The Power Trip

  Lori gave it her best shot, and he came within minutes.

  Let’s see if you can find a new girlfriend who’ll tend to your needs the way I do, she thought. Lotsa luck, Mister movie star. You’re gonna find me harder to replace than you can possibly imagine.

  Chapter Thirty

  Because Suga had a concert in Mexico City, Luca decided it would be supportive and maybe even fun to attend her show before flying onto Cabo San Lucas the following day.

  It was an arrangement that did not sit well with Jeromy. Watching Suga perform was akin to having a thousand sharp knives stuck in his eyes. The woman pranced across the stage like an over-sized Barbie doll in ridiculous outfits that she obviously considered insanely sexy. They were insane all right, suitable only for a five foot ten inch, skinny, flat-chested model – not a short, overweight, fifty-something diva, with big hair, huge bosoms, and an abundance of makeup.

  The fans who crowded the arena obviously appreciated her over-the-topness. Jeromy certainly didn’t; her voice sent shivers up his spine, and not in a pleasant way.

  The most excruciating part of the evening was when she dragged Luca up on stage with her, and the crowd erupted into a frenzy of whoops, screams and orgasmic sighs at the sight of their idol.

  Luca. Jeromy’s blond Latin god. On stage with the she-wolf. Not a pretty sight. Jeromy was mortified that he had to witness such a scene.

  Afterwards there were celebratory drinks in Suga’s overcrowded dressing room. Hangers-on abounded. Young fans, old fans, managers, promoters, a couple of photographers.

  Jeromy slid into a corner and stayed there. He was an observer at a freak show, certainly not a participant.

  Luca didn’t seem to notice or care about his lack of interest, he was too busy making sure that Suga received the full dazzle of his attention.

  Damn the woman! The more time Jeromy spent in her company, the more he loathed her. She was easy to hate.

  Looking around, he soon made eye-contact with one of Suga’s back-up dancers, a tall thin man clad in ass-baring leather pants, his head shaved. Jeromy had noticed him on stage, and now, in close proximity, he felt that old familiar stirring. They continued making eye-contact, until with a slight tilt of his eyebrow, Jeromy indicated the door.

  Luca was still busy playing nice with Suga and did not notice Jeromy slipping out, nor the dancer following close behind him.

  Without exchanging a word, they both headed for the men’s room where they crowded into a stall together.

  Jeromy reached out and touched the man’s shaven head while feverishly unzipping his own pants.

  The dancer fell to his knees and accepted Jeromy’s engorged cock into his mouth.

  Still no words were spoken.

  The sexual excitement was intense as Jeromy realized that at any moment they could be discovered.

  He shuddered out an orgasm, hurriedly stuffed his member back into his pants, and re-joined the dressing-room group.

  Ten minutes later Luca finally remembered he was alive, and approached him.

  ‘You getting bored?’ Luca asked.

  Getting bored! What planet did Luca live on?

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Jeromy said, noticing his partner in sex across the crowded room. ‘Only since we have such an early flight tomorrow, perhaps we should think about leaving.’

  ‘Sure,’ Luca agreed. ‘I’ll go say goodbye to Suga. Come with, she adores you.’

  Blatant lie.

  Jeromy followed Luca across the room to where Suga held court. Her elaborate eye makeup was smudged, and her lip-gloss caked on her obviously enhanced lips. Vagina lips, Jeromy thought to himself. Big old vagina lips.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Suga said to Jeromy, all fake warmth and cloying perfume.

  Ah, she should only know . . .

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ Jeromy lied. ‘And you were . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘amazing.’

  ‘Of course,’ Suga said, adding a rather grand – ‘I never let my fans down.’ Then dismissing him, because she was well aware he didn’t mean a word he said, she turned to Luca and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the lips and whispering something in Spanish in his ear.

  Jeromy did not speak Spanish. His young lover spoke perfect English so there had never been the need to learn. Right now he wished he knew what the annoying cow had said. English/Spanish, it didn’t matter. It was one of those intimate whispers that put a big smile on his young lover’s handsome face.

  Dammit. Why did the fat bitch cast such a spell over Luca? It had to be broken, that was for sure. And he was the one to do it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sierra dreaded the forthcoming trip. She loathed the thought of being stuck in a cabin on a boat – however luxurious – with Hammond in close proximity. It wasn’t as if she even knew Aleksandr Kasianenko. She’d met him once – briefly – at a political event in Washington. They’d exchanged pleasantries for a quick moment in time, and that was it. Hammond had then proceeded to pursue him like a dog chasing a particularly juicy bone.

  It was the night before their departure, and as usual Hammond was working late. Earlier in the day they’d attended a lunch together, and she’d acted as the perfect political wife in a St John suit, her auburn hair neatly coiffed, smile firmly in place. Oh yes, she would make an outstanding First Lady, and didn’t Hammond know it. That’s the only reason he wanted her. She understood that, and it sent chills down her spine.

  Hammond had a dream. And that dream was to be standing on the steps of the White House, with her on his arm.

  May I present President Hammond Patterson, and his lovely wife, Sierra Kathleen Snow Patterson.

  The perfect wife. The perfect husband. What a couple. They would put the Kennedys to shame.

  Or so Hammond thought.

  Sierra was confident that day would never come. Someone would eventually expose Hammond for the phony he was. Maybe it would be her. But she didn’t think so, she couldn’t risk it.

  No. She had to depend on someone else to take him down.

  And who that someone was, she didn’t yet know.

  * * *

  ‘Am I working you too hard?’ Hammond enquired, pressing his fingers together as Skylar entered his office carrying a stack of papers.

  ‘Not at all, Senator,’ Skylar said, quite pleased with herself, because out of all the interns she was obviously his favourite. This was the fourth night in a row he’d asked her to work late. ‘I’m here to be of service.’

  Indeed you are, Hammond thought. And tonight I’m going to test that theory out.

  ‘How’s that boyfriend of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, y’know,’ Skylar said, gesturing vaguely with her left hand.

  ‘Together? Not together?’ Hammond pressed.

  ‘We . . . uh . . . had a bit of a fight.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Skylar confessed. ‘Sometimes he seems so . . . inexperienced.’

  Hammond jumped at the opening. ‘Sexually?’ he questioned, standing up from behind his desk.

  Skylar’s face reddened.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Hammond continued, walking around the desk towards her. ‘I told you before, I discuss everything with my teenage daughter. Sex . . . well naturally, because boys are inexperienced. They mature much later than girls, therefore they have no idea how to treat a woman.’ A long meaningful pause. ‘And that’s what you are, Skylar – a young beautiful woman.’

  Skylar blushed beet red. Such a compliment! From such an important man! That very morning, her brother had called her a fat-ass, and her mom had told her to clean up her room and stop acting like a twelve-year-old.

  They should only know that the esteemed Senator had just called her a beautiful woman. Take that, Mom. A woman. Not a freaking twelve-year-old.

  ‘Thank you, Senator,’ she murmured.

  He moved closer to her, placing both his hands on her shoulders.


  She didn’t dare move. He reminded her of a teacher she’d had in high school. Older, nice-looking in a very buttoned-up all-American way.

  He had lovely brown eyes. Honest eyes. Eyes she could trust.

  He lowered his voice and said, ‘Did you hear what I told you, Skylar? You are very beautiful.’

  Hammond had learned over the years that tell any woman – old or young – that they are beautiful, and be they rabid dog or true beauty, they always believed you. There were no exceptions.

  ‘Uh . . . yes . . . uh . . . thank you,’ Skylar muttered, flattered yet at the same time wishing he’d remove his hands from her shoulders, as it was creeping her out. She remembered hearing stories in history class about an intern at the White House way back when Bill Clinton was President – apparently he’d come on to the intern or vice-versa, Skylar couldn’t remember which, but whatever it was, it had almost gotten him impeached. Not that she thought Senator Patterson was about to do anything, but still – she wished he’d remove his hands.

  He didn’t.

  He moved a tad closer.

  He slid his hands down until they cupped both her breasts.

  Skylar was mortified. This couldn’t be happening. The Senator was a married man. She was a teenager and he had to be somewhere in his late thirties. This wasn’t right.

  She froze, unable to move.

  ‘You have beautiful breasts,’ he said. ‘I noticed them the first time I saw you.’

  She opened her mouth to object, but nothing came out.

  He manoeuvred his hands under her sweater and expertly lifted her bra so that it rested above her breasts. Then his fingers began tweaking her nipples.

  She was so confused, fully aware that she should stop him. But suddenly new feelings began flooding her body. The way he was touching her was making her feel excited and breathless. The Senator’s touch was so different from the furtive fumblings of her on/off again boyfriend whom she’d never allowed beyond second base – the reason they were always fighting.

  ‘Do you like this?’ the Senator questioned, circling her nipples with his fingertips. ‘Does it make you excited?’

  She managed a strangled yes, imagining her mom’s face if her mom ever found out.

  The Senator raised her sweater, and bent his head to suck on one of her erect nipples. He stopped for just a moment to ask, ‘And this?’

  Her throat was dry, and she knew she should object, only the way he was making her feel was too good – she didn’t want him to stop what he was doing. Never. Ever.

  Hammond experienced a moment of triumph. Skylar was primed. Enough action on big-breasted girls and they were all yours. Nothing like a little nipple-play to get them creamed up and ready to go. Hammond knew this for sure.

  ‘I cannot resist you,’ he crooned, seducing her with his words. ‘You’re like a delicious candy. Your breasts are incredible.’

  Compliments were an important part of the initial seduction. Compliments and foreplay – a winning combination.

  * * *

  Sierra checked her watch. It was late and still no sign of Hammond. She ate a solitary dinner without him and finally retired to bed.

  Tomorrow they would be on their way, and who knew what would happen?

  Maybe she could push him overboard in the middle of the night, and then her problems would be over.

  She smiled grimly to herself.

  If only . . .

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ the girl muttered, sitting stiffly in a chair in the living room of the house she shared with her boyfriend in Arizona.

  ‘No?’ Sergei Zukov questioned, a nerve in his left cheek twitching out of control. He stood in front of her, angry and disgusted that she was trying to deny who she was. They’d met only once before when Boris had taken her to a cousin’s wedding in Moscow. Five long years ago. She’d had long black hair then and dressed like a Goth. He remembered asking Boris what he was doing with such an odd creature. Boris had chuckled and muttered something about getting off on strange-looking women. After Boris’s death, Sergei had discovered the girl was a heroin addict, and unbeknownst to Boris had been selling information about him to feed her habit. Boris had always gone for females who walked a dangerous path, and it had eventually turned out to be his downfall.

  Now the girl had cropped bleached hair, wore denim shorts, a tank top, and a long green cardigan. She had thin lips, bad skin, and spoke with a fake American accent.

  It was her, no doubt about it.

  Sergei hated the sight of her.

  ‘So what you are telling me is that your name is not Nona, and that you never lived with my brother in Moscow?’ he said, circling her chair. ‘Is that correct?’

  She scowled at him, vigorously shaking her head. ‘My name’s Margie,’ she spat. ‘I’m an American citizen, an’ I know my rights, so get the fuck outta my house.’

  He’d arrived at the house ten minutes earlier. She’d opened the door, thinking it was a delivery. He’d had two of his men with him, and they’d grabbed her and placed her in the chair like a puppet. She hadn’t screamed, instead she’d glared wilfully at him, her eyes full of hatred. She knew why he was there.

  ‘I am Boris’s brother,’ he’d said. ‘And you are Nona.’

  She’d said nothing.

  ‘You know why I am here, don’t you?’ he’d continued. ‘I can see it in your face.’

  That’s when she’d denied knowing what he was talking about.

  ‘My husband will be home soon,’ she said, her eyes darting furtively towards the door. ‘He has a gun, and he’s not afraid to use it.’

  ‘The man you live with is not your husband and you are not Margie,’ Sergei stated coldly.

  ‘Screw you,’ she said in a low angry voice. ‘You don’t scare me, so like I said – get the fuck out.’

  ‘I will when I recover the money you stole, and the information I require,’ Sergei said, quite calm apart from the giveaway muscle twitch in his left cheek.

  ‘Whistle for it, asshole,’ she said, full of defiance. ‘The money’s long gone.’

  Sergei was a patient man when he had to be; however, he was not about to play word games with this tough bitch all day.

  It took two hours, but after a certain amount of physical persuasion she’d finally cracked, revealing that she’d sold information to an American journalist about Boris’s plans to kidnap one of Aleksandr Kasianenko’s daughters, and that the journalist must have gone straight to Kasianenko with the information, for twenty-four hours later Boris was dead and Nona had taken flight, afraid for her own life.

  Sergei was finally satisfied, for he now had everything he needed.

  The fat cat billionaire, Aleksandr Kasianenko, was the man responsible for his brother’s death.

  It was enough knowledge to set Sergei on a vengeful path.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sitting next to Aleksandr on his plane, Bianca regaled her boyfriend with tales of her commercial flight to Moscow and the many indignities she’d had to endure. ‘I should’ve stayed in Paris,’ she said with a rueful laugh. ‘’Cause here I am, twenty-four hours later, on my way back to the city I only just left! This is crazy time! And like I said – I flew commercial. What a nightmare! I don’t know how people do it. It’s so inconvenient.’

  Aleksandr seemed preoccupied, and although she was making light of it, Bianca was not thrilled that she’d traipsed all the way to Moscow to find him being quite distant. He’d been immersed in business meetings and she’d hardly seen him. Now they were stopping off in Paris to pick up friends of his she’d never met. This wasn’t exactly how she’d expected her big birthday trip to start off.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked Aleksandr, leaning closer to him. ‘You seem like you’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘Something on my mind,’ he repeated, turning and fixing her with a steady gaze.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘An
d how was your previous trip to Paris?’ he enquired. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I told you everything,’ she said, wondering why he was suddenly so interested. ‘Dinner with friends, all delightfully gay, so you would’ve hated it. We had a ton of laughs, and I missed you madly – I always do when we’re apart.’

  ‘My wife’s lawyer seems to be under a different impression,’ Aleksandr said evenly, tapping his fingers on the side of his seat.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Bianca said, frowning. ‘What’s your wife’s lawyer got to do with anything?’

  ‘He sent me over some very interesting print-outs from various Internet sites.’

  ‘What print-outs?’

  Aleksandr picked up his briefcase, opened it and laid out various photos of Bianca dancing the night away, grinding on a stripper pole and – oh, the humiliation – crotch shots that clearly showed she was not wearing underwear.

  ‘Oh crap!’ she gasped, reviewing the photos. ‘I . . . I don’t get it.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Aleksandr said, his face grave. ‘You surely understand that I am going through an extremely difficult divorce, and visitation rights with my daughters are of paramount importance to me. Now my wife is saying she will not allow our children to be around such a woman of low character.’

  ‘Low character!’ Bianca exclaimed, her humiliation turning to anger. ‘Low fucking character? How dare she! It wasn’t as if I was posing for those shots. Somebody took them without my knowledge.’

  ‘However, you were in a club,’ Aleksandr said accusingly. ‘You were dancing on a pole like a cheap stripper. And you were not wearing underwear.’

  ‘Something you’ve never complained about before.’

  Aleksandr’s face darkened. ‘Do not forget that you are my woman, Bianca. Your behaviour reflects on me, and this kind of behaviour goes beyond disrespectful.’

  ‘Your woman!’ Bianca burst out, stunned that Aleksandr was carrying on as if she was his personal property. He was revealing a side of himself she’d never seen before, and she didn’t like it. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she demanded, her temper rising. ‘An Arab with a fucking harem? ’Cause baby, I ain’t into that game.’