Perfect Victim, The (49 page)

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Instead, they held each other for everything they were worth, knowing that tomorrow or the next day or next week, it could all be gone.

Clint worked by the light of his banker’s lamp, poring over last month's bank statement, wondering where in the hell he'd gone wrong. Beside the bank statement, a letter from the IRS outlined in ugly detail just how sorry his financial condition had become. It had taken him several years to reach this all-time low, and he knew there was little hope next month's financial statements would be any different.

Somewhere along the way, twenty years of work had been sucked down the proverbial drain like so much dirty water. The nest egg was gone, along with the money for the ranch he was going to build back in Texas. He had nothing left that would prove, even to himself, that at one time he'd run a decent, profitable, aboveboard business.

Tonight, that fleeting moment in time seemed like a lifetime ago.

At the comer of his desk
,
a tumbler of whiskey sat in its usual place, a ring of moisture permanently etched into the leather surface of the writing pad. He reached for the tumbler and drank deeply, trying to quench the hunger that never seemed to leave him these days.

He was merely an opportunist, he told himself as the liquor streamed down his throat
.
A businessman making the best of a bad situation. But the rationalization did little to quiet his conscience. And he was much too cynical to be bothered by that now
.

He no lo
n
ger believed in right and wrong
,
hadn't for years. Black and white no longer existed
.
He lived in a gray world where wrong could be stretched into right and iniquity transformed into something he could live with.

Finishing the whiskey
,
he poured another and brooded. He drank too much, he knew. And he
spent too much time at the roulette tables in Atlantic City. But, Christ, that was life. A man who lived with his vices died with them
.
A man who denied himself life
'
s little pleasures died unhappy.

Clint Holsapple just didn
'
t want to die broke
.

The cl
i
mate had changed in D.C
.
since the days he and Talbot had run in the same circles
.
Clint had taken on jobs he would never admi
t
to
,
wallowing in the muck with the rest of the men and women who'd sold their souls for the likes of money or power. He
'
d been introduced to people he wouldn
'
t let pass through his front door. He'd been paid by nameless, faceless people for jobs he couldn't admit even to himself
.
He loved
it and hated it with a passion that was insane, like a junkie wa
i
ting for that one big rush that never seemed to come.

Now
,
after all the personal sacrifices and professional compromises
,
he was broke. At sixty-one years of age the thought left a bitter taste at the back of his throat. His moneymaking days were over
.
Damn if he hadn't waited too long for the break that just wasn
'
t going to come his way
.

In today's world, it seemed like a man with a conscience was a man who held himself back. The men who lived and worked by the devil' s rules prospered while the honest few paid the price. Ethics and money didn't seem to mix in this crazy town anymore. Why shouldn't he have a little piece of the pie for a change?

Talbot had come to him out of desperation, a fool in over his head, drowning in his own lust for a woman. In this case, a woman who knew too much about the wrong man. A man willing to pay megabucks for the right information, as long as it came from a discreet source.

A discreet source like Clint Holsapple.

Talbot had practically thrown this in his lap. How could Clint refuse an opportunity he'd been waiting for his entire life? As far as he was concerned, a man who didn't make his own luck was a man who didn't deserve it.

Grimacing at the irony, he drained his glass in a single, bitter gulp and reached for the telephone.

Chapter 21

"To great expectations.” Garrison Tate drank deeply from the crysta
l
flute, blatantly admiring the striking redhead standing next to him.

''To favors granted," she said and drank, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim.

"You're quite the negotiator, Mrs. DiRocco." Never taking his eyes from hers, he removed an eel
-
skin wallet from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and withdrew a never-folded one-hund
r
ed-dollar bill
.

"One of my many talents
.
" She accepted the bill, then expertly rolled it into a tight
,
seamless tube. "At least that's what my husband tells me
.
" She handed the bill back to him.

Cradling the tube between his fingers, Tate watched as she slipped the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders. His heart strummed in anticipation. He wondered if it was from the sight of her ripe body or the drug he was about to consume.

As the rosy peaks of her nipples came into view, he bent slightly, put the bill to his nose, and snorted the line of fine
white powder laid in neat rows on a beveled glass mirror.

An instant later, the drug sent a brilliant burst of euphoria raging through his body. It sparked in his brain and traveled through his bloodstream like a lighted fuse, exploding in his groin with a sexual power that was stunning in its intensity.

"Your turn." He passed the bill to the eager young woman. Brenda DiRocco was naked except for the thong-back panties that left little to the imagination. She was tall and large-boned with a wonderfully rounded body that was lush in all the right places. Her breasts were ample and hung like grapefruit before him as she leaned forward to suck in her share of the drug.

Tate reached out, sliding his finger into the front of her panties and pulling the tiny cover aside. "I've always wondered if the drapes matched the carpet." Starting with his jacket, he began to undress.

DiRocco laughed and danced out of reach. "Red is difficult to duplicate."

It was the first time he'd been with her and the anticipation between them was great. Her body and her appetites suited him. She was young, married, and excessively ambitious, key elements that made up the perfect lover in Washington, D.C.

A lobbyist by trade, Brenda DiRocco had come to him like a thousand others in need of a political favor. She'd been around long enough to know how the game was played. But, unlike Garrison Tate, she was far from understanding how to win.

She snorted delicately, then flashed him a dazzling smile. Her eyes were glazed from the barbiturate she'd consumed earlier.

Tate smiled, then reached out to cup her breasts. "Feel good?" he asked, rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

"I always feel good when I get what I want." She closed her eyes and arched against him. "It turns me on knowing there are four hundred people downstairs who paid a thou
sand dollars a plate to have dinner with you." She winced when he squeezed particularly hard. "And you're up here about to fuck me."

He guided her to the bed, pleased when she wobbled. Nothing excited him more than vulnerability. Except, of course, absolute power.

"Doesn't it turn you on even more knowing my wife is two floors below us getting a manicure?"

"Is she really the bitch everyone says she is?"

He worked the panties down her thighs. She stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her mane of wavy red hair splaying out on the pillow beneath her like blood.

"She's a bitch, all right
.
But she'll make a terrific First Lady."

“
That's what counts, isn't it
,
Garrison?"

“
That's the only thing that counts."

Sliding away from him, she crossed her arms over her breasts and sighed. "I've been waiting for weeks for this fund-raiser tonight. There are a lot of important people downstairs. People I should be mingling with."

"More important than me?"

She smiled coyly. "Of course not
.
"

"You've had one glass of champagne too many. Besides, your professional reputation is much more precious than this dinner
.
There will be more dinners. And there's an endless supply of important people to go along with them. Next time, you'll have a reserved seat at the table with all the important people."

"You're teasing me.
"
She looked at him through the drug-induced haze and smiled, moving her hands away from her breasts. "It's important to me, Garrison."

"I promise
.
" He parted her knees. Slipping a finger between her legs, he found her wet and hot
.
His body stirred in response. "I can do things for you
.
" He stroked her. "Introduce you to people. Make you a powerful, successful woman."

Moaning beneath his touch, she threw her head back into
the pillows. He reached for the prescription bottle on the night table and tapped one of the pills into his palm. "Take this. It'll make this even better for you."

"I don't need any more." She arched when he increased the tempo of his stroking. "Oh, God, don't stop."

He poised the pill at her lips. When she opened her mouth, .he shoved it onto her tongue, then handed her a glass of champagne. "Down it, sweet. I'm going to give you a night you won't ever forget."

She swallowed the pill, closing her eyes against the impending orgasm. "Yes."

"That's a good girl." He set the flute on the night table, feeling secure in knowing that she would remember little in the morning. At least nothing she would want to discuss with anyone. "Turn over, sweet."

"Don't stop, Garrison. Get me off. I'm almost there."

Using his muscular arms, he flipped her onto her stomach.

"We're going to make a great team, you and I."

She struggled weakly, the fleshy cheeks of her buttocks jiggling as she tried to turn herself over. "No."

Aware of his own heavy breathing, Tate grasped the ample globes and began to knead the flesh hard enough to make her wince. "I'm going to take you back here."

"No."

It was the sensation of utter and complete power over her that had his sex throbbing like a living, breathing thing. For now, it controlled him just as he controlled her. For Garrison Tate, it didn't get any better. Power was the definitive tool of seduction, the ultimate aphrodisiac. Better than any drug, more satisfying than any pleasure of the flesh.