Donna Hill - Sex and Lies

“Savannah.” Jean Wallington beamed as if she’d run into a long-lost friend. “Come in. Have a seat.”

Jean Wallington rarely made an appearance. She was so high up the chain of command that you needed oxygen to hang out with her. Word had it that she was a former CIA operative who’d specialized in covert opts. Having had her fill with the old boys’ club she, over time, began recruiting for her own organization. Jean firmly believed that women had just as much, if not more, skill in the field of undercover operations, primarily because no one ever suspected a woman. But mostly because women understood people. Women had instincts and they were rarely wrong. Jean banked on those instincts of her team to get the jobs done. She was never wrong.

Savannah flashed a nervous smile and sat in the high back Queen Ann chair opposite Jean. Jean folded her hands on top of the cherrywood desk.

“I’ve been watching you for a while, Savannah,” Jean began, “and I’m very impressed by what I’ve seen.”

“Thank you.”

Jean flipped open a thin manila file folder and quickly glanced over it before sweeping her thin pink-framed glasses from her sharp nose, displaying the most intense green eyes Savannah had ever seen. They were the color of jade.

“When we make our selections, we do it very carefully. We take many factors into account—length of membership, who you were recruited by, your education, profession and how you did during training. Most important we look at what we call the unobvious skills or attributes in our members.” Jean waved her glasses toward Savannah. “In your case we discovered that you have an innate quality with people. People are drawn to you, Savannah, and for this assignment that’s exactly what we need—that, combined with your legal background. We feel you are the perfect member to handle this job.”

Savannah had no idea that she was viewed that way. She was thrilled to know it yet a bit unsettled to realize that she’d been watched that closely without her knowledge. Damn, they were good.

“Your assignment will be to gather evidence on The Montgomery Enterprises. It has been brought to our attention that the corporation has been laundering money in addition to working with substandard products in the development of their housing projects and some corporate structures. We’re confident that the confirmation we’re seeking is buried in their legal documents. They have some of the best lawyers in the country on their payroll.” She took a larger manila envelope from the file and handed it over to Savannah. “All of the information you need is inside. The information on those pages will begin to dissolve within fifteen minutes of opening the envelope and exposing it to the air. Memorize it. The tools that you need will be delivered to you in your next TLC shipment by courier.”

Savannah nodded. The name Montgomery gave her an itch that she couldn’t quite scratch. It was so familiar but she wasn’t sure why. She held the envelope to her chest. Her racing heart thumped making the envelope vibrate like a tuning fork.

“Any questions?”

“How much time do I have?”

“Three weeks.”

Savannah’s deep brown eyes widened a fraction.

“Of course, you will have the full support of TLC.”

“Any reason for the short window?”

“Yes, The Montgomery Enterprises is set to break ground on a new development by the end of the month. We need the information irrefutably verified before then.”

Montgomery…breaking ground. It couldn’t be.

“If there’s nothing else.” Jean stood and Savannah realized for the first time just how tall Jean actually was. She had to be at least five-eleven, Savannah guesstimated. She got up, took the envelope still clutched to her chest and stuck out her hand. “Thank you for the opportunity, Jean.”

“I expect great things from all of our Cartel members,” she said, shaking Savannah’s hand with a death grip, her green eyes boring into Savannah’s.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know.”

Savannah drew in a short breath and lifted her chin an inch in acceptance.

With her first assignment plastered to the front of her suit jacket by a damp hand, Savannah bobbed and weaved her way out of the brownstone, accepting heartfelt congratulations along the way. Once outside she gulped in the night air then sprinted down the street to her car. It was already ten-twenty. She got in the car and immediately called Blake on her cell phone.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” she said the instant his voice came on the phone.

“No worries, sugar. I ran into Mac and we were having a drink at the bar. How much longer will you be?”

“At least fifteen minutes.”

“See you when you get here.”

“Love you,” Savannah said, truly meaning it.

“Back at ya. Drive safe.”

She flipped the phone closed and put the car in gear. Her husband was the best. Damn she was lucky.

At least up to that point.

T he Cabaret restaurant and lounge was located on the upper Eastside of Manhattan on Park Avenue and 52nd Street. Blake and Savannah had stumbled upon this jewel during the first year of their marriage when they were still exploring each other and the city that they loved. The Cabaret became “their place” and they celebrated every event worth celebrating there.

The food was exquisite, though pricey, but it was the atmosphere that drew them back time and again. It had just the right amount of dim lighting with mirrors in strategic places, candle votives on the intimate tables tucked throughout the space. And every night there was a great jazz performance.

“So how’s married life, my man?” Mac asked as he swallowed what remained of his vodka on the rocks.

Blake grinned. “Couldn’t be better. I love it.”

“Get out. You, Mr. Permanent Bachelor.” Mac chuckled.

Blake lowered his head, his grin broadening. “Yeah, I didn’t figure marriage was for me, but when I met Savannah…” He shook his head in wonder. “All the others paled in comparison to her.”

“I can’t believe it. I have women still asking me about ‘your friend, um, Blake,’” he said in a really bad falsetto.

They laughed at Mac’s bad imitation of a female voice.

“I’m off the market, man.” Blake took a swig of his drink. “What about you, ever going to settle down?”

“Why?” He signaled the waiter for another drink. “I firmly believe that men were not created to be with one woman. Why do you think they outnumber us?”

Blake cut his eyes in Mac’s direction and snorted a laugh. “Maybe because we drop dead sooner from trying to keep up with so many women.”

“But what a way to go!”

They clinked glasses.

“Other than women how’re things going on The Street?”

Mac, whose real name was Fred McDonald, worked on Wall Street. They were both Moorehouse grads, but Blake had gone on to study architecture at MIT. After graduation, Mac went to work buying and selling.

“Crazy man. The work is grueling but the rewards are worth it. Just bought my second house out in Montclair, New Jersey.”

“Congratulations! But what are you going to do with two homes?”

“The brownstone in Harlem is strictly an investment property. The one in Jersey is where I’ll live.”

“You plan to commute into New York every day? The traffic is horrific.”

“Naw, I have enough stress to deal with at work. I’ll be using mass transit.”

Blake nodded. “Good move.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“Just landed a major development deal.”

“Yeah, which one?” He angled his body on the stool toward Blake.

“Can’t really talk about it right now. The ink is still drying. But I will say that it will put me on the map for good.”