Fatal Conceit (17 page)

Maybe that was when she fell in love. Certainly it's when she'd decided to give Fauhomme back his fifty thousand. Even if things didn't work out with Allen, she knew she was done with the lifestyle.

Blair wiped at the hot tears that were running down her cheeks, and sniffled. “I want to see you, too. I think we can be careful . . . until you're divorced.”

Allen pulled her against him and kissed her tenderly. “I don't need your answer tonight,” he said. “I want you to think about this. If something gets out in the press it could be messy, not just for me and my family, and the president, but for you. The media are a bunch of jackals when they get hold of something like this. Either way I will be asking my wife for a divorce this fall when my youngest son leaves for college. After that I don't . . .”

“Sam.”

“Yes, Jenna.”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

The next morning, Allen got up at five so that he could sneak
out of her cottage and back to his own. He had to get back to Washington, D.C., and left soon afterward. He texted her from the airport: “I miss you already.” She texted back: “I missed you as soon as you left my arms this morning.”

Two hours later, she was in her cottage packing to leave when there was a knock on the door and Fauhomme entered. “I hope you enjoyed yourself this weekend,” he said.

“It was very nice, thank you.” Still basking in the glow of new love, Blair meant what she said and even smiled at Fauhomme; after all, he'd brought them together.

“So am I to understand that you and the general were playing a little beach blanket bingo?”

The warm glow faded. “I'm giving your money back,” she answered quietly. “Like I said, you don't need me. The guy's a straight-arrow, and he's definitely got the president's back.”

“A straight-arrow, except for doing the naughty bit with you,” Fauhomme replied. “Or was that a onetime thing?
Wham bam, thank you ma'am
.”

Blair stopped packing for a moment and hung her head. “I'm not spying on him for you,” she said, and looked up.

Fauhomme's face flushed slightly, his eyes hard. Remembering the bruises on Lee's face, Blair thought he might hit her.
I'll kick his fat ass if he tries,
she thought. But then to her surprise, he smiled.

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “I can see you really like the guy, and I could tell he really liked you. If you don't mind me asking, are you going to see each other still?”

Blair was reluctant to answer but felt that if Fauhomme was going to be nice about it, she should be, too. “I think so,” she said. “He's got to be careful until he gets divorced and this confirmation goes through. He really wants the job.”

“And he'll be good at it,” Fauhomme said. “I believe that Tucker Lindsey is going to suggest that the president appoint him acting director and see how that works out for a bit. Then, if there
are no issues and everybody's happy—including the general—we can proceed with making it permanent.”

Blair smiled.
Maybe Porky Pig isn't so bad,
she thought.

“In the meantime,” he said, “be discreet, please. I'd hate to see what would happen if it got out that he was having an affair.”

The way Fauhomme said it, Blair wondered for a moment if it was a veiled threat. But then he added, “Maybe the four of us can have dinner sometime when we're all in New York. I know Connie would like that.”

She relaxed. “I'd like that, too.”

“Good, then we'll make it happen. In the meantime, your secret is safe with me, my friend.”

“W
ELL, IN THE MEANTIME, YOU
just be your sexy self for me, and I'm going to record you while you type. Then if you're a good boy, I'll give you a show when I get out of the shower.”

Sam Allen frowned. He was photo shy and the webcam taping made him uncomfortable; if it had been anybody but Jenna . . . “I don't know why you'd want to record this.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Because I'm going to blackmail you with it someday.”

Allen yawned again. “You want to talk now about what you said at the cabin?”

Jenna shook her head. “No. I'm going to go hop in the shower. I think you need time to think about this, so I'll wait until Monday for your answer.”

Allen nodded. If he could have, he would have reached through the internet to pull her to him and hung on for all he was worth. He was from a different generation and a different era, and yet no woman—not his old flame Ariadne Stupenagel, nor his wife when they first married—had ever matched him so well.

Allen wondered at first if everything he'd felt that Fourth of July weekend had been a combination of loneliness, sun, waves, booze, and a beautiful, willing young woman. But starting that
next week with a flurry of texts, emails, and late-night telephone conversations, the relationship had grown like a wild rosebush, sending out new tendrils and blossoms every day, even when he had to spend most of his time in Washington, D.C.

Considering their age difference, they were amazingly compatible. Physically he was a match for most men half his age; he ate right and was diligent about keeping himself in shape. So he had no problem keeping up with her boundless energy. He was well-read and delighted to discover that she liked reading as much as he did, though she preferred her books to be a mix of entertainment and education, while he pretty much stuck to biographies, history, and the classics. They both liked old movies and being outdoors, whether it was hiking, skiing, rock climbing, or mountain biking. She was a wonderful combination of youthful innocence in the way she looked at the world, yet amazingly insightful and mature for her age.

As much as their schedules allowed, especially after the president appointed him acting director and her law classes began again in September, they got together on weekends and the occasional weeknight. Sometimes she traveled to Virginia—he felt it was too risky to meet in the capital because of the omnipresent media—and they stayed at a bed and breakfast in the Shenandoah Valley. Or he'd catch a flight to New York City and she'd meet him at the Casablanca, where the manager was a former army buddy.

The first time he brought Jenna to the hotel, his friend didn't bat an eyebrow. Then when Jenna was otherwise occupied, they'd had a chance to talk and Allen explained that she was more than just a fling. His friend had leaned close and said, “Hey, I can see that. It's been a while since I seen you with that dopey ‘I'm in love' face, but I remember it from back in the day. So I'm happy for you no matter how long it lasts. You are henceforth Mr. and Mrs. Sean Stibbards at the Casablanca. Some of the staff will know, of course, but they're a good bunch and keep their mouths closed.”

Twice before the past weekend they'd gone to a rustic cabin in
upstate New York that had been in his family for generations. She said it was her favorite place to be with him, and he had to agree. They could relax and not be looking over their shoulders, fearing discovery.

As their intimacy grew, Jenna told him that he had to stay her lover forever. “You've ruined me for ‘boys' my own age.” He admitted that he'd had some great lovers in the past but never the combination of lust and love that he felt with her.

Of course, when they weren't together he was plagued by guilt and worry. He'd been raised to believe in the concepts of duty, responsibility, and faithfulness—both to his country and to his wife. When he talked to Jenna, he didn't try to blame the failure of the marriage on Martha.

“We both checked out on each other,” he said. “I was into my career and gone a lot of the time, and she put herself into the kids. I don't know exactly when it happened, but one day we woke up and there was nothing left of ‘us.' We were still friends, and we could talk about most things, especially the boys. But the feeling you want to have for the most important person in your life, it was simply gone. I'm sure this is going to hurt her, no one likes to be ‘left,' but I don't think it will be unexpected and maybe even a relief so we can both move on with our lives.”

“You sure you just didn't need to get laid, and maybe you're still in love with her?” Jenna asked. She'd said it lightly but he knew by the fear in her eyes that she was serious. He shook his head. “I love her . . . as a friend and as the mother of my children,” he replied. “But I am
in love
with you. And if you'll have an old coot like me, I want to spend my life with you.”

He showered her with flowers, small gifts, and letters filled with flowery professions of love. Jenna called him her poet-warrior and said she was surprised and then enchanted to meet a man with his achievements and proven courage who could yet open up and be vulnerable.

“I have to admit that's not easy for me,” he replied. “I've
learned to bottle a lot of that up; in fact, before I met you, I was pretty sure I was done with love. But I'm trying because I want you to know everything about me.”

When September arrived and his younger son went off to college, he told Jenna that he was going to file for divorce. But she urged him to wait until after his confirmation hearings, which had been delayed until the election was over. “You know if word gets out that you've filed, the press will start snooping around,” she said. “If they find out about me, it will ruin your chances, and the press will put your wife through hell, too.”

So they settled into a holding pattern: committed to each other while holding out for the election, followed by his confirmation hearing, followed by divorce, followed by . . . forever.

Then the American trade mission was attacked in Chechnya. Except for quick telephone calls to check in with her, they didn't get much of a chance to talk and he'd been reluctant to say much over the phone. He told her he was preparing for the hearing before the congressional committee.

Then he went to the meeting with Tucker Lindsey and Rod Fauhomme expecting a substantive conversation about what he'd been hearing regarding the attack and the need to alter the administration's “talking points.” He'd never expected to be told to keep his mouth shut or risk having his affair with Jenna exposed, his family devastated and hounded by the media, and his job with the agency dead and buried.

As a general he was used to making life-and-death decisions quickly and with certainty. But as a man trying to juggle the dissolution of his marriage and an exciting new lover on one hand, and believing that the agency needed his direction on the other, he was torn and unsure. Part of him said to go along with the plan, lie by omission at the congressional hearings, get confirmed, and
then
take out the bad guys with the trash.
It will probably take that long to identify them anyway,
said one of the voices in his head.
What does it matter if they pay for it now or later?

The other voice said that no good could come of lying when foreign policy depended on it. Not in Vietnam, or Iraq, or Afghanistan. Lying had cost too many lives and too much of the nation's wealth.
You took an oath to defend the Constitution, and that doesn't include perjuring yourself to Congress or failing to tell the truth to the American people.

There was a third voice, too. Not an unkind or accusatory voice, but the voice of his conscience when it came to his marriage. Strangely, he had no regrets about his relationship with Jenna. Conscience told him that he should have divorced his wife first, but his heart pointed out that he hadn't planned on meeting someone like her. He believed in fate and that it was their destiny to meet and fall in love. However, he did feel guilt over the pain his wife and family would experience when he filed for divorce. Especially if it was preceded by learning the truth from some sneering reporter and then having it spread across the media world like a flu virus. It would take a long time to heal those wounds and could also damage his relationship with Jenna, as the remorse for the pain he caused ate away at him.

He still wasn't sure which voice he was going to listen to when he flew to New York on Friday morning and called Ariadne to make plans to meet at the White Horse. He wanted to see her for two reasons. One was that he wanted to talk to someone about Jenna and knew she'd understand without being judgmental, even if all he was really after was acceptance. More important, Stupenagel was the best investigative journalist he'd ever known. If something did happen to him, whether by accident or commission, he wanted her to know where to dig to find the truth. He'd given her enough hints to get her started if he wasn't around; she'd have to figure out the rest on her own, but if anyone could do it—and have the courage to go public with it—it was Ari.

On the drive north with Jenna, he hardly noticed the fall colors except to respond absently to her appreciative comments. He'd been too consumed with studying his options as he would have
been before a battle, though he mostly knew what he was going to do by the time they pulled up to the cabin.

“I'm having lunch Monday with Pete Oatman,” he said as he brought their bags in from the car. “He's the superintendent at West Point and an old friend; I want to run some things past him, but need to have my ducks in order. Then I hope to see my son after lunch. I'm going to tell him about the divorce.”

“Is that what's bothering you? The divorce? Honey, I still think you should wait until the right time . . .”

Allen reached over and took her hand. “There is no ‘right' time for something like that,” he said. “There is only now. I'm tired of the subterfuge. I'm not good at lying. I want to be with you. But what's going on with me has more to do with the hearing, even if that does concern you, too, than my divorce. I just need to think it through.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I've got a lot to think about, too.”