by Josie Brown
My ride is in a black Lexus sedan. Except for the darkened windows and windshield, it is an unobtrusive vehicle in Orange County.
It’s after rush hour, and now that the county’s elementary and middle schools are out for the summer, you wouldn’t think that it should take close to an hour to get to Balboa Island, but it does. Part of the problem is the number of tourists trying to hit the beach before sunset.
To double our trouble, we’ve picked up a shadow: in this case, a short balding dude in an innocuous white Prius. My guess is that our tail is actually CIA, at the behest of the Secret Service. Am I friend or foe? Is this business or pleasure? In any event, POTUS’s protection must never be compromised, despite the compromising positions those closest to him may find themselves in.
If only they were as watchful of Babette. In that regard, the lead agent in her Secret Service detail, Zeb, has convinced POTUS that he has her covered.
Perhaps he should take an early retirement.
Our shadow stays with us until we hit the Jamboree Road exit. There, he is replaced by a woman in a black Mini-Cooper. She hangs in until we cross the Balboa Island Bridge, where a bearded dude in a pick-up truck follows us.
No doubt my tails have already verified that we weren’t followed.
South Bay Street is the last cross street off the island’s main drag, Marine Street. When we get to it, we turn right. When the Lexus hits Sapphire, it rolls a house or two beyond it: our final destination.
Lee is secured in a three-story gray clapboard. Like all the other houses, it runs the full length of the block, between South Bay and the boardwalk facing Newport Bay, and just beyond it, the seaside town of Newport.
I count three Secret Service sentries, strategically stationed on the outdoor decks and terraces throughout the expansive home. They wear chinos, baseball caps, and golf shirts under windbreakers that easily cover all concealed weapons. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they were retired good ol’ boys, catching the setting sun’s last rays as it sets in the distance over Newport Beach.
When we are within ten feet of the driveway, the garage opens, then immediately closes behind us.
A second later, Lurch is walking out of the door leading into the spacious bayside villa. “Mrs. Stone, good to see you.” He smiles, but because he’s wearing dark shades, I can’t see his eyes. Still, I know they’re scanning me for anything that may be a breach of security.
To assure him I’ve got nothing to hide, I’m dressed in a manner that leaves little to the imagination: a white tank top, a white lace shawl, a simple cotton handkerchief-point skirt, and flat sandals.
As proof, he motions toward my tiny straw clutch bag. “May I?”
I hand it over. “Be my guest.”
When he’s satisfied that it holds only my key, my ID, and a change purse—not even a cell phone, he hands it back.
If I wanted to hurt Lee, I would use something already inside the house. We both know it.
What he doesn’t know and wouldn’t guess in a million years is that the cell phone scanner is attached to my hair barrette. Two of the microdots are under the nail of each of my hands’ ring fingers.
I’d say I’m ready. For what, I don’t know.
Lurch opens the door so that I may walk through before shutting it behind me.
In other words, now it’s just Lee and me.
There is a short hallway between the garage and the only room on the main floor: a living room-dining room combination, with a spacious kitchen.
Its two-story window runs the full length of the home’s view of the boardwalk. A large yacht—almost a hundred feet in length, and topped with a helipad—is tied to the pier directly out front. The name on the stern proclaims:
Sweet Irony
The harbor faces directly west. It’s late enough that already the sun has vanished from the horizon. The channel between Newport Beach and the Pacific Ocean has changed to a brilliant absinthe hue.
The home sits high enough that strollers along the boardwalk couldn’t look in if they tried. To assure this is the case, a thick drape of bougainvillea hangs on the wrought iron fence that encircles the property.
I can’t see Lee’s face from where I stand—he’s sitting on the L-shaped couch, in front of a mammoth coffee table that faces a fireplace, where crushed glass sparkles from a gas flame. However, I can see his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling dining room mirror.
Through it, I see his cell phone too: sitting on the foyer table by the front door.
I’m resigned to the realization that this man, whom I thought I knew well and trusted, did in fact order the hit on Catherine and is yet another Quorum foe.
Now, to prove it, I must take his phone and hack it—no matter what it takes.
It should make for an interesting night.
“You’re just in time for the final moments of sunset.” He rises and walks over. He is tanner than when we saw him in Washington, and certainly more relaxed.
His congratulatory kiss in the Oval Office has made him bold enough to try it again. I presume he thinks, Jack isn’t around to bristle, so why not?
He pulls me close. Our lips touch. The gentleness of it all is emphasized by the fact that he keeps his eyes closed. It’s a while before he opens them, at which point he scrutinizes my face for a sign that he’s gone too far.
He has, but I can’t let him think that. At least, not until I have what I need: the proof that he is Quorum.
Instead, I rub the two-day stubble on his cheek. “I’m surprised that Babette lets you walk around with this.”
“She hasn’t seen it,” he retorts dryly.
No better time than now to change the subject. “This place is very nice. Is it yours?”
He laughs. “Nothing belongs to me. It’s all part of GWI, for obvious reasons.”
I scold him with a wagging finger. “If anyone is in the position to simplify the tax laws, it’s you.”
“Guilty as charged.” He shrugs. “Are you up for a drink?”
“Sure.” I look at the tumbler in his hand. “What are you having?”
“Whiskey sour, but we aim to please.” He points to the liquor caddy in the dining area.
“Red wine, perhaps?”
“I think I can handle that.” He walks over to a wine rack. As he peruses the bottles, I meander toward the foyer table, where I pretend to check my hair in the mirror hanging over it. He’s too busy wrestling with the bottle’s cork to see me pocket the cell phone.
Or, to attach it to the scanner.
I then walk toward the open sliding door and onto the deck, so that he can’t see it when I connect both devices and place them in my clutch.
A weathered teak table commands the deck outside the sliding glass doors. It is set with a white linen tablecloth held down by a couple of hurricane lamps.
I gaze beyond the deck to the pier. “Does the yacht belong to GWI too?”
He walks over with my glass in one hand and his drink in the other. “Yes, but not for long. I have a buyer for it. He’s picking it up this weekend, in fact.”
“Is he aware of the historical significance?” We clink glasses. I savor a sip.
His is gone in a gulp. “Of course! How else could I sell it for ten times what it’s worth? Sucker.” He shakes his head in mock shock.
I laugh along with him. We stand side by side, for a long, long while.
Long enough that the outside air has now turned chilly and the veneer of the sun’s now red rays have coated the cobalt sky, turning it a deep plum. Long enough for a fine mist to thicken, hiding the boats in the channel from view.
But not long enough for me to feel comfortable when Lee puts his arm around my shoulder, and leans his head against mine—
Or when he kisses me on the forehead—first. Finding no resistance, his lips find their way to mine.
My mind forces my body to respond with all the right signals. My lips part. I melt into his arms.
I don’t recoil
when I feel him harden.
But, I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the slight buzz of the scanner telling me that it’s done its job.
“You’re shivering,” he murmurs. “We should go inside.”
Nodding gives me a chance to move away from him.
And it gives me the courage to ask, “Lee, why am I here?”
It is now dark enough that I cannot read his eyes. But I can certainly hear the wistfulness in his voice: “I think you know why.” He takes my hand and walks toward the door.
It’s time to pay for my theft.
Lee walks over to the bar to refill his drink. He pours himself a double.
I’m just as nervous, but the last thing I need is more wine.
He takes a seat on the couch and motions for me to join him.
Any other time, I’d choose the opposite side of the sectional. However, tonight is not any other time. This time, I must do something that breaks the bond between my heart and that of my betrothed’s.
I can’t—I won’t—lie to Jack and say it didn’t happen.
I sit next to Lee, close enough that should he lean into me, we’ll be thigh to thigh.
He does just that: shifts toward me. His mouth opens.
I expect a kiss. I brace myself but lean in—
“Donna, my guess is that your investigation will lead you to Babette.”
Oooh. Okay, curve ball—
And no way to hit this one out of the park.
Certainly not by letting on that he’s Numero Uno in the suspect department.
First, I take a deep breath. Next, I furrow a brow to indicate concern. “And why would you suspect that?”
“I’ve mentioned her stress over her position, and that her form of release is trying for both of us—taking a lover.” His hand finds mine. His index finger moves down my wrist.
Does he feel the goose bumps rising beneath his touch? I wish I could pull away, but for the sake of this mission, I must play along. “What does her indiscretion have to do with our investigation?”
His finger stops mid-point on my wrist. This lack of motion is enough to draw my eyes to his. “It may not. But taking a lover has been just one of the ways in which the pressure of being first lady has gotten to her. Her pattern of recklessness leaves her open to dangerous vulnerabilities.”
“Like blackmail?”
“Perhaps.”
Why, the heartless son of a bitch! He’s setting her up to take the fall.
Play it cool. “What are you asking of me, Lee?”
He lifts my hand to his lips. The kiss he places there is gentle. “That you…that you let me deal with it in my own way.”
“And what would that be?”
He says nothing, but he doesn’t shift his gaze from me. Finally, he sighs. “I’ll make sure that the traitor will pay.”
“By that, you mean Babette?”
“What about ‘Babette?’” At the sound of her voice, we turn toward the hall.
Oh, hell.
Babette stands in the doorway of the hall leading from the garage.
Unlike the man standing behind her, she is not smiling.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, and has a swarthy complexion. Sharp cheekbones flank a high-bridged nose, recessing further his already deep-set eyes.
His perfectly erect stance would look odd in anything less formal than the nine-thousand-dollar gray linen Gieves & Hawkes suit he wears so casually over a black collared cashmere polo shirt.
But it is his pinky ring—its crest gilded in gold with the number 13—that defines him best.
Lee gives me the incentive I need in order to tear my eyes away as he stands and reaches forward to shake the man’s hand. “Salem, good to see you’ve made it into town a few days early after all.” He nods to me. “Salem Rahmin al-Sadah, let me present one of my security consultants, Donna Stone—although soon to be Donna Craig. She gets married in a couple of days.”
When I hold out my hand, he bows in order to brush it with his lips, then murmurs, “My congratulations to you, Ms. Stone.”
“In fact, I was just telling Donna how much I’ve enjoyed seeing at least one of the two wonderful ladies in my life consumed by Donna’s pending nuptials.” Lee’s smile, solid and wide, is devoid of any guilt.
I hope I can say the same for mine. “Which is why I asked if he meant you, Babette.” I add, “And I was about to tell him how guilty I feel about it, what with all you have on your plate in the coming week.” Broad hint: it’s okay to drop my wedding from your agenda…
Still suspicious, Babette’s eyes narrow, honing in on mine like a hawk in flight that has spotted easy prey. “Is that so? Who else might he have been referring to?”
“Janie, of course. She’s just as excited about this wedding as you. But because you’ve so generously offered to help Donna plan it, certainly it’s taken more of your time than anyone else’s.” Lee’s tone makes it clear that he sees no need to quell his irritation.
Babette’s scrutiny of me falters under its heat. “Janie? ...Yes, of course.” She shrugs. “You’re right. The whole affair has exhausted me. I don’t know how I ever let you rope me into it, Donna.” She tosses her head at the thought of this fantasized impudence. “But at least we had our little gal pal getaway to take the edge off. What do you think, Donna? Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Her frosty smile taunts me to rat out the fact that she stood me up.
Don’t dare me, lady. As it is, you’re hanging by a thread.
In an attempt to deflect her wrath from me, Lee declares, “You’re four hours late, darling. I’d about given up on you and Salem. The whole purpose of coming out here was to allow him to tour the Sweet Irony while it was still daylight.”
Babette’s cheeks darken at the implication. “Traffic was a bitch. I doubt you minded much, what with Donna to keep you company.”
“She just arrived,” Lee responds. “Funny, she didn’t mention any delays—did you Donna?”
To get Babette off the hot seat, Salem dismisses the thought with a shrug. “Not to worry. My fleet captain will determine its worthiness, just as my interior designer will see to its creature comforts.” Noting Lee’s smirk, he adds condescendingly, “I’m sure it’s more than up to snuff.”
As fun as it is to listen in on the lifestyles of the rich and famous, I figure there’s no time better than now to slowly inch my way over to the foyer table in order to put Lee’s phone back where it belongs.
“Not its interior, at any rate!” Babette pouts. “I chose every piece of furniture and fabric myself! And you’ve always complimented my taste, Salem.”
I’m halfway there…
“Not to worry, Babette, I won’t change a thing—not even a cushion.” He smirks knowingly at Lee. “My designer suggest I leave everything as is. The original furnishings on an American president’s yacht might actually quadruple its value.”
I’m just a few feet from the foyer when Lee winks at me as if to say, I told you so.
I stop and wink back—
Then wait until he turns back to Babette and Salem.
“Well then, I guess this trek was for nothing,” Babette snaps.
Just a few more steps…
“It’s not a complete waste.” Lee takes hold of her hand. “Janie is with Frannie. We can stay here tonight, just the two of us.”
There, the phone is back where it belongs…
“You’ve completed your business with Donna?” Babette’s sarcasm is not lost on anyone.
Just hearing my name rattles me enough to knock over one of the candlesticks on the foyer table. I straighten it before flipping back around to face my hosts.
“She’s up to speed on the issues at hand.” Lee turns toward me in order to nod in my direction. “She’s always been a fast learner.”
I nod, even as I once again clip the scanner onto my hair.
“I’ll bet.” Babette’s head nearly twists one-hundred and eighty degrees in order to glower at me. “Th
e al-Sadahs have just arrived at Lion’s Lair. As their hostess, I should make sure they have everything they need.”
One, in particular, from the look of longing she gives Salem.
“Narcissa will take them in hand.” Lee’s tone says it all: the matter is settled.
“The president is right. Take the time to enjoy a romantic evening by the shore,” Salem insists. “With Narcissa’s help, my wives and daughters will be comfortably settled in their quarters at Lion’s Lair.”
She shrugs angrily. “Lee, where is your cell? I want to give Narcissa instructions on which rooms to place our guests.”
“On the table there.” He points to where I’m standing.
But by now, I’m staring out at the ocean, my arms folded at my waist.
As Lee shakes Salem’s hand, a thought strikes him. “May I ask a favor of you, Salem?”
“By all means.”
“Perhaps you can drop Donna at her home? It’s just a few blocks from Lion’s Lair.”
Salem’s eyes shift in my direction. “But, of course! It would be my honor.”
His sly grin is not lost on Babette.
Nor on Lee.
Trust me, I’m not so excited about it either. If I had my druthers, I’d run in the other direction, and fast.
Unfortunately, if I did, Ryan would yank out the last of his hair in frustration. The chance to position a microdot on Salem would make his week.
Or better yet, scanning his cell phone.
I wonder if Lee knows he’s done me a big favor. From the look on Salem’s face, I’d guess he’s thinking the same thing.
Chapter 15
Writing, and Honoring, Your Vows
Many betrothed couples prefer to write out vows, as opposed to having an officiant ask the questions that lead to their binding (one would hope) proclamations of commitment. Should you choose this route, please avoid the following:
Vow No-No Number 1: Whereas some creativity in customizing your vows may indeed be refreshing, seeking inspiration from Dr. Seuss, despite having read all of his books, the Tao of Theodor Geisel does not make for a mature view on marriage. To wit:
