by Rick Pullen
Beck looked into her eyes, careful not to let his gaze drop lower. “So you’re a jeans and sweats kind of gal.”
“Not exactly. I’m more of a minimalist.” She turned away to light her cigar, offering no further explanation.
Beck was already puffing away. He looked at the blue smoke he exhaled against the night’s blackness. He desperately needed a distraction. She was turning him on. He continued his gaze into the darkness.
“What a peaceful spot,” she said. “Hidden in the middle of the city, you’ve found a little slice of paradise.”
“It helps. I do a lot of my work here.” He turned to her. “It’s quiet, no newsroom bustle. I get jazzed with the energy of the newsroom, but writing takes a lot of time and research, and I have moments when I just need quiet. Half of my job is reading old files and documents. It’s really not glamorous. It’s laborious. To be honest, I’m nothing more than a nerd hanging out in dusty old libraries.”
“If you’re a nerd, I’m Cleopatra.”
“The makeup may be a little off, but you’re certainly attractive enough.”
“Are you flirting with me?” “Ms. Kemper, I believe I am.”
Leaning back against the end of the sofa, he watched her closely. At the other end, she leaned forward toward him with her arm over the back of the sofa, her blouse gaping open and her brandy in her other hand.
Should he make a move? She’s married. Better not, he thought. Was she sending a signal? He couldn’t tell, but he sure was receiving one. Maybe he should confront the elephant in the room.
“So tell me about your husband. It must be interesting to be married to a US senator.”
“Not really. It’s actually kind of boring. But I’d rather talk about something else. Your life must be so much more interesting. I’d really like to know what a writer does exactly. Until tonight, I didn’t know any writers.”
Interesting, he thought. She didn’t want to talk about the husband. A good sign?
“Well, I’m happy to be your first.” Ugh. Did he really say that? “It’s simple.” Beck shifted on the patio sofa. “I pace the floor wearing out the carpet and talking to myself until I come up with just the right words. But most of journalism—at least for me—is in the reporting. Writing comes late in the game.”
He looked down at his drink as he raised it to his lips attempting to scan her body unnoticed. His eyes traveled up her curves, trying not to linger too long on her bare, tanned legs or the contour of her nipples straining under her clingy blouse. Was she doing this intentionally to him or was she a woman more interested in her own comfort than worried about what signals she might be emitting? What was he reading here?
They sat on Beck’s pale yellow patio sofa and talked politics, religion, and Washington ways. But never once did they touch on the third pillar of nonpolite company conversation—sex. Was it that obvious?
He poured them a second brandy. She accepted hers gladly. An hour later, they were still talking, and the cigars were a memory.
Beck caught himself staring into her face several times. Her dark lashes cradled her wide-set eyes, which seemed to dance excitedly as she talked. The curve of her mouth was so inviting that at one point he lost track of their conversation. He was thinking what it would be like to kiss her. And then he caught himself. Stop it. She’s married. The last married woman he’d had an affair with did not end well. He didn’t need that again.
FINALLY, SHE STOOD. “This has been really nice.” It was late, Geneva thought. They couldn’t talk all night.
“Can I get you anything?” Beck asked.
“A cab. I think I should be going. This evening turned out to be nothing like I expected. Thank you for a wonderful time.”
“I wasn’t prepared for this either. I’ve never met a woman like you.” “I hope that’s good.” “Oh, it’s good.”
They looked intently at each other and reached out for a good night embrace. It was quick, and they separated, but she refused to let go of his arm.
“Beck.”
She looked into his eyes, and he wrinkled his brow, questioning. “Beck, this evening was too good.” He smiled widely.
She reached behind his neck and pulled him toward her. Their lips met, tentatively. Then, in a frenzy of motion, they were fused together. She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him harder. Beck responded, wrapping his arms around her back. His hands wandered, and he cupped her bottom and pulled her hips to him. She wrapped her leg around his, slamming his leg between her thighs. A wave of warmth rose from her groin at the feel of his hard body pressed against her softness.
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t breathe. She grabbed his forearms and pushed away.
“Sorry,” said Beck. “I shouldn’t have, but—”
“No, silly. You literally took my breath away. Do you have a bed?”
A broad smile crossed his face. She stared into his eyes and unbuttoned his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the hairs between her fingers. She kissed him again and began to unleash his belt.
He fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, but to no avail.
“Here, let me.” She finished unbuttoning and opened her blouse. He gasped at the sight of her breasts. He cupped her soft flesh in his palm. She felt her nipples harden as he caressed her, and she shivered with excitement.
She reached into his boxers. He shuddered. They groped and pawed at each other feverishly. His hand reached under her skirt. She felt him pause momentarily as he discovered only her soft bare skin. She grinned at the thought. She’d forgotten how much fun it was to surprise a man.
She looked up at him. “Don’t you think we should go inside?”
He led her to his bedroom. They left the light on as they stripped and then stood for a moment. She eyed his naked body, trying not to look too long, but it had been decades since she had seen a naked man other than her husband. She pushed him to the bed, grabbed him, and climbed on top impaling her body on his. She leaned down and raked her hardened nipples across his chest. Then she leaned back and took him for a long, late-night ride.
GENEVA WAS JUST WAKING UP when she noticed Beck at the foot of the bed, standing, fastening his belt. He was already dressed and showered. Her hair was tussled and in her eyes, which were half-open. Her lips were dry.
She moaned, mourning the morning and the sun’s rays filtering through the bedroom window shutters. “Hey. I know guys are supposed to quietly sneak away before dawn and before we wake up, but that really isn’t necessary. This is your place, you know.”
Beck looked at her and grinned. “I have an early meeting with my editor. I know this isn’t the right way to do this. I guess we need to talk. This is a bit awkward.”
“Ah . . . sure. Sorry. I’m not really awake yet.”
“Coffee’s on the kitchen counter.” He sat on the side of the bed. “I really enjoyed last night. I don’t know what your situation is, but I would love to see you again.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“No, I mean it.” He leaned over and kissed her. She reached for him. The sheet fell away revealing her breasts and belly. She pressed against him. He gently brushed her flesh with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I really have to go.”
Beck caressed her breast one last time and kissed her hard.
She let go of his neck and fell back into bed. And he was gone.
She lay there, remembering last night and realized how sore she was. It had been a long time. She smiled at the thought. She drew the sheet over her body. His scent lingered. What a surprising and delightful man. He turned what could have been an incredibly boring evening into one of her best nights ever. What was it about this guy?
The first part of her mission was accomplished. She had gained his confidence—well, she’d gained a lot more than that and would likely feel the effects of her late-night workout the rest of the day. Last night was totally u
nexpected. This lovely man had deflected her attention. That wasn’t a bad thing, but it wasn’t a good thing either. How could she breach the subject of Senator Bayard without Beck thinking she slept with him in exchange for a favor? This was Washington, after all.
17
A senator’s wife. What was he thinking? The only meeting Beck had that morning was with a large espresso. The third cup of Starbucks finally green-lighted his synapses. He was thinking caffeinated again.
“You look like shit,” said Nancy as he trudged into the office.
“I feel like it.”
“Must have been a good party.”
Beck didn’t answer. They met in one of the conference rooms and spread out four pounds of documents that Beck had collected from various nonprofit watchdogs and government agencies over the last two days. It was the beginning of his investigation, and like many of them, he wasn’t quite sure what he was searching for yet. But if his source was correct, the documents would give him a hint. Later that morning Beck cabbed to Capitol Hill to find some missing pages that must have stuck together when he copied the originals.
On his way back to the office, his cell phone rang. The screen said it was Geneva. He had forgotten they had exchanged numbers. Why’d he do that? He ignored it, and the phone signaled she’d left a message. He stared blankly through the taxi window, feeling guilty. He said he’d call her. But a senator’s wife. Was he crazy? He thought about last night. Those big, beautiful, wide-set brown eyes. Those dimples when she curled her mouth. Her long brown hair smelled like roses, and her bangs tickled his face when she leaned over to kiss him. And that body. Wow, she rubbed it up against him like a purring cat.
Where had she been all of his life? Oh yeah. That’s right. She was somebody’s wife—a senator’s.
WHEN HE RETURNED to the office, he and Nancy sat in the glass-walled conference room next to the newsroom and scrutinized the documents a second time.
“I don’t see anything here,” Beck said.
“Agreed. The reality is, we’ve got a hundred different rabbit holes to explore. We need to narrow our possibilities, or we’ll never finish a story in time for the election. The fastest way to get to the truth is to send you packing to Grand Cayman. Maybe you can come back with something that points us in the right direction.”
“But we haven’t even scratched the surface here yet. We need to explore the Pentagon angle. And what about Lamurr? I’d be going to Cayman blind without more background.”
“Have you looked at a calendar lately? We’ve got a presidential election in short order. We need to move now.”
“But—”
“But what? Jeez. I’ve never seen a reporter so reluctant to take an all-expenses-paid vacation to a beautiful island like Grand Cayman.”
“It’s not that. I just feel like there are so many loose ends.”
“Duh. Look, while you’re gone, I’ll ask Leslie Werstein to snoop around the Pentagon and grab as much of the contract proposal information as she can find. And I’ll get the business staff to dig up everything they’ve got on Lamurr. I’ll do that just for you. Just to massage that restless imagination of yours. I’ll ladle it on a silver platter. It will be sitting on that disaster of a desk of yours when you return. You can then bury yourself up to your ears in contract minutiae. Satisfied?”
Beck nodded.
“And who was that guy at Justice?” Nancy asked. “Jackson Oliver.”
“Yeah, we’ll run some background on him too. Any other avenues you can suggest we attack while you’re on vacation?”
“I think you’ve got it covered.” She was right. If they were going to get this story in time, they needed to work in tandem with other reporters on her team.
“Glad we could accommodate you. At least someone is gonna work around here while you’re enjoying the sun. You just figure out how to prove Bayard is a crook. I want the front page. Above the fold. I want to dominate the web page and the newspaper app.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Don’t come back here trying to justify all of those margaritas on your expense account. God, I hate sending reporters on free vacations while I’m stuck here in the newsroom. Just make it easy for me to justify your expense account to Baker. And don’t enjoy it too much. That’s an order.” Nancy smiled.
“It’s off-season. Who wants to go there in August?”
“Yeah, right. The beach in August. Rough assignment. Try not to get swept away by a hurricane or come back with a sunburn.”
“This could take a while.”
“Yeah, right.”
Beck felt better. He couldn’t wait to dig through island land records and find Bayard’s property, and he’d be doing it sooner than expected. Nancy, as usual, covered all the bases. She wanted that story before Election Day. Now it was going to be his head if he failed to deliver.
He spent the rest of his day in the newspaper morgue, combing through old Bayard news clippings, immersing himself in the senator’s political history. Beck wanted to know his prey. He cornered John Jeffrey, one of the political reporters on the national desk, and grilled him.
“Bayard was a relative latecomer to the race last year,” Jeffrey said. “He surprised a lot of people with his ability to so quickly raise enough campaign cash to be competitive. It was unusual. Money is the mother’s milk of political legitimacy, and he seemed to have no problem raising it. People were obviously looking for alternatives to the candidates already announced. He’s now second in the convention delegate hunt in what was originally a five-candidate race.”
Jeffery explained that Senator Diana Lee from Florida was in third place. She was everybody’s favorite for the vice presidential nomination. The Republican establishment was talking about a need to balance the ticket with a woman. What they weren’t saying aloud was they needed Florida to win.
“That puts extra pressure on Bayard to win the nomination. Otherwise, he might not get picked to be number two on the ticket,” Jeffrey said.
“Even I get that,” Beck said, “and I don’t cover politics.” His cell rang. Beck excused himself and walked to his desk. He answered on the fourth ring.
“It’s Geneva. Can we talk this evening?” “Ah, sure.” Oh god, he thought. What do I do? “Your place? Seven okay?” “Okay. Sure.”
“I’ll see you then.” She hung up.
It sounded like a business call, he thought. There was no “I had a wonderful evening” or “Hi, how are you?” chatter. Maybe she decided it was just a one-night stand. He felt his stomach ease.
Beck thought about his wayward love life and lack of commitment. Since his early college years, he had the reputation as the two-month wonder—if he dated a woman for more than two months, his friends would start to wonder.
That’s all this was. It would be over shortly. It was just a one-night fling and some of the best sex he ever had. Maybe that was it. Great sex. Beck sighed and grinned at the thought.
But there was something more. He didn’t remember this feeling. Infatuation maybe? No. That, he remembered. He was an expert at infatuation.
Who was he kidding? He liked her. He liked her a lot. Maybe more than he should—more than he could comfortably handle right now.
What was it about this Geneva Kemper? He did not need this entanglement, and yet he somehow did. He wanted her. Was it the thrill of the forbidden? Hell, he’d had affairs with married women before. What made this one so special?
18
When Beck returned to his condo, the bed was made. The coffee mugs were cleaned and resting on his stainless steel drying rack in the kitchen. He walked out to the balcony. Though the ashes were still in his large cigar ashtray, the glasses were gone. He checked the dishwasher and found she’d placed them inside. Obviously, she didn’t know where he put his ashes.
It felt intrusive. He stopped himself. Are you kidding? You had sex with her last night exposing everything you’ve got, and you’re concerned about her playing house while you’re gone?
Get real.
One of his notepads was out of place on the kitchen counter. “Thank you for last night. —J,” it read.
He stared at the note. His insecurities welled up.
“Red, what have I done?” he said aloud, turning toward his reading chair.
Red served many purposes, usually helping him organize his thoughts. But this evening, he knew he asked the impossible: helping him understand a woman. Beck understood only one female, and he was looking right at her. Red was good at figuring out motives, inserting paragraphs into long stories, and finding just the right word. But how could she help him with Geneva?
He paced the floor. “When she gets here, I’ll just tell her we can’t do this. I’m not getting involved with a senator’s wife. Okay, so she’s great in bed, and she likes sports, and she loves cigars, and she’s smart, and she’s got a great body, and she’s good in bed, and she’s, well, she’s great in bed.
God, can she kiss. Red, that’s not enough. I like this woman, but she’s married. She’s coming over to break it off anyway. That’ll be fine. Maybe just another roll in the sack before I say good-bye. No, that will just complicate things further. I need a cup of coffee. Gotta think straight.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Geneva pressed the intercom downstairs. He buzzed her up. It was awkward.
She just stood there, looking beautiful in the hallway, her hair smoothly curving around her face. She had obviously come from the office, dressed in a stylish, fitted blouse and dark pencil skirt. Beck didn’t know anything about women’s fashion, but he knew she sure looked good.
Her wide mouth curled up into a grin when he motioned her through the door. After she crossed the threshold, she turned to him and embraced him. This time, the kiss was less aggressive, less desperate.
“I think we need to talk,” Beck said. He was not used to being pursued.
“I’m the one who needs to talk,” Geneva said. “I owe you an explanation. You must be wondering what a married woman, especially one in my position, is doing in your bed.”
