POTUS: A Powerplay Novel

by Selena Laurence

  She hadn’t had any time to recover from her first orgasm, so another was quick to follow, and as she pulsed around him, hot and sweet, Kamal squeezed her to him, arms wrapped around her torso, one hand on her breast, one on her clit. When his balls drew up so tight and hard that he thought they might explode, the tingling turned to full-fledged fire, and he emptied himself into her in luxurious waves of ecstasy, growling her name into her ear as she filled his every sense.

  They both collapsed onto the bed, panting and gasping, limbs trembling, skin slicked in sweat. When he could manage to move, he pulled her to him, tucking her into his side, and toying with the ends of her hair.

  “I think something might be permanently broken,” she said, giggling softly.

  He paused, considering what he wanted to say. He was, after all, a diplomat, a businessman, someone trained from birth to consider his words very carefully, to never let emotions overrule his sense and the needs of the situation.

  But then he had a wave of that sensation she always gave him, the weightlessness, the freedom, the utter bliss, and he decided that a lifetime of deliberation and consideration and caution was fine for some things, but not for this. Not for her.

  “Jessica,” he began, his voice rough in the quiet dark of the room. “We began this as something sexual, I think, but there has been flirting and conversation and friendship, and something else has happened. Something I didn’t expect.”

  She raised herself onto one elbow, watching him with concern. “Are you going to break up with me now?” she asked, a small furrow between her brows.

  He smiled, shaking his head. “No, love, just the opposite.” The backs of his knuckles stroked her silky cheek. “I care about you deeply. I know that it’s still over a year until your term of office is up, but I find myself thinking about what things might be like between us if you were no longer president.”

  She blinked at him, processing his words, and his heart pounded in anticipation and, if he were being completely honest, with trepidation.

  Then Jessica Hampton, forty-fifth president of the United States, leaned down and pressed an utterly sweet and completely honest kiss on his lips, and his heart moved from his body to hers in a moment. When she pulled back, he struggled with the knowledge that someone else now held his entire life inside her.

  “I think I would like nothing more than to dream about the day I’m no longer president and you’re there with me,” she said softly.

  Kamal pulled her into his arms, holding her close, listening to her breaths. “And I think I’m falling in love with you, Madam President,” he whispered.

  When Jessica woke, Kamal was gone, the only thing remaining of him the scent of his cologne on her pillow. She burrowed into the expensive cotton and breathed deeply, remembering the feel of his hands on her body—in her body—the way he cried out her name when he shuddered his release, the soft heart-wrenching words he spoke to her in the darkness. Then she did what all women worth their salt did when they fell in love with a gorgeous hunk of a man: She hugged her pillow tight and squealed into it like a little girl.

  “Madam President?” The housekeeper knocked lightly on the door and called Jessica’s name. “You’ve overslept, ma’am. Your secretary says your first meeting is in forty minutes. I have breakfast waiting for you.”

  Dammit. Jessica bolted up in bed. “Yes, thank you, Marie,” she called out to the housekeeper.

  She tried to rub the grit from her eyes, then looked around her. There on the nightstand was a small velvet box with a handwritten note on top. She eagerly reached over and snatched the paper.

  Madam President,

  In my family, it is an old tradition to give those we love a token of our esteem one time per month. This monthly giving of a small token is our way of reminding the people we care about how much they mean to us. This is my gift to you this month. I hope you enjoy it.

  Jessica opened the velvet box, listening to the snap of the hinges as it popped open. Inside was a ticket stub. She read the words printed on it—Le Cordon Bleu Patisserie I, January 22, 2018, reservation confirmed.

  She turned the ticket over and read more in Kamal’s angular, bold handwriting.

  For the day when you are simply the president of my heart.

  He’d paid for her to take a pastry-making class at the world’s finest cooking school in Paris two days after the inauguration of a new president. He’d remembered—how much she loved cooking, her sweet tooth, that she’d majored in French in college. He’d remembered her.

  Jessica held the ticket to her heart and curled up on her side in the big bed, breathing in his cologne again. And for the first time in so many years, she was remembering her too—the woman who fell in love, the woman who wanted a family, the woman who worked because she loved the job, not because she was obligated. And for the first time in all those years, she thought that she might find that woman again.

  Chapter 15

  Kamal had thought he’d have more time, but the hammer fell only a few days later.

  “Mr. Ambassador?” Shamira asked through the office intercom system.

  “Yes?”

  “President Abbas is on the line for you.”

  Holy hell. “Yes, please hold any other calls or appointments and put him through.”

  He waited for several minutes until he heard his boss’s voice on the other end. “Ambassador.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, how are you?”

  “Let’s not bother with the niceties, Kamal. I have spoken with your father.”

  “Yes. He mentioned he was going to be contacting you.”

  “If this were only family drama, I wouldn’t be calling, but you realize by now, I’m sure, that it goes far beyond your disagreements with your father.”

  Kamal merely waited for Abbas to continue.

  “I understand that your father imparted to you my wishes regarding the accord.”

  “He did.” Kamal wasn’t going to give an inch. He’d faced down his father; he could outlast Abbas as well.

  “And yet, the discussions have continued, and if the American media is to be believed, they are going well, and the agreement is progressing?”

  “Yes, the talks are going well. The president and I work well together.” That was an understatement. “And we have coordinated several major compromises.”

  A sharp boom followed, and Kamal knew Abbas had hit something nearby. His voice rose as he blasted his frustration over the phone. “Do you not understand that we cannot have this accord go into effect? The policies will severely impact important Egyptian business. I do not want to relieve you of your duties, but if you cannot obey me on this, I will have to recall you, Kamal.”

  “Mr. President,” he responded with every bit of calm he could muster. “You seem to forget that the parliament assigned this negotiation to me, not even to the ambassador to the US, but to me, by name. If you read the legislation, it is very clear. You can try to recall me, you can have me removed from the embassy, but until you get parliament to undo the enabling legislation that began these negotiations, you cannot get me to stop doing my job.”

  His heart beat somewhat erratically as he waited for a response. Kamal was no fool. He had prepared for this. Teague had done crash research on Egyptian parliamentary law, which luckily wasn’t that different from British, and he knew he had an airtight justification for remaining in the negotiations. Abbas would have to go to parliament and request that the legislation be rewritten if he really wanted Kamal out. Somehow Kamal doubted that drawing attention to the accord and everything surrounding it was what Abbas wanted.

  “That is an unfortunate stand to take, Mr. Ambassador. You’re leaving me very few options.”

  “Maybe you need to reevaluate your business arrangements, sir.”

  “I’m more likely to reevaluate my problem-solving methods. Pack your bags, Kamal. You won’t be living in my embassy much longer.”

  Then he disconnected the call, much as Kamal’s father h
ad.

  It was five a.m. when Jessica was awoken and called to the Situation Room. She tossed on a track suit and an Air Force One baseball cap, her red hair in a ponytail out the back before walking to the basement of the White House where the bulletproof, bombproof room full of the world’s most advanced technology was currently populated with top-level military and technical staff.

  “Madam President,” the general said, standing as she entered the room.

  “Yes, General. Please, sit, everyone.” She took the chair at the head of the table. “It’s very early, so I assume something important has happened.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We have information on the Bratva and the attempt on your life.”

  “By all means, then, let’s hear it.”

  “We managed to get a man inside the Bratva operating out of Moscow. He was put to work loading cargo onto railcars. One of the trains he loaded was from Pharaoh Shipping and Freight.”

  “And that matters to us, why?”

  “It’s owned by the president of Egypt, ma’am.”

  Jessica sat and looked at her general, eyes narrowed as she struggled to put the disparate pieces of a complex puzzle together.

  “So, President Abbas is doing business with the Bratva?”

  “It certainly looks that way, ma’am.”

  “But this still doesn’t tie the Bratva to my shooting.”

  “We’re getting there, ma’am.” The general pressed a remote control, and an image photographed in infrared appeared on the large screen at the front of the room. It showed a wood box full of plastic bundles. “This is a photo our man on the inside took of the cargo he was loading onto that Pharaoh train.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes, and they’re headed to the Middle East, just as we’ve heard.

  “Okay, so we have proof that the rumors about the Bratva running drugs to the region are correct. Therefore, they have motive to stop the accord and to do that by stopping me.”

  “But,” the general interjected, “we now have an added variable—Egypt.”

  Jessica rubbed her arms, feeling a chill that soaked down into her bones. “And we still have no proof that the Bratva tried to kill me. Only that they have the motivation to want the accord to fail.”

  “We’re working on the proof, ma’am. Our man has been introduced to one of the Bratva assassins and is working to get acquainted with some others. The more of the hit men he can make contact with, the better his chances of getting the intelligence that will lead us to the actual shooter who penetrated the White House.”

  Jessica’s next question sat heavy on her tongue, but being competent at her job meant she had to ask it.

  “And do you think Egypt had anything to do with the shooting? I find it confusing that the ambassador was mandated to work on this accord with me, yet it appears that the president is in bed with the accord’s most significant opposition?”

  “I think I can fill in some of the gaps on that one,” the secretary of state said from her position at the opposite end of the table. “It was not the president who ordered the ambassador to undertake these negotiations. It was the parliament.”

  Jessica nodded. “So, it’s possible that the president has a very different agenda from his parliament.”

  “It’s highly likely, ma’am.”

  The general interjected, “But what I’m concerned about is where the ambassador stands in this whole mess. He’s been charged to do this by the parliament, but he serves at the will of the president.”

  “The ambassador has been negotiating in good faith, General,” Jessica said, a flare of defensiveness erupting in her chest.

  “He might seem like it, but I’m finding too many coincidences in all of this. He was with you when the shooting happened—alone with you, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Jessica shrugged. “We were looking at the new shade structure in the gardens. My protection detail was a few yards away watching us the entire time.”

  “That’s not actually the way I heard it, ma’am.”

  Jessica raised an eyebrow at the general.

  “The men said they couldn’t see you when you entered the darkened shade structure. They knew you were there, but it was too dark for them to actually see you or the ambassador.”

  Oh hell. She’d managed to keep that fact hidden when everyone was so distracted by the shooting, but apparently the general had been asking lots of questions. Lots of uncomfortable questions.

  “And you think what?”

  He leveled her with a stern look. “I think that the ambassador could very well be in on the shooting. In fact, our supposition is that he was in charge of getting you into position for the shooter.”

  “No!” Jessica’s voice came out sharper and louder than she’d intended, and she could see several of the people in the room glance at each other awkwardly, all of them wondering what had gotten her upset. “He saved my life, General. There’s no way he was in on the shooting.”

  “Ma’am, there are many ways to make it look like you’re doing one thing while you’re actually doing another. The ambassador has served in the Egyptian army—special forces, if my information is correct. He is certainly capable of a deception like this.”

  “But why, General? What motivation does the ambassador have? Just to do the president’s bidding? Keep his job?”

  The general clicked the remote, and the screen switched to another image, this one of three men walking across the tarmac at an airport, a military jet in the background behind them.

  “The man on the far right, you know, of course, President Abbas. The shorter man with the gray hair is Alexander Petrovich, one of the highest ranking Bratva leaders. He runs the international side of the business.”

  “And the man on the left?” Jessica didn’t like where this conversation was going.

  “Hassim Masri. The ambassador’s father.”

  Kamal paced the floor of the reception room next to the Oval Office. The request for him to come to the White House had come through official channels rather than Jessica herself, and it was making him crazy. His gut told him this was not good, and he was desperate to see her and hear for himself how bad things were.

  The door swung open, and Peter appeared. “The president, Mr. Ambassador,” he announced before stepping aside to admit Jessica.

  Kamal’s heart had been caught in his throat all morning, and now it dropped to his gut like a rock. Her face was stern, and the light that was always in her eyes when she saw him was extinguished.

  He managed to keep from approaching her and pulling her into his arms like he wanted to, opting instead to stand very still, bowing his head subtly in greeting. “Madam President.”

  “Mr. Ambassador. Peter, if you would wait outside?”

  “Ma’am, given the information we received this morning, I would prefer to stay in the room,” Peter answered, glowering at Kamal.

  “He went through security screening on his way in?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then he can’t hurt me. I’ll let you know immediately if I need anything.”

  Kamal clenched his jaw, knowing that everything would be explained in a moment, but being spoken of as if he were a danger to Jessica did not sit well.

  Peter acquiesced and shut the door softly on his way out.

  Kamal was in motion before the latch had even clicked, taking broad steps across the plush carpet. “What’s happened?” he asked as he reached her and gazed into her emotionless face. His hands twitched to touch her, but he controlled the urge, afraid it might result in the Secret Service hauling him off the property.

  “Please, have a seat.” Jessica gestured to the pair of armchairs separated by an end table.

  “No, I won’t sit down.” He took a step back so he wouldn’t touch her, because God, he wanted to so badly. Wanted to crush his lips to hers and force her to admit that she was still his, no matter what might have happened since he’d last left her bed forty-eight hours ago. “Tell
me what the hell is going on.”

  Her icy façade finally cracked a touch, and he saw enormous hurt in her eyes. The anger he could resist, the pain he couldn’t, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d captured her hand in his, pulling her arm to his chest, cradling it as he gazed down into her sad, tired eyes.

  “Tell me, love,” he whispered.

  “The military has new information related to my shooting. They think that President Abbas might be involved, and also…” She swallowed, and his heart tore in two, because he knew what the next words would be. “Your father.”

  Kamal swore softly, all the while continuing to keep Jessica pinned to his body, her arm trapped between them.

  “You knew,” she said, her voice calm even as her eyes betrayed the chaos of emotions she must be feeling. Kamal’s own heart was a veritable whirlpool of contradictory feelings.

  “Not in the way you think,” he was quick to assert. She pulled away from him and slowly walked to the chairs before sitting in one.

  “Then explain in what way you knew that your president and your father could very well have been involved in an attempt on my life, yet you never told me about it. Because you know what my staff are saying? They’re saying that you were in that garden with me to get me into position for the shooter.”

  “Christ! I would never—what the hell are they thinking?” he growled, rage crawling through him like a river of hot lava.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her chair, and he poured out his soul, no more thoughts of the consequences to him personally. Let them put him in an Egyptian prison. He’d go willingly as long as she believed that he would never hurt her. “You have to know that I would die to protect you, Jessica. Die. For. You. That night, I had no more idea about who had shot at you than you did, and today I have no more idea of who did it either. What I did figure out not so long ago was that my father and Abbas are tied up with the Bratva. They have been putting pressure on me to sabotage the negotiations for quite some time. No explanations as to why, but I refused.” He bowed his head, and then he felt her hand, tentative and soft. She ran her fingers through his hair once, then retreated, but it was the encouragement he needed to continue.