The Gemini Deception (21 page)

Ryden knew she would regret saying what she had, but at that moment, the closeness, the feel of Kennedy had overpowered her, and she was helpless to deny or dismiss the attraction. Yes, Kennedy was a woman, but Ryden hadn’t cared and still didn’t.

If Kennedy wanted to, she could get her in serious trouble, but Ryden somehow knew she wouldn’t. For some inexplicable reason, she trusted Kennedy. Or at least she wanted to, just as much as she wanted to kiss her.

She touched her lips; it had been years since she’d used them for that purpose. “What if I forgot how to kiss?” she said to her image. “What if I never knew how?” She shrugged. “What does it matter? It’s not like it’s ever going to happen.”

The knock at the door meant it was time to exit her dream world and enter the nightmare with Ratman at its center. It was time for their meeting.

She opened the door for him and then immediately went and sat at her vanity table.

“Are you adequately prepared for this evening?” Ratman asked as he entered. He stopped in the middle of the room.

Ryden picked up the guest list and scanned it for the hundredth time. Anything to look busy and get him away from her as quickly as possible. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She’d created her own memory game for matching faces with names and titles.

“Most of these people are new to you, so you need to be absolutely clear on who’s who.”

“Unless someone has recently had a major face job, I can handle it.”
Now get your ugly self out of my room.

“Kennedy tells me your dance lesson went very well.”

“Did she?” Ryden asked, unable to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.

“Yes. She said you were ready to teach Carlos a thing or two.”

Ryden’s cheeks warmed. “I don’t know about that, but I’m glad she thinks I did well.” She smiled.

“You seem to enjoy her company.”

“I guess.”

“Strange,” Ratman said. “Not too long ago you described her as a boring mute.”

“I never said I didn’t like her. Maybe I prefer boring mutes.”

“Did you know she’s a dyke?”

“It came up,” Ryden said nonchalantly. “How is that relevant?”

“We don’t want people thinking your new best bud is queer.”

“I’m a Democrat and supportive of same-sex marriage, remember?”

“You, Madam President…” his tone oozed sarcasm as he took a few steps closer, “are whatever I say you are.” She looked up at him in the mirror and he smiled, exposing his little rat teeth.

“How much does she know?”

“Kennedy?”

Ryden nodded.

“Has she said anything to you?” Suddenly his smirk was gone and his tone worried.

“Why are you so concerned about what Kennedy has to say?”

“Because she suspects inside help and involvement concerning the attack.”

“You mean…” So Kennedy had no idea. Ryden didn’t know if she should be happy or upset. Of course she was thrilled to learn that Kennedy wasn’t Moore’s lackey and in on the conspiracy. But if Kennedy
had
known she was a fake, at least her attraction to Ryden would have been sincere—directed at the blackmailed frumpy florist. But this…this meant the bodyguard was attracted to Elizabeth Thomas, the Harvard-educated, eloquent president of the United States. Everything she was not. “You mean she doesn’t know?”

“And for you and your buddy’s sake,” he warned, “it had better stay that way.”

Ryden nodded but her mind was a million galaxies away.

“So, you’re all ready for tonight?” Ratman asked cheerily.

“Everything is under control.”

“I must admit, I never expected you to be this competent. Your learning and memorizing abilities would put many a scholar to shame.”

“A matter of life or death can do that to you,” she replied dryly.

He laughed. “Then again, she wouldn’t have settled for anything or anyone less than ideal.”

Ratman was talking about the woman behind this whole orchestration, the one responsible for ruining her life. Ryden had never met her in person but had had the displeasure of listening to that cold, menacing voice on the speaker during her training, when she would call for updates or, more often than not, with threats to her life if she failed. What she wouldn’t give for a baseball bat and a few undisturbed minutes with that arctic bitch.

“She’s a regular talent spotter,” Ryden said. “She should consider
American Idol
.”

He walked to her side and lifted her face to him by her chin. “Watch how you speak of her.”

Ryden nodded and he let go.

She wasn’t going to give him the pleasure this time of seeing how much he unnerved her, so she turned to the vanity table for something to busy her hands with before they started to shake. She picked up the hairbrush and busily pulled the loose hair from it.

“You’ve become a remarkably beautiful woman.” He stood behind her and started to massage her shoulders.

Ryden tried to get up, but he held her down firmly. Then when he was sure she wouldn’t move, he slid his hands downward to the front of her décolleté, stopping just above her breasts. She suppressed the urge to bolt. She
really
wanted to get up and stab him in the eye with the brush handle, but instead she sat very still as she watched his moist hands through the mirror reach even lower. It was like she was having an out-of-body experience; she refused to believe this beast was touching her.

“Maybe, we can…” Ratman sounded hoarse. “We can work out an arrangement for the duration of your stay.” He bent over and licked her neck. “What do you say, Madam President?”

“Please.” Ryden looked at him in the mirror. “Please, stop before I lose control.”

“Oh? And do what, beautiful?” He kissed her shoulder.

Ryden started taking shallow breaths as her insides churned. Her stomach couldn’t take any more of this—the disgusting saliva and breath on her neck and his hands on her. Her eyes started to tear up from the sudden need to empty her stomach. “I’m…I’m going to be sick,” she managed to say.

Ratman must have seen it in her face because he pulled back immediately, allowing her to run to the bathroom.

“Disgusting,” Ryden heard him say before she shut the door. “Get yourself cleaned up and ready,” he called out. “The guests arrive in an hour.”

*

Southwestern Colorado

Montgomery Pierce frowned down at the tuna salad and fruit plate Joanne Grant had just delivered for his dinner. He would kill for a cheeseburger and fries—it had been months since he’d had them—but she’d insisted on overseeing his meals until his blood pressure returned to normal limits. Sighing, he picked at the salad. Small price to pay, he told himself, to finally have love in his life and someone to come home to. In recent months, he’d toyed with proposing marriage, though they’d have to keep it secret or the whole no-fraternization rule among ops would have to go.

His phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Shield’s on line one.”

He hit the button. “Pierce.”

“I have confirmed that some kind of conspiracy is going on in the White House,” Shield said. “Watchdog is certainly a part of it, but the real figurehead calling the shots is a woman—and it isn’t Lighthouse. Lighthouse is somehow being coerced into participating in this and she’s afraid.”

“Explain.”

She relayed the relevant parts of the bugged conversation she’d just overheard between Thomas and Moore, and asked whether Reno had been able to come up with anything new on the president’s special advisor.

“Nothing yet. Whoever made the big payments to Watchdog’s Grand Cayman account has taken extraordinary steps to avoid being traced. Reno has tracked the money through four dummy corporations on three different continents so far,” Monty replied. “It’s time to send someone in to bug Watchdog’s home.”

“Agreed,” Shield said. “Though I don’t expect we’ll hear anything from that. He seems to spend most all his time in the House, watching Lighthouse very closely. He’s at her side at every opportunity, often whispering in her ear. Not enough to really draw undue attention to himself, but definitely a lot more than his previous counterparts.”

“We’ll let you know if we turn up anything else. So far there’s no sign of Agency involvement. But from what you say, Watchdog is concerned about you, so stay sharp and let us know if you need backup.”

“Roger that.”

After Shield disconnected, Monty stared down at his dinner for a few seconds before pushing it aside, his appetite gone. Even if the CIA wasn’t involved, the confirmation that someone outside the White House was powerful enough to exert such control over the president was daunting news. What was the objective? And how many were in on it?

He feared for the country and for Shield. She was a top agent, but she was alone in there, among who knew how many conspirators.

*

Outside Houston, Texas

Jack woke up in the same cuffed-to-a-chair position, only this time in a cold, white, fluorescent-lit room, and she’d been stripped down to just her underwear and T-shirt.

She surveyed her surroundings. No windows, and apparently only one way in and out—through a steel door. Two cameras were mounted high on opposite sides of the ceiling. The temperature was moderate, but if she had to sit still much longer she’d start to feel cold. Her head was a bit fuzzy and her mouth dry.

“So, now what?” she said to the camera facing her. When no one answered, Jack continued. “I hope you kept your word about Cassady.”

“And what if we didn’t?” replied a low male voice. It was slightly distorted—coming through a speaker she couldn’t see.

“I kept my part of the deal.”

“Madam is very pleased you did.”

“She kept her word, right?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“Answer me, goddamn it.”

“I did.”

Jack wriggled in her seat and realized for the first time that her ankles were cuffed to the chair and the chair was bolted to the floor. “Where is she?”

“Ms. Monroe?”

“No, you fuck. I mean TQ.”

“She has prior obligations this evening.”

“What…what the fuck? She had me brought to this isolation cell and she isn’t even here?” She struggled against her handcuffs, but they held fast.

“That’s correct.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What the fuck can you answer?”

“I can tell you that madam will be with you at her first convenience.”

“What am I supposed to do till her convenience?”

“Wait.”

“Like this?” Jack looked down at herself. “What if I need to use the toilet?”

“Your chair is equipped with a pan.”

Jack moved her ass and felt a hole beneath her. “This is insane.”

“Then I suggest you practice control or deal with the consequences.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding,” Jack yelled. She waited for a reply and, when it didn’t come, feared the man had left. “Food. How about food?”

“You can do without for a fairly long time.”

“Not without water, sadistic fuck.”

“We will supply you with water when we see fit,” the voice replied.

The lights were so bright they hurt her eyes. “Can you dim the damn lights?”

“No.”

Jack knew constant intense lighting was a popular method of torture; she had undergone that treatment in Israel. It had taken her years to put those weeks of torture and pain that had changed her forever behind her, and now, here she was, more than a decade later, reliving the same introduction to hell. This was just the beginning of what most probably was yet to come, and honestly, she didn’t know if she would survive it. This time she had Cassady in her life, but she wasn’t sure even her love for Cass would be enough to fight her way out of this.

She closed her eyes and let her head drop to her chest. “I can’t do this again,” she mumbled.

The White House

That evening

Kennedy left the wall behind Thomas and started toward the president the moment she got up from the dinner table and announced to her black-tie guests that it was time to adjourn to the East Room for entertainment provided by the White House Marine Orchestra.

In addition to the president of Argentina and his much-younger wife, the one hundred and thirty or so invited guests included diplomats, members of Congress, cabinet members, and a scattering of A-list Hollywood celebrities—all of whom had been lucrative fund-raisers for the Democratic Party. But Kennedy focused on Elizabeth Thomas, and not just because that was her job. She couldn’t take her eyes off the president for long, even if she’d wanted to.

The president was stunning tonight in her floor-length Vera Wang gown. The pale-lavender dress was made of a material that shimmered slightly when it caught the light, and the cut, exposing just one of Thomas’s smooth, pale shoulders, was stylishly sexy yet maintained the right amount of decorum for the occasion. And for once, the White House stylist had given her a hairdo and makeup job that Shield approved of—the more natural coiffure and subtle cosmetics enhanced, rather than harshened, Thomas’s innate beauty.

Thomas’s smile, however, was forced. Not surprising, given the exchange she’d heard earlier between the president and Moore, and not to mention the stress of hosting such an important and protocol-ripe event. Most observers probably would not note any problem, but Shield had seen Thomas’s true, spontaneous smile and could spot the difference. None of the smiles tonight had been reflected in the president’s eyes.

Some guests took seats in the East Room and others remained standing while the orchestra opened with a medley of Latin tunes, including “Down Argentina Way.” The guest of honor, seated in the first row between Thomas and his wife, smiled and clapped approvingly.

Then it was time for the prearranged waltz between the two presidents. Thomas had chosen “Fascination,” one of the tunes they’d practiced with. Shield suspected the selection had revolved more around the length of the options—this was the shortest one—than the president’s personal preference, given Thomas’s remarks the day before.