Moaning beneath his touch, she threw her head back into the pillows. He reached for the prescription bottle on the night table and tapped one of the pills into his palm. "Take this. It'll make this even better for you."
"I don't need any more." She arched when he increased the tempo of his stroking. "Oh, God, don't stop."
He poised the pill at her lips. When she opened her mouth, .he shoved it onto her tongue, then handed her a glass of champagne. "Down it, sweet. I'm going to give you a night you won't ever forget."
She swallowed the pill, closing her eyes against the impending orgasm. "Yes."
"That's a good girl." He set the flute on the night table, feeling secure in knowing that she would remember little in the morning. At least nothing she would want to discuss with anyone. "Turn over, sweet."
"Don't stop, Garrison. Get me off. I'm almost there."
Using his muscular arms, he flipped her onto her stomach.
"We're going to make a great team, you and I."
She struggled weakly, the fleshy cheeks of her buttocks jiggling as she tried to turn herself over. "No."
Aware of his own heavy breathing, Tate grasped the ample globes and began to knead the flesh hard enough to make her wince. "I'm going to take you back here."
"No."
It was the sensation of utter and complete power over her that had his sex throbbing like a living, breathing thing. For now, it controlled him just as he controlled her. For Garrison Tate, it didn't get any better. Power was the definitive tool of seduction, the ultimate aphrodisiac. Better than any drug, more satisfying than any pleasure of the flesh.
Using her own moisture, he lubricated her there, enjoying the sight as she wriggled her buttocks from side to side. He toyed with her, feeling the power engulf him. She was his now, to do with as he pleased.
She cried out when he entered her. Brilliant streaks of excitement ripped through him at the sound of her pain, the sight of her nails bunching the sheets, the feel of her tight body as it spasmed around his. She bucked beneath him, but he continued his slow descent until he was buried to the hilt within her.
He rode her hard, doing his utmost to hurt, to control.
When she cried out or shuddered with the pain of his brutal assault, he pounded harder, without mercy, driving himself closer to release.
By the time he withdrew from her, spent, she lay silent and still on the bed, her face buried in the pillows. An occasional sob emanated from within the mass of red hair. On the pillow next to her, a red fingernail lay broken on the sheets.
Tate walked into the bathroom and returned with a warm, wet towel. He spoke softly to her as he toweled the blood from the milky flesh of her buttocks, telling her how wonderful she had been and that she should come to him whenever she needed that special favor.
Though she would be sore in the morning, Brenda DiRocco would remember little of what had happened in. this hotel room tonight. He would tell her that in the heat of celebration, she'd had too much to drink, and that he'd had one of his bodyguards drive her home. She would be embarrassed that the night had been a total blackout. But he would be reassuring, telling her it happened to the best of them from time to time.
When he got out of the shower, she still hadn't moved.
Annoyed, he picked up the piece of broken fingernail and tossed it into the trash. Reminding himself that he had a speech to give in less than an hour, he dressed, then dialed his bodyguard's room number.
"Mrs. DiRocco is going to need an escort home," he said.
"I'll be right there."
Tate hung up and smiled. He had a crowd of supporters to dazzle, money to raise, babies to kiss. He called his own room two floors down, and informed his wife the meeting had ended and that he would meet her downstairs in ten minutes.
A knock at the door announced his bodyguard. Tate answered, motioning to the semiconscious woman on the bed. "Keep it discreet, Kyle. She's had too much to drink."
The burly man, wearing custom-made trousers and jacket, went to the bed and pulled the young woman to her feet. "I'll take good care of her, Mr. Tate."
"See that you do." Tate scribbled her home address onto a sheet of the hotel's paper and handed it to his, bodyguard.
She moaned, her head lolling from side to side as the big man lifted her and slipped her coat over her shoulders. Her feet barely touched the floor as he guided her to the door.
"Use the freight elevator," Tate said in disgust.
Kyle nodded and closed the door behind them.
Tate looked at his watch, not quite sure why he felt so tense. Sex and the release that went with it usually relaxed him. Especially the kind of sex he'd had with Brenda DiRocco.
His personal cell phone chirped. Only two people had the number: That it was ringing now annoyed him. "What?"
"I just got a call from one of our constituents." The voice on the other end didn't bother with introductions or niceties.
Tate reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and withdrew the monogrammed handkerchief, not liking it that his forehead was damp with sweat. "And?"
"There have been some changes in the Denver project:"
He wiped the back of his neck, felt something inexplicable tighten in his chest. "What kind of changes?"
"We got an interesting call. Someone connected to her is willing to help us."
"By all means, let's take advantage. Discreetly, of course."
"Of course." The caller cleared his throat. "The two players are here in D.C."
"How did they get this close without my knowing it?"
"They moved quickly. Different hotel every night. The woman wants to meet with you. She's been making some noise, sir, calling your office and campaign headquarters."
Tate forced a laugh as he adjusted a diamond cuff link. "Intriguing girl," he said, considering himself in the mirror. "So far the Denver project has been a dismal failure."
"How do you want to handle it?"
"I'd like her staff terminated. Then I'd like a personal meeting with her to discuss our options."
"A personal meeting?"
He ignored the surprise in the other man's voice. "Do it."
"Sir, I feel it's my duty to warn you that a meeting could be risky."
"A risk I'm willing to take," Tate snapped. "Set it up. I want to see her."
"When?"
"Let them sweat for a couple of days. Let them get anxious. Then set something up with the contact."
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure the contact is appropriately ... compensated:"
"Done."
His heart was pounding when he snapped the phone closed. An odd mix of apprehension and anticipation that had been building for days.
And the more he thought about a personal meeting with Addison Fox, the more the idea intrigued him.
* * *
"Mr. Garrison Tate, please."
"Are you calling regarding a political issue?" the voice on the other end of the line asked.
Addison identified herself. "I'm calling in regard to a personal matter."
"Let me put you through to one of his aides."
There was a series of clicks as the call was transferred. Addison took a deep breath, wondering why it didn't help the tightness in her chest.
"May I help you?" A male voice. Professional. Busy. They screened Tate's calls well.
"This is Addison Fox. I need to speak with Garrison Tate."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Tate is in a meeting this morning. Are you inquiring about his campaign or a political matter?"
She chose her words carefully. "He's been trying to reach me. I'm sure he'll want to speak with me personally."
"I can take a message."
''This is the third message I've left."
"I'm sorry, but he's a very busy man."
"My name is Addison Fox. Tell him I'm in town." She recited the number of the cell phone Clint had given them. "I'd like to schedule a meeting with him. If he doesn't return my call, t
ell him I'll contact the Wall Street Journal" She disconnected.
It was the third such call in as many days and still Tate hadn't bothered to call her back. Discouraged, she blew a sigh and frowned at Randall. "He's not going to take the bait."
Sitting across the table from her, he gazed back at her, his dark eyes conveying that he understood her frustration, but he didn't share it. "We'll find another way to nail him."
His answer only heightened her agitation. Too restless to sit, she rose and walked to the window, barely noticing the traffic or the rain-soaked pedestrians moving along K Street below. ''This is the last thing I expected to happen. He's been so aggressive until now."
"Maybe he's trying to wait us out." Coming up behind her, Randall wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against hers. "You're forgetting something."
The tension drained out of her body the moment his arms encircled her. It was a magic that was uniquely theirs, one she'd discovered quite by accident in the three days they'd been in Washington. Regardless of her frame of mind, whether she was angry or afraid or just feeling alone, whenever he touched her she knew that, somehow, everything would work out.
Beyond the window, the rain quickened its tempo. She closed her eyes, wishing the nightmare would end so she could concentrate on loving this man who held her like she'd never been held before.
"What am I forgetting?" she asked quietly.
"As we speak, there are two reporters from the Wall Street Journal up in Siloam Springs, U.S.A., harassing Sheriff Delbert McEvoy."
The image that came to mind made her smile, and she snuggled closer to him. "Interesting scenario."
"Downright amusing if you ask me." He nipped at her earlobe. "And Van-Dyne's investigating in Denver. Something will break soon."
She loved the feel of him against her. Solid. Reassuring. The need inside her stirred, its power never ceasing to take her breath. "Have you checked on Jack?"
"Earlier this morning," he murmured, nuzzling the tender flesh just below her left ear. "But I need to check in again." Groaning, he eased away from her. "We're going to run out of hotels if Tate doesn't make his move soon," she said.
"D.C. is a big city—”
The telephone jangled as he reached for it. Their eyes met, hers startled, his sober and decisive. "If it's Tate, go ahead and set up a meeting," he said.
Heart pounding, Addison picked up the phone. Randall leaned close enough to hear the conversation. "Hello?" she said.
"It's Clint."
"Hi, Clint."
"No luck yet, huh?"
"Not yet."
"It ain't gonna do you any good to be impatient. That old dog's playing it safe. But, believe me, honey, he's feeling the heat."
''This waiting is making me crazy."
"Looks like I'm calling at just about the right time then. You two have been cooped up for three days. I was wondering if I could drag you out for a drink and a bite to eat."
After three days of room service food, the idea appealed immensely to Addison. She cocked her head at Randall, knowing he would be more cautious. ''We're still waiting for the call," she said.
"That's the whole idea behind cell phones. You can take 'em with you."
''Where do you want to meet us?"
* * *
Randall commandeered the phone. “Leaving the hotel isn't a good idea," he said. "Tate knows we're in town."
Clint's slow drawl transcended over the static. "I'm not talking dinner, partner. That was for her benefit. I didn't want to scare her, but you and I need to talk. I got some news for you."
"What is it?"
"Not on the cell."
"Then meet me here," Randall said.
"Not at the hotel. There's an anonymous little Italian place on upper Wisconsin called Franco's. The food's decent. It's a quiet place. We can talk there."
Indecision hammered at him. Clint had information. From the sound of it, something important. But Randall hadn't wanted to leave the hotel.
As if sensing his reluctance, Clint added, "He's not going to make a move on you in his hometown."
Randall looked at Addison and cursed. "I don't know, Clint. I don't like the idea of being so visible." If it were just him, he wouldn't hesitate. He was armed and a decent marksman to boot. But he was responsible for Addison and didn't want to take any unnecessary chances with her safety.
“This won't wait," Clint said.
Randall knew the man was probably right. Tate couldn't possibly know where they were staying or what they were driving. Randall had been too careful, checking them in to a different hotel each night under assumed names. He paid with cash, just as he had the rental car.
Turning away from Addison, he spoke quietly into the receiver. "Bring your piece. We'll meet you there in half an hour."
Chapter 22
Half an hour later, Randall pulled the rental car onto Wisconsin Avenue and headed north. He still didn't like the idea of leaving the hotel. Being on the street left them exposed. But there had been an urgency in Clint's voice Randall couldn't ignore.
Beside him, Addison chatted easily, taking in the sights of the city, filling the silence with a first-time visitor's observations, her voice subtly sexy and smooth as silk. He listened to her and watched the rearview mirror, trying in vain to rid himself of the uneasiness that had lodged in the pit of hill stomach like a stone.
Casting her a sidelong glance, he felt the all-too-familiar protectiveness well up inside him. In the semidarkness, he watched covertly as she drank in the sights of Georgetown, the brownstone storefronts, the Christmas decorations and muted yellow lights of lower Wisconsin Avenue. It occurred to him that she'd never experienced D.C., and he suddenly wished he could share it with her. He wanted to wine and dine her at every restaurant he; d ever loved, take her to every museum, browse through every out-of-the-way antique shop he'd ever overspent in.
He found himself wondering if she'd be willing to leave her coffee shop behind for the lights of D.C., but quickly stanched the thought. It would be wrong of him to ask her to give up her career for his. His life was in turmoil. He had the post-traumatic stress disorder to deal with. Not to mention the drinking. The last thing he wanted to do was displace her. Her roots were in Denver. Hell, she'd probably turn him down cold anyway.
Christ, he was going to miss her.
Despite the resilience she'd displayed over the last several days, her bravado was wearing thin, just as his was. She was a woman of contrast, surprising strengths and. carefully concealed weaknesses, all of which formed a unique, intriguing balance. She was strong without being tough, soft without being weak. Each human frailty was overshadowed .by vitality, every flaw matched by sheer perfection.
God help him, because he'd fallen headlong in love with her. The realization shocked him, thrilled him, and scared the holy hell out of him.
She was the only woman he'd ever met who could move him with nothing more than it look or gesture or word. Against his better judgment he'd given up his heart, knowing full well he was going to pay dearly for it when the time came for him to walk away.
He stopped at a light, instinctively touching the butt of the pistol tucked into his shoulder holster. Around them, traffic was light. With a practiced eye, he watched the flow of traffic, singling out cars, looking for vehicles following too closely, trying to spot the same car twice, all to no avail.
He wondered what information Clint had uncovered. Though Randall understood the other man's reluctance to speak on the cellular, he couldn't help but wonder why the Texan hadn't agreed to meet them at the hotel. As Randall pondered the question, it was then that he realized Clint was at the root of his uneasiness.
* * *
At the entrance to Franco’s, Addison paused, taking in the smells of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread. Her stomach growled. Colorful Tiffany lamps cast warm, amber light over a dozen or so mosaic-topped bistro tables. A massive wall menu boasted the best linguine in town.
She shook off the cold that had somehow crept through her coat. "Smells great," she murmured. "I'm starved."
Expecting a response, she turned to Randall and watched as he scanned the room, his eyes pausing on the family of four in the corner, the couple huddled together at a table for two, the man nursing a beer at the bar.
"What is it?" she asked, trying to ignore the uneasiness tightening in her chest.
The Perfect Victim Page 27
