Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

“So, now what?” she said to the camera facing her. When no one answered, Jack continued. “I hope you kept your word about Cassady.”

“And what if we didn’t?” replied a low male voice. It was slightly distorted—coming through a speaker she couldn’t see.

“I kept my part of the deal.”

“Madam is very pleased you did.”

“She kept her word, right?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“Answer me, goddamn it.”

“I did.”

Jack wriggled in her seat and realized for the first time that her ankles were cuffed to the chair and the chair was bolted to the floor. “Where is she?”

“Ms. Monroe?”

“No, you fuck. I mean TQ.”

“She has prior obligations this evening.”

“What…what the fuck? She had me brought to this isolation cell and she isn’t even here?” She struggled against her handcuffs, but they held fast.

“That’s correct.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What the fuck can you answer?”

“I can tell you that madam will be with you at her first convenience.”

“What am I supposed to do till her convenience?”

“Wait.”

“Like this?” Jack looked down at herself. “What if I need to use the toilet?”

“Your chair is equipped with a pan.”

Jack moved her ass and felt a hole beneath her. “This is insane.”

“Then I suggest you practice control or deal with the consequences.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding,” Jack yelled. She waited for a reply and, when it didn’t come, feared the man had left. “Food. How about food?”

“You can do without for a fairly long time.”

“Not without water, sadistic fuck.”

“We will supply you with water when we see fit,” the voice replied.

The lights were so bright they hurt her eyes. “Can you dim the damn lights?”

“No.”

Jack knew constant intense lighting was a popular method of torture; she had undergone that treatment in Israel. It had taken her years to put those weeks of torture and pain that had changed her forever behind her, and now, here she was, more than a decade later, reliving the same introduction to hell. This was just the beginning of what most probably was yet to come, and honestly, she didn’t know if she would survive it. This time she had Cassady in her life, but she wasn’t sure even her love for Cass would be enough to fight her way out of this.

She closed her eyes and let her head drop to her chest. “I can’t do this again,” she mumbled.

Chapter Eighteen

The White House

That evening

Kennedy left the wall behind Thomas and started toward the president the moment she got up from the dinner table and announced to her black-tie guests that it was time to adjourn to the East Room for entertainment provided by the White House Marine Orchestra.

In addition to the president of Argentina and his much-younger wife, the one hundred and thirty or so invited guests included diplomats, members of Congress, cabinet members, and a scattering of A-list Hollywood celebrities—all of whom had been lucrative fund-raisers for the Democratic Party. But Kennedy focused on Elizabeth Thomas, and not just because that was her job. She couldn’t take her eyes off the president for long, even if she’d wanted to.

The president was stunning tonight in her floor-length Vera Wang gown. The pale-lavender dress was made of a material that shimmered slightly when it caught the light, and the cut, exposing just one of Thomas’s smooth, pale shoulders, was stylishly sexy yet maintained the right amount of decorum for the occasion. And for once, the White House stylist had given her a hairdo and makeup job that Shield approved of—the more natural coiffure and subtle cosmetics enhanced, rather than harshened, Thomas’s innate beauty.

Thomas’s smile, however, was forced. Not surprising, given the exchange she’d heard earlier between the president and Moore, and not to mention the stress of hosting such an important and protocol-ripe event. Most observers probably would not note any problem, but Shield had seen Thomas’s true, spontaneous smile and could spot the difference. None of the smiles tonight had been reflected in the president’s eyes.

Some guests took seats in the East Room and others remained standing while the orchestra opened with a medley of Latin tunes, including “Down Argentina Way.” The guest of honor, seated in the first row between Thomas and his wife, smiled and clapped approvingly.

Then it was time for the prearranged waltz between the two presidents. Thomas had chosen “Fascination,” one of the tunes they’d practiced with. Shield suspected the selection had revolved more around the length of the options—this was the shortest one—than the president’s personal preference, given Thomas’s remarks the day before.

When the conductor gave a slight nod in Juan Carlos’s direction, the Argentine president stood, bowed to Thomas, and offered his hand. She took it, rose from her chair, and allowed herself to be led to the middle of the dance floor amidst a smattering of applause. Once they were in position, the orchestra began to play.

Shield felt an unfamiliar pang of envy watching them glide across the floor, Carlos’s hand on Thomas’s waist, too tight for her liking. Thomas was doing a splendid job, though she appeared less relaxed than she had the day before once she’d allowed herself to surrender to being led. That forced smile was fixed on her face throughout the entire dance.

Though Shield stood against the wall with other bodyguards, in the darkened perimeter, Thomas was apparently well aware of her position. More than once, Thomas looked directly at her, albeit briefly, as she was spun around the floor.

Though it was rarely difficult for her while on the job to maintain the stoic, somber presence characteristic of bodyguards, she couldn’t keep from nodding encouragingly at Thomas during a couple of the longer glances her way.

Moore mingled with the crowd and he, too, would occasionally look Thomas’s way and smile. Shield realized her fists were clenched; how she wanted to punch that grin off his face, make him suffer for what he’d tried to do earlier. She was happy she’d only had audio and no video to the president’s bedroom, because she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to refrain from barging in and wiping the floor with him. No one would have been able to blame her either, because she would have been doing her job protecting Thomas.

What had he gotten Thomas involved in? And how long had he been harboring sexual feelings for the president? Was it before or after her husband’s death? At this point, Shield didn’t put the man’s demise past the creep’s abilities. They had announced that Thomas’s husband had suffered a sudden heart attack, but prompting one was child’s play for anyone who knew how.

The music finally stopped, and Shield exhaled when Carlos let go and the two presidents parted. Thomas smiled and nodded politely, to all appearances the picture-perfect, graceful leader of the country, but Shield could tell she felt uncomfortable. Her hands trembled slightly when she touched her neck, her eyes were too intense—dark and troubled—and she looked like she was suffocating. Shield wanted to sweep in and take her away to her home in Tuscany, show her what it was like to breathe again.

When Moore approached Thomas and led her toward one of the guests—an older woman—Shield repositioned herself closer to the president.

*

Ryden had kept counting the whole time she danced. Not because she needed to, but because it helped her cope with the Argentine president’s tight grip on her waist and Ratman’s beady eyes. When that ceased to work, she stole glances at Kennedy and tried to imagine she was dancing with her. Every time Kennedy smiled at her, she’d briefly close her eyes to retain the image of that beautiful smile.