The Savage Dead (3 page)

He didn't even feel the buckle come loose.

Staring into her eyes, all he could manage was to shake his head in amazement.

“Paul,” she whispered, “take me to your bed.”

He nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat like a piston.

Still smiling, she led him into the room, where the couch was stacked with his work for Senator Sutton—journals and legal briefs and notepads.

He stopped in the middle of the room and waited, like a lamb on the altar.

Paul had left a reading light on over by the bed, and in its soft glow he watched her coming closer and closer.

“You are—”

“Shhh,” she said, putting a finger over his lips. “You saved me tonight. You were so brave.”

Even in his aroused, lust-blind state, he knew that wasn't exactly true, but it didn't matter. When he looked into her eyes, nothing mattered. She made him feel like a hero, and when she turned those dark, doe eyes up at him, the rest of the world fell away.

She undid his cuff links and the studs on his shirt. Watching her loosening his clothes, he could barely believe the chain of events that had led them here, like it was meant to be.

“I can't believe you're here with me,” he said.

“I am not in the habit of going home with strange American men,” she said.

“Am I strange?”

He had meant it as a joke, but the smile slipped off her face. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have been speaking English since I was twelve, but the idiom is still sometimes difficult for me. I did not mean that you were strange. I meant only that—”

“Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no. I know what you meant. I'm sorry, I . . . I was trying to be funny. I'm sorry.”

“You do not think me easy that I am with you?”

He shook his head. “I think you're a goddess, Monica. I just can't believe it.”

“You make me feel beautiful,” she said. She turned in his arms and swept her hair away from her shoulders, exposing the back of her gown. “Will you . . . undo me?”

“Huh? Oh, yes.”

With trembling fingers he unhooked her gown. It fell, puddling at her feet.

And just like that, she stood before him, wearing nothing but a lacy black thong and high heels.

“Wow,” he said.

She led him to the bed and pulled him down beside her. He loved the way her hair spilled over the pillow, the way her lips glinted in the low light. Paul ran his fingertips lightly across her belly, over the tops of her slender thighs. Her skin was cool, smooth, a rich coffee–and-cream color that made his fingers seem unnaturally white.

She sucked in a breath, her back arching in pleasure, breasts straining toward him. She moaned softly. It was almost a purring sound.

Paul leaned in to kiss her, her mouth finding his hungrily, and soon they were tangled up together, arms and legs intertwined, flesh to flesh. A burning flush of excitement ran down his entire body as his lips grazed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. He took one of her nipples between his teeth and another thrill shot through him to hear the gasp she made.

He found the edge of her thong, his fingertips dipping under the fabric. Her hips rose slightly, allowing him the room to pull them down. She found his boxer shorts next, and tugged them down. He was beside her now, naked, hard, and hungry.

His need for her overpowered him and he climbed between her legs. He grabbed her wrists and pushed them down into the pillow. He could feel great strength in her, and also that strength yielding to his pressure, accepting him, pulling him in.

She closed her eyes with a sigh.

He sank into her, closing his eyes as the warmth of her sex surrounded him. He began to move, her hips pressing against his, the two of them finding one another's rhythm, pushing toward a release that was, for him, like going over a cliff.

Paul drove into her, again and again, unable to stop. Being with her he'd found a need within himself that was almost feral. He'd been with maybe ten women in his life, probably fewer, but never had it been like this. Never had he felt himself so overwhelmed by a woman, so completely enthralled by her power.

And then he felt his coming orgasm coiling inside him, demanding release. He opened his eyes and saw her staring back at him, nodding hungrily for him, urging him to push deeper. Paul went faster, drove harder. He felt himself growing close, too close, too soon, and slowed down again, backing away from his pleasure so that he could feel her body shudder.

Then, her muscles tensed. She curled against him. Her gasps turned into little panting breaths, her lips forming a perfect O as her fingernails dug deep into his back.

That was too much for him. He sped up again, his breaths quickening, growing harsh, and he buried himself as deeply as he could go within her, his whole body stiffening as he exploded.

Afterwards, Paul held himself above her, like he was doing a push-up, smiling between breaths that felt like a hammer against his ribs. He kissed her, then sagged down beside her, sweaty and spent. She nuzzled against his chest, a fingernail running over his still-heaving chest like the tip of a switchblade.

He sank into his pillow, laughing and gasping for breath at the same time. The whole world, for a moment, was forgotten. All that mattered was this moment . . . and at the moment, life was pretty damned good.

Playfully, she bit at his nipple, giggling as he convulsed.

“Hey!” he said.

“That was very nice,” she said.

He laughed again. He ran a hand through his hair, both surprised and proud of himself that he had worked up such a sweat.

“Very nice, indeed,” he said.

“You liked being with me?” she said.

He turned toward her, brows furrowed. Those eyes that had thrilled him so were now looking at him for approbation, and not for the first time that evening he felt everything that made him a man melt into a puddle of goo. She was simply amazing. Absolutely and unequivocally divine.

“God, yes,” he said, the hammering in his chest finally subsiding. “You were
so
nice. So very nice.”

“You made me feel good,” she said, and once again she cuddled against his chest, contented as a napping cat.

He didn't speak. This was a moment of victory. It didn't need any words, just his fingertips lightly dusting over her olive skin.

She smiled and closed her eyes with a sigh.

He was still running his fingertips over her hip when “Here Comes the Sun” started playing on his iPhone.

Monica looked up. “What is that?”

“That's the senator,” he said.

“You have ‘Here Comes the Sun' as her ring tone?”

“Long story,” he said. Actually, it wasn't all that long of a story. She'd told him once that she'd been moved to tears watching the Clintons onstage as they'd learned he'd won the presidency, Fleetwood Mac's “Don't Stop” playing over the PA, and how she'd confided in him that she wanted “Here Comes the Sun,” the Richie Havens version, for her magic moment. He'd changed his ring tone that very night.

“Here, let me up,” he said, pulling his arm free from under her.

He went over to his pants and fished out his phone.

“Jesus, Paul,” Sutton said, not even waiting for him to say hello. “What are you doing?”

Paul looked back at Monica. She had rolled over onto her stomach, slender legs in the air, crossing and recrossing as she watched him. She put her lower lip between her teeth.
A come on over here and fuck me
smile was on her face.

“I . . . uh, I . . . well . . .”

“Damn it, Paul. I need you here. I'm at the Colson. Finally got Wayne to bed, the drunken bastard. But now I've got CNN calling me. They want a press conference. Where are you?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Hold on a sec.”

He held the phone in front of him and scanned through the missed calls. Shit, he thought. A ton of them. He'd silenced everything but Senator Sutton's ring tone right before he got in the elevator with Monica, but he could see now that he'd missed calls from all the major news outlets. Christ, even Fox wanted to talk to him.

What in the hell was wrong with him? Any idiot should have seen this coming.

“Paul?” Sutton said.

“I'm here,” he said, putting the phone back to his ear. He went into scramble mode, and suddenly, his mind cleared. This was where he lived, where he was in his element.

Okay, he thought, Sutton's at her apartment in the Colson. She wouldn't want to move. And besides, bringing the press to her would put things on her terms. She would be the one calling on them, not them ambushing her. And with a dozen or so of them together, none of them would be able to dig too deeply. It would be perfect for the kind of sound bites the press, and the American public for that matter, had come to love Senator Rachel Sutton for.

“You should stay there,” he said. “Let's use your office for the press conference.”

“Well, of course, we're going to use my office,” she said. “I'm not going back to that hotel, not through those crowds.”

“Of course not,” he said. He was nodding to himself. This was already coming together. “Listen, just stay there. I'm going to get NBC, CNN, Fox—”

“Fox?” she said, sounding disgusted. “Those bastards will turn this into a right-wing feeding frenzy.”

“You're a moderate now, remember?” he said. “And besides, with NBC and CNN there, they'll balance each other out. And, don't forget, this will give you a chance to reach out to the Hispanic vote.”

“What? How? You heard, right? Evangeline Ramos died tonight.”

The Mexican television star, he thought. He remembered her going down when the shooting started. A pity.

“We'll use that as our lead-in,” he said. “Her husband is Juan Cavalos, president of Grupo Financiero Banamex. First thing out of your mouth, you express condolences for her many fans, then transition into her support for her husband. Put it in those terms and he can't help but come out on our side. Anything less would dishonor his wife, and he can't afford that.”

“Yeah,” Sutton said slowly, and he could picture her nodding into the phone, seeing the brutal logic of the move. “Yeah, okay.”

A pause.

“Paul?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“That was pretty scary tonight. A lot scarier than San Antonio.”

He nodded to himself. She was right. In San Antonio, they'd been watching from the fourth floor of the Mexican Embassy as her motorcade drove into the ambush. They'd watched Agent Perez and his team engage the shooters from the Los Zetas Cartel, watched the gunfight rage down the street, watching the gutters fill up with blood. But tonight, they'd been right in the thick of things. The bullets had whizzed over his head while he cowered behind a table, a beautiful Mexican goddess trembling beneath him.

He glanced over at Monica. She was still smiling, but his own smile had vanished.

“I know,” he said into the phone. “I was scared, too.”

“How soon can you be here?”

Monica rocked her bottom back and forth for him. She licked her lips.

“Paul?”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking himself. “Yeah, I'm here. Um, I'll be there soon, okay? Forty minutes maybe.”

“Hurry, Paul. Please.”

“I will,” he said.

He hung up the phone, then looked over at Monica. “Listen,” he said, “I hate to do this, but I have to go. Something's come up. I have to handle this.” He knew he shouldn't say too much, but damn was she incredible. “It's about what happened tonight.”

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“Yes,” he blurted out. “Yes. I'd like that. Can I call you?”

“May I call you?” she said.

She stood up, radiantly naked, and took her iPhone from her purse. She walked over to him and put her phone next to his.

He gave her his number and she dialed it.

“What ring tone will you give me, Paul Godwin?”

He thought for a minute. “Sam Cooke maybe. ‘You Send Me.' ”

“I do not know it. But I look forward to hearing it.”

“And for me? What'll you use for mine?”

“For you, I think it shall be Vicente Fernandez. He is always the best. I think I shall choose ‘
Aca Entre Nos
.' ”

He had to think a moment for the translation.
Just between us
. Hmmm, not bad, he thought. “I like it,” he said. “Listen, I need to—” He pointed to the shower. “I need to get cleaned up and changed before I talk to the press.”

“Yes, certainly. Go ahead. May we leave together, when you're done? I would like very much for you to hold my hand to my car. The city can be very scary at night.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I'd like that.”

“Me, too.”

He went to the bathroom, and right before he closed the door, he saw her standing there, still holding her phone, wearing nothing but a smile, giving him a cute little wave.

He pulled the door closed, feeling like the king of the world.

 

 

As the bathroom door closed, Pilar Soledad let the playfulness and the encouraging smile that were the hallmarks of her Monica Rivas disguise fall away.

Her expression blank, she stared at the door, waiting, listening.

The shower came on, but she didn't move until she heard the shower door open and the pattering rhythm of the water change. Then, sure that he was in the shower, she went to her purse and removed the adapter she had secreted away there. She plugged one end into her iPhone and the other into his. His phone was password protected, but that didn't matter. The software built into her phone broke the four digit code easily enough. Having his phone number already plugged in made the process so much easier.