The Committee (3 page)

Camille abruptly turned on her heel and looked him directly in the eye before he could look away. “If you will excuse me,” she said politely to a group of four men and one woman standing near him. “We have a celebrity with us tonight, and I wouldn't be a good mayor if I didn't pay my respects.”

Camille walked to Gideon with an extended hand. “Mr. Truman,” she said reaching for the hand still hanging at his side. Her rapid approach caught him unprepared. “To what do we owe the honor of having a reporter of your caliber here tonight? I hope I haven't done anything to put me under your microscope,” she said with wicked smile.

Gideon regained his composure and confirmed she was even more beautiful at close range. “Not at all,” he said donning his most shallow party smile. “My producer suggested I come tonight. She thought there might be a big story here.”

“Big story?” she asked coyly. “Only if you think your national audience is interested in potholes and the homeless.”

Gideon responded with a laugh. “No, but they might be interested in the woman who could be the first female governor of California.”

“Tell your producer she shouldn't believe everything in the
Los Angeles Times
. That's a rumor they've never bothered to confirm with me.”

“Well, are you running?” he boldly asked, wiping the painted smile from his face.

“I like you, Mr. Truman—”

“Please call me Gideon,” he interrupted.

“I like you, Gideon, so I'll make you a promise. If I do decide to run for governor, you'll be the first to know.”

“Some say it's inevitable and you've already amassed a substantial war chest.”

“Maybe . . . or maybe not, but I'm certainly not prepared to confirm or deny anything tonight.”

“Then what can you confirm or deny tonight?” he pressed gently.

“Handsome and persistent. I like that in a man. All right, Mr. Tru . . . Gideon. I'll give you a few hints. I have one year left in my last possible term as mayor. I'm still young. My approval ratings are off the charts, and my profile is apparently high enough to get your attention. You're the investigative reporter. Those are the clues; now let's see if you can solve the mystery.”

Before Gideon could respond, Tony Christopoulos approached Camille from behind. “Excuse me, Mrs. Mayor,” he said gently touching her arm, “the senator has to leave, and she asked if you would be available to take a picture with her.”

“Of course,” Camille said without turning around. “Gideon, this is my chief of staff, Tony Christopoulos. Tony, I'm sure you know Gideon Truman.”

Gideon was able to tear his eyes from Camille for the first time since she approached him. Tony and Gideon exchanged a familiar glance. One normally reserved for chance encounters at bars on the West Side of town.

“I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Truman before,” Tony said, extending his hand. “But I certainly know who you are. Loved your coverage of Mandela.”

“Thank you. He was a great man,” Gideon said while admiring Tony's penetrating brown eyes crowned by thick jet-black eyebrows.
Mediterranean and stunning. She does like to surround herself with beautiful men,
he thought as he recalled the image of the handsome Sheridan Hardaway on the front row.

“I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to interview President Mandela shortly before he died,” Gideon continued. “He changed the world.”

Tony pried his eyes away from Gideon. “Mrs. Mayor, I'm sorry to take you away, but the senator is waiting.”

“Remember what I promised,” Camille said as she turned to leave. “You'll be the first to know.”

Tony directed her through the crowd, gently brushing aside a gauntlet of congratulators and requests for selfies with a polite, “I'm sorry, but I promise to bring her right back.”

When they reached a clearing in the crowd, Camille whispered, “He couldn't take his eyes off me the entire night.”

“Who?” Tony asked cautiously.

“Gideon Truman. If I weren't a married woman . . .”

Tony laughed out loud. “You and most of the people in this room. He's gorgeous. But I suspect, Mrs. Mayor, I might be more his type than you.”

“You're joking,” she said with a questioning smile.

“Rumor has it he has a boy toy stashed away in his Hollywood Hills home.”

“Too bad,” she said dismissively. “All the handsome ones are either married, gay, or crooks. Oh well, I have Sheridan, so I shouldn't complain.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mayor,” Tony replied looking straight-ahead. “You do have Sheridan.”

 

 

“Did you see her tonight?”

“She was spectacular. Almost too good to be true.”

“I think we might have a winner.”

“Have we checked out her husband yet?”

“Got the boys on it now.”

A half-smoked cigarette smoldered, leaving a ghostly trail of ash where the cigarette had been. The dimly lit room had an ethereal glow from the smoke as the man behind the large oak desk spoke on the telephone.

The only light in the room came from a seventy-five-inch screen showing a live feed of Camille Hardaway charming the crowd thousands of miles away in the lobby at city hall. The unknown camera operator stealthily captured images of the mayor seen only in this smoky room, on this screen, and by this singular viewer.

“Good. We need to know everything about him. Who he's fucking. Who, if anyone, is fucking him. Finances, drugs, prostitutes, illegitimate children, lies on his résumé dating back to his first job, boxers or briefs, everything. With this one, I even want to know who his parents are fucking. Good-looking guys like him always have a shitload of secrets. Even the most seemingly insignificant indiscretion could derail the entire plan.”

“Don't get ahead of the process. It isn't a plan yet. We're only at the exploratory stage.”

“I understand, but I think the country is finally ready for a Camille Hardaway.”

“No argument here. The real question is, is Camille Hardaway ready for the country?”

“My gut tells me she is.”

“Yes, but remember, your gut has been wrong before.”

“Should have listened to you on G. W., but I can't always be right.”

“Wish you'd stop beating yourself up about that. We all agreed he was the man for the job.”

“And he fucked us royally.”

“At least our new boy is making up for it.”

“Yea, but it cost him his entire first term. And he's still cleaning up the mess.”

“He got us through the worst of the economic crisis.”

“Barely.”

“We got health-care reform. We're out of Iraq. So it hasn't been all bad.”

“Speaking of which, what does he think of her?”

“He said he wants some alone time with her before she hits the national stage.”

“Spoken like a true president,” the caller said with a slight chuckle. “That can certainly be arranged.”

“When will we get the report on her husband?”

“Should be ready in a few weeks. In the meantime, we've got two boys following him to see what a week in the life of Sheridan Hardaway looks like.”

“Good.”

The surging of an engine roared in the background.

“Where are you?”

“On my jet. Taking off from Long Beach Airport.”

“Were you at city hall tonight?”

“I was. Had to see her in person for myself.”

“Did you speak with her?”

“Too early for that. Just wanted to see if she lived up to her reputation.”

“And?”

“There is no question she has what it takes to be the first black female president of the United States.”

“I agree. So now it's up to us to make it happen.”

The black Escalade carrying Camille and Sheridan glided through the streets of Los Angeles. Wilshire Boulevard held remnants of earlier rush-hour traffic. Camille read e-mails on a pad in her lap while Sheridan checked messages on his phone. A series of electronic dings, chimes, and bings bounced off the darkly tinted windows and leather seats as e-mails, phone calls, and text messages arrived on the devices in steady intervals.

The heavily armored limousine floated like a magic carpet propelling the mayor and her husband on a cushion of air through her kingdom. It was one of the safest vehicles in the world. Ballistic proof windows, road tack dispenser, smoke screen system, and electric shocking door handles were just a few of the antikidnap devices the car boasted. After her third death threat and the first kidnap attempt, Sheridan and the head of her security insisted the city invest in the most secured vehicle on the market. Not everyone in the city was ready for a black female mayor, and the death threats proved it.

“You haven't told me what you thought of the speech,” Camille said without looking away from the glowing screen.

Sheridan ignored her question and instead asked, “Was that Gideon Truman you were talking to at the reception? What did he want?”

“It was. He thinks I might make a bid for the governor's office,” she casually replied.

“So . . . What did you tell him?”

“I told him not to believe everything he reads in the paper.”

“Did he ask about your plans for Dober Stadium?” Sheridan impatiently goaded her to say more.

“No. Why would he ask about that?”

“Because it's the biggest project of your entire administration.”

“It didn't come up,” Camille replied.

“Have you decided on the location yet?” Sheridan asked casually.

“As of now, the top choice is a vacant 110 acres in Playa del Rey. It's perfect beachfront property. Stunning ocean views, close to the freeway and Pacific Coast Highway, and no immediate neighbors to oppose it.”

“What about the abandoned shipyard? You seemed hopeful about that site a month ago.”

“I got the preliminary assessment from the EPA last week. The shipyard is full of contaminants. Hydrocarbon spillages, solvents, pesticides, you name it. Remediation is estimated to be in the hundreds of millions and that's
before
the first brick is laid. Playa del Rey is the only real option we have at this point.”

“Who owns—”

“I don't want to talk about that right now,” she said interrupting him midsentence. “You haven't answered my question. What did you think of my speech?”

“Do I even need to tell you?” Sheridan replied with a smile.

“Yes.”

“You were . . . OK,” he said expressionless.

Camille smiled broadly and playfully slapped Sheridan's arm. “Thanks, asshole.”

Sheridan feigned pain. “Ouch,” he said massaging his bicep. “That hurt. You don't realize just how strong you are.” The reflection in the blacked-out partition separating the driver's cab and the back of the Escalade mimicked their playful exchange.

Camille met Sheridan only seven years earlier at a fundraiser at the Getty Museum days before she was to launch her campaign for mayor. Their already substantial individual magnetism doubled by simply standing together. They were married within six months at the urging of her campaign manager. Sheridan's chiseled frame and devastatingly good looks were the perfect backdrop for Camille's campaign. His presence took the edge off her raw, sensuous power and made her a less-threatening woman for the cameras and skeptical voters.

They were the ultimate power couple—glamorous, beautiful, wealthy, and ruthlessly ambitious. No one dared cross them for fear of losing lucrative city contracts or being banished to political and social exile. No party in the city was worth attending unless they were there. No fundraiser was considered a success if the Hardaways were not present. If the Hardaways sent their regrets, every high-end event planner in the city knew they must immediately change the date to accommodate their schedules.

“Be honest now. Tell me what you really thought.”

Sheridan turned off his telephone. The only light in the car came from the pad in Camille's lap and the filtered headlights from cars approaching from the opposite direction. Sheridan tossed his cell phone onto the seat and moved in closer.

“You were magnificent,” he said as he moved his lips to hers. “I love you,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss—“more now than ever before.”

The most powerful woman in the city could never resist Sheridan's touch. His warm breath on her neck sent a shiver down one side of her body and back up the other. Her lips quivered as he kissed circles around her open, breathless mouth.

“The driver . . .” she warned weakly.

“. . . can't see a thing.”

“We're almost home. Wait just a few . . .” Her words trailed into a whisper, then a sigh and faded to a sensuous moan. “. . . minutes,” was her last breathless word.

Sheridan's powerful hand massaged her trembling thighs and slowly separated them. Camille made a vain attempt at resistance, but the gentle force of his hand coupled with her desire for the pleasure to come made resistance impossible.

The pampered skin of his palm caused her head to spin as it slowly moved up her leg, stopping intermittently at just the right spots to tickle and tease her tender flesh. Sheridan made it his life's mission to learn every inch of her body. He studied her like a map and in record time identified every point capable of causing her to shudder and moan in pleasure. She was helpless under his touch. Total submission was her only option.

She felt the warmth of his fingers between her legs. He now held her in the palm of his hand and could manipulate her to do and say whatever he desired. She gasped when his fingers slide beneath the moist silk of her La Perla panties.

The mayor held his hand firm to show a semblance of resistance, but when he pressed the tip of his finger inside, she shuddered and silently prayed he would continue. Sheridan knew she wanted more when he felt her hips gently gyrating on his hand. His head began the slow descent down her body, caressing and kissing her breasts, but leaving her blouse buttoned and white ruffles unruffled.

She anticipated where his lips would land through the haze slowly enveloping her. The euphoria of the State of the City address was a distant memory. Lust and passion replaced power and prestige. All she could feel was the weight of his head sliding down her body. His intoxicating musk filled her nostrils, and the sound of his lips kissing their way up her thighs was like the melodic strumming of a violin in the hands of a virtuoso.

“Baby, stop,” she pleaded as he slid her panties to the floor of the limousine. “Honey, we're . . . We're almost home,” she weakly protested as his lips tasted the first drop of her sweet essence.

Camille slowly slid sideways and lowered her back onto the Corinthian leather. The fabric of her Yves St. Laurent skirt formed a puddle at her waist as Sheridan's head rested between the mayor's legs. The magic carpet ride took an erotic detour as Sheridan's dancing tongue skillfully took her to secret places only he could find.

Camille could only hold on tight until the ride ended. She prayed the driver couldn't see through the blackened limousine partition as her head rolled from side to side on the seat. Sheridan was merciless as he plunged deeper and deeper. She felt the added pleasure of the coarseness of his tongue and tickle of his goatee. “Why do you do this to me, baby?” she pleaded helplessly as he maneuvered the magic carpet even higher. “Please don't, Daddy,” she moaned and quaked at the exact point his tongue performed the most remarkable figure eights, pirouettes, circles, twists, and turns.

Sheridan knew the signals. The undulating hips, the twirling Pradas, the steadily increasing flow and the tightening grip on his head. In this moment she belonged to him, not the city of Los Angeles. He possessed her body and soul. There were no urgent problems only she could solve or crises demanding her immediate attention. There were no voters' hands to shake or rosy baby cheeks to kiss. There was only Sheridan and Camille Hardaway. He was the master, and she was his slave.

“You're going to make me cum, baby,” she warned.

No need to tell this to Sheridan. He knew the precise moment she would be reduced to shuddering muscle spasms, tangled hair, and disheveled designer clothes.

Three . . . two . . .
he counted down silently as his tongue guided the magic carpet to the highest point of the journey.
And one—

Camille clamped down on her bottom lip to prevent a frenzied shriek of pleasure from escaping. Her hips lurched upward. Sheridan skillfully stayed in position throughout the entire series of spasms showing her no mercy. Her fingers gripped the back of his head as if she were trying to stay on a bucking bull. Her body froze at the peak of pleasure. Her hips remained suspended in the air with Sheridan planted firmly inside her. Then suddenly, her body dropped to the car seat as Sheridan gently administered the final twirls of his tongue just as a painter would the final strokes on his masterpiece.

Camille's body continued to twitch as she looked out the window and saw the landmarks indicating the mayor's mansion was only two blocks away. She quickly lifted Sheridan from between her legs, retrieved her crumpled panties from the floor, and used them to wipe away the evidence of her passion from his face.

As the car glided to a stop in the circular driveway, Sheridan dabbed the sides of his mouth with his fingers said, “Did that answer your question? You were magnificent.”

 

 

Camille sat sternly at the head of the conference table in her office at city hall on Tuesday morning. The generals in her army were to her left and to her right. Chief of Staff Tony Christopoulos occupied the seat to her right. Bill Wong, the city administrator, to her left. The head of the real estate division, Scott Harrison next to him, and the new baseball stadium project manager, Ben Venabrink, faced Camille at the opposite end of the table.

The décor offered no clues that would lead anyone to conclude it belonged to the beautiful woman in the immaculate navy blue pantsuit at the head of the table. Dark mahogany panels covered the walls. She inherited the art from generations of stodgy old men who preceded her. Even the desk was a relic from the past. The only hint offered was the subtle trace of violets, blackcurrant, Bulgarian rose, and Egyptian jasmine from Camille's favorite perfume resting gently on the shoulders of everyone who entered the room.

An architectural rendering of the new ultramodern stadium sat on an easel just over Ben's left shoulder.

“Mrs. Mayor,” Ben said as he stood and walked to the easel, “the Playa del Rey site offers the perfect location for this project. There are 110 undeveloped acres overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The property has enough space for a 175,000-seat arena, which would make it the largest sports stadium in the world. The second largest being the Rungnado May Day Stadium in North Korea at 150,000 seats.”

Ben removed the top rendering to reveal an aerial view showcasing the oval footprint and fully retractable roof. “Every element of this state-of-the-art, multipurpose sports and entertainment complex is of the highest quality. Per your instructions, our architects have come back with a design that, as you can see, is not only innovative by today's and even tomorrow's standards, but will stand the test of time and befits the importance of the location. Great cities have great buildings in great locations. And Los Angeles is a great city.”

Camille listened but didn't react. At first glance, she looked unimpressed, but upon closer inspection one could see her fully dilated onyx pupils.

Scott Harrison took his cue in the well-choreographed presentation. He stood and continued seamlessly. “The property is owned by the Vandercliffs. An old-money family in Bel Air, the only remaining member of which is a Gloria Vandercliff. Miss Vandercliff is in her seventies and never married. She is the sole heir to a real estate fortune estimated to be well in excess of 2 billion. She isn't interested in getting rich off the city. She's an enormous Dober fan and sees this as an opportunity to give something back to the game she's enjoyed her entire life.”

“For God's sake, enough about her,” Camille snapped. “I don't have all day. How much does she want for the property?”

“For the entire 110 acres,” Scott stammered, “Miss Vandercliff, through her attorneys, of course, is asking $120 million. The property is worth at least twice that in today's market and preliminary environmental impact studies show environmental remediation needed on the land is minimal.”

Camille exchanged a knowing glance with Tony Christopoulos. They each had calculated the true value of the property before Scott gave his estimate. Tony gave Camille a slight nod of approval.

“This design incorporates feedback from regulatory agencies and citizens,” Ben said referring back to the renderings. “It includes changes you requested and also recommendations from the governor.”

“I don't care what that asshole thinks,” Camille fumed. “He's only got one year left in office.”

“This is an incredible opportunity for the region,” Scott interjected. “Building a state-of-the-art, environmentally friendly event pavilion, housing with multiple public transportation options, represents smart development and an incredible economic engine. This will ensure the Dobers will remain the Los Angeles baseball team for the next fifty years.

“Going into this project, we wanted to build a world-class event center incorporating the best in design and technology,” Scott said. “Now, because of the constructive feedback we've received, Dober Stadium will be a world-class waterfront park and public gathering place serving as a model of sustainable urban development.