“I…” they said simultaneously.
Shield gestured for Thomas to go first.
“I was going to say, I think it’s time I turned in,” the president said.
Shield immediately stood. “You have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Indeed. What were you about to say?”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Oh?”
“Do you really not remember me?” Shield asked. “Or is there a reason you won’t acknowledge having met me?”
“Remember you from…?”
“Greece. The summit. I know you saw me, because you looked right at me and nodded.”
“The global-warming summit? I…I don’t, I’m sorry.”
Shield felt oddly disappointed she’d not made more of an impression. “It’s okay. I was just curious.”
The president got up and faced her. They were less than a foot apart. “Thank you for the wine and the lesson.”
Shield took a step back and looked away. “It was my pleasure, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Thomas headed out and Shield followed silently a pace behind. She opened the door for the president and Thomas stepped into the foyer.
As she opened the door to her bedroom, with her back turned, the president said, “Good night, Kennedy.”
“Sleep well, Elizabeth.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ryden dropped on her back on the bed and covered her face with a pillow. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What just happened? What did I just do?” She had little to no experience with flirting, but even she knew what had just taken place, and for the first time in her life, she had flirted back.
Not that guys had ever swamped her with flowers, romantic dinners, and heated insinuations, but her limited practice had been one-sided and uninteresting. In her forty years she’d had three relationships, although that term was overrated when trying to characterize what they’d really been. Not one had lasted longer than a few months, and all had involved infrequent, uneventful, physical obligations. The men were nice enough but had done nothing for her libido. Hell, the only reason she knew about the existence of the G-spot was because she’d accidentally read about it when she clicked on an evidently dubious website called Fun With Candles.
Ryden might have carried on with the men for the sake of having someone in her life, but the prospect of having to endure the occasional sex was unbearable. They weren’t rough or indifferent to her needs; they would try everything short of performing circus acts to satisfy her but never could. And in the end, they’d all call her frigid and leave, blaming her for making them feel incompetent.
Seven years ago, she’d concluded that her loveless childhood had made her incapable of feeling what she was supposed to feel and had stopped dating altogether. She had no desire to put herself through that kind of disaster again.
But if she was indeed frigid, why was her body aching? How did Kennedy, a woman, make her feel more desire and desired than she had ever imagined possible? No man had ever looked at her the way Kennedy had, and no one had ever made her feel the need to scream I want you. There was no doubt Kennedy had flirted with her, was there?
“I’m going through a stress-induced mid-life crisis,” she muttered to herself. “Give me a break. That’s obscene. That’s impossible, not to mention crazy. What’s wrong with me?”
Maybe, she mused, the attraction came from the fact that Kennedy had been adopted, was an orphan like she was, a kindred spirit. But since when does empathy produce bodily fluids? Ryden looked in the direction of her crotch. “God. I’m a total mess.”
And Ratman would have a stroke if he found out. She’d almost laugh if she wasn’t scared shitless of him. “There’s the silver lining everyone talks about.”
She got up and paced the room. Could Kennedy be playing around just to have something extra to blackmail her with? “No, that can’t be.” Kennedy had seemed sincere and almost uncomfortable with herself during their flirtatious banter.
Although the evening was chilly, Ryden felt like she was on fire. She opened the window and hung her head out. “What’s happening to me?” she asked the stars. Once she’d cooled off a little, she shut the window and turned to stare at the door. It had never looked more appealing. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have the guts to run.”
The ringing phone interrupted her monologue.
“Yes?”
“You sound breathless.” Ratman.
“So?”
“Is something wrong?”
Not if you consider me wanting to run the hell away from this place normal. “No,” she replied instead.
“I was told you were in the Yellow Room with Kennedy.”
“That’s right.”
“What were you doing?” he asked.
Oh, you know me. I love to wine taste with attractive women and wish to hell they’d kiss me. “Nothing much. I had a glass of wine.”
“And Kennedy?”
“She doesn’t drink on duty.”
“I meant,” he snapped with irritation, “did she say anything?”
“Like what?” What was up with the interrogation? “Kennedy talked about wine.” And I hope to hell she doesn’t say otherwise. “Why are you asking about Kennedy?” Did the Rat hear something? Had Kennedy just spoken to him?
“Just want to make sure she’s taking good care of you.”
You have no idea how good. “She’s very professional. Doesn’t talk much and is quite boring.”
The answer apparently satisfied him because he changed topics. “Have you checked your schedule for this week?”
“I’m prepared for tomorrow. I’ll read the rest of this week’s schedule tonight.” Ryden glanced over at the folder, which she’d tossed on the bed earlier. She’d apparently lain on it when she came in and hadn’t even noticed; it was crumpled and folded at the edges.
“Good.”
The only thing good, creep, she thought, is that the phones are tapped, because it means you refrain from saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.”
“Well then, get some rest for tomorrow.”
Fat chance since my body feels more wired than a guitar. “I will.”
“Good night, Elizabeth.”
I hope you slip in the shower and break your neck. And FYI, Elizabeth only sounds good when Kennedy says it. “Good night,” she replied, and hung up.
Kennedy even makes Elizabeth sound sexy. “Yup, time for a shower,” Ryden told herself as she headed toward the bathroom, still tingling from the interaction with Kennedy. “A bucket of ice and tranquilizers wouldn’t hurt, either.”
*
Houston, Texas
TQ watched the maid pour her nightcap—bourbon, neat—and set it on her desk atop a coaster. She smiled. “The eye patch becomes you. You finally look interesting.”
The young woman bowed. “Thank you, madam.”
The phone rang and TQ sighed when she saw the number on caller ID. “Get out,” she told the maid before she answered the phone. “And?”
“She asks a lot of questions,” Yuri Dratshev replied.
“I’m sure.”
“My men say nothing.”
“Your family’s life depends on it, after all. Is that everything?”
“She is asking for a TV. She wants to hear the news.”
“Good. It’s time we gave her one.” She reached for her bourbon and took a sip. Disciplining the maid had ensured no further problems. The amount in the glass was precisely to her specifications, and the glass had been placed exactly where she wanted on her desk.