“I want to be with you. I want to see where this can go. We can keep that as private as possible, or we can be ourselves in public and damn the press. I assure you that little of my own life remains private, but I’m willing to try if you want.”
“You want to see me again?” Her voice was suddenly soft. Her arms remained folded across her chest and she sat still as a marble statue on the kitchen stool ignoring her half-eaten waffle and the coffee she had declared as “too weak except for small children.”
Peter looked at the ceiling, but found no guidance there to understanding this woman. One moment she was worried about the appearances of his presidency and the next moment she was shocked that this wasn’t a one-night stand.
When he looked back at her, it was as if she’d changed, though she hadn’t moved a muscle. He could now see that her arms weren’t crossed in anger, but rather wrapped about herself for protection. Her caution wasn’t just for his presidency, but for herself as well. A vulnerable Geneviève Beauchamp was something he hadn’t expected.
He didn’t know what to say to her, how to reassure her when he was sure of so little himself.
So, instead, he stepped around the island and simply enfolded her into his arms.
She didn’t unclench her own arms. She just leaned her face into his chest and let herself be held. Geneviève wasn’t crying, but he could feel her dragging in deep breaths.
It took a while, but she slowly relaxed until she lay against him, rather than just being held, and her shoulders softened beneath his gentle strokes. Finally she sighed deeply and appeared to fully let go.
“As Christ is my witness,” her voice was rough, almost harsh. “You had better be worth it, Mr. President. You are making my heart in danger.”
Chapter 6
Genny had spent the morning alone in the Residence. Being alone, the first thing she’d did was her daily workout of stretches, techniques, and kata. Because she’d missed yesterday, she pushed for over an hour until she’d needed another shower. Then she’d worked on catching up on e-mails and trying not to feel self conscious about being in Peter’s home when he wasn’t. She’d started in his Living Room, but moved to the Central Hall. Even that was too personal, but she was unsure where else to go. He was taking a series of morning meetings in the West Wing before their flight.
Their flight.
Just minutes from now they’d be declaring to the world that they were seeing each other. Dating. Sleeping together. That didn’t bother her overly much. What other people thought about them being a couple was not her concern, what they thought was their problem.
What was different about this public declaration was the impact on herself. It wasn’t that she’d taken a new lover, they came and they went, not often, but it was part of the cycle of a healthy life. But to be dating the President, that was a more definitive statement, made more real by his office and his importance to the world at large. Such a thing meant that more thought and consideration had been given to the matter than someone you met at a conference and liked.
Peter Matthews had topped the most-eligible bachelor list for the two years since his wife’s death. Of course, Prince William had been married by then. Young Harry, now fourth in line to the British throne, had only placed a distant second.
Even that was not the matter. It was how she felt around Peter. She had never been so comfortable except in her own home. She’d had lovers who were casual about nudity in the home, but she had never so enjoyed walking in front of a powerful and erudite man and striking him speechless. And how could such a man know her so perfectly that he spoke not a word when the nerves overwhelmed her, but simply cradled her until she could want to be nowhere else.
He was maddening, frustrating, beautiful, and kind. He was also almost as afraid of intimacy as she was. Not physical intimacy. That was clearly not a problem between them They had found such joy in each other’s bodies that it was hard to credit. Even thinking of him caused her pulse to rise and bring a flush to her cheeks, despite the e-mail she was writing to her Assistant Unit Chief regarding how to gracefully accept a keynote speaker position for a major conference that she had already said she wouldn’t be attending as a participant.
She and Peter hadn’t been like two teenagers gone wild with hormones, nor had they been like two adults enjoying a good round of casual sex. They had made love as if each moment were a new discovery to be cherished and remembered. It overshadowed all her past experiences.
That was the intimacy that he brought to their relationship, unexpectedly and not entirely welcome. She knew this man. Not his past, there had been so little time for that. But she knew him nonetheless. As if he had slipped a piece of her heart into clearer view than it had ever been.
He did that to her. President Peter Matthews overshadowed all her experiences of men, and he had done it in only two days. How could she account for this to herself? It was impossible for a relationship to be built on such a narrow pedestal, and yet it felt as stable as the Borobudur Temple which had survived fifteen-hundred years despite jungle growth, being buried in volcanic ash, ever-chaotic Indonesian politics, and even extremists’ bombs.
“Are you ready?”
Genny startled and looked up to see the same Secret Service agent standing nearby. She hadn’t heard the woman’s approach. She packed away her laptop and turned to make a quick survey, nothing left behind her. Just her suitcase and cross-shoulder bag that held her purse and computer.
The agent led her toward the elevator. “Sorry about not offering to carry your bags, ma’am. But I need to keep my hands free.”
“It was not expected that you would do so. So, are you assigned to me?”
They traveled together down the long hall on the White House Ground Floor. Here the Christmas décor was more subdued than elsewhere. This corridor was only traversed by servants and by those from the West Wing with business in the Residence. There were no public tours here, and it felt more normal.
“I am, ma’am. For as…” She ended awkwardly.
“For as long as I am dating your President. I understand. Then you should call me Genny.”
“That wouldn’t be proper, Ms. Beauchamp.” She held open a door and guided Genny through the Palm Room and outside along the Colonnade that led toward the West Wing.
“And why do we women care about such things as being proper? That is for the men to care about.”
The agent stopped for a moment, just feet from a Marine guard at a glass door. At a glass door in a wall that curved.
Genny took a deep breath. The Oval Office was through that door. She had best make herself ready. It gave her more nerves than the first time she’d entered the U.N. Security Council Chamber to address the council.
The agent held out a hand. “Beatrice, most call me Beat.”
“Beat, that is your agent name. Beatrice, that is what I shall call you. Me you shall call Genny.” They shook hands and Genny took a deep breath and held it before nodding for Beatrice to lead the way.
The agent held open the door, let her through, and then let it close remaining outside. Leaving Genny to face the Oval Office on her own.
# # #
Peter was just finishing up with Daniel on the latest budget proposal from the National Science Foundation for next year’s Arctic and Antarctic research when the door opened off to his right.
By the time he was able to glance over, Genny’s face was turning bright red.
“Breathe, Geneviève! Breathe!” he called out as he went to her.
She blew out a breath, gulped in another, then managed little more than a squeak, “I can’t, Mr. President. I just can’t!”
He placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into the room. “I know. I know. I had the same problem. Sometimes I still do, so many great Presidents have walked here before me.”
“Me too, Genny,” Daniel offere
d cheerily as he gathered up the paperwork from the Resolute Desk. “First time I was actually in the room was for the interview that led to me being Chief of Staff. So scared you could hear my knees knocking clear back to Tennessee.”
She blew out a breath again, loudly, and slowly her normal color began coming back.
“We should make love here, Mr. President.”
“Whoops! I’m gone.” Daniel practically sprinted for the door. Traitor.
“Uh, I don’t think that even I have the nerve to do that, Geneviève.”
“I’m not suggesting one of Jack Kennedy’s naked coed pool parties, or that you smuggle me into your room like FDR did. I merely suggest that you and I should make love here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Well, I think it would be good for you. This is the center of your power, this oval room. And…,” she abruptly blew out a final breath and laughed a little shakily. “But I think I agree with you. I would not have the nerve to make love in such a place.”
A secretary breezed in through one of the doors. “Here’s your speech and your coat, Mr. President.” She held it open for him to slip on.
“Thanks, Jasmine,” he turned his attention back to Geneviève. “Besides, there’s a couple problems. For one thing, the doors don’t lock.”
Jasmine’s sudden backward glance told him that he should have waited a moment longer before speaking. He almost called her back in to explain that they were joking, like that sounded believable. He let her go.
“That is why you have guards,” Geneviève was studying the several doors that the room boasted.
“Well,” he turned her by the shoulders to look at the bay window facing the broad South Lawn. “The guards also stand outside the glass on this side.”
“So, tell them not to peek. We will turn out the lights. I will promise not to cry out too loud no matter how much you make me want to.” Now she was clearly teasing him, her hand patting his cheek, placing a small kiss on his cheek.
“I am not having this conversation. I am not standing in the Oval Office and having this conversation.” He checked the portfolio Jasmine had handed him to make sure she’d also included his schedule and the notes for the other meetings.
“What? You think that others have not been here and made love to their women in this place? If so, you are a big fool, Mr. President.”
Peter glanced up at the portraits of Washington, Lincoln, and Kennedy hanging from the office walls. Kennedy definitely. Grant maybe. And…
“I am not having this conversation.”
“How do you feel about kissing a woman in the Oval Office? Because I feel as if I am about to fly apart.”
“I think I can accede to that demand at least.” And before she could respond and make him even crazier, he swept her into his arms. She grabbed onto his coat’s lapels and hung on.
Then he guided her toward the door she had just entered.
Great. Just great.
The image of her languishing naked and sweaty upon the Oval Office rug was now firmly lodged in his brain, and he knew it would remain there for as long as he served as President.
Chapter 7
Genny wasn’t quite sure how it happened.
Perhaps it was because the President was a sneaky, manipulative, tricky man. Perhaps it was because she was a wanton, lustful wench utterly beguiled by America’s leader. Or perhaps it was just because he had asked so nicely and she couldn’t resist him.
She was climbing out of the Beatrice’s car and once again entering the White House just five days after she’d left it on the Marine One helicopter. Genny couldn’t have come sooner, as she’d just had three days of meetings in Paris before returning to New York. She hadn’t even slept, merely spent three hours in the office before hopping the train down to D.C.
“It’s cookie night,” Peter had said. “You can’t miss cookie night. We’ll wait until Friday night for you, but not longer.”
So, here she was for cookie night, whatever that was. It was five o’clock local time, making it eleven at night in Paris. But she hadn’t really had time to adapt, so she figured her body time was probably somewhere around the mid-Atlantic Oceanic Ridge. Lost in deep water far from any shore.
A butler appeared and collected her suitcase and coat, saying that he would place them in the Residence for when she needed them. “The President and Dr. Darlington are still in the Oval Office. Would you care to join them there or wait in the Residence?”
She opted for the Oval Office and Beatrice led her away. Partly, she wanted to see if she had adapted to the room at all, but mostly she wanted to see Peter.
Even when married to Gérard, she thought nothing of traveling weeks at a time away from home. Perhaps she laid too much of the failure of their marriage at his feet. Yes, he was an arrogant Frenchman with such an insular view of the civilized world that he was practically American about it. But neither had she been the easiest person to live with.
Peter Matthews however, was making her want to be with him. Two evenings and one night together and she missed the man after only five days. Damn him! Even worse, she’d missed him the minute they’d driven in opposite directions from the Manhattan Downtown Heliport.
The Oval Office had not decreased its impact in the slightest. Peter waved her in and continued listening to whatever phone conversation he was having. She passed by his chair and planted a kiss on top of his head. It was only as she stepped by, that the gesture struck her. How many times had she seen her mother do that same thing on her father’s head when he would come home and dropped with relief into his big armchair, glad to be among his family once again.
This was a little different in that the next moment Peter clearly cut off the other speaker. “Mr. Prime Minister, I’m telling you very simply, that if Israel takes such an action it will be without the support of the U.S. Not militarily, financially, or politically. If the U.N. court wants to take you down for that, they will have a hundred percent support of the United States Government. Do I make myself clear?”
Okay, maybe it was a lot different. But it had felt the same, a casual, easy acknowledgement that she was glad to see him. She did her best not to pay attention to the abruptly altered tone of the conversation as Israel tried to placate its primary ally. Instead, she turned to inspect the room.
Perhaps she was adapting to the room. This time she could see more detail. A Christmas tree, the three-meter baby brother of the ten-meter monster on the Ellipse, it had also been lit in a cheerful and bright imitation of the American flag. A few presents were scattered about the base, she glanced down, from the President to his staff by the labels.
“I don’t let them buy presents for me,” Peter slid up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck in greeting. “I don’t want them to be uncomfortable trying to decide what to give me.”
“What do you give to them?”
“Oh, illegal land grants, major tax concessions. Have you met Felicia, cute little African woman who is also a fabulous speech writer? She asked for a bomb strike for Christmas, something to do with an ex-husband. Things like that.”
“I like the way she thinks.”
“Maybe I should get one for all the women of America. Really tie up the women’s vote for the next election.”
“Yes, and it would also drop the population of your country by about a half.”
“I’d win the women by a landslide that way. Of course, just to be fair, I’d have to offer the services of the Special Operations Forces to the men. No, the whole thing could get too messy and depopulate my constituency entirely, then there’d be no one to vote for me. I talked her into accepting a small Caribbean island just as soon as the Caribbeans are done with it.”
Genny stepped away from him, waved to Mr. Lincoln, who didn’t glower one bit less despite the gesture, and continued her tour of t
he room. It was startling in its simplicity. The three grand portraits were each framed by a pair of holly wreaths bearing large red ribbons. A fire crackled happily in a marble fireplace at the far end of the Oval Office. On the mantle above it were obviously the family heirloom decorations. Old sleigh bells, nicked candy cane candles, a slightly battered set of reindeer in a smoke-stained candelabra, and a small knit Santa who slouched against the wall. She straightened the Santa who was in danger of tipping over onto an alarmed looking ceramic gnome.
At the small tables among the seating in the center of the room, more gnomes cheerfully offered ceramic bags overflowing with chocolates. She took one and bit into it.
“Oh my god, that’s so good,” dark chocolate with a Grand Marnier truffle interior. “That’s as good as sex.”
“I hope not, or I’ve been doing something wrong.” Peter had remained by the tree and watched her inspection, hands slid comfortably into the pockets of his navy-blue slacks. His tie, something in Christmasy colors, hung slightly loosened about his neck. The white linen shirt made him look clean, no, pure. As if he were the purest version of himself while standing there watching her.
She moved back to him. And could now see his tie, sporting a team of Santas facing off in a hockey game against some very determined looking elves. Genny rested her palm on the center of his ridiculous tie and his wonderful chest.
“You, my lover Mr. President, are doing absolutely nothing wrong in that area. Someone trained you so very well on how to please a woman in your bed.”
“You did.”
“Moi?”
“Tu. I simply imagined everything I could do to make you happy and did that. You inspire me. In many ways.” He said the last on a drifting voice, half to himself.
“You must stop this, Mr. President.” Genny was having difficulty breathing. Each time he said something like that to her, he shifted her self-image.
“Stop what?”
“Your flattery.” It made her feel as if she was more than she knew she was.
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