Mounting Fears

43

MARTIN STANTON FOLLOWED ELIZABETH WHARTON, A HOTEL MANAGER, A BELLMAN with his cart, and two Secret Service agents down the hall of the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. He was paying a lot more attention to the ass of Ms. Wharton than to anything else, and he was interrupted when the procession halted.

"Here we are, Mr. Vice President," the bellman said, inserting a key into the lock of a double door.

Liz turned to him while the attention of the others was absorbed with getting him into his suite. "I'm right next door, if you should need me," she said.

Beads of sweat popped out on Stanton's forehead. "Thank you, Liz," he said. "I'll keep that in mind." He walked into the suite and had a look around.

"I hope everything is to your satisfaction," the manager said.

"Yes, thank you." Stanton shook the man's hand, then turned to an agent. "Thanks, that will be all for the night. I'm going to order something from room service. I'll call you if I should want to go out again."

"Yes, sir," the agent replied, and after a moment Stanton was alone. He took off his jacket and necktie and hung them in the bedroom closet with the other clothes that his valet had pressed and put away in advance of his arrival, then he went into the large living room to the array of liquors that had been set out on the bar. He reached for a bottle of Scotch, then stopped.

Instead, he walked to a door on one side of the living room, put his ear to it, and listened, then unlocked the door and rapped on it with his signet ring. Nothing happened. He sighed and went back to the bar. Then he heard a sharp rap on the same door.

He went back and rapped again and got an immediate response, so he tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal Elizabeth Wharton, standing there, her hair wet, apparently wearing only a hotel robe.

"You rang?" she asked.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your shower."

"I just got out. You didn't disturb me."

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, nodding toward the bar.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I could use a drink." She stepped into the room in her bare feet. "Bourbon, please."

"Would you like anything in that?"

"Ice."

Stanton poured her drink and a Laphroaig, a single-malt Scotch, for himself. When he turned around, she was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed, a satisfying amount of thigh showing. He took the drink over, sat down beside her, and handed her the drink.

"Tough day?" she asked.

"No tougher than yours." They clinked glasses and drank. In two weeks of campaigning, it was the first private, informal moment they had spent together, and neither of them seemed able to think of anything to say.

Liz reached out, took hold of his wrist, and pressed two fingers against it for his pulse.

"A little rapid, isn't it?" he asked. "How's yours?"

She took his hand and placed it on her left breast, under the robe. "You tell me."

"Very much like mine," he said, leaving his hand on her breast and rubbing a finger over the nipple, which sprang immediately to attention.

"I didn't think I could ever get you to do that," she said.

"I didn't think I could ever do it," he responded.

"I'm glad you did," she said, pulling the tie on the robe and allowing it to fall open.

He set both their drinks on the coffee table, then leaned over and kissed her, using his chilled drink hand to caress the other breast. He pulled her legs open and bent to kiss her delta and was surprised to find it completely bare. He explored with his tongue.

Liz raised herself and sat on the padded arm of the sofa, facing him and parting her legs. He buried his face in her flesh and parted the labia with his tongue. She took hold of his hair and held him in place, and in less than a minute, she came enthusiastically. He laid his cheek against her flat belly and panted.

"Does this suite come with a bed?" she asked, conversationally.

He got up, took her hand, and led her to the bedroom, where he allowed her to undress him, then they fell into the bed, locked in each other's arms and began what would turn out to be a full-inventory exploration of each other's body parts.

Stanton did not think of Barbara Ortega once.

BARBARA ORTEGA WALKED into the little town house in Georgetown and followed the agent around the place, the eighth one she had looked at this afternoon.

"It belonged to a congresswoman who decided to retire," the agent was saying. "It comes with everything you see."

The place was fully furnished, except for a lot of missing pictures, but Barbara had those in storage in Sacramento. The little two-story house even had linens, towels, and kitchenware in place, and it was decorated in a manner that she might have chosen herself, if she were doing it from scratch. "How much is she asking?" Barbara asked.

The agent mentioned a figure. "But I'm inclined to think she would be reasonable."

The figure seemed in line with other properties Barbara had seen or researched. She deducted twenty percent and spoke the resulting number. "Please phone your client now and tell her that this will be my only offer."

"What about financing?" the agent asked.

Barbara had inherited money from both her parents and grandparents, and she had been frugal. "All cash," she said.

"Excuse me for a moment." The agent walked to the other side of the room and pressed a button on her cell phone. She spoke for a moment, then turned to Barbara. "When can you close?"

"Just as soon as she can furnish me with a successful title search."

The agent spoke again, then closed her phone and turned to Barbara, smiling. "You have yourself a house."

Barbara took out her checkbook. "I'll give you ten percent earnest money right now, and I want to sleep here tonight."

"I'm sure that will be fine, Ms. Ortega. When do you start at the Justice Department?"

"Monday morning," Barbara replied, tearing off the check and handing it over.

"The utilities and phone are still connected," the agent said. "As a courtesy, I'll have everything changed to your name, if that's all right."

"That would be perfect," Barbara said, holding out her hand. "Good night."

The agent left, and Barbara kicked off her shoes and made another trip around the jewel of a house. Then she went to the bedroom, took off her clothes, and lay on the king-size bed. She got her secret cell phone from her purse and called Martin, her pulse racing with the anticipation of telling him. No answer.

She closed the phone and touched herself, thinking of him, then she stroked herself until she came with a barely suppressed scream and lay, panting, on the bed until she fell asleep.