Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  "Of course. I'm practically inhaling it."

  "That's what it's like. You feel everything with heightened awareness. It's almost as if—" She had an idea. She leaned over and kissed him. Her lips devoured the salty taste of his mouth. She lingered, feeling the pull of his sexuality. She wanted to drown in his maleness.

  But she wrenched away.

  "Hey" he said softly. "Come back."

  "Close your eyes. Pretend you're blind. Not the terror of it . It can be like a tool." She rubbed her hands again and ran one slowly just beyond the reach of his curly blond chest hair. They were both aroused, all their senses at a fine pitch, so he might be able to feel some of what she could feel. She whispered, "People aren't just bone and tissue, we're electricity, too."

  He knew her hand was above his torso because he could feel the heat. And then there was an odd sensation. The hairs on his chest seemed to move like a small sea wave. His eyes snapped open. Her hand was causing it, the hair following the hand like iron to a magnet. It was a light sensation, but sexy, too—

  "Don't look," she warned.

  He closed his eyes, and she did it again. This time a tingling storm of excitement spread along his chest to his belly and crotch. He swallowed hard. He reached for her.

  "Not yet." Her voice was a husky whisper. She could feel him with all her pores and sensibilities, and she wanted him. His cock was huge and beautiful. "Lie on your side. Keep your eyes closed."

  "Dammit."

  But he was intrigued. He rolled onto his left side, his body vibrating, yearning. Her scent filled his head until it seemed ready to burst. He could tell by the shifts of the bed she'd changed position, but he couldn't figure out quite what she'd done. And then it hit him—an exciting sensation the entire length of his front. Electrical charges seemed to flow away and back to him like a river. It was closeness and heat and some seductive physical allure that made him want to move forward. To touch. To enter. It pulled, and from every cell he wanted to go there. He bit back a groan.

  "What is it?" He kept his eyes closed.

  "Me. Us." She'd closed her eyes and was lying next to him, facing him, her body only an inch away in most places. In the satin darkness of her false blindness she felt him with acuteness and hunger. She rubbed her hands together and held them on either side of his cock.

  His breath caught in his throat. His cock was suddenly larger, more insistent. And then an image flashed before him—

  "I can see you in my mind." His voice was thick with desire. "You're lying next to me, facing me."

  "Yes." Her breath was ragged. "Feel me. Taste me."

  A cauldron of heat roared through him as his hands swept her body. He'd been right. She was exactly where he'd seen her in his mind. But more than that, a magnetic current was surging between them, impossible to deny. The sexual tension was tactile. Sweat broke out on his forehead. The intensity of his blind, electrified senses hit him like a tidal wave. In his mind, he knew everything about her, but it wasn't enough. Would never be enough. He grabbed her hips and pulled her closer. He kissed her deep on the mouth and slid his lips down to the hollow of her throat.

  She moaned. She could see him with all the fervor of fresh experience. Her fingers grabbed his hair. A flood of desire sent fire through her.

  He explored her—the smooth skin, the nipple that rose to his lips, the curly down of her pubic hair. And he did it without sight but with a fevered clarity of senses that made sexuality bolder, more exquisitely demanding.

  Her breath was ragged. She couldn't wait any longer. His mouth was hot on her breast. She threw her leg over him. Her heart pounded, and she ached for him with every cell. "Darling—" With a sudden explosion of desire, she lifted her hip.

  Instantly he slid into the soft wetness of her. Into the slick and wet and intoxicating scent of her sex. In and out. Again and again. She shoved his shoulders and rolled on top of him. She threw back her head and rode him, the two of them together, sightless but seeing—feeling—all.

  5:02 AM, MONDAY

  Exhausted, they'd fallen asleep with the lamp on. Sam had awoken about three AM and turned it off. He stumbled back to bed. She whimpered in her sleep, and he pulled her to him. She curled around him, so trusting, and he returned to his dreams. To Julia.

  They arose early, and Sam quickly called room service for breakfast, but it was too early.

  "All you do is try to feed me," she complained.

  "Not true. I do other things."

  She grinned. "And very well, I might add."

  They moved around the room naked, eyeing each other like high schoolers on their first date. They showered together, stopped to make love again in the soapy water. At last they dressed.

  "I'll get the shoe polish from my bag and fix our hair again."

  "Better do it before we put our clothes on."

  "I prefer taking your clothes off," Sam decided.

  "Later," she promised.

  But neither knew when—or if—that could be.

  5:33 AM, MONDAY

  As Julia and Sam hurried out of the room, Julia had a sinking feeling of reentry. Last night was a wonderful dream, but today was Monday and they had huge problems to solve. And all led to finding proof to topple Creighton, because the election was only tomorrow. Right now, that seemed an impossible hurdle. Their first goal was to find her grandfather and Geoffrey Staffeld.

  Julia picked up USA Today, which was waiting on the floor outside their door. "Where could Grandpa be? I can't believe the priests I phoned would lie."

  "I doubt he'd go to anyone in your family for help."

  "No way. They're united in Tokugawa's Fist." She related her grandfather's anecdote about Tokugawa. "Grandpa would go where he'd feel safe." They strode out into the morning light. The sun was shining, and the sky was a hard, wintry blue. But the temperature was warmer.

  He said, "Let's take the fact he was writing a journal a step farther. . . . If we're right and he sent excerpts to me and your mother, and if he has information about the Amber Room, then maybe he has other things he wants to reveal. He can't have been happy about what Creighton and your other uncles did to him—took his wealth and had him declared incompetent."

  She nodded. "Maybe what he's trying to do is what we're trying to do—bring down Creighton, David, and Brice."

  As they hopped into the Mustang, Sam said, "Makes sense. But how?"

  "It has to be connected to Himmler's Second Treasure."

  Sam started, the ignition and felt a surge of fury. "Damn Pink. Finding your grandfather and Staffeld is just the kind of thing I'd call him in on. Vince must've done a real number on him to get him to betray me. Now there's no way I can trust him."

  "I'm sorry it happened, Sam. But you're right. We can't trust him." Julia thought about it all. An idea was beginning to form in her mind. "You said Staffeld gave his press conference at the Plaza. He was registered there, but the room had never been used?"

  "That's right."

  "So he must've found other digs before the press conference. Probably not too far from the Plaza because he'd have wanted to get back and forth between the Plaza and his hideout as quickly as possible."

  "Sounds logical."

  "Then I think I have a way to locate him. An old friend of mine. Remember how we were talking about strange people we knew in our businesses? Well, one of the guys I went to Juilliard with just might be the perfect person to find where Staffeld's staying." It'd be expensive, but that was what money was for.

  "Sounds like it's worth a try." Sam turned the car south on highway 128 toward New York City.

  Julia glanced down at the newspaper in her lap. Her chest suddenly contracted. She snatched up the paper. Now it wasn't just her the police wanted. "Look, Sam!" She pointed to his photo. It was a head-and-shoulders shot next to a similar one of her. "Now they know about you, too, and what you look like!" She read aloud the headline:

  CIA renegade agent is

  sought for helping killer

&n
bsp; 47

  6:02 AM, MONDAY

  KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  The sun was shining and the air was chilly, but the large crowd waiting eagerly Monday morning on the tarmac for Creighton Redmond was oblivious to anything but the staircase that was rolling toward the jet's door. They craned their necks, eager for a glimpse of their idol. Signs sprouted up among them like flag poles. "NEW IDEAS. NEW ETHICS. VOTE REDMOND!" "NO TO MOLESTERS! NO TO POWERS!" And the old standby: "REDMOND FOR PRESIDENT!"

  As Creighton appeared on the top step in his long cashmere overcoat, the signs pumped up and down and the crowd yelled and cheered. Cameras recorded it all for today's broadcasts. A jubilant flush spread through Creighton, and he descended briskly, making certain he projected to the electorate a vigorous, strong future. Behind him came his wife, the children, his closest campaign staff, and three reporters from influential media outlets to whom he'd given special interviews on the long flight home from California. They'd been chosen to maximize his exposure today.

  He waved off the Secret Service and eagerly moved into the glowing faces and straining bodies that wanted to shake his hand, touch his overcoat, feel the texture of power. He signed autographs, and the press shoved microphones into his face and shouted questions.

  Banner Entertainment: "Judge, how does it feel to be home?"

  "Great as always. Home is important to all of us." The inane questions were the hardest to endure and answer.

  The Wall Street Journal: "Judge! What do you think about your continuing rise in the polls? Do you predict you'll go high enough to win?"

  "I'm gratified, Ms. Capps. It's good to know voters understand and support our plan for America. And of course we intend to win this election!"

  They continued the barrage of questions, and he answered, greeted supporters, and kissed babies for an hour. Then he stepped into the armor-plated limousine the Secret Service demanded to protect all potential presidents. Mario Garcia, his media specialist, was waiting inside. Creighton turned to wave through the windows at the voters and media who still flocked around.

  As the limo rolled away, Creighton smiled. "Not a bad turnout, eh, Mario?"

  "It's a terrific turnout, Judge." Mario was grinning ear to ear.

  Creighton guessed what was making him so cheerful. "You've got numbers?"

  Mario chuckled. His thin face was elated. "You've risen to forty-eight percent! Apparently the voters thought about the allegations against Powers overnight and woke up this morning to decide maybe they shouldn't gamble on another presidency plagued with personal scandal, especially one that could give America a black eye all over the world and maybe get their president arrested. And we're not even figuring in the moral outrage of those who believe Powers is a pervert."

  Creighton nodded soberly. "But it's still not enough to guarantee victory."

  "True. Wait . Here's almost the best news." Mario jabbed a finger at the file folder on his lap. "Powers has dropped to forty-four percent, and the 'undecideds' have jumped to eight percent. For all statistical purposes, considering a margin of error of plus-or-minus three percent, you and Powers are running neck and neck. But all we have to do is grab seven percent from the 'undecideds'—not even bother to take anything more from Powers—and you're up to our magic number, fifty-five percent. With that, barring something weird from outer space happening, you'll win!" He paused. "Of course, the big problem is if the momentum in your favor falters."

  Creighton was suddenly alert. "What's happened?"

  Mario refused to let his face show worry. "It's Doug Powers. You already know his whole family's out hitting the talk shows and making speeches branding everything a lie and claiming Staffeld's unbalanced. All that we expected. But now Powers is doing something more that's really working. He's gotten a cascade of celebrity endorsements. Luminaries from business, sports, Hollywood, books, education, and television. It's a massive assault of brand-name faces, all vouching for what an honorable man he is and what a fantastic president he's going to be. They're the heart of his new ads, and they're having a chilling effect. He's stopped your numbers' climb."

  Creighton grimaced. "Powers is damn smart. I know you want to attack him directly. But if we do, we play right into his hands. Because he can't dispute the facts in time, he wants to turn this into a name-calling contest. We have to keep referring in our ads to Staffeld's testimony and his unblemished reputation with Scotland Yard. That speaks volumes."

  Mario's face was glum. He wanted an easy victory now that events had turned in their favor. "You're right, Judge. I just hope Powers's team doesn't come up with something so damn clever that the shoe's on the other foot and we can't dispute it."

  "They won't." Creighton's voice was confident, but he was worried. He had one more political ace up his sleeve: This afternoon, if all went well, Geoffrey Staffeld would unknowingly provide the final boost to make certain a voting majority firmly got on board with Creighton Redmond.

  But he couldn't tell Mario that. Instead he asked, "And how is the celebration shaping up for this afternoon?" This important innovation of his campaign—a splashy, media-heavy, previctory party to send one final message to the folks at home on the night of the election and then in the next morning's newspapers and broadcasts—had been a bust up until now.

  Mario grinned. "The acceptances are starting to roll in. We've gone from drought to plenty. As the Bible says, we've sown, and now we're going to reap the great reward."

  7:04 AM, MONDAY

  NEW YORK CITY

  The stately Plaza Hotel towered eighteen stories above Fifth Avenue and Central Park in a white birthday-cake design straight from a storybook French château. Stretch limousines and luxury cars paraded to stops before the great entry doors. Carefully scrutinizing the area for police or anyone who might be a Janitor, Julia strode past the hotel in her large tortoiseshell glasses and swept-high gray hair. She was looking for Graffy O'Dea. Worry and urgency propelled her.

  She hoped Graffy could find Staffeld, but first she had to find Graffy. He'd been one of the few Juilliard graduates to fail in a big way. Over the years she'd run into him playing near the Plaza when she'd been here with her mother. Other musician friends had told her it'd become his most regular business spot—where he was apparently just another solitary street musician in the most solitary city on earth, but eked out a better-than-average street player's existence from the monied elite who could also be found here.

  Her chest tight with worry, she scanned the sidewalks. Was this day one of the days he'd be here?

  A crowd had gathered on the corner. Cautiously she approached. Her pulse beat an excited tattoo when she saw him. He was standing in the center of an arc of people, his sax high and glinting in the sun as he belted out the Ornette Coleman tune "Of Human Feelings." His instrument case lay open at his feet, and inside was a small pile of greenbacks.

  She stopped at the edge of the crowd. As she watched him play—his eyes closed, his face transported—she forgot his poor clothes and sooty fingers and remembered Juilliard. When she'd arrived, he'd been finishing his studies in composition and the saxophone on a full scholarship. He'd been tough and single-minded. Born in the slums of Nottingham, England, he'd been ten years old when his mother died of an overdose and his father, an itinerant musician, simply vanished. He'd told her that with a casual shrug, explaining how he'd ended up in Brooklyn with relatives.

  She figured he was close to a genius. He liked jazz, blues, the sax, and, unfortunately, mind-bending drugs. But he'd stayed sober long enough to get through Juilliard. Once the discipline of his studies was over, he'd begun a downward spiral at frightening speed. When he couldn't support himself as a jazz and blues musician right away, he'd had to play music he hated to make a living. So he walked off gigs. Didn't show up for gigs. Refused gigs. And the drugs came back. Finally he'd hit the streets.

  The world of musicians is small, personal, and strange to outsiders. Julia liked Graffy, and she'd tried to help him. She'd kept
in touch a few years, but then her blindness had struck. Her career had taken over her life. She'd lost direct contact except through mutual friends.

  When he finished his set, Graffy bowed grandly, his legs twitching. As the crowd drifted away, he bent to stuff the bills and coins into his coat pocket. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, loose black jeans, and a long olive overcoat with missing buttons.

  As he packed his sax, Julia walked up to him. "Hi, Graffy. Long time no hear."

  He peered at her uncertainly, and then a hungry smile filled his thin face. "Julia Austrian? Lord, look at that insane hair. Hey, you're gray? Weird."

  She began to walk. She didn't like to stay anyplace too long. "How're things, Graffy?"

  He fell in with her. "Sweet. Right? Couldn't be better."

  "You have that five hundred dollars I loaned you the last time?"

  His face melted into a cunning grin. He wore stud earrings up both lobes, and his weather-lined face needed a shave. "Aw, love, why we got to talk about that? You know I'm good for it. Next week I got the openin' gig for Mick and Keith."

  "I'm not here to collect money, Graffy. I'm here to give you more."

  No matter what his weaknesses, he knew no one got something for nothing. "Yeah? What's the catch?"

  "I need to locate a man, a stranger in town, who was staying at the Plaza yesterday afternoon. He had to get out in a hurry and wouldn't have wanted to go too far. I want you to use your contacts to find him."

  "Who says I've got contacts?"

  "Everyone who knows you. You've got the street-music grapevine, the homeless word of mouth, and the drug-delivery route."

  The cunning eyes grew harder. "You got the wrong person."

  "I've got the right person. You." Julia's voice was just as hard. "You've got three networks you work whenever you have to. We both know you're such a good sideman that bands use you for the night when the emergency's big enough. And when you're down and homeless, you have a raft of people you go to for what's hot, where to sleep, where to eat, where the cops are watching. Plus you've been delivering drugs almost as long as I've known you, right?"