SERAPH


Part 2


By Linda Ryner


I awoke groggily, having no sense of time and for a moment, I could not remember where I was. My sleep had been fraught with unrest despite the Valium. I knew I'd had nightmares, but I couldn't remember them. I didn't want to remember them. I wanted to wipe the entire experience of coming home last night to the rotting corpses of my parents out of my brain forever. That would be impossible, I knew. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything more horrible.

I hadn't even changed into my nightgown, but I realized now that I was in it, lying on cool satin sheets with the covers pulled up about me. I wondered who had undressed me and put me to bed -- probably one of Michael's little ladies in white. It was difficult to tell what time it was because the forest green drapes had been pulled. I glanced over at the table by the bed where a clock rested, the digital display reading 4:03.

"A.M. or P.M.?" I questioned aloud.

I attempted to sit up -- bad idea. My head felt ready to pop off. Not that it really hurt, I was just dizzy and a tad nauseous. Giving myself five minutes, I made another attempt. This time was better. I actually was able to sit on the edge of the bed. In another five minutes, I was standing -- swaying a little bit, but upright on my own two feet. I made my way carefully over to the window and pushed the curtain aside a little. Daylight. I'd slept about thirteen hours straight.

Wandering over to the master bath, I undressed as I entered, trailing my nightgown across the floor until I came to the glass shower stall. The water sprayed, hot and steaming, against my skin. I licked my lips, letting the shower streams cleanse my sluggish body. Automatically, I cleared my throat, the steam helping. With a determined breath, I began to sing a few voice exercises. After dutifully reciting a few scales, I tested my voice on Figaro. After about four lines, I stopped, switching to my guilty pleasure of showtunes. I started out with Old Man River and ended with Who Will Buy? from Oliver! By the time I wandered out into the living area, wrapped up in my long silk robe and my hair in a towel, I was still softly singing 'Camelot'. I stopped short when I saw Michael sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone. He looked up at my entrance and gave me a smile, motioning for me to sit beside him. He was off the phone in less than a minute and his long fingers brushed my cheek as I sat next to him.

"How did you sleep?" he asked gently.

"I slept. I don't know how restful it was." I rubbed my eyes. "Who tucked me in last night? You?"

"Ricki. I looked in on you later and had Ricki stay with you a few hours."

"I only just now woke up," I told him tiredly.

"I'm not surprised. Your household goods are packed up and on my jet," he informed me. "I took the liberty. After what happened last night, I didn't think you'd want to go back."

"You're right. I don't."

"I had a few of your things packed up and brought here to have on hand. When we get to L.A., I'll have your things put in storage. Your condo won't be ready until September. So you'll have to make do with staying at my ranch until then."

"A ranch, huh?" Ordinarily, I'd be more than a little interested. But I was dull that morning. Numbed. Tired. Hurt. "I thought you said no special treatment."

"That was before this happened."

"Couldn't I bunk with one of your operatives until my condo's ready? It might put you in less of a bad position. Covert ops or not, I know office situations, and this would be fodder just begging to be shoveled."

He tilted his head. "That's a good idea. I don't imagine Marella would mind. She has a rather large spare bedroom and it's close to Headquarters."

"It's settled, then." I rubbed my eyes. "So where have you been all day? Supervising the removal of my worldly goods?"

Michael took my hand in his and kissed it almost absently, shaking his head. "No, I left that in good hands. I've been doing some homework on your favorite people in the whole world."

I lowered my head shook it, closing my eyes. "Michael, just let it drop. No good can come of this now."

"What happened to your credo? For God's sake, Rachel, they desecrated your parents' graves! This goes beyond a practical joke!"

"I'm well aware of what they did!" Shakily, I got to my feet, extricating my hand from his and pacing back and forth. "What is it you think I should do about it, Michael?"

"For starters, you've got those incriminating pictures of Senator Daltrey. Use them."

"Like you said. Men like him have killed for much less. The minute they get leaked, he'll send someone to kill me."

"Not if you know how to play him." Michael sat back quietly.

Slowly, I turned to him. For the first time since meeting Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third, I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. "You're sending shivers up my spine and it's not your good looks doing it. What are you suggesting?"

"I want to ask you something and I want you to be perfectly honest with me."

I took a step toward him warily. "What?"

"I want you to go back to that night you were raped by Richard and the two other boys. I want you to remember what it felt like when you came out of that drug-induced haze."

The clarity of that night hit me full force, like a destructive tornado. I swayed, feeling sick. It was as if I'd time-traveled back to that odious evening amidst the drunken laughter, raucous shouting and unmistakable sounds of couples engaging in various stages of intercourse. The dark-paneled bedroom with the huge four-poster burned itself into my mind. I could smell the whiskey on my assailant's breath and the gut-wrenching burning that went through me as he forced himself upon me. I was screaming but no one came to my aid. I was tied down, spreadeagled, the ropes burning into the flesh of my wrists and ankles as I strained and cried out against the onslaught.

I cried out painfully, sinking to the floor, arms wrapped around myself and huge sobs ripping out of my lungs. Somehow Michael was kneeling down with me, hands on either side of my face as he peered into my eyes, his gaze intense and powerful.

"You remember. Hang on to that memory. Don't let go of it. Use it. Tell me right now what you wish you could do to Richard and his friends. What punishment should they have, Rachel? What is it you want to have happen to them? Torture? Death?"

My hands went to his wrists and I looked into that penetrating gaze. "No." I swallowed. "Worse."

"If you had the chance to mete out punishment, what would their punishment be?"

The word sat on the tip of my tongue and I was afraid to voice it. As much as I wanted to see it happen, I didn't want to say it, and Michael was forcing it out of me.

"They set you up. They raped you. They blackmailed you. They caused your father to have a heart attack. They dug up your parents and propped them in your living room. Say it, Rachel. What do they deserve for punishment?"

"Castration!" I finally shouted, then hid my face in horror at the outburst.

Michael brought my hands down, face full of compassion. I could tell he regretted what he made me do and to tell the truth, I resented him pulling that out of me. I still considered myself civilized, and what I wanted to have happen to my tormentors was far from being civilized. Carefully, he pulled me to my feet and led me over to the sofa where he sat down with me again.

"All right," he said gently. "I know you're probably not too happy with me right now. But you've got to make these people realize that no matter how powerful they think they are, there's always someone more powerful that can take them down. Two years down the line, you're going to be dealing with people like this and worse. You've got to start taking charge now. OK. Now they've messed with you -- badly. Now ask yourself a question. Do I care enough to do something about this or let it be? Remember what you were feeling when you were trussed up on that bed with no one to help you. Remember how they were laughing and grunting and having their way with you without your permission. They took something from you they had no right to have. And now -- you're in a position to do something about it, because I've got the dirt on the other two boys' fathers as well."

My head shot up and I stared at him. "On Todd's and Steve's fathers?"

He nodded, indicating the files and papers on the table before us. "It's all right here. Sheridan's father -- conspiracy and murder. Seems that he couldn't acquire a certain aeronautics company because one of the partners wouldn't sell. To make a long story short, he conspired with two of the other partners and had the man bumped off. Seems the partner was killed in a commuter flight to Dallas. Engine malfunction."

My hands went to my mouth. I could not believe what I was hearing.

"Cosgrove's father -- Luke Cosgrove of Cosgrove Construction. He had a union leader killed to prevent a walk-off during construction of that new mall out on the West End. Or at least that's what the evidence says. So happens we found some people willing to talk about where the bodies are literally buried," Michael continued. "Add to the fact that he's using substandard materials in his business. And then, of course, we have Daltrey, who's sexual indulgences would absolutely kill his political career if they were ever made public. And you have the photographs to that effect."

"This is what you spent the entire day doing?" I was aghast.

"Aren't you lucky I'm your friend and not your enemy?" When I didn't answer, he sat back. "Look. You have a chance here to right a wrong."

"This isn't right. Two wrongs don't make a right, Michael. This goes beyond vindication. This is out-and-out retribution. Revenge with a capital 'R'." I paused. "Besides, this is dirt on their fathers. What does this have to do with Richard, Todd and Steve? I mean, yeah, if this stuff was ever made public it might destroy their family unit, but I don't see the point. You can always pick up and go on, even if your father ends up on the Hall of Shame or in prison for murder conspiracy. Even if it was you responsible for their downfall. In the long run, how is this really going to be a punishment for the guys?"

"You said you wanted to have these boys castrated for what they did to you."

"They should be."

"We'll give them a choice then. Their fathers get exposed or --" He paused. "The sons get surgically castrated. Hell of a choice, wouldn't you say? Richard, Steve and Todd living with the knowledge that the only reason they were saved from castration was because Daddy had to admit to horrific crimes like murder. Of course, there is always the possibility that it could swing the other direction."

My most way-out thoughts had never been brought to this threshold. Michael was so calm about it all, almost blasé. He wasn't joking, not even morbidly. Unbelievingly, I rose to my feet again, walking over to the balcony window to look outside. The sky was overcast and I could see the threat of rain in the clouds. In a moment, I felt his hands on my shoulders as he came to stand behind me.

"You are absolutely serious." I was dumbfounded.

"I'm deadly serious. This is part of what I do this for a living, Rachel. Chances are, when you're finished with ops training, you will too. I wanted to ease you into this. But this is an opportunity. If you don't have the backbone for it now, you probably won't later. Maybe this is a good thing. You'll know now for certain whether or not you want to continue under my tutelage. You won't be putting your life on hold. You can make your decision now."

"I need some time to think about this."

"You don't have that luxury. You need to decide now. And if you decide affirmatively, you need to call your lawyer to get those photographs and negatives in hand today."

I pulled at my lip. "What have you done with Todd since last night?"

Michael turned me around to face him. "We let him go home. We told him to wait for our call." He tipped my chin up with a forefinger. "You call the shots. We can drop this right now. Or we can make them pay. I'll handle it all, but I need your decision."

I swung away, almost in tears again. "Michael, I can't make that kind of a decision! This is playing with people's lives!"

"Rachel." His voice was low and clear and distinct. I felt it go all through me. "If you fuck with me, if you fuck with my family, if you fuck with my friends -- I'll fuck with you. No exceptions. And I'll win. I believe that was an exact quote." Even though he didn't touch me I could feel him in back of me. "Your victory four years ago was small, but it was a victory. Make them really sit up and take notice this time. Fight back. Win."

For a long moment, I stood stock-still. Finally, I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed next to the end-table. I grabbed my purse and fished around inside my wallet until I withdrew a business card. I picked up the phone, dialed '9' to get out and punched in the numbers.

"This is Rachel Sands," I told the secretary when she answered. "I need to talk to Mr. Kincaid. Yes, I'll hold." I waited until Cal got on the line. "Cal!" I said in a tone that belied what I was really feeling. "Remember that packet of photos I gave you about four years ago?" I looked up at Michael as he leaned against the door to the bedroom. "Well, I need them. Tonight. No, I'll come pick them up. Open 'til six, right? OK, great. Thanks, Cal. 'Bye."

I replaced the receiver in its cradle and Michael smiled a small smile. "Welcome to the Big Leagues, angel."

"Thanks, I think." I stood and walked over to him. "Now what?"

"Now," he said, "I make some personal phone calls to some fine upstanding Des Moines businessmen and politicians and you go get your package. The limo's waiting outside. When you come back -- we should have a nice little business meeting all set up for tonight." He touched my hair affectionately. "You don't have to be there. I can handle this alone."

I shook my head. "No. I'm going. I just have one question."

"What might that be?"

"How does one dress for blackmail?"

******************************

The plane was hitting a little turbulence thanks to a late summer squalls, but it was just that -- rain, not storms. It was Saturday afternoon, a day later than Michael had said he'd be arriving in L.A. The greyness of the skies as we jetted through them matched my mood, because despite having had my retribution for the wrongs that had been done me, I didn't like myself very much for having vindicated myself in the manner I had. My doubts left me disgusted, and I questioned whether I was getting into something that could do me some severe damage in more than one way.

"Quit beating yourself up," Michael told me softly, handing me a glass of ice tea with a sprig of mint. "As of yesterday, you stopped being a victim. You struck back and you won."

"Only because you took a personal interest. I'm still not sure it was the right thing to do."

"Was it right that you were raped? That those other two girls were raped?"

I closed my eyes. That word sounded particularly ugly to me. "Of course not."

"You did the right thing, Rachel. You may not think so now, but you did."

"According to Michael's code of honor. Do you think I enjoyed doing what I did?" I turned away, taking a sip of the tea. The minty taste only soothed me a little.

"As a matter of fact, I think in a way, you did."

A stab of angry guilt went through me. "I don't give a damn what you think."

He sat back down across from me in one of the comfortable custom-made, plush chairs, quietly and nonchalantly, drinking his own tea. This made me even more angry and I stared at him with accusing eyes. His gaze met mine benignly.

"You had something more to say?" he queried.

"You are some piece of work." I knew my mouth was trembling and I was absolutely determined I was NOT going to break down in front of this man. "Do you even care that we messed up people's lives?"

"Do you?"

"You bet I do!" I was furious, slamming my glass down into the secure niche on the window table. "Michael -- " I stopped, trying to find the words. "We're supposed to be civilized! What we did yesterday -- how is it any different than what was done to me four years ago?"

His face lost it's devil-may-care look and hardened. "It's plenty different. Think about it for a minute. You gave them a choice. Come clean with past misdeeds or end the genetic line." He leaned forward. "That's the difference, Rachel. You gave them a choice. What choice did they give you?"

His question shut me up for a few minutes. Even though I hated it, I had to admit he had a point. My freedom of choice had been totally denied me. I stretched my neck back and sighed. "This is what you do."

"This is part of what I do, on a national and international level. My job description is so varied, it would fill a six-inch-deep file folder with small print," he replied. He reached down and pulled out a newspaper. On closer inspection, I saw it was a tabloid. He held it out to me. "Never say that one person can't change things. Look at those headlines. Long past due, if you ask me."

The fathers of the three boys had opted to go public with their misdeeds rather than have their sons permanently disfigured. Already, there were police investigations going on in the usually-quiet state of Iowa. A triple scandal -- the mother of all scandals. The pictures I'd had taken of Senator Daltrey were blown up all over the tabloid press. I tossed it back, again disgusted.

"What happens to Richard, Todd and Steve? It's their fathers paying for their mistakes," I pointed out.

"Well, let's see. None of those boys will be going getting any job offers from Fortune 500. Their families are virtual outcasts in the social circles. The stocks in their families' companies and acquisitions have taken a nosedive and they'll probably have to declare bankruptcy. Their girlfriends have dumped them or will . . . y'know, they might actually have to sling burgers for a living. Isn't that just awful?"

"Families like that always have powerful friends willing to help out. I might be in deeper trouble than either of us think."

Michael shook his head. "No. That won't happen."

I looked at him, frowning. "You sound real sure about that."

"Oh, I am. You don't need to worry about retribution from any of them -- the boys, their fathers, their friends. It's taken care of."

"What did you do?" I greatly mistrusted the hint of a smile on his face.

"I saw to my interests. I made sure -- absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure -- that no one could come back on you. And that's all you need to know."

"No, I need to know what you did." I unfastened my belt from the chair I was sitting in and stood. "I want to know just exactly what -- "

We hit an air-pocket and I lost balance, falling forward directly into the lap of my future boss. He grabbed me, looking at me in amusement. "You were saying?"

My nostrils flared. "You bastard."

He actually laughed, then started when my arms wound around his neck and my mouth pressed his in an open, heated caress. He took over it, bending my head back over his arm, tongue snaking out to fence with mine. My anger had ignited my attraction for this man and I was almost burning beyond control.

"Whoa, Nellie," he murmured against my lips, then pulling his from mine, a little reluctantly, I thought, but he made no move to let me up. He looked at me contemplatively for awhile, then rested his hand on my leg. "You aren't going to be satisfied until you get me between the sheets, are you?" he asked with a hint of humor.

"The same might be said of you." I was still somewhat angry, but the edge had disappeared from my voice.

"Touche," he acknowledged.

"Tell me what you did." I was persistent.

He shook his head. "Not now. Someday I'll tell you. But that day isn't today." He smoothed his moustache with one finger. "And now -- as much as I'd like you to stay right here -- I think you'd better get off my lap and buckle in. We'll be landing in L.A. soon."

From the climate-controlled interior of a white limousine, The City of Angels looked like what Soddom and Gomorrah must have before the Almighty struck it down. It was monstrously huge and sprawling, one suburb connecting to another in an unbroken string, fastened together with superhighways as their links. We meandered downtown to Firm Headquarters, turning through a guarded gate with two armed guards. Even though the men knew Michael by sight, they dutifully scrutinized his ID card, then checked the roster, found my name and waved us through. As we pulled into the huge side parking lot and up to the walkway, Michael asked me accompany him inside the building. It was as plush as the Marriott lobby in Des Moines had been, designed for comfort in that ultra-modern way. We walked amongst white-clad personnel everywhere, and each person we met nodded to us with a 'Good afternoon, Sir.' I'd known Michael was a man with power -- it just never really hit home until that moment. Anyone who could get an unsolicited 'Good afternoon, Sir' from dozens of people before reaching his office was a man who commanded respect and not a little awe.

We went up to the office area on the second floor. The elevator opened out into a sound-proofed hallway that opened up into a huge central office pool area. Most people had gone home for the night, but there were some stragglers still sitting at computer consoles and word processors or talking on phones. On our immediate left was an empty desk with a computer console, phone, IBM typewriter. Off of that was what looked like a file room. In the other direction, to the right, was a glass block partition you had to go around. At the end of it was Michael's office. There were dividers around the perimeter of the office pool between the cubicles and Michael's office. That way, Michael's secretary would see exactly who was coming in and going out and could effectively bar anyone Michael didn't want to see or anyone who was perceived as a threat. Smart set-up, I thought. I took in everything as we stepped inside the inner sanctum. The glass was dull. Then, I realized that it was bulletproof glass. Inside the office, blinds could be pulled all the way down to the bottom of the floor-length windows, allowing total privacy.

The office itself was something out of the space age. Ultra-modern furniture, sparse but efficient in it's placement and use. As you walked in, Michael's oak desk with a fine-grained, white Italian leather chair, was kitty-corner from the door. Three large panels that were floor to ceiling windows were directly behind him, allowing him a bird's eye view of the grounds. These were also outfitted with blinds for privacy. On the left in the southwest corner there was a computer console plugged into a mainframe and one identical to it immediately to my left in the southeast corner. Against the wall to the north was a buffet of solid, decorative oak, housing a silver tea service and supplies. There was a coffee service also. Later I found out the bottom panels which looked like doors were actually a built-in refrigeration unit and freezer. A wet bar was situated to my right as you walked in the door and beside it a huge audiovisual screen, which I later found out was connected to the computers. Further down was a plush pull-out sofa that could be made into a queen-size bed and on the north wall, to the right of the buffet, was a door that led to Marella's office. I found that out as Michael narrated briefly.

"Care for a scotch, Rachel?" he asked, taking off his suitjacket and draping it over one of the supremely comfortable-looking chairs in front of his desk. "Just help yourself."

Wordlessly, I did so, slipping behind the bar and pouring myself a double. "You want anything?" I asked, closing the bottle of scotch and putting it behind me on the shelf.

"There's Perrier in the refrigerator back there. Would you get me one?"

I took one out of the little unit housed under the bar and brought it over to him, then sat down in the same chair he'd laid his suitjacket, deliberately sitting on it. I felt peevish. I still wasn't happy about what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Wasn't happy with what I'd done, with what Michael had urged me to do and the fact that I'd gotten a perverse kind of satisfaction out of doing it. I didn't know myself anymore. I'd never let my anger take control like that before.

Before now.

I sat in silence as he went over his messages, discarding the ones he didn't feel were pressing in one pile and putting the important ones in another. I sipped on my scotch, watching out of boredom more than anything else. He looked up once or twice at me, but I didn't meet his eyes. Finally, he put his messages down and rested his chin in his hand, staring at me.

"Rachel, if you're going to sit there in front of me, would you please pull your skirt down? It's distracting."

For a moment, I stared at him, hardly believing what he said. I didn't know whether to get mad or do what he said. Finally, after recovering a moment, I decided I'd better do what he said. He continued going through his messages.

"You'll be given a little leeway when you attend classes and start your internship here as far as dress code. You can pretty much dress however you like, as long as you don't look like a bag lady. But one thing I'd like you to keep in mind -- no skirts shorter than knee length unless you're on assignment," he informed me in a level voice.

I immediately decided I was going to go buy six pairs of hot pants for work apparel. And I was going to make damn sure everything I bought was black.

"It's good to see a smile back on your face."

Shaking myself, I looked up at him. "Just thinking about what I need in the way of a new wardrobe," I replied.

"Marella can help you out there. She can tell you where she shops. She has incredible taste in clothes." He relaxed a little and up until that moment, I didn't realize just how tired he'd looked. I actually felt a little empathy for him. "And I've got good news. The condo unit I'm having redone for you is almost ready. You can move in about two weeks from now." He opened a side drawer in his desk and reached inside. Then, he held his hand out to me. "So start figuring out how you want to furnish it. Pick up a wardrobe while you're at it." It was an American Express card. I couldn't believe it and it must have been obvious. Michael smiled. "Company perk," he said. "Just sign the receipts with your name and keep them. When you're finished, just bring the receipts to the Accounting office and give me or Marella back the card. Oh -- you can go ahead and charge lunches on there if you'd like. It's hard work shopping -- or so I'm told."

I stared at the card with my name emblazoned on it and The Firm's logo beneath. I didn't know what to say.

"Thank you," I murmured, reeling.

"The bill comes due soon enough," Michael said seriously. "These company perks come at a price." He stretched his neck and winced, hand going to the opposite shoulder.

"Stiff neck?" I asked, putting the card safely away in my wallet.

"A little bursitis. Probably a little arthritis, too."

"You better start eating more fish and start drinking more orange juice." I put my purse down and rose, joining him behind his desk. "Lean forward."

I didn't wait for him to comply. My hands were already on his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. He started, then relaxed a little. I began on the back of his neck, my thumbs working up the cords to the base of his skull.

"That feels so good." He rolled his shoulders and then leaned forward, laying his head on his hands on the desk. "God. You should do this professionally."

I laughed a little. "You think?"

"You're hands are incredible."

"You have no idea." Oh, God, Rach! You're supposed to be pissed off at him!

His laughter rumbled, making the muscles beneath my hands vibrate. "Oh, I don't know. I have a pretty good imagination."

"Well . . . if we pulled the blinds and locked your door, it wouldn't have to be in your imagination anymore." What the hell was I doing?

"You are bound and determined . . ."

"I know, I know," I interrupted him, putting my weight into the backrub now. " . . . to get you between the sheets. You know what? It's going to happen one day. And when it does -- you're going to think it's all your idea."

"Thanks for the warning." He laughed softly. "The hell of it is, I wouldn't be at all surprised if you're right." He sighed contentedly, then sat back up. "You know, none of these calls have to be returned until tomorrow, even the pressing ones. Do you like Persian and Greek food?"

"Love it."

"C'mon. Let's go have some fun."

We went by limo again to a Greek restaurant called Athena. It was the genuine article and we were seated with warm decorum in the central dining room. The whole place was Mediterranean style. Our table was low on the floor, surrounded with cushions big and small as our seats. I immediately loved it. It was actually more Persian than Greek and a new experience for me. Michael's flair for the exotic was always fun to experience. He never disappointed anyone he was trying to impress. Why he was trying to impress me I couldn't figure out. Marella was to tell me later that Michael must have thought the world of me to do that, because he could normally care less about impressing anyone. Of course, he likes to show off, what man doesn't. But if he really had no feelings one way or the other, I wouldn't have been the recipient of his efforts.

I showed my ignorance by asking questions about every course that was served, from the Labni (a cheese ball served with olive oil and fresh mint) to Tajen Al Lahm (a filleted lamb entrée with almonds and onions and pine nuts served on rice) to Rangeenak (a Persian dessert of walnut-stuffed dates powdered with sesame seeds, cinnamon and powdered sugar). Michael didn't mind elaborating and anyone who looked at us for all the world would have believed we were a couple.

One thing you learn about being out in public with Michael -- something I was about to find out then and there. The press always followed him. Not because of his connection with the government, necessarily, although that sometimes did happen. Michael was as big a celebrity as John Travolta or Michael Douglas. His family connections were to thank for that. His family was likened to that of the Kennedys as far as celebrity status. Michael was the Golden Boy of the regular and tabloid press. And he used the press as much as they used him.

"Michael!"

We looked up at the heavily made up, matronly woman who stopped before us. She looked quite stylish with the coiffed dark hair and Ralph Lauren suit. Her escort was a young man who looked almost as young as me -- maybe he was younger. She carried a little Pekinese with her who yapped at us upon approach.

"Oh, hush now, Dutch," she reprimanded in mild irritation.

Michael rose, giving the woman and dog a friendly hug. "How are you Beatrice? Hello, Dutch," he said, chucking the Pekinese under it's chin. "Never thought I'd catch you anywhere but L'Dusienne," he said conversationally, smiling.

"Oh, darling. Ronnie here gets so bored with the same thing all the time," the dowager-like woman replied. "He insisted we do something different -- and here we are!" Her attention turned to me. "And who is this lovely young lady, Michael? I don't remember seeing this beautiful creature on your arm before."

As decorous as possible, I rose from my sitting position as Michael made introductions.

"Rachel Sands, meet an old and dear friend, Beatrice Weis -- writes the Hollywood Insider column for the L.A. Times," Michael identified her.

"Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Weis," I returned, taking the older woman's hand firmly, but not overly so.

"Firm grip, I like that," Beatrice Weis told me with a wicked smile. "I can't stand a limp-wristed handshake. Tell me, Rachel, what's it like dating one of the most eligible bachelors in North America?"

The question brought me up short and I was about to defer to Michael, but then decided not to. "A date with Michael Coldsmith-Briggs is always an adventure," I replied, smiling easily but scared to death. "As he's proven on several occasions. Why, just this morning we were out in the middle of Heart-of-Corndom Iowa and now, here we are -- in the land of fruits and nuts."

I could even hear Michael hold his breath on that one. After what seemed like an eternal moment, Beatrice suddenly laughed -- not a titter, but a great big laugh that comes up from your diaphragm and spills out loudly from between the lips.

"Oh, my dear!" she laughed heartily. "You have no idea how right you are! Tell me -- what size farm did you come from?"

This time it was my turn to laugh. "Why, ma'am," I drawled, "ah come frum the big city -- why, we even have indoor plumbin'!"

She laughed again, her bottled brunette head bending back. "Michael, you've got a live one there. You'd be wise to keep her." She regained some composure, leaning in just a little. "So, tell me, children. Is it serious?"

"Now, Beatrice," Michael chastised lightly, "you'll just have to sit back with the rest and watch. Isn't that right, my dear?" he addressed to me.

"Don't be such a tease, darling," I answered, taking his arm possessively. "Go on, tell her."

The look in Michael's face was a Kodak moment. I wished I'd had a camera. "Rachel, dear -- don't you think . . . "

"Men can be so coy sometimes," I apologized to the woman, who was obviously amused. "Michael and I are moving to Cancun in a few days to live in sin and lead marvelously decadent lives on sun-kissed beaches. There's this piece of property just south of Cancun -- beautiful villa and miles of beach, but not far from town. It's perfect. I just hope it's ready by the time we -- "

"Obviously my dinner companion has had a little too much to drink," Michael clamped down immediately. "You can't believe a word she says when she's tipsy."

The woman smiled. "I'll tell you what, darlings. When you work out a story between the two of you, give me a call. It's been almost a month since I've gotten any fodder on you, my boy. Time to feed that hungry machine called the public." She hefted up her little dog again. "Come, Ronnie. You must be starving, luv." As the May-December couple walked away, Beatrice wiggled her fingers. "Ciao, darlings."

We sat back down as they left and I was laughing. Michael gave me a look, then started to laugh, too. "You're lucky Beatrice is a friend of mine. If it had been any other Hollywood reporter, I would have taped your mouth shut."

"Well, if you're going to show up in public with an adequately good-looking girl . . ."

"Adequate, she says. Rachel, my darling, you're considerably more than adequate."

We left the restaurant and then it was time for him to drop me off at Marella's condo. My bags had already been taken up earlier and he walked me to her unit in the huge steel structure that overlooked the ocean from across a busy street. Michael knocked and Marella answered. She was on the phone, talking heatedly with someone on the other end.

"C'mon in," she invited, then returned to her conversation. "You mean there's nobody in the pool who's got enough clearance to input those profiles now that Sophie's on maternity leave? We were supposed to have this covered! All right -- but he's not going to like it. No, I'll tell him." Irritated, she hung up the phone. "Sir, you are not going to believe this."

"Sophie's on maternity leave and there's no one to input that massive pile of terrorist profiles into the system."

Marella nodded. "No one's got enough clearance and I don't have time. We're going to have to bring somebody in from one of the other Firm offices."

"Start searching," Michael said.

"What is it, simple data entry?" I asked as we took seats in her living room. It was nice -- whites and beiges with splashes of color on the walls from decoratives and paintings.

Marella nodded again. "Yeah. But there's a lot of it. You wouldn't believe how it's piling up."

"So get me clearance. I can type sixty words a minute. Just show me the basic computer functions and I can input them." Marella and Michael looked at each other.

"I suppose I could say I'm bringing you in early for indoctrination because I have projects that need to be worked on," Michael finally agreed. "All right. Marella, have her employment papers drawn up immediately and couriered over here for her to sign. Read the contract," he advised me pointedly, "before you sign anything. Have Marella go over all of it with you. She's got a computer here, she can familiarize you with the functions tonight so you'll be ready to go tomorrow morning." He paused, pulling his lip. "You can work in my office and pick up your pass at the front desk. Don't worry. Marella will get you familiarized with procedure. You really don't mind doing this?"

I shrugged. "Hey, it's six or seven weeks before orientation. I might as well have something to do with my time, right?"

"All right. Weekends off so you can shop," Michael said. "By the way -- Rodeo drive, not K-Mart blue-light specials, OK?"

"I like my K-mart specials!" I protested.

"Rachel . . ."

"OK, OK. Snob City, here I come."

******************************

The profiles just seemed to be coming and coming. Everytime I'd get the pile down to an acceptable inch or two, two or more operatives would come through the door carrying armfuls more. I pretty much kept myself buried in Michael's office and only went outside if I had a question about a computer function or a file.

Michael's secretary Lillian was particularly helpful in getting me the things I needed or answering questions. Lillian Hascomb was a platinum blonde pushing fifty, but she was one of those women who'd kept herself in top condition her whole life with exercise, diet, Retin-A and collagen treatments. No radical plastic surgery for this woman. She was one of the elite few who looked on her upcoming years with excitement and vigor and made no effort to hide the character lines in her face (what few she had). She had class, acted like everyone's mother and a subtle sense of humor that could get you laughing when you were at your lowest.

The workday started at eight, took a break at ten-fifteen, went back to work at ten-thirty-five, worked until twelve-thirty, hour for lunch, worked until five o'clock. If Marella was still working, and she usually was, I was chauffeured home in a limo. It was rare for Marella to be home before eight o'clock, but I usually had something cooking on the stove for supper and then would do the dishes and such so she could put her feet up or, as she usually did, go over office files, get on the computer or make phone calls. We rarely said much to each other because she was so busy all the time.

Michael I saw rarely. On the few occasions I did, he always stopped and chatted for awhile, to find out how things were going for me and once we even took a coffee break together. When he was in his office at the same time I was, he would dive into the workload piled upon his desk and there were times I honestly thought he wasn't even aware I was in the same room. I missed the comradarie a little. But Michael was all business. On these occasions, I thought about what he'd told me. He'd said the times I felt he was paying the least attention was precisely the times he was taking notice. So I went plowed on, doing my utmost. I'd figured if I wasn't doing the profiles right, I'd hear about it one way or the other, and since I hadn't heard anything, things were cool.

One day, I was busily inputting when I felt a finger tap my shoulder. I jumped, whipping around to see Michael standing there with a white woman's business suit and mandarin shirt on a hanger, as well as a pair of white heels and a package of flesh-colored pantyhose.

"Please do me the favor of changing into these," he told me, face hinting at nothing. "And see to it that your apparel is office regulation. Hot pants don't qualify."

"But I thought you said while training . . ."

"You're more or less official help in this office," he interrupted. "The subject's not open to negotiation, Rachel. You can change in the bathroom."

He piled the clothes on the edge of my desk and then slipped behind his own. I stared at him for a moment, then at the clothes. Angrily, I shoved my chair back and grabbed the garments, slamming the door to the bathroom as I methodically began to change. When I emerged about five minutes later, Michael was on the phone, looked up briefly, then went back to his phone conversation. I went back to my inputting. After awhile, I felt his fingertips on my shoulder again.

"Orientation starts tomorrow," he informed me. My gosh, I'd almost forgotten about it. "So you'll report with the others to the outer lobby, sign yourself in as usual, and go through the orientation. It should last about an hour. Then you'll tour the facility, that'll take another hour. After that, the girls will be given assignments and you'll return up here. You can change clothes and resume your inputting. Leave at the regular time. You've caught us up very well, Rachel. At the end of the week, I'll have another assignment for you and Marella or Lillian will get you situated." He smoothed his moustache. "How's your condo working out?"

"Just fine," I answered.

"You auctioned off a lot of your household goods," Michael stated.

I was quiet a moment. Trust him to know. "A lot of them, yes. They were my parents' memories, not mine. I kept the momentos that meant something to me and got rid of the rest."

"I'd like to see what you've done with the place," he ventured.

"Yeah -- well. I don't go out much and I'm usually in bed by ten. Come by anytime."

"Thank you. I will."

When I dragged my tired body home that night, there was a box standing against my door. Frowning, I picked it up. It was about five feet square and flat with FRAGILE emblazoned in huge red letters across it. I went inside and opened the box on the plush black leather sofa, moving the confetti-like paper aside and pulling out three record albums -- Figaro, La Traviata and the sound track from the 1964 movie Cleopatra. I gasped. These were absolute treasures! I felt around inside the box for anything else and my hand fumbled upon an envelope that wasn't sealed. I pulled out the missive and read it.

'Guaranteed to bring you much listening pleasure after long days of sitting at a computer. Michael.'

Just when you think the man isn't paying attention . . .

******************************

Orientation felt like high school or college all over again, the only thing different being that loyalty and patriotism were thumped overtly. There was just a small group of us -- the thirteen Michael had recruited. We ranged in age and type -- typical American hodepodge of pretty girls. The head of the orientation was a beautiful dark-haired woman by the name of Gabrielle Ademur. She smiled often, spoke with a voice that carried but didn't overwhelm and kept us in smiles with subtle humor. She looked over at me a couple of times and smiled as she went through the spiel and answered questions. I looked at the various feminine faces around me and wondered if any of them really knew what they were getting into. Part of me wanted to tell them, but the part of me loyal to my boss won out. They'd find out soon enough whether or not they were cut out for the work.

When the tour was over, Gabrielle handed out assignments to the other girls. I was about to get into the elevator when I heard her voice.

"Rachel, just a minute!"

I stopped and turned. She walked swiftly up to me, her legs swishing. She was a little taller than me, about five feet six inches, maybe. She looked predominantly French, and with a name like Ademur, I could believe it.

"Hi, Rachel," she greeted, extending her hand.

I took it. "Ms. Ademur."

"Oh, please. Gabrielle. We all go by first names here, except when we're addressing the Boss." She smiled that big warm smile again. "Michael's told me a lot about you. I was hoping I'd get to meet you soon. I didn't know if you'd be down here for orientation or not, I hear you're cooped up in his office with profiles five miles high."

"Only about one mile high now," I answered, matching her smile with one of my own. "I guess he decided to let me out of my cage long enough for this."

"Let's go for coffee -- you can take a break, right?"

"I've got twenty minutes coming," I confirmed.

We walked to the cafeteria at the rear of the main floor. We both got black coffees and each picked up a banana-nut muffin while we were at it. The cafeteria was even first class -- carpeted, serene, soft blues and whites. Windows that looked out over the grounds surrounded us on three sides. We took a table near a window overlooking the large pond populated by swans and ducks.

"I was on assignment over in the Mideast," she explained. "Otherwise I would have been here to help out sooner with all this paperwork and you probably wouldn't have gotten recruited."

"Hey, I don't mind." I paused, taking a bite of my muffin. "Mideast, huh? Sounds exciting."

"It was godawful hot." She took a drink of coffee. "Michael says you're into martial arts. That the team you were on won some pretty nice regional awards."

"And state this year. The team was pretty upset when I left."

"I bet they were."

"I need to get back into practicing, too. An hour during lunch doesn't cut it."

"Hang in there. Once you start the morning classes tomorrow, you'll have more of a structure to your schedule. Then you can work the time in you need."

"Michael said when I was done with the profiles, he'd have another assignment for me and either Lillian or Marella would coach me."

Gabrielle's eyebrows arched. "Oh, really? He's not farming you out to me, he's already got something specific in mind for you, huh?"

I shrugged. "I'm just telling you what he said." The coffee tasted good despite the summer heat. "Why, is that unusual for him to do?"

"Um . . . yeah. Real unusual for first-time recruits. You must have made quite an impression." A small smile played about her lips. "What did you do, seduce him?"

"Believe me, I tried." The moment I said it, I just about sank into the floor. What was I doing, telling this woman I'd just met, something that intimate?

Gabrielle actually laughed and a few heads turned at her loudness. "Sounds like you almost succeeded!" she observed, still grinning.

My face was flaming and I put my hands up over my cheeks. The heat was just coming out in waves. "Oh, God, I don't believe I told you that!"

Gabrielle's laughter ebbed a little. "Rachel -- it's something most of us have tried and only about a handful have succeeded at."

"Have you . . . ?" I hesitated, wondering if I should ask.

"Way back, when I was a kid on the streets, I tried. Michael found me when I was fifteen." Gabrielle leaned back, holding her mug of coffee close. "I was homeless. Penniless. I tried to lift his wallet just as he was coming out of the U.N. building and he caught me. So I tried to turn on the feminine wiles, you know. I would have slept with him, I was so desperate for food." She paused. "But we never did. I came to know Michael as a father figure. I could never think of him as anything else. And, as it turns out, he couldn't think of me in terms of anything but a daughter." She smiled. "It turned out great. Here I am today -- exciting job, security, no question about retirement, and a boss who's generally pretty decent to work for."

"And . . . Marella?"

"It's pretty much the same with her as it is with me. But as to whether she's ever slept with him -- I don't know, it's really none of my business. They have a very close relationship and it goes beyond an office relationship. They depend on each other. But if they are an item, it's the best kept secret in the world." Gabrielle smiled that killer smile again. "Hey, more power to you. Michael would be a hell of a catch. Just one word of warning, though. If you're in it just for the money, Michael will know it."

"I could care less about his money, Gabrielle." It was the truth. I'd all but forgotten that Michael came from a wealthy background. Besides, I'd always been of the frame of mind that being mired in too much money could be a bad thing. As long as I had enough to make me comfortable, support my hobbies and get those special extras once in awhile, I was happy. "But it doesn't really matter now anyway. I think the shine's worn off. He's been totally businesslike since we've come here."

Gabrielle smiled again, taking a drink of coffee. "Someday I'm going to tell you a couple of stories about the boss, Rachel. But for now, take my advice. Enjoy what you're doing here. Take each opportunity as it presents itself. Make some friends. And if you need any advice or have any questions about . . . other matters . . . let me know." She pulled a piece of her muffin apart and chewed on it. "By the way . . . Marella says you have a way with veal scallopine."

I stared at the other woman. "You mean she actually noticed what I cooked? I was never sure when I was living at Marella's place whether or not I could have put rat poison in front of her and she would have eaten it."

"She noticed, all right. And misses your cooking."

That made me feel good, even if Marella hadn't actually told me herself. "She . . . intimidates me sometimes. I like her, but . . ."

"She's very intelligent, Rachel, borders on genius. I have a high IQ but I can't beat hers. She's in pre-med right now. Michael's probably grooming her to take over the Department when he retires."

"Michael can't be that old."

"He'll be forty in a month."

So. The man was fifteen years older than I was.

"Retirement isn't necessarily based on age around here," Gabrielle continued. "Sometimes we do dangerous work. There's always a possibility Michael could be killed on assignment or be assassinated. Somebody has to be ready to take up the reins if that happens. Or -- if he just decides to retire." She looked at her watch. "I'll walk you to the office. I'd like to see Michael -- I haven't had a chance since I came back yesterday."

We went back upstairs and Lillian greeted Gabrielle with a hug. "Good to have you back, girl!" she exuberated. "Boss'll be glad, too. How'd orientation go?"

"How does it always go?" Gabrielle replied with a lop-sided smile. "Bunch of kids that have no clue about what they're in for . . . " She turned to glance at me. "Present company probably excepted."

"You can say that twice," I confirmed with an ironic smile.

"Rachel's getting to be a regular old hand around here," Lillian beamed, then a spark of mischief glowed in her eyes. "And she fits in quite well now -- once she lost the hot pants and started dressing like the Angel Corps."

"Hot pants?" Gabrielle's jaw dropped and she grinned again. "You're joking, right?"

I shook my head, laughing a little at it myself. "The minute Michael told me I couldn't wear them at the office, I went out and bought about six pair -- one pair black leather -- and thigh high boots."

"We've got her on surveillance cameras," Lillian laughed. "I thought the security guard in front was going to have a cardiac the first day you walked in with those! I'm surprised no one told Michael long before he walked in with a change of clothes for you."

"How did you dare? And -- my God. You call him Michael? Not Sir? Or Boss?"

"I call him Sir in public when we're working -- on the few occasions I see him. He never told me not to refer to him by his first name when we're not working or away from people." Gabrielle looked over at Lillian and Lillian looked back over at Gabrielle. I folded my arms. "OK, what's the big conspiracy here?"

"No conspiracy. It's just that he only lets Lillian, Marella and me do that," Gabrielle answered, eyes dancing. "And sometime in the near future, you're going to have to tell me how you met Michael and what the hell happened when you did."

"I imagine what happened with you. He made an offer, I said I'd think about it. Then when he came back to Des Moines on July Fourth . . ."

"Michael came back?" Lillian stopped her filing. "He went to see you a second time?"

I stared at the two women. "Yeah . . . why does that seem so incredible to you?"

Lillian fiddled with a strand of her long platinum hair. "Sweetie . . . when Michael personally recruits for his department, he makes an offer and usually wants an answer within twenty-four hours. The fact that he held out for your answer tells me he takes a very personal interest."

"So . . . this means what? I get the feeling you're not saying something." I was a little confused at their reactions.

Gabrielle looked undecided and now, a little uncomfortable. "Like I said earlier, there are some stories I'll tell you about the Boss later."

"Well, if you tell them, make sure you don't embellish." The three of us turned only to see The Boss -- Michael Coldsmith-Briggs the Third -- leaning casually on Lillian's desk. He was smiling charmingly. "Gabrielle, good to have you back. I trust your trip back was comfortable?"

"Loved the new private jet, Sir," Gabrielle acknowledged. "And where did you find that cute pilot? Is he new? For a second, I almost thought he was you, he resembled you so much."

"Vincent McComb," Michael apprised her. "When he's not piloting or working computer investigations, he acts as my double when I need one."

"Almost a dead ringer, Boss. Maybe a few less lines around the eyes," Gabrielle quipped.

"I should tape your mouth shut," Michael sniped pleasantly. "What lies have you been telling my new protégée, here?"

"I haven't heard any lies yet," I told him, not missing a beat. "Although I have heard a few things that give one pause." I smiled enigmatically. "By the way . . . thank you very much for those albums. I listened to all of La Traviata last night before I went to bed."

"I'm glad you're pleased," Michael said, eyes warming for the first time since I'd ridden with him on the private jet. "Well, ladies, enough chit-chat. Lillian, why don't you familiarize Rachel with the office environment -- show her where the copying machine is, the mailroom, explain to her about the distribution of the workload in the office. Bring her back in about half an hour, and she can continue with the profiles."

As Gabrielle and Michael disappeared behind the partition, Lillian stood and regarded me, shaking her head for a moment. "Honey -- I don't know what you did to that man, but take my word for it. Whatever you've got, he wants it, and he wants it bad. La Traviata?"

"I was a voice major in school. I like opera."

"So does he. Especially Italian opera."

"I know."

She grinned and took my arm and started leading me to the central office. "C'mon, Mata Hari."

As we made the rounds, I couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Most of the girls were really nice and did their jobs with unquestionable perfection. But there were a few of the women that I actually got hostile vibes from. The most hostile vibes I got from one of the investigators in the next centralized office, a Melissa Hiatt. Her smile was absolutely cold when we shook hands and I felt as if someone had just walked over my grave. Lillian noticed my face when we left in search of the mail room.

"Melissa?" she asked, sympathetically.

I looked over at the woman. Damned if she couldn't almost read my mind! I nodded. "Yeah. I got the distinct impression she doesn't like me."

"Melissa's been trying to get her hooks into Michael for the past five years," my guide told me. "She started out in the clerical pool and after her two-year stint which included a few dates with the boss, her talents were found to be in private investigation by computer. So that's where her talents are utilized most of the time. You know that Michael sometimes selects girls from the office to be his escort off hours, don't you?"

I nodded. "He mentioned it more than once."

"Did he mention that it's considered paid time?"

"No." I frowned. "Why? Who wouldn't want to go out with Michael? Why would it be paid time?"

"Because Michael wants it that way. It keeps dissension in the ranks to a minimum, if you know what I mean."

"Jealousy?" I bit my lip. "Lillian, he did mention a little something about rotating his escorts. But I didn't realize it was actually that big of a problem."

"He doesn't want it to become a problem. That's why it's paid time when you go out as Michael's escort. It's just another assignment. Melissa has been trying to make it more than that." She paused. "That's why Gabrielle and I were so amazed at some of the things you told us. He hasn't been that way with any of his female recruits since . . ." She broke off.

"Since when?" I urged, now curious.

Lillian stopped in the hallway, turning to me. "Rachel, you're going to hear a lot of talk around here. It's like any other office, and it's not without it's political intrigues, either. But it's kept to a minimum, Michael's seen to that. All I can tell you right now, is . . ." She hesitated. "If you hear something, take it all with a grain of salt. Come ask me or Gabrielle about the office gossip. We can tell you what's true and what's not."

"I can't just ignore it?"

"Of course you can. I'm just telling you. Ask us first, if you want to know."

"OK. I'll ask you first."

She smiled and placed an arm around my shoulders. "Good. So let me show you the mail room." Her eyes twinkled. "You do know why it's called the mail room, don't you?"

******************************

Morning classes were condensed and their length were separated into quarters, or three months. I was thrown into a class on basic auto mechanics and repair, which wasn't all that hard since I learned some helicopter maintenance from my dad, I was on the rifle and gun range and swimming classes, to develop myself physically. The rest of my day was spent around Michael's office or the central office. Whatever Marella, Lillian or Gabrielle gave me to do, I did. One early afternoon I walked into the office area and Lillian handed me a huge binder.

"Yearly report," she explained. "This is a copy. All the changes are made in red ink by hand. You need to retype it. When you get to bar graphs, come find me and I'll show you how to work them on the computer."

"And the due date is what?" I asked, heaving under the heaviness of the binder.

"November 15. You're lucky, you've got about six weeks to whip it into shape. The girl who worked on it last year just had two."

"Good God, it's the size of the Guttenburg Bible."

Lillian wiggled her fingers at me as she slid behind her desk and started in on afternoon correspondence. "Have fun, honey."

"Thhtttppp!" I raspberried her in good humor, then turned to go inside Michael's office.

I stopped outside. If the blinds were pulled down over his windows, that was a signal no one was to enter, or if someone had to see him, Lillian had to buzz him via the intercom phone, first. I peeked inside and saw Michael in his shirtsleeves, blowing through paperwork like crazy. I still knocked before I opened the door and he looked up from his comfortable leather chair. His sudden smile was a welcome sight.

"Looks like you're saddled down with the next project," he said pleasantly.

I smiled sweetly. "Seems the Boss has definite confidence in my capabilities in the clerical field."

"I do indeed." He leaned back. "End of the year is always bad, Rachel. I pull in everyone extra I can to plow through the paperwork, even Marella on occasion. By the end of January, things should slow down a little and be a little smoother."

"I'm not complaining. Even the clerical work is interesting."

His smile broadened. "Thank you for having such a wonderful attitude."

I put the binder down on the desk where I usually did my clerical work. "Hey, I'm making more money now than I ever dreamed working a mere forty hours a week."

"Just wait. You've just gotten your toes wet. Wait until you dive into the surf."

I smiled as I turned to my computer. "That's what everyone's been saying." I turned on the mainframe and let it run through it's preliminary set-up.

"I have definite things in mind for you, Rachel."

His words froze me for a moment. Despite our freeness with each other previously, before I'd come to work for him, I reminded myself I'd do well to watch myself a little more. I crossed my legs and leaned back tiredly.

"I saw you at the pool." His comment was off-hand.

I looked up. "I'm working up to thirty-five laps. I can do twenty without breathing too hard at the end."

"You're doing very well." He tilted his head. "If I had a little more time on my hands, I'd teach you to dive."

"Yeah, well. You don't."

"I'm going into Washington next Tuesday," he said, suddenly changing the subject. "Business. But I was going to catch The King And I in New York Friday night and then drop in on my sister in Connecticut."

//And he's telling me this why?// I thought.

"Would you care to accompany me?"

The question almost took my breath away. I was a neophyte operative-in-training fresh off the turnip truck. What was Michael thinking?

My hesitation must have been marked, because he immediately backpeddled. "Unless you have other plans, of course."

"I don't have other plans," I said almost immediately. I hesitated again, then forged ahead. "But I don't want the time I spend with you to show up on my time card. I'll even go dutch, but I don't want to be paid for time I enjoy with you, unless it's business-related."

This time, it was Michael who hesitated. After a long moment, he cleared his throat a little. "There won't be any need to pay your own way. It's taken care of."

"And the other part?"

I could hear him take a deep breath. "I'm afraid I can't do that. It's got to show up as paid time or it could prove to be damned uncomfortable."

"Can we compromise?"

He shook his head. "It's not negotiable."

"The time I spend being the boss' official date -- that money goes to charity, minus taxes."

He was quiet a moment. "All right, agreed. You make up the memo and I'll sign it and we'll send it down to accounting and let them figure it out." He paused. "We'll be leaving Tuesday afternoon. The limo will pick you up at two o'clock sharp and take us to LAX. We'll return the next Tuesday evening, early. You can report to work Wednesday morning, take your morning classes and then resume your duties in my office afterwards."

I nodded in affirmation. "Thank you for asking me."

"Thank you for accepting." He fiddled with the corner of a paper. "Rachel -- " He hesitated.

"Yes, Michael?" I was just about ready to turn around and tackle this project when his voice arrested my attention.

"What would you say to being . . . official escort to the Boss?"

I was stunned. He'd told me earlier how he'd never play favorites and that having one escort over the course of time caused major dissension in the ranks.

"I thought it was your policy . . ."

"Policies change." His interruption caught me by surprise, too. "The day I let office politics dictate my policies is the day I hang it up. Think you can weather the jealous glares and clenched teeth?"

"Can I ask you something first?"

"Go right ahead."

"Are you asking me because it's convenient for you to stick with one op who'd be on call all the time for this or because you really want to date me?"

Michael contemplated me a moment. "You'd know I'd be lying if I told you the former."

"In a New York minute."

"Well, then. I guess you have your answer. Are you up to being the Boss' on-call girlfriend?"

"If you think you can handle me."

His smile became a grin. "I think this is going to be a lot of fun. Can you be discreet?"

"As a Mack truck."

"Then you ought to be perfect for the job. I can't wait to see the fur fly when some of the more jealous types get wind of it."

"Don't worry. I won't advertise it on a billboard. But if somebody asks, they better be ready for the answer."

"Oh, this whole thing is going to be very interesting." He sat back like a sleek cat who just caught, toyed with and ate the canary.

"Yeah, your friend Beatrice is going to have a field day," I told him pointedly.

"You just smile and look pretty and let me handle the press. Even Beatrice," he warned, still half-smiling. "Bea likes you. She can be a pretty good friend when she wants to be. Keep that in mind."

"I like her, too."

"Good." He paused. "I don't always say it and I take for granted that my operatives just know I'm grateful for all their hard work. But thank you for helping out when you did. You saved us a lot of grief."

"My pleasure."

After a little bit of an uncomfortable moment, my computer beeped, signifying it was ready and I used that as an excuse to tackle the big report in front of me. I could hear Michael rifling through papers and then a sense of calm enveloped me as my mind tuned in to what I was doing.

Some time later, I felt him standing at my elbow and I looked up.

"Yes, Sir?"

He smiled at my use of 'Sir.' "It's seven-fifteen. Are you going to stay here all night?"

I glanced at my watch in surprise. "Oops."

"Just check out now. Lock that report away in your bottom drawer. Do you have your car here?"

"Yeah. You need a lift?"

"Would you mind taking me to the ranch? You can stay overnight in the guest room so you don't have to drive all the way back. I'll let you wear the jeans you came in with this morning for tomorrow."

"No need. I always keep an extra white suit in my locker. I can change after classes."

We walked out together and a few stragglers from the office on extended projects saw us leave. It wasn't until we were almost to the elevator that I noticed Michael had his hand lightly on my waist and I wondered when that had happened. I began to get a little concerned, but then I'd been the one to push the issue about not being on the clock when I was to be an escort, and even though he'd vetoed that, he'd given in to my alternate request. Frankly, I was surprised Michael gave in even that much. I led him to my car in the parking garage. "I thought you were spending weekends shopping," Michael said as he slipped into the passenger's seat.

I frowned as I buckled in. "I spend almost every weekend shopping."

"Then why haven't you bought the car of your dreams? Half the new recruits have already traded theirs for BMWs or Ferraris. You can well afford a new car on your salary."

"What's wrong with my Pontiac?" My car may have been a big old boat, but it was well-built and could hold up like the Rock of Gibralter in an accident. "It's not even two years old yet!"

We stopped at the gate, punched out and turned down the street. I rolled the window down. The night was balmy and I turned the radio on to a jazz station.

"You just seem like . . . I don't know. A Ferrari or a Jaguar woman."

I smiled faintly. "Oh, they're lovely. But in an accident, I can count on this thing, even if it is the size of a tank."
>
"If you decided to trade security for absolute luxury, what would you choose?"

"Jaguar XJ-S," I said right away. "Like the one Bob Tullius won the Driver's Championship with, only I like the more refined one off the line, not the racing version."

"You know your cars, Ms. Sands."

"I know what I like."

The drive to Michael's ranch was stress-free. We fell back into our casual mode now that we were alone and felt free to joke and poke fun and kid each other. A certain decorum had to be maintained at the office, and I understood that. But out of the office I liked Michael a lot as a person, despite some of the dark things I was learning about him -- and about myself. Michael's ranch was just that -- a working ranch on the edge of Simi Valley. The house itself was sprawling. He had ranch hands working and living on site with his horses and just generally running things for him. I knew from talking with him that Michael was quite an accomplished horseman. I knew something about riding -- my father taught me from the time I was six how to sit on a pony. I rode for pleasure off and on, but was no expert.

I was awestruck when Michael ushered me inside his home. The living room interior was done in dark greens and dark walnut wood with splashes of gold. It was definitely decorated to suit a man's tastes and I found myself liking it. There was something very warm about it, very secure. It was almost as if the room itself were welcoming my presence in it. I almost wished now that I had taken Michael up on his offer way back when I first met him to be his girlfriend instead of his operative. Although for all the world it seemed that now I was going to have the privilege of being both.

Not having had supper yet, Michael proved to be no slouch in the kitchen when the occasion called for it. He made me sit at the kitchen table while he made spaghetti and one of the best tomato-basil-meat sauces I've ever tasted. I insisted that he at least put me to work dicing vegetables, and before long, the sauce was simmering, the wonderful odor wafting all through the house. He tossed a Caesar salad and I found a bag of garlic bread sticks in the freezer. I liked eating in his kitchen. It was homey and warm and casual. Decidedly something I could get used to in a hurry.

I was telling him about how my dad had left me out in the middle of the woods one time -- actually, he was watching all the time, and would have stepped in if anything were in danger of happening -- and how I had been on my own for a week with nothing but my hunting knife and my bow and arrows. I'd learned a lot about myself in that week, about what I was capable of.

"I've always been a survivor," I told him in summation. "I'm not afraid of dying. People say it takes guts to take your own life, and believe me, there have been times when I've thought about it." I paused. "There was even a time or two when I came extremely close to . . . " I broke off suddenly. "Sometimes people get so lost, they can't find their way out -- or they believe there's no other way out except death. I think it takes more guts to live. That's the legacy my father left me."

"Your father must have been quite a man." Michael's voice was soft and sincere.

"He was."

"He'd be very proud of you, you know."

I thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "I believe he would be." I smiled.

We did the dishes together and then retired to the fireplace in the living room with brandies. We talked quietly for a time, comfortable in each other' presence. Every once in awhile, I felt his fingertips on the back of my hand or on my shoulder. It felt natural and familiar. When the mantel clock chimed ten-forty-five, Michael sighed.

"I think we'd better get some sleep," he told me. "I'll wake you in the morning. I'm usually up with the chickens." We rose and he pointed the way to the guest room. I picked up my gym bag and followed his finger.

"I hope you're comfortable," he said, pausing at the door to the master bedroom just down the hall from mine. "Good night, Rachel."

"Good night, Boss." I smiled softly and disappeared inside the room, closing the door with a soft click.

The lights could be controlled with a dimmer switch, which I loved, and I closed the curtains as I undressed. The room had a rustic, Southwestern feel to it, the bed frame made out of knotty pine and like accents throughout the room, right down to the bleached skull of a bull that perched above the fireplace. There was a bathroom right off the bedroom and I set my toothbrush and toiletries up there.

As I settled down into the comfortable mattress of the bed, I silently thanked the gods for my blessings and sank into the blessed and restful arms of sleep.

******************************

The next morning, I was in a blissful state of being half-asleep and half-awake. I was vaguely aware of the birds chirping outside, the pungent smell of coffee that wafted through the house mixed with the after-odor of garlic and tomato sauce. I'd pulled the silk sheet up to my nose and was curled comfortably beneath it and the Indian-style bedspread, just floating and half-dreaming and wanting to stay in this serene limbo forever.

Somewhere in the fog of my stasis, I heard someone call my name, softly at first, then more insistent. But I felt too good to acknowledge it. All I remembered was that I liked the voice almost as much as I liked being precisely where I was. It was warm. Enveloping. Gentle.

So when I felt the covers being jerked off of me and having the cooler air hit my naked body, I sprang to my knees with a shout. My widened eyes fell on the white-clad Michael, in a casual sweater and the usual white trousers and white shoes, who let the sheet drop from his hands as he stared. Instinctively, I pulled the discarded sheet up around me.

"Oh, God, Rachel, I am . . ." He broke off, color suffusing his cheeks and for a moment I couldn't help thinking I had never seen the man blush before. "Please, I'm sorry. I had no idea -- "

"You had no idea I slept in the nude," I finished for him. "I didn't have a nightgown with me."

He turned away, obviously embarrassed, and started for the door. "There's coffee in the kitchen when you're ready . . ."

"Michael." He stopped, hand on the doorknob, his back still to me. I slipped from the bed, without the sheet, moving around in front of him because I knew he wouldn't turn. His eyes burned into mine but I knew it wasn't just my eyes he was looking at. Gently, I took his hands in mine and placed them on either side of my face. "Don't be afraid. I'm not. Not anymore."

His long fingers caressed my face and I could hear his breathing becoming a little labored. "I don't want to hurt you," he finally said to me, his voice almost non-existent.

"I trust you. You won't."

I thought he was going to kiss me, but for some reason backed off, caressing my hair as he did so. "You'd better dress," he half-whispered, then moved around me and shut the door as he left the room.

I stood there, buck naked, meditating on what had just happened. And then, I could have just died. Michael had been embarrassed enough and then I took it to an entirely new level by not letting him leave gracefully, presenting myself to him, naked and willing. Like I had no shame at all. On one hand, I marveled at how Michael could bring out the careless hedonist in me. On the other hand, I was absolutely mortified at myself for not being a little more sensitive to his feelings. I never had, in my whole life, kept secrets about how I really felt about people or issues, it was just the way I was. But I was wondering now if I had jeopardized not only our professional relationship, but our fledgling personal one as well.

When I wandered out into the kitchen half an hour later after a shower and my jeans and sweater on, Michael was reading the paper at the table with coffee and a plateful of eggs, bacon and toast. He rose when I walked in.

"Sit down, I'll get your breakfast," he said, pointing to the chair.

He filled a plate for me and brought it back. "Thanks," I said quietly, starting in on the hearty repast. After about five minutes of silence in which Michael went studiously back to his paper, I finally put my coffee mug down. "Michael, may I say something?"

He brought the paper down and looked at me over the top. "Do I have a choice?"

I kicked at him under the table and grinned, which elicited a smile from him. Good! At least I got a smile out of the boss in the early morning.

"I want to apologize . . ."

"Don't. You didn't do anything. I should apologize to you, acting like a stupid adolescent when I jerked off your covers."

"I thought it was funny -- especially the look on your face."

He blushed again -- score another point for the Midwestern kid getting her boss to blush twice in one hour. "You won't have to worry about me doing that again," he informed me.

"Didn't like what you saw, huh?"

"No!" he protested immediately. "That wasn't it at all! You have a beautiful . . ." He broke off, then said more softly, " . . . body."

"I wanted to apologize for making you so uncomfortable. I should have let you leave the room."

"I'm glad you didn't. I . . ." He hesitated again. "Rachel, there's something you need to know. I guess this is as good a time as any." He put the paper down and began to seriously concentrate on his food as he talked. "When I first saw you back in May, you struck me by your poise, your focus, this innate . . . strength . . . it held my interest in a very strong way. You were part of a whole on your karate team, but you were a bright star in the middle of it. I felt like I had to touch that light you were putting out. When you met me later for dinner, that light just burned even brighter. I knew you were destined for great things if you wanted them. Somehow, I just knew." He paused, putting his fork down. "I'm a very intense person. I demand a lot from everyone around me. The rewards are good, Rachel, you know that. But there's a price and some people just can't make the payments. I guess what I'm trying to say," he sighed, "is that I don't want to see that light in you go out. I don't want to do anything that could jeopardize that for you. I want you to continue to shine."

"Elucidate me a bit," I said quietly, taking a bite of rye toast. "Are you saying that you think it's a bad idea for me to be working for you? Or that it's a bad idea for me to be having a personal relationship with you?"

"Both."

"It's sounds like you're trying to jinx both before anything really has a chance to happen," I countered.

"I'm just trying to be cautious."

"I may be younger than you are, but I'm not stupid. I know how the world works. Let me tell you something, Michael. Life was pretty boring before I met you. I'm starting to enjoy things again, and that's due in large part to you. So here it is all laid out. I like you a lot. I like working for you a lot. I can see myself falling in love with you without half trying. Obviously you feel something of the same or you wouldn't have even asked me to be your steady escort. The bottom line is, I'll take you any way I can get you. I'm not looking for promises or commitments because I'm well aware you can't give me any. I'm going into this with my eyes wide open."

"So you want to see where this personal relationship will lead. You really aren't afraid of it."

"If I'd been afraid of it, I never would have gotten on your jet out of Iowa."

"No kidding."

"No kidding, Michael."

He contemplated me for a moment, then smiled, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on my mouth. "Then good morning, love."

"Good morning," I responded warmly. "Oh, and I think there's something you should know."

"What's that?" he asked in good humor, beginning on his breakfast again.

"I sleep in the nude all the time." I thought he was going to choke then and there and couldn't help the small smile that came to my lips as I sipped my juice and watched him bring a napkin up to his mouth. "Bear that in mind when you decide to yank the covers off me again."

******************************

Tuesday rolled around and by the time Michael's limo arrived, I was ready with a garment bag and two suitcases plus a make-up bag. Even though we were only going to be gone seven days, Michael had one of his knowledgeable "angels" go through my wardrobe and choose "evening clothes" for me. The rest was left up to my discretion. I thought it was an awful lot of baggage to be taking on such a short trip, but I was living a different life, now. We arrived at LAX at three o'clock and didn't have to walk far to the private gate leading to the Firm 's jet that would take us to Dulles' Airport in Washington, D.C.

Our pilot was Vincent McComb, Michael's look-alike who also worked in the Private Investigation Department of the Firm and Ricki, my chauffeur from my first dinner date with Michael in Des Moines. The skies were clear and I curled up in one of the chairs reading one of several newspapers Michael had discarded. As I picked up the Chicago Trib, my eyes fell upon the third-page headlines. Senator Daltrey was splashed across them, leaving the House Ethics Committee under media fire. His political career was down the tubes. However, I was sure he would now be making the talk-show circuit and probably writing his own book. Troubled, I contemplated my minted iced tea.

"What is it, Rachel?" Michael had not missed the concern in my face.

"Nothing." I took a long drink.

"The piece about Senator Daltrey?"

I looked up at him. Funny how that man was practically a mind-reader. "His career is done but Michael . . . he can still write a book. Or do the talk shows. Or go to the scandal rags that are on his tail now."

"Not if he wants his son to maintain the family jewels, he won't."

I was quiet for a long moment. "Michael . . . if Daltrey or one of the other two had gone for the other option . . . would you have really carried it out?"

"Without hesitation."

"I'm still having a hard time with that."

"Then don't think about it. Those men will never do anything to harm you as long as I'm around." He handed me a book of poems by Byron, Keats and Shelley. "Read to me."

"What do you want me to read?" I took up the book, paging through it.

"You choose."

I loved Keats, so I settled upon a piece that my father had adored -- in fact, I think it was the first piece of poetry I ever really knew. Parts of it I could quote from memory. It was Lamia. The descriptive visuals were amazing to me.

" . . . she was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green and blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries --
So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries,
She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
Upon her crest she wore a wasnnish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman's mouth with its pearls complete:
And for her eyes -- what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air,
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey:"

I stopped for a moment, floating away with the words. Michael leaned forward, his hands touching my knees lightly as he came close. "I love your voice. Finish reading it for me." His voice was low, intense.

It was one of Keats' less lengthy pieces, but I could see Michael playing the images out as I read. He was letting the poetry paint pictures for him and I felt an even stronger bond with him than before.

I think it was precisely at that point that I fell madly, passionately, deeply in love with Michael Coldsmith-Briggs the Third.

Michael had me read another piece by Shelley called Epipsychidion, another lovely piece of prose. If we'd just been in a Shakespearean garden or out in the woods, it would have been perfectly romantic. We killed the entire trip discussing poetry and reading snatches of it from the book. Finally, when we were about to touch down at the airport, he handed it to me.

"It's yours," he said. "I have two copies and I'd like you to have this one. It's wonderful to find someone who can appreciate the masters."

"You have to write something on the inside cover," I insisted, handing it back. "Personalize it. So it's really mine."

He chuckled, opening the front cover and taking a pen out of his pocket. He wrote a brief message inside it, then handed it back. I was tempted to open it, but the plane was coming down and my ears were popping, so I contented myself with gripping the chair arms.

I'd been to Washington D.C. once with my parents when I'd been a little girl. Dad and Mom were determined I was going to get a good dose of United States history and what better place to start? So we took a family vacation for two weeks exploring the nation's capital. The sights were vaguely familiar, but the last time I'd seen them I'd been a girl of ten.

The Willard Inter-Continental Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue was a landmark, hosting every president since 1853 and known invariably as "The Residence of the Presidents." I'd only heard tell of such remarkable, historical landmarks and stared in awe as we went inside to the concierge's desk. The lobby was monstrous and elegant, old-fashioned, red upholstered furniture and beautiful columns, a glittering, massive fireplace on one end. The promenade was the entire block long -- the place to strut and be seen in the past and the present. The mosaic floors, carved ceilings and chandeliers were spectacular. Michael signed us in. Victor and Ricki would be coming to the hotel a little later, taking suites a couple of floors below us. Michael and I would be on the sixth floor -- The Presidential Suite had been available and Michael was taking full advantage of it.

"I think you'll find it very comfortable," he told me as we climbed into the elevator with our bellboy. "Would you like to go to the Willard Room for dinner tonight or would you prefer to go out?"

"What would you like to do?" I asked.

"The Willard serves the most wonderful lobster thermidor," he said.

"Your meeting is early tomorrow, too. Maybe we should just stay in and dine here," I agreed.

The suite was nothing short of fabulous. It was like stepping into a palace. The rich reds, browns and blacks pulled me in and warmed me up and the antique furniture was absolutely spectacular, Victorian. The main parlor sported the same columns as downstairs with an ornamental fireplace that was breathtaking. There was a large kitchen for our use. The master bedroom had a sitting area as well and there was a second room and two guest bathrooms. In the deluxe marbled main bathroom off the master bedroom, the tub was Jacuzzi-style. It bowled me over. So did the view outside as I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Rachel, would you like the master bedroom?" Michael called over to me.

"Only if you're going to be in it," I replied without thinking. The moment I said it, I winced, both inwardly and outwardly. "Kidding," I said, turning around and smiling at the teen-aged bellboy. "I'll take the other room. You need your space."

When the young man finished putting our luggage in our respective rooms, Michael tipped him generously and he left quickly, assuring us that if we needed anything else, he would be more than happy to accommodate. Michael noted his name -- Keith -- on his nametag and assured the young man we would keep him in mind if we needed something special.

I touched the rich, velvet draperies, looking out over the historic streets and biting my lip. This was all so unreal.

"Michael . . . I have to ask. What are we paying to stay here?"

He came up behind me, close but not touching. "What difference does it make? I told you last week, everything's taken care of."

"I'm just curious." I breathed out. "I didn't know Washington could strike such awe into a person."

I felt rather than saw him smile. "It can be a fabulous city. You'll have ample time to explore it yourself when I'm gone in meetings all day. Maybe Vincent and Ricki and you could go together."

"That's an idea." A rather good one. I'd had visions of spending an inordinate amount of time by myself. Not that it was anything new, but it could be a lot more fun with people. "Now answer my question."

Michael chuckled, then turned around. "Thirty-five hundred."

My jaw dropped as I turned to face him. "For one week?!"

He opened the complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon that was standing in the ice bucket expertly and poured two glasses, handing one to me. "For one night."

I almost dropped my glass of champagne.

My boss laughed at the look on my face. "Relax and enjoy it. Such are the perks of being the boss' escort."

"You have accommodations like this everywhere you travel?" I was dumbfounded.

"Except if being on assignment calls for something different. Remember what I told you about Ireland? Living in that cottage for over a month with no running water?"

I remembered. I also remembered how much he loved it there.

"So I'm basically on my own until we leave Friday morning," I said, sipping the delicious spirit.

"Except in the evening, when I'll be taking you to dinner -- possibly dancing at one of the local clubs. I'm making sure my meetings don't run any later than five-thirty so I can get back here, shower and so we can go." He settled into the antique loveseat by the fireplace. "I have a breakfast meeting at nine o'clock with the President. You sleep in as long as you want, do whatever you want all day -- but be back by late afternoon so you can clean up. I have a place in mind for tomorrow night. Rather special."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise." He smiled sweetly when I frowned. "Trust me, you'll like it. When you're done with your champagne, change and we'll go to dinner."

"And I'm to wear what?"

"Something understated. Let your natural beauty shine through -- like that night we had our first dinner together."

"You want me to wear basic black?"

"I want you to wear whatever strikes you as appropriate."

"We might differ on that. You're a man of sophistication. I'm an Iowa college girl."

"You don't give yourself enough credit." He glanced at his watch. "Can you be ready in an hour?"

"Forty minutes."

"I'll make the reservation."

I went to my room on the other end of the suite and went through my suitcases to come up with the items I needed. My garment bag held the dress I was contemplating. It had taken me one whole day on Rodeo Drive to find this little number. It was a tight sheathe -- gossamer material that sparkled and flowed. It matched my skin color to a T -- bisque-colored. If you didn't look carefully the first time you saw someone in it with my particular coloring, it almost looked as though the wearer was naked. I wore triple-strand diamonds for earrings and a matching necklace that narrowed to a point just above my cleavage. I put my diamond watch on and the outfit was complete. I hadn't lied to Michael. I did go shopping. But I didn't shop to the exclusion of everything else. Everything I chose, from my furniture to my clothes and jewelry, was not a compulsion buy. I didn't fill my condo with stuff that I might or might not wear. Picking up my beaded matching purse, I took one last look in the mirror and then stepped out to the parlor area again for my boss' assessment.

Michael was elegant as always -- white short-tailed tux with tie and spit-and-polished shoes. When I emerged into sight, Michael, who was on the phone at the moment, suddenly stopped speaking and stared.

"I'll call you back later tonight," he said abruptly, and put the receiver down. Then, I felt his eyes rove up and down several times. "So much for understatement. My God, Rachel. When you dress for dinner -- you dress for dinner."

"So I pass muster?" I looked down, arms outstretched.

Michael approached, taking my hand and turning me around. "More than." He shook his head as I faced him again. "You do realize I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick when we go downstairs."

I laughed. "Yeah? You just remember something."

"What's that?" He took my hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing my knuckles.

"I don't care how many men might stare. I just care about what you're staring at."

"I'll be staring at you. I probably won't even be able to hit my mouth with my fork."

The pleasant shiver that ran through me was most welcome. As we went down to the lobby floor to the Willard Dining Room, I thought to myself that if there was a price to pay down the road for feeling this good being in the company of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, that I would be willing to pay it in spades.

In spades.

******************************

When I woke up the next morning, I luxuriated in the comfortable bed for half an hour after waking up. It was quiet and serene, but I knew that all I had to do was look outside the window and I'd see the hustle and bustle of the nation's capital. Finally, I got out of bed and threw my complimentary robe on, wandering into the main parlor. Michael was long gone. A beautiful coffee service rested on the table but I was sure it had gone tepid. I rang downstairs and ordered room service -- orange juice, fresh coffee, oatmeal with strawberries and rye toast. Michael had reiterated time after time that I was to take full advantage of being with him and that included room service. Maid service cleaned twice a day and they came in when I was eating and talking to Lillian on one of the four phone lines available in the Presidential Suite.

" . . . and the view is fabulous!" I was telling her. "I can't believe we're here! I feel like a corporate wife!"

Lillian laughed. "You might as well be! Hey, when you get to the Waldorf Astoria in Manhattan, make sure you try the Cocktail Terrace. It has a magnificent view overlooking Park Avenue. You can have high tea in the afternoon and Cole Porter's Steinway is there -- usually with someone playing it."

"If there's time. Michael's got tickets for the theater, and I don't know if we're eating before or after."

"Probably after. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised he takes you to high tea himself. And if you get a chance -- go take a look at the ballroom. It's four stories high and magnificent." She paused. "And . . . so how are things otherwise?"

"Wonderful. Michael and I went to dinner last night in the Willard dining room. He must have seen about thirty different people that he knew personally and introduced me to all of them. Most of them were senators or ambassadors."

"Michael's father was ambassador to Ireland for a long time," Lillian said. "And of course, his grandfather was a senator. He knows a lot of people, Rachel."

"I tried to make a checklist of everyone we met -- wrote them down just as soon as we got back to the suite. Michael thought it was funny and even laughed about it, but he helped me with names."

"Never hurts to be prepared," Lillian told me. "What are going to do today, now that the master's flown the coop?"

"Probably go to the Lincoln Memorial and Corcoran Art Gallery. I've always wanted to see the French impressionists."

"Well have fun. It sounds like you are already."

"I'll see you Wednesday," I said.

"And if I see a bigger grin on your face than normal, I'll assume you got laid."

"Lillian!"

"And I'll expect a detailed report."

"We've got separate rooms, for God's sake!"

"All you have to do is accidentally wander into the master bedroom. If he turns you away, I'll be very surprised."

I heard laughter and then some noise on the other end.

"Hey, how's life in the Presidential Suite?" came Gabrielle's voice laughingly.

"Hi, Gabrielle. Heaven. No. Better than Heaven. Absolute bliss."

"Really getting used to living high, huh?"

"I like it, Gabrielle. I really do."

"Just remember how much you appreciate it when you're in a bug-infested bamboo hut in Columbia or Bolivia."

"Ewwww, you just had to put a damper on my party, didn't you?" I said disgustedly. "Hey, I'm bringing presents back. What do you want?"

"Surprise me."

"C'mon, Gabrielle! I haven't known you that long to surprise you!"

"Well . . . OK, I'm a beer afficiando. Does that give you any clues?"

"Beer? You?" I laughed.

"Laugh if you like, I like it better than wine."

"Beer-related. OK. Got it."

"I've gotta go, Rachel. I'm giving you back to Lillian. 'Bye."

"'Bye, Gabrielle."

"Rachel," came Lillian's voice, "you have yourself a scandalously wonderful time, do you hear me? Break a few hearts, raise a few eyebrows . . ."

"Oh, I've already raised a few eyebrows at dinner last night."

"What did you do, the Charleston on top of one of the tables?"

"Remember that dress I told you about? The one . . ."

"The one where you might as well not be wearing anything? You didn't! He let you wear that?"

I laughed. "He did and I did, and I'll bet half the Senate was there when I did."

"Almost as scandalous as the hot pants."

"I wasn't in Washington D.C. wearing hot pants."

"No, you were walking into a government building to start work with the CIA wearing hot pants. I'm surprised Michael let you do it for as long as you did. I think he liked looking at your legs." She laughed. "Listen, honey, I have to go. Save up your stories and tell us all the juicy details when you get back. In the meantime, live it up for all it's worth."

"I will. I miss you guys."

"It'll pass, believe me. Ciao, darling."

"Ciao."

It was going on ten o'clock when I got off the phone and I rang up Ricki's room to find out what she was up to. The little redhead had made no plans, in fact was watching the tail-end of one of the morning shows.

"What about Vincent?" I asked. "Think he might like to join us?"

"Tell you what, I'll ring his room and either way, let's meet down in the lobby. I'll ring for a limo."

"Limo? We're not taking a taxi?"

Ricki laughed. "When the boss says take advantage, you take advantage! I know you're not used to it, Rachel, but start getting rid of your middle-class ideas! If it's not taken care of by the Firm, it's taken care of by the Boss -- and the Boss' personal fortune makes him richer than God!"

I'd heard Richard Daltrey mention the same thing. I knew that Michael was well-heeled, but apparently, I was still having trouble grasping just how rich.

Vincent was with Ricki in the lobby when I met them, dressed in casual linen. It was the beginning of October and the weather was still holding out in the 60s so we all wore lighter clothes. Vincent grinned as I started across past the concierge's desk. I almost stared. Vincent was truly almost a Michael look-alike. He could have been Michael's younger brother.

"Don't you look fabulous, " he complimented me, indicating my black outfit with red jacket. "You make us look underdressed."

"Oh, please," I said wryly. "Vincent, you couldn't look underdressed if you tried. Michael's been rubbing off on you too much. Casual expensive. I like it." I winked at him slyly, then smiled at Ricki, who looked cute in a dark blue peasant dress and three-quarters-length jacket.

"Limo's waiting," Ricki said, indicating the front door.

We did go to see the Lincoln Memorial, but never got to the Corcoran Art Gallery. Instead, we went to the historic Union Station and surrounding shops, pubs and boutiques. Vincent was a good sport, considering the fact that both Ricki and I were walking his legs off shopping.

Our last stop was the National Arboretum and I lingered near the rose garden after walking the long tunnel of lilac bushes. There was something about the scent of lilacs and roses that put me under a spell. I wished Michael had been there to share it with me. For a moment I closed my eyes and drifted.

"Earth to Rachel." The words were spoken very close to my ear and I started at Vincent's close proximity. He smiled an incorrigible smile. "Didn't you say you had to be back by five or so?"

I glanced at my watch. It was five-ten. "Oh, God. I hope he's not back yet!"

We piled into the limo and pressed the driver to step on it. We arrived twenty minutes later and I hastily thanked Ricki and Vincent for being my companions for the day, then I rushed through the front doors, my flats clattering as I literally ran for the elevators. I was fiddling with my key and my bags when a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I looked up, startled.

I was staring into the face of Senator Daltrey.

"Rachel Sands?" His voice was unbelieving. "Yes, I thought that was you last night."

"Senator . . . I thought you'd be . . . that you'd . . ."

"Thought I'd be hiding in a hole somewhere after the scandal? To be honest, Rachel, I've been the least damaged. Oh, my political career after this term is over, you and your friend have seen to that. But I've never been a man without options."

"No, you've proven that many times over." I was not going to let this man intimidate me. "Tell me, Senator, how do you sleep nights knowing that your son is a rapist? How do you look in a mirror each morning knowing that your son and his friends effectively destroyed three lives in one night?"

"You were well-compensated for that alleged misconduct. The only reason I agreed to your terms wasn't because of your sorry attempt at blackmail, my dear." Daltrey was a distinguished-looking gentleman with silver-gray hair and bushy eyebrows, standing well above six feet. In his thousand dollar suits, he was quite larger-than-life.

"Then why did you?" I challenged.

"Because the scandal would have been hard to live down, whether it was true or not. I had no idea just what you three girls had cooked up between you. As far as I was concerned, the settlement we agreed to was just a price to be paid for being an affluent family. It was nothing to us."

"So. The scandal is worse than the act itself."

"If there was an act. That's highly questionable."

"As questionable as you appearing before the House Ethics Committee and protesting innocence when there are videotapes and photographs to the contrary." I smiled sweetly. "Y'know, you might have even gotten off scot-free if you 'd just used anything but that government-issued credit card."

The pressure on my arm increased. "Be careful, Rachel. You're swimming with sharks that have been in this game much longer than you have. There are things you don't know about your Boss. Sacrificing a pawn like you wouldn't be unheard of in his line of work." He noted the surprise on my face. "Oh, you didn't think I'd know about you working for Michael Coldsmith-Briggs?" When he smiled, he reminded me of a predatory cat. "He isn't the only one with connections, my dear. I still have plenty of friends in this town. Tell me -- what is it you do for your boss anyway? Even working as an assistant to the Deputy Director of the Firm can't buy you the threads and jewels I saw you in last night."

"Actually, Senator, I make four times what you do," I replied calmly. "And I'm still in training." I pointedly looked at his large hand closed around my arm. "Would you mind terribly letting go of me? People might start talking if I start screaming."

His hand was immediately off my arm and it was at that moment -- thank God -- that Michael came through the front doors and spied us right away.

"Look, let me tell you something," I told him furiously. "I was willing to let that rape go after you made restitution. I was never going to do anything more than had already been done. But then your son and his friends had to push it -- just like they always push it. They went way over the line with what they did to me last July." I was amazed at my calm. "Your son started this four years ago. I'm going to finish it. When you go back to Des Moines, you tell them that they shouldn't play with dead things."

"Senator Daltrey," Michael acknowledged smoothly, coming up and slipping one arm protectively about my waist. "I'm surprised you even have the guts to show your face around here. I'd think the management would be afraid you'd attract the wrong kind of element." His eyes bored into the other man. "Did the hearing end early this afternoon?"

Daltrey's face closed down dangerously. "You remember what I told you, Rachel."

To his surprise, I stepped up very close to the six-foot senator, staring straight up into his face. "Senator," I said in a low voice, meant only for him to hear. I reached up and pulled his head down so I could speak into his ear. "If you fuck with me, if you fuck with my family, if you fuck with my friends . . . I'll fuck with you. And I'll win." I leaned back and let him up. "No exceptions. Have a wonderful evening. Michael?" I mustered all the dignity I could and transferred my purchases to the other hand so I could take Michael's arm and head toward the elevators. I hadn't even realized that I'd been holding my breath until I let it out once inside the car.

"Did you say to him what I think you said to him?" Michael asked as we slipped inside the private elevator car to the sixth floor.

"Damn straight." Suddenly, I felt very good.

"Rachel?"

I turned my head and my eyes locked to his. "Yes, Michael?"

"Way to go."

I looked away and smiled. "Thank you."

******************************

END PART II



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November 11, 1999