loins, take a deep breath, and try not to pass out. Christina made that woman from The New York Times look like a lightweight.
He heard water running. Apparently Christina was in the bathroom, probably showering. He took a few tentative steps forward.
“Christina?”
All at once, the water stopped.
“Christina? It’s Ben.”
“I should hope so,” said the voice, reverberating with a bathroom echo. “If it were anyone else, I’d be dialing 911.”
“Christina, I think we should talk. I did something-”
All at once, the bathroom door opened. Christina stood there, a towel wrapped just under her arms, her hair still wet. She looked lovely.
