The nude silk had appliqués in just the right places coated with silver threaded embroidery, small sequins and creamy pearls. If she sat, walked, or bent the wrong way she would be exposed to the world from head to toe, that is if she didn’t pop the seams of the glove-like fabric first. The ride in the limo was going to be sheer torture. It’d be a miracle if they arrived with her dress in one piece and still clinging to her curves. With everything else she had to think about, it irritated Samantha that Debrille had arranged for the design of such a delicate piece.
The dress moved with fluid grace as Samantha glided down the corridor to meet Marcus and Debrille for the final briefing. There remained little else to be said, however Debrille had one final decoration for Samantha to juggle. A lovely sapphire jeweled and enameled comb was tucked into the folds of her curls, peeking just above her crowning glory.
Debrille stated, “This piece you will not have to bother with. It will function on its own – only make certain it remains in place for the full of the evening. Once you have completed your mission allow him to take it as a token. Then and only then may you remove the comb from your hair – gently.”
“What is it for?” Samantha asked.
“That is not your concern.”
“I’m going to be toting it around all night – damn straight it’s of my concern.”
“You are already damned to hell, my dear. Don’t make Dr. Marcus send you there tonight before you complete your task.”
Marcus slithered up to her side and extended his elbow for her arm. “Focus your mind, Alexandra.”
Samantha slipped her arm through his and closed her eyes. A shiver passed down her spine. Breathing deeply, she willed Samantha’s thoughts and mind into a dark small corner before easing into Alexandra just as she’d eased into the dress. The click of her heels on the tile floor matched the cadence of her breathing. Her back straightened. She lifted her chin. When she opened her eyes, her purpose drew to a sharp focus.
***
The limousine snaked through the gates of the Ellipse. Media came out full-tilt as cameras flashed non-stop each time a limousine pulled up to the entrance and vomited its passengers onto the carpeted walkway. Butterflies momentarily erupted in Alexandra’s stomach, but she pushed them back down where they belonged. Nothing would stop her tonight. She would have her way with him and then spit him out like the garbage he was.
Emotion – swallow the emotion.
Their turn came. The attendant opened the door and Marcus stepped first into the fray and held his hand out to her. Alexandra slid her legs demurely out the door and laid her hand in his before she stood. A chorus of lights flashed in her eyes. Murmuring among the crowd rose in intensity as the pair glided down the carpet and up the steps of the North Portico into the White House.
The Entrance and Cross Halls were brightly adorned with two elegant cut-crystal chandeliers from 1775 London. The marble floors swept to the red-carpeted colonnade of Cross Hall where portraits of previous Presidents stared back. Pink lilies graced the 1817 Monroe pier table, while occupants interred on the suite of early 19th century gilded Italian settees. The Marine Orchestra strummed out a smooth rendition of Tchaikovsky in the corner near the Grand Staircase. Everything of which she’d previously only read appeared to be in place.
“Tell me again how you managed this,” Alexandra asked Marcus.
Marcus stared off toward the Blue Room and steered them toward the doorway. “We have friends.”
Marcus’ chiseled features twitched when he clenched his teeth. What did he think about what she had to do? How did it make him feel? Alexandra drove Samantha’s thoughts from her head. None of them could feel anything. There was only the job to do – follow the plan.
The line curled through the doorway of the oval-shaped Blue Room to greet the President, First Lady, the Vice President, and the Russian President. So there he stood – live and in the flesh, the bastard who had raped her mother and murdered her family.
Samantha’s, not Alexandra’s.
Warner had a distinguished bearing, smiled, shook hands jovially as he introduced his Russian guest. The room seemed to shrink. The light filtered as Alexandra focused in on her prey. The hair appeared a finer gray in the light than in pictures, deeper creases around the eyes. Strong jaw line – eyes dark like…
A shiver passed down her spine, and Alexandra turned her focus from the President to the First Lady. The woman appeared elegant, regal with the lithe body of a dancer. Her face had seen too many plastic surgeries, her eyes drawn into slits. The slit gray eyes suddenly turned and stared in Alexandra’s direction. They were cold, penetrating – knowing.
A man approached the President and whispered in his ear. Alexandra mentally sorted through photos of the White House staff she’d memorized – Benjamin Forsdale, Chief of Staff. Warner excused himself and was immediately flocked by Secret Service agents as he exited, earning a momentary glare from the First Lady and a hushed utterance from Marcus.
“Damn.”
“What’s wrong,” Alexandra whispered in kind.
“Change of plans.”
Pressing bodies jostled to get past as butterflies crowded her stomach. They pushed through the horde and back out into Cross Hall, the silver head of the President rapidly disappearing down the red carpet of Cross Hall to the West Wing.
Alexandra grabbed a fluted glass of champagne from the tray as the server passed by and willed herself to nonchalantly sip as she scanned the room. It wouldn’t do for her to get tipsy. The music seemed too loud. The crowd stared, and Alexandra suddenly felt conscious of the thinly protective condom caressing her curves. She couldn’t do this – not with her…
Samantha’s, not Alexandra’s.
As she started to gulp the champagne, Marcus strolled up and stripped the glass from her grasp.
“Keep your wits about you, Alexandra. Breathe deep and focus before you draw attention to yourself.”
A tinge of anger reflected through the thin veneer. Very un-Marcus-like to allow emotion. Was it concern driving him or something more?
They were so close to accomplishing their goal – her goal. Did Marcus suspect her ongoing inner struggle between the factions of her mind? She’d worked so hard to hide it.
Don’t screw this up, girlie.
Alexandra straightened her shoulders and faced Marcus. “I imagine the dress draws more attention than anything I could possibly do.” She smiled and winked.
Marcus visibly relaxed. “Why don’t you tell me a bit of history concerning some of the artifacts you see here. Dazzle me with your expertise.”
For the next half hour, Alexandra strolled the rooms joined to Marcus’ arm and recited the many artifacts and their history. She told him of the men behind the portraits in Cross Hall, the busts in the niches, the furnishings and artwork. All the while gazes were drawn to the artwork Marcus had created with her body. She immediately knew when his gaze caressed her form as the President again entered the room.
The First Lady slid her arm through the President’s and directed him toward the State Dining Room as dinner was announced, but Alexandra could still feel the warmth of his stare, the heat of his lust. Even as Marcus pulled the chair from the round table for her, Alexandra sensed the passion of Warner’s presence. During polite and guarded conversation with those seated at the table, through each course to the beef Wellington, Alexandra remained aware of what the night held. It gave her a heightened sense of herself – a heightened sense of power.
As the elegance of the evening moved again to the Entrance and Cross Halls, the Russian President escorted the First Lady to the marble floor while Warner took the Russian consort into his arms to begin the dance. They crossed the floor with fluidity through Mozart, but as the Marine Orchestra began the strains of Beethoven, Marcus glided with Alexandra to the floor. Every time Warner would dance near, Marcus would weave them out of reach.
Alexandra whispered in Marcus’ ear. “I thought you wanted me to meet up
with Warner tonight. When will I have the opportunity if you keep pulling me away from him?”
Marcus responded, “Have you never heard of the infamous cat and mouse game? The more the mouse tries to get away, the more the cat wants him – toys with him until the cat is delirious and goes in for the kill.”
“So now we’ve moved down the food chain to cats and mice. I didn’t know the two could mate.”
Marcus shot her a glare to rival the First Lady’s before it melted away behind his mask. “Just be patient. Play him along a bit. You’ve got all evening.”
At that moment, Alexandra glanced up and stared across the room into Warner’s eyes. The hall seemed to slow as Marcus spun her round and round in the waltz. Each time Marcus’ head moved away Warner’s gaze locked onto her. Her heart rate increased. Sweat beads gathered along her brow. She smiled before lowering her eyes. Had him.
After spinning around the room to countless waltzes, Marcus steeped himself in conversation with a gentleman who’d sat at their table during dinner. Alexandra strolled the room, hypnotized by the pianist as his fingers tickled the ivories, flying up and down the keyboard in a blur. Gramm had always wanted her to take up piano, had urged music of any sort to calm the raging tornado inside her. Ah, Gramm.
Alexandra snapped from the reverie and pressed the thoughts back down – Samantha’s thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. A server strolled by and again she snatched up and sipped from a champagne flute, willing her hands to stop trembling.
The droning voice of Marcus came up from behind and cut through the fog as she focused on who she was.
“And I’d like to also introduce you to my lovely escort this evening. Alexandra Shuvinovsky, may I present President Frederick Warner.”
She turned to face the up-close and personal stare of President Warner. For a split second her stomach lurched, felt as if it caught in her throat. Then flashing a smile and handing off her glass to Marcus, Alexandra found her wits. As his hand found hers, she gripped it without hesitation.
“Mr. President, how delighted I am to finally meet you in person.”
Warner’s voice was smooth and controlled. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Shuvinovsky.”
“Your tax policies have been well received, I believe.”
He waved away the praise. “Politics are on hold tonight. Shuvinovsky – Russian, Ukrainian or Lithuanian, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, sir. My great-grandparents were part of the nobility that escaped Mother Russia before the tide turned against them in the October Revolution of 1917.”
“And did they teach you the mother tongue?”
Alexandra put on her best pout. “Sadly, I never knew my great-grandparents. But the tongue was passed on as part of my heritage.” She slipped into fluent Russian.
Warner’s face grew flushed as he moved her to the dance floor and carried on a conversation with her in Slavic. The warmth of his hands spread through the thin fabric. She steeled herself to his touch – fought to steady her voice and bury the thoughts that threatened to surface, smiling through his efforts to maintain a proper decorum among the watching crowd.
Warner steered the conversation. “I’ve heard you are quite the historian. Do you specialize in Russian history?”
“Knowing and understanding my heritage was always of importance to my family, but they were proud to assimilate into our American culture. It is fascinating how quickly we have come to dominate the world pecking order, is it not sir?”
“Ah, the power of American ingenuity. The great melting pot, as it were.”
“And I am privileged to be dancing with the most powerful man in the world,” Alexandra purred.
An otherworldly gleam leapt into Warner’s dark eyes. She’d seen that sparkle in only one other eye – that of Debrille. It glinted sadistic, maniacal, of a man who knew he had the world at his feet, control his and his alone.
As they left the dance floor, Warner introduced Alexandra to Russian President Viscinskiev, and the three of them carried on a brief conversation in Slavic. The lies of a past never lived flowed from Alexandra’s mouth as easily as the words she spoke. She’d always had an ear for languages in school. But that hadn’t been Alexandra’s school.
Warner eventually drew her again to the dance floor. They danced to Grieg and Tchaikovsky, eyes watching as the couple slid along the floor. All the while, Warner remained pleasant and admiring, but Alexandra knew he could little resist an occasional glance downward into his anticipated cup of pleasure.
Though he maintained an acceptable decorum to the studious watchers, he wanted her – from the heat of his hand pressed into the small of her back, the controlled passion in his voice and lust in his eyes, to the blatant brush of his thigh against hers. Yes, he desired her with all the fire in his belly, even half expected him to give into the passion and stroke her breasts for the entire crowd to see.
To all the attentions Alexandra responded with acceptance – a sultry smile, a smoldering glance. She succeeded in the first fruits of her assignment. Yet somewhere within the dormant recesses of her mind the thought threatened to make her lose the lovely dinner they’d recently consumed.
The introductions, the admirations, the façade all culminated to a slight crack in her performance. Her hands trembled. Her knees felt unsteady. After being introduced to and seduced by more than half the D.C. powerhouse in attendance, Alexandra’s focus waned with the night. The evening wore on her like the deepening of a moonless sky – the darkness called.
She couldn’t answer it – couldn’t hold onto it all long enough to complete the task as the minutes rolled into hours. Urgency pressed a quick scan of the crowd for Marcus, who’d made himself scarce since introducing her to Warner. How odd to find him sitting on the Italian settee in conversation with the First Lady. The woman’s attempt at a smile was as cold as her eyes.
The Elite had taught Alexandra to be constantly aware of her surroundings, to deduce more from every detail than mere appearances. The memory of the First Lady’s gray slits turned on her in the Blue Room earlier in the evening gave her a moment’s pause. Then it hit with stark clarity. The First Lady knew – knew why she was there. Not the whole of it perhaps, but she knew very well the reason for Alexandra’s presence.
Benjamin Forsdale’s second interruption of the evening saved her from the night’s fate. “Mr. President, your presence is needed again on that previous matter.”
The regret stenciled evident on Warner’s face, in his moment’s hesitation. “My…Ms. Shuvinovsky, your presence this evening has been a rare pleasure,” his glance darted to her breasts before settling again with a sly smile on Alexandra’s face, “one that I hope may be soon repeated.”
With a flick of her clutch, Alexandra extracted her card and slipped it into Warner’s hand. “My card, Mr. President, and may I say the pleasure has been all mine.”
As Warner disappeared down Cross Hall, it took all the effort Alexandra could muster to keep from melting on the spot. Marcus caught her urgent stare and extracted himself from the attentions of the First Lady.
“Get me out of here…please.”
Without argument, Marcus slipped her arm into his and escorted her to the Portico. The cool night air penetrated the sleek dress, but no comfort remained in the cool breezes. Marcus handed off the valet card and their limousine pulled around. Alexandra fought to maintain a semblance of control as they entered the vehicle then collapsed against the dark interior as soon as they pulled away. Samantha emerged.
A slap across the face pulled her alert as Samantha stared into the rage of Debrille. His nostrils flared, his face almost purple.
“You did not complete your part in the plan!”
Instinctively she lashed out, but Marcus’ rock-like arms were there to subdue her before her nails could dig into Debrille’s face. The precious jeweled comb came flying out of her hair and caught Marcus across the face.
“Damn the plan!” Samantha yelled.
?
??Get your cat claws back where they belong.”
“I’d rather use them to tear your eyes out and let you bleed to death.”
Debrille didn’t even flinch. His eyes stared wild, out-of-control.
“Shoot her.”
Marcus released the gun from the limo case and pressed the cold hard steel to her temple. Samantha didn’t care anymore – she welcomed the momentary report that would put her out of her misery. But the flash and fire never came. She peeked through a slit to find Debrille with his hand out to stop Marcus from completing his directive. The extreme color had faded from his face and a disconcerting serenity spread across his countenance.
“I have a better idea for the cat, Dr. Marcus.”
Marcus offered, “An extended version of the cat and mouse game?”
Debrille smiled. “Precisely.”
Chapter 34 - An Invitation
“Disturbing developments have come to my attention. I should be back from Peru within a week.”
Marcus glanced up from the microscope at Debrille’s revelation. The reformulation had him stumped, but some promise had shown in another possible application of the new substance.
“Now? Alexandra meets him again tonight.”
“Then it is up to you to ensure the cat does not strike until my return. I have decided your original idea of drawing out this game to have merit.”
Merit. The idea was damn brilliant and why he’d gone through the trouble of fully educating her in the first place instead of making her ready for nothing more than a brothel. Samantha was his masterpiece.
Once upon a time, Debrille had taken him on his South American jaunts to the meeting of the minds. No longer. Ever since Samantha had joined them, she’d become his prodigy, his complete responsibility. It kept him chained to the nearby underground instead of giving him the freedom of worldwide travel he’d previously enjoyed.
However, it also had allowed him greater time for research and development of new specimens, to develop new uses for the plants he’d germinated in the lab. Research had always been his first love – at least in another life.