Capitol Conspiracy

10

Belinda DeMouy walked briskly through the dark underground parking garage. This was no place for a lady, much less a senator’s wife. It would have been smarter to park in one of the areas patrolled by the Capitol Police, but sometimes even a blue-blooded daughter of the American Revolution from Martha’s Vineyard didn’t make the smartest choice. Actually, she reflected, some might argue that her entire life had been a case study in not making the smartest choice. But it had worked out all right. She had her health, she had her weight back down into the double digits, and she was very popular with the other senators’ wives-even though most of them were considerably older than she was. She gave great tea. Even when she wasn’t smart, she was always proper.

Where exactly had she parked? If she got close enough to her car, she could use her keyless lock to flash the lights and make a beeping sound. Problem was, you had to practically be at the car before the keyless would work. Her Jag was equipped with a GPS so she wouldn’t get lost while driving. What a joke. She needed a GPS in her purse so she could find the car. Or she could leave it and take a taxi home. But no. That would not be proper.

Her mother’s favorite word. Proper.

She had been raised to do everything just so. There was a right way and a wrong way, and the Bradford girls did things the right way. Tasteful, fashionable clothes, matched and accessorized to perfection. Makeup. Hair styled and dyed and tone-matched to your complexion. Appearance. Presentation. Bradford girls must always be on their best behavior. Napkin in lap. The right fork. Appropriate dinner conversation. Dating only those boys deemed suitable for a Bradford girl. And even then-well, she was twenty-five before she let anyone get past first base.

Her marriage, to a politician twenty-two years her senior, had been calculated, strategized, and arranged. It was a good marriage, at least as judged by the society page. The engagement party, the bridal shower where she made the rehearsed speech telling all the guests how important they were to her, the wedding at Washington National Cathedral, and her elegant Vera Wang bridal gown. She had proved a great asset to her husband in his senate work, not to mention on the campaign trail. If nothing else, she ended the constant rumors and speculation that haunted every unmarried politico-the suspicion of gayness. And now they were saying Jeff would become the next Senate majority leader in the wake of Senator Hammond’s death. Amazing. In many respects, it would be the apex of his career-at least, so far. Much as he denied it, she knew he wanted to make a run for the presidency. This “apex” might well be the stepping-stone he planned to convert into a much bigger move. She knew something was in the offing. Jeff had always been busy, but these days she wasn’t even sure he slept. It wasn’t just the amendment debate, either, although he was doing a lot of wheeling and dealing on that. He was constantly over at Homeland Security, taking closed-door meetings at strange hours. Had been for months. What were they hatching?

She’d spent the evening being introduced to so many people, she couldn’t count them. She’d given up on trying to remember names after the first fifty or so. Of course, she always behaved properly at these little soirees-but that didn’t mean she had to remember all the guests’ names and the names of their children, and which was the scholar and which was the drug addict, and all the other biographical minutiae. Her husband’s chief of staff, Jason Simic, always took care of her. He was very good at what he did.

She turned the corner in the parking garage and saw the cobalt blue nose of her XJS poking out. Very chic. She and Jeff had never had children, so she was spared the whole minivan thing. This was much more to her liking. Sporty and elegant. Much like she herself. They went together like Did she hear something? She stopped for a moment to listen. Nothing. And for that matter, if she did hear something, stopping to listen would probably be about the most stupid thing she could possibly do. Better just to keep walking…

There it was again. Footsteps, and not hers. Of course, that was no cause for concern, even at this time of night. There were other cars in here. She didn’t expect a lot of traffic this late, but it was certainly possible.

Belinda resumed walking. The footsteps returned. Okay, that was a little creepy. She walked faster. At this point, the smartest thing she could do was get inside her car and get the doors locked. It was ridiculous to be scared, wasn’t it? She was a senator’s wife. She wasn’t that far from the Senate. Even in a city with a skyrocketing crime rate like D.C., it was absurd to think that anything could happen. She was perfectly safe. She was letting the lateness of the hour and the darkness and her imagination get to her. She was as safe as a pearl in an oyster.

She was still thinking that when she felt the hand clamp down on her mouth.

“Don’t scream!” a male voice barked into her ear. She tried to resist, but he had both arms wrapped around her, holding her immobile.

When she gave up trying to struggle, he spun her around. He was tall, thin, younger than she was. Dark, in his eyes and his hair and his…manner.

He pulled a knife from a sheath and pressed it flat against her neck. She shuddered, involuntarily recoiling from the cold blade. It was a large curved knife with a jagged edge-a bowie knife, she thought.

“I could skin you alive,” he whispered. “And I will unless you give me everything I want. Without hesitation.”

She started to speak, but he pressed the knife down harder. She felt the tip prick her neck. “Whisper,” he commanded.

She complied. “What-what do you want?” As she spoke she tried to look and listen for signs of other people. There were none. As far as she could tell, they were totally alone. “What are you going to do to me?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do to you, at least not at first. It’s what you’re going to do to me.”

“Look, my name is Belinda DeMouy. My husband is a senator. Senate Majority leader, in fact.”

“I know.”

“Are-are you some kind of terrorist?”

A thin smile curled on his lips. “Not in the way that you mean.” He removed the knife and took a step back, looking her up and down, letting his eyes linger where they would.

He poked the knife toward her blouse. “Take that off.”

“Here? I can’t do that.”

“You take it off or I’ll cut it off,” he growled.

Belinda’s throat went dry. “Look-I’ve got money. Lots of it. Plastic, if you want it. More in the car.”

“That’s not what I’m after.”

“If you’ve got some kind of…habit…I can get you what you need. Drugs, booze, anything.”

“That’s not what I want.”

Desperation crept into her voice. “What do you want?”

All at once, he grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her head back harshly. He pressed his lips against her ear. “I want your clothes off. I want your panties in my teeth. I want inside you.”

Oh, God. Oh, God God God God God.

“Now take off the damn blouse.”

Belinda trembled. His eyes were fierce and unrelenting. She knew she had no choice.

Her hands shook as she pulled the black silk blouse over her head.

“Are they real?” he asked, none too subtly.

She tried to cover her breasts with her hands. “I’ve…had some work done.”

“Thought they were pretty damn perky. Not that I mind. Take off the bra.”

“Please, no. Don’t make me.”

“Take off the bra, woman. Now!”

“No. God, God, no.”

“Then I’ll do it for you.” He pulled her hands away and then slid the tip of the knife under the right shoulder strap and cut it. He cut the other strap, letting his hand linger, pressed against her. He leered at her, then sliced the rear strap and watched the pink brassiere tumble to the concrete floor.

She tried to cover herself. He slapped her hands away.

“Are you-are you going to hurt me?”

“Depends on what you mean,” he said, pulling back her head by the hair again and burying his face under her chin, biting her and sucking on her skin. “I like it rough.”

“Oh, Goddddd…”

A second later, his hand was up her skirt. He shoved her down onto the hood of her car. He ripped her panties off in one quick violent motion.

He pressed himself on top of her. “Are you ready for it, lady? ’Cause that’s what’s going to happen now. I’m going to take you again and again, long and hard. I’m going to pound you and pound you until you just can’t stand it any longer, because it hurts but it feels good, too, ’cause you’ve never had anyone like me and you love it and you want more. You’ll beg me for it. You’ll beg me for more.”

“Oh, Goddddd…”

“Are you ready, lady?” With the tip of the knife, he drew a line up her exposed torso, drawing circles around both breasts, then moving upward and toying with her face, her lips. “Are you ready to find out what it means to have a real man?”

She was breathing so hard and heavily, she could barely speak. “Goddddd…”

“I’m going to take you now. You’re going to do everything I tell you to do, everything I want. And then next time…”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Next time,” he whispered in her ear, “next time remember to tell me where you parked before you leave the office. It took me ten minutes to find you.”

“Oh, God, yes. Oh yes. Oh, God, yes yes yes yes yes!…”

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she surrendered herself to him. She was going to come; she could feel it already building up inside her, with such speed that it frightened her. And felt so damn good.

“God, yes, Jason. God, yes. Don’t stop. Don’t stop…”

Her husband’s chief of staff, Jason Simic, always took care of her. He was very good at what he did.