Seduced by the Operative

“I’m finished.”

When she rose to help gather the plates, he nudged her aside.

“You cooked, I’ll clean. Go, finish this research I interrupted. Then we will finish what we began earlier.”

Luis made sure their second session was as slow and sweet as the first was fierce. He would have made it last until dawn, if Claire hadn’t finally driven him over the edge.

His chest heaving, he sprawled bonelessly amid the tangled sheets until the world stopped spinning. She lay with her head nested on his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest and the musky scent of their lovemaking teasing his nostrils. Idly, he played with strands of her hair as the thoughts that had tugged at him when she’d opened the door to him earlier once again played through his mind.

Why couldn’t he seem to get enough of this slender, maddeningly independent woman? How was it that she satisfied his every carnal desire, yet left him wanting more?

God knows he was a self-professed connoisseur of women. Some he’d admired for their beauty, some for their intelligence or talent or sparkling personalities. But this one…This one stirred urges that edged dangerously close to that vague, ill-defined emotion the poets labeled love.

Luis had teetered on the brink of that emotion only once before. The affair had flamed hot and ended in a murderous cross fire. Since then, he’d limited himself to mutually satisfying liaisons with no commitments on either side. Yet lying here, stroking Claire’s hair, breathing in her scent…

“Shall I stay the night, querida?”

“What time is it?” she murmured sleepily.

He flicked a look at the bedside clock. His glance lingered on the crystal frame for a second before he replied.

“Almost two.”

“Mmm.” She buried her nose in the warm skin of his neck. “Too late for you to drive back into the city and rouse the embassy staff. Stay the night.”

“What if I stay longer?” He gave her hair another slow stroke. “Or don’t leave at all?”

The question bought her blinking awake, as he’d known it would. Pushing upright, she propped herself on an elbow. Her hair fell across her forehead. When she hooked the loose strand behind her ear, he saw her face clearly in the moonlight streaming through the top half of the plantation shutters. Saw, too, the question in her eyes.

“We agreed up front that we both need our space, Luis. We discussed boundaries.”

“Perhaps it’s time to renegotiate those boundaries.”

“Why?”

“I want more of you, Claire.”

“You have all I’m prepared to give right now,” she said quietly. “All I can give.”

He was formulating his response to that when the phone beside the bed shrilled. Rolling over, she lifted the receiver.

“Dr. Cantwell.”

A few clicks sounded, then a disembodied voice announced that the line was secure. That was followed by a terse request that came through clearly enough for Luis to overhear.

“This is Tom Fogerty, Dr. Cantwell. Can you come to the Executive Residence right away?”

“Of course. Is it Stacy?”

“Yes. She’s had another episode. She’s sobbing hysterically and asking for you.”

Chapter 3

When an aide escorted Claire into the Executive Residence, an assortment of staff members and Secret Service agents hovered in the hall outside Stacy’s bedroom.

Sandy-haired Tom Fogarty was among them looking tense, hastily dressed in jeans and a knit shirt with one edge of the collar turned under. He greeted Claire with undisguised relief, then opened the door to the same suite she’d visited the day before and stuck his head in.

“Dr. Cantwell’s here, sir.”

“Ask her to come in.”

Fogarty closed the door behind Claire, leaving her alone with the president and his daughter. They sat huddled side by side on the sofa in the sitting room. Every lamp was lit in that room and the room beyond. Claire caught a glimpse of the bed with its covers thrown off and onto the floor, as if the occupant had struggled violently with them.

The president sat beside his daughter with an arm around her shoulders. One glance told Claire that Stacy had yet to recover from her terrifying dream. Above her pink cotton sleep shirt, her face was splotchy and her eyes red from crying.

The president didn’t look much better. Claire saw no trace of his trademark boyish charm. Belted into a navy robe with the presidential seal embroidered on the pocket, he greeted her calmly, but the deep crease in his brow showed he was a very worried father.

“Thanks for coming, Dr. Cantwell. Sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not a problem, Mr. President. Hi, Stacy.” Sympathy for the girl softened her voice. “This must have been a bad one.”

The teen shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Do you feel up to telling me about it? It’s difficult, I know, but I’d like to hear whatever details you can remember before your subconscious suppresses them.”

“Will it?” she asked with a desperate need for reassurance. “Make me forget all this, I mean?”

“That’s normally what happens.”

At the president’s invitation, Claire took the chair angled toward the sofa.

“Would you like coffee?” he asked. “That’s a fresh carafe. They just brought it up a few minutes ago.”

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”

“Okay.” He glanced from Claire to his hunch-shouldered daughter. “Do you want me to leave while you talk to Dr. Cantwell, Stace? I’ll wait outside in the hall. You can call me when you’re done.”

“No.” She clutched at the lapel of his robe. “Stay, Daddy. Please.”

“Sure. If that’s okay with Dr. Cantwell?”

“Certainly. I’d like to record this session so I won’t be distracted by taking notes or have to try to remember everything later. Is that all right with you, Stacy?”

“I guess so.”

Claire extracted a microrecorder from her purse and clicked it on. After noting the time, date, location and name of the client, she slipped the recorder into the pocket of her pantsuit.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she told the other two with a smile. “Okay, Stacy. Tell me whatever you can remember from your dream.”