September 15, 2006

SpyVella Chapter III

The lovely Theresa is a bit under the weather, but being the incredible woman she is, she has written a fabulously wonderful chapter for us in the on-going Spy Novella.

Thank you, Theresa!!

Please take care of yourself and feel better soon. We miss you already!

For those behind the curve:

Chapter I - Ravens and Ghosts

Chapter II - Secrets of the Night

The rest of the lineup includes these clever ladies:

September 22 - Chapter IV: CalTechGirl

September 29 - Chapter V: Phoenix

The Recruit

“How did you manage this?” Cutter asked, looking through the papers quickly as he sat on the edge of his bed. He had spent nearly a year just looking for an in, and Natasha had given him all he needed less than three weeks after he’d last seen her.

“Was easy to get information,” she purred as she curled against his back, her fingers reaching around his chest and unbuttoning his shirt. “Was not so easy getting information to you, though, my love.” She pulled on the right sleeve of his shirt, baring his shoulder, and bit him playfully.

“Natasha,” Cutter said, his voice taking the tone a parent might with a naughty child. She ignored him, and crawled into his lap, her silky hair falling across her breasts, a pout on her lips that made her look much younger than her eighteen years.

“Is rule that we cannot play?” she asked innocently. Cutter took her face in his hands, and kissed her forehead gently.

“And when I sleep you would just as easily cut my throat,” he replied, pushing her off his lap and standing. She laughed heartily before slithering up against him, and pulling on his belt.

“So do not sleep,” she whispered.


Sam picked at her eggs with her fork, angry that she had not been told of Natasha’s existence before she arrived at Cutter’s flat. Naturally, he had told her that things weren’t as they seemed, when the girl had walked into the kitchen wearing only one of his shirts, but the girl had simply grinned and licked her lips. Not that it mattered, of course.

She had reluctantly agreed to discuss her trip in front of Natasha, trusting that Cutter knew what he was talking about when he told her that Natasha was not a threat to them. The moment she had mentioned Constantine’s name, the girl had smiled, and popped a large grape into her mouth as if it were her lover.

“He was sýçma,” the girl said, “a worthless piece of flesh. You were wasting your time on him.” Sam raised a brow and looked at Cutter, before leaning her elbows on the table and staring hard at Natasha. The girl returned her stare, all pretense of innocence gone. She’s as deadly as a viper, Sam thought, wondering if Cutter was aware of just how dangerous the girl was.

“And just how did you know Constantine?” Sam asked, ignoring the subtle shake of Cutter‘s head.

“I was a prisoner in his house, before I killed him.” Natasha reached out and grabbed Cutter’s hand, directing his fork to her own mouth, her lips seductively wrapping around it.


“Are you crazy?” Sam yelled, despite his insistence that she keep her voice down. “She’s bad news, damn it!”

“Look at the papers, Sam,” Cutter said calmly. “Look at them. What good do faces do us without knowing what roles they each play? We came up empty with that safe deposit box in Venice last month!” Sam glared at him. The Venice lead had been hers, and it had indeed been a huge bust. She had insisted on leaving Istanbul to pursue the lead, preferring the chance at immediate gratification to slumming with the lowest dregs of society hoping for crumbs.

While she was off chasing her lead, Cutter had essentially recruited the pretty Russian girl who’d spent the last thirteen years on her back, being passed from one master to another. Sam had found it incredulous that the girl had intentionally attracted Constantine’s attention, lured by the promise of freedom, as well as information on those responsible for her murder of her family. She was also angry as hell that he hadn’t told her before now.

Sam grabbed the papers from Cutter and flipped through them. The second to last paper was handwritten in turkish, and listed the names of the very individuals they were gathering intel on, including Fayad. Beneath the names was one word: Henley.

“Who the hell is Henley?” Sam asked

“Not who, what,” Cutter corrected. “The Henley Royal Regatta, to be specific. It’s undoubtedly the largest and most popular regatta in the world, and it’s two days away.”

“Ok, so what do we do with Barbie?” Sam asked, setting the papers on the table and crossing her arms defensively. Cutter frowned and rose, walking to the counter to refill his coffee. You’ve got be kidding, Sam thought, knowing him well enough to not be surprised when he told her Natasha was coming with them.


“It’s rather conspicuous, don’t you think?” Sam asked, staring at their transportation to the Remenham Club, the one mile mark of the regatta, and where their careful inquiries suggested they would find Fayad and the others. Edwin Frasier smiled, and Sam couldn’t help but smile back.

“It’s an Aston Martin Vanquish S, the fastest production model built by Aston Martin. She’ll go in excess of 321 km/h, uh, that would be 200 m/h, with 520 horsepower. Oh, sorry,” he said blushing, and opening her door for her. Sam felt heat in her own cheeks. Edwin was not only a useful contact, but his boyish enthusiasm was charming, and Sam found she was no longer angry that Cutter had pawned her off on the man so he could keep a tight reign on Natasha.

“Tell me about the regatta,” Sam suggested when Edwin joined her in the sleek two-seater. She knew that if she were to fit in, she had to play her role well.


“Are you sure you don’t want me to go over it again?” Cutter asked, ignoring her hand as it moved suggestively on his thigh as he followed Edwin. He glanced over at her, still amazed by her ability to seemingly become the role she was playing. With her long hair pulled back and up, her makeup kept to a minimum, and more modest although still flattering dress, she would easily pass for the wife of a wealthy English businessman.

Written by *Theresa*

Posted by Christina at 05:53 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

September 11, 2006

The Sins Of The Father, Final Chapters

Given that I am experiencing some medical issues that may require a minor surgical procedure and keep me from updating this in a timely fashion, I am giving you the final chapters. This has been tons of fun for me, and I truly appreciate those of you who read along and told me what you thought! Thank you...

Part 17

Dr. Benjamin Richardson was a tall, wiry man who seemed to hunch in an effort to make himself smaller. Behind his spectacled eyes was something disturbing, and Martin swallowed hard, reminding himself that the nightmare was almost over. With Jack out of the picture, Richardson had not only readily agreed to accept the initial offer Martin had made, but had insisted the exchange be made in person.

Richardson had chosen to meet Martin at Villa Celimontana, an almost hidden public garden that was once a vineyard. The man was determined to explain to Martin why he had chosen to pursue the alteration of the virus, adamant that his intentions were that the virus be used to end war, not start it. Martin was tempted to ask him why he was selling the formula secretly then, rather than offering it to the government, but he bit his tongue.

As they walked the pathway past a small, nearly concealed obelisk, Richardson slipped a small object into Martin’s hand. Martin looked at the key.

“The vials and formula are inside a --” Richardson’s mouth continued to move soundlessly despite the hole that had appeared in his forehead. His eyes rolled into his head and he fell over stiffly, landing in his own brain tissue. Martin stood watching, stunned, unable to move despite the adrenalin that coursed through his veins.

Just as he turned to locate the shooter, the sting of a bullet across his cheek brought his feet to life, and he raced down the heavily vegetated, winding pathway past the fountain he‘d seen on their walk. He found himself approaching a building used by the Italian Geographical Society. Breathing hard and crouched low, he tried the doors and found them locked. To the left of the building were winding pathways, and green lawn, and he sprinted down the pathway. Desperate for escape from the heavy footsteps behind him, he took in the view over southern Rome and the massive ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. Looking over the panoramic parapet, Martin saw the more overgrown sections of the old landscaped gardens, beyond the boundaries of the present park.

“I lost him.”

“What do you mean you lost him?” Coleman growled angrily, turning left down the hallway. He had been mere feet from the woman’s hotel room door when the call had come in.

“Richardson gave him a key, told him where to find the samples and formula. I had to rush things. A group of tourists were nearby. McKay got away.”

Coleman flipped shut his phone and walked to the elevator. The woman could wait. He needed to find Martin McKay and that key. His own life depended on it.

The mid-afternoon sun was bright. As he pulled on his sunglasses and walked briskly towards his parked car, Coleman failed to notice the delivery truck approaching at a high rate of speed. Several witnesses reported to the polizia that the victim never saw the truck before it struck him, and dragged his body several hundred feet. In the chaos, no one remembered seeing the driver of the stolen truck flee the scene of the accident.

Part 18

Joseph held the small, unmarked key in his fingers. The flickering candle light shone warmly on the silver surface, and he stared at it a long time. There was no way to identify the key. The others had tried unsuccessfully for three days. He sighed, and slipped the key back onto the chain with the other before lighting a cigarette. His lungs filled with smoke, and he coughed violently before bringing up a plug of thick mucus. It’s near, he thought, glancing at the bed. Jack had woke from Fermi’s coughing, and was sleepily staring at him.

“How are you, son?” Joseph asked, clearing his throat. Jack ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to speak, unable to produce more than a groan.

“You need to rest,” Joseph said, patting Jack’s hand. “He nearly killed you with that knife.” Jack frowned, finding the details of what had happened difficult to remember. He shifted on the bed, grimacing to find that he was so weak. Joseph turned Jack’s right hand over, and dangled the keys over his palm, before setting it and the chain on it. He closed Jack‘s fist tightly around them, and held his own hands around Jack‘s.

“I’m dying Jack. Cancer.” Joseph smiled softly when he saw Jack’s frown. “I’m ready to go. I’m an old man who long ago out-lived my usefulness.” He stood, and walked slowly to the head of the bed. Leaning down, he kissed Jack’s cheek tenderly, and moved his mouth close to his ear.

“The keys…” Joseph whispered a long time in Jack’s ear before he stood. “I trust you will do the right thing.” He patted Jack’s hand again, and opened the old wood door, leaving so his guest could rest. He knocked on the closed door across the hallway, smiling when she opened the door.

“Your young man is awake,” Joseph told her.

Martin drained the scotch from his glass and set it on his desk. He ran his long fingers through his greasy hair, and down to the scruffy beard that he hadn’t bothered to shave. The gun sat on the desk in front of him as it had every day of the last week, tempting him, mocking him. He simply hadn’t the courage to pick it up, preferring to drown his guilt with alcohol.

The key had been worthless to him when Richardson was murdered without revealing what the key opened. Still, he had used it as a bargaining tool with Fermi - the key for his safety. The others were not aware that Coleman had never received the key from Martin, and the assassin from the garden wasn’t able to tell them otherwise. Martin had taken care of that himself, before calling Fermi for help. He hadn’t expected the man to help him, after what he’d done, but Fermi had come along with a driver to pick him up. He’d readily accepted the key and Martin’s terms, his only condition that Martin leave Kate behind, and forget that she ever existed.

It had been an easy thing to accept. He hadn’t wanted her to begin with, especially after hearing that she was pregnant. Fermi simply saved him the couple million he’d have had to fork over when he divorced her, not to mention the humiliation of his friends and colleagues knowing she was pregnant with Jack’s child. Jack…

Martin poured another two fingers of scotch and drank it in one long gulp. It hadn’t mattered what Jack and Fermi had told him. He knew hatred, knew that once it gripped you it did not let go. Jack’s supposed attempt to set things right had been nothing more than another manipulation, another lie. He’d merely wanted to rub it in his face, that he held all the cards. He took me for a fool, Martin thought, remembering Jack’s insistence that he leave Rome with Kate for their own safety.

He hadn’t even realized he’d picked up the steak knife from the table when he’d left the smoky restaurant moments after Jack. He’d followed him on foot, his anger seemingly multiplying with each step. Knowing that Jack had become lost and would double back, he’d had the perfect opportunity to lie in wait for him. He hadn’t intended to kill him. When he’d seen the knife in his hand, and Jack slumped on the ground and bleeding heavily from his chest…

Martin poured another drink. The man he’d seen following Jack had wrestled the knife from him before checking Jack for a pulse. When he’d shaken his head, Martin had panicked, and had run the entire way to his hotel, where he spent the next two hours violently retching. He wiped the tears from his cheek. He hadn’t meant to kill him.

Part 19

He set the paper on the table and walked to the rail of the balcony, gazing out at the incredible view of the Pacific Ocean. He heard the paper rustle as Kate picked it up to read the full story. He couldn’t believe he had been too late. He’d no sooner regained his strength and planned to return to the states when Joseph had passed. He’d spent four days trying to sort through all the legal documents before insisting that it wait for his return. If only he had left a day sooner…

“It’s not your fault,” Kate said, wrapping her arms around him. He desperately wanted to believe her, afraid that if he searched through the last twelve days he would find that he had indeed stalled to avoid going to see Martin. Hell, he wasn’t sure what it was he had hoped to accomplish anyways. He had simply wanted to tell his father that he forgave him, that he hoped for his forgiveness one day.

He turned and looked into Kate’s blue eyes. He was afraid of loving her like he did, of the child she was carrying in her womb. What if he ended up just like his father? Could he do all that he needed to do, and still keep his family his first priority? He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her silky hair for the longest time. Kissing her softly, he walked back into the room to shower. He needed to take care of his father’s urgent business matters, and plan a funeral.

Part 20

Jack opened the door quietly and stepped into the dark room, the faint glow of the nightlight revealing that Kate had just finished settling the baby in her crib. He watched his wife as she gently stroked their daughter’s silky black hair, a smile on her beautiful face.

“Go say goodnight to mommy,” he whispered to his son as he set the boy on the soft carpet and watched him race across the room to Kate. Kate knelt and pulled him into her arms and kissed his cheek as she hugged him tightly, before he wiggled from her and ran from the room, tugging Jack along with him.

He is definitely daddy's boy, Kate thought, taking a deep breath.

Posted by *Theresa* at 08:24 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

September 08, 2006

Secrets of the Night

The lovely Silk started our latest installment of SpyVella, the original brain child of the wickedly talented Phoenix.

Chapter I - Ravens and Ghosts

This is my humble offering by way of Chapter II.

Next week, the irrepressible Theresa tackles Chapter III.

CalTechGirl will follow with Chapter IV and Phoenix will provide the grand finale!

Secrets of the Night

The dim light of morning fought through the colored stain of the glass paned and fret-work shuttered windows. Moving her eyes slowly she checked her surroundings as the weight of a heavy arm crushed her against the velvet and silk bed coverings. From her vantage, the remnants of her sheer sari peered from beneath the man’s trousers from a pile across the room. The master of the house, Constantine, deeply snored beside her and for the hundredth time since he had first spied her in the house of another Birkirkaran, she quashed the urge to vomit as his foul, greasy odor assaulted her once again.

With small, but steady and smooth movements she pulled a pillow to her and eventually traded positions with it under the offending appendage. She was then able to slip deftly from the opulently dressed bed. Light on her feet, her slight frame often belied her eighteen years and she was frequently mistaken for a child. Her long blonde hair and wide-set blue eyes added to the illusion and made her particularly attractive to the Middle-Eastern men who bartered with one another for her flesh. Standing less than five feet, she hovered over the master, her lithe body cast a small shadow across the massive room. He continued to breathe deeply and without concern for the precariousness of his very existence.

Quivering as the cool air touched her bare skin, she checked the master’s pockets, as well as the lining of his clothes. From the pockets she retrieved the keys to the compound, but from the folds of his jacket, she secured the elements of her freedom.

Her time in the house of Constantine had been short, just a few weeks, but she was well familiar with the plush and ornate confines of these guilded cages, as well as the oppressive scent of incense which intermingled with the musky odor of human copulation.

The cumbrous houses of Birkirkara were not so different from the ones she had known in Istanbul. There were; however, not homes, merely factories and sweat shops whose product was the base satisfaction of powerful, but, all to often, twisted men. She knew these places for what they were: true lairs of iniquity.

It was in these quiet moments of dawn, just before the house began to stir, that she often had a flicker of recognition, a brief moment where she actually remembered the time when life was different. That magical period from her past when she had loving parents and lived in a modest home full of warmth and joy. That was before the darkness of the orphanage, before she was sold to slavery. It was well before she stopped believing in gods.

She trembled as her heart began to ache for the five-year-old happy child she once was. Steeling her nerves and mentally slamming the door to sentimentality, she lightly scrambled across the room to a serving tray on the thick carpets before the stone fireplace. Bending over, she scanned the remnants of the master’s last supper: a half gnawed leg of lamb, bones from roasted fowl, the grease from goat sausage, and various grapes and other fruits, untouched. Popping a grape into her mouth, she spied cutlery tucked under the edge of a plate. Reaching for the sturdy fork, she knew exactly what was required of her.


“Dammit. Dammit to hell!” Sam swore under her breath. She was too late, about twenty-four hours late, she cursed to herself and re-thought recent strategies.

Malta was one of seven small islands making up an archipelago in the middle of the Mediterranean. Flying in on a private jet would not have gone unnoticed, so she had taken the time to slip onto a neighboring island and made her way in on motorized skiff so she could come and go quietly. The cover had cost her.

Picking up her satellite phone, she contacted Cutter.

The only information she had to relay was the odious sausage eating son-of-a-bitch from the tube was named Constantine and he met his demise with a fork to the jugular.

While it was not quite square one, she thought it might as well be. All her leads were literally, dead ends.


Sitting in his Jaguar, John told Sam to go to ground. Exiting the vehicle, he set the alarm and returned his Blackberry to his pocket. Walking up to his flat, he reached for the knob with key in hand and he realized the door was slightly cracked. Instantly he brandished his Kahr Mk 40 and eased in.

Greeting him was the faint essence of musk and a living room full of candles. Carefully checking his environment, he continued through the small, but elegantly appointed apartment. The luminous glow of candles led him to the bedroom.

As his shadow appeared in the doorway, a soft, husky and slightly accented, but definitely feminine voice purred: “Cutter, I have been waiting for you, my darling.”

She was a vision as she lounged across his bed, clothed only in her long golden locks. He was entranced as he watched her gracefully pull one grape after another from the bunch in front of her and delectably place them between her sensuous lips. She looked so young with her flawless alabaster skin.

Long moments later, she turned her liquid blues eyes to him: “Come closer, my love, you have had long day, Natasha will take care of you.”

Relaxing slightly, John lowered his gun before responding: “You know what I want.”

Smiling triumphantly, she gave him a sideways glance before she reached under a pillow before presenting him with an envelope in one of her expertly manicured hands. “This is for you,” she taunted, “but you will have to come to me to get it.”

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TSOTF, Part 16

Jack walked quickly across the darkening piazza, resisting the temptation to turn and check for the white-haired man he knew was following him. His palms were sweating, and he wiped them on his jeans, scanning the faces of the people he passed. When he turned the corner, big hands grabbed his shirt and pushed him against the rough brick. Jack had less than a second to register his face before he felt the blow to his chest. He slid down on the wall, surprised to find the simple act of breathing so difficult, and fell to the ground.

“Jack McKay is dead,” Coleman said to the others, opening the manila envelope the courier had brought him right before the call came through on his cell. He pulled out the documents he had left with Martin McKay, and his smile broadened to see that Martin had signed them. He was disappointed that Martin had kept the photo that had so enraged him, and briefly contemplated bringing the woman with him, and enjoying her for a few days. Looking at his watch, he knew it was time to call Martin. They had much to discuss. Vincenzo would soon learn of Jack’s death, and he would undoubtedly contact Martin the moment he did.

Fermi paced the floor restlessly, occasionally glancing over at the young woman. He had long ago lost interest in romancing women, but he hadn’t lost his appreciation for beauty. A shame that she must suffer such pain, he thought, remembering how agonizing it was when he had lost his beloved wife. When his cell phone rang, he simply looked at the number of the caller. It was done. He said a silent prayer, and made a call before continuing his vigil.

Martin retched the remainder of his stomach contents, and leaned his head against the cool tile floor. He’d barely avoided being sick while on the phone with Coleman, and Vincenzo had called while he had his head hanging over the toilet. He opened his eyes, staring at his hand on the floor in front of him, the skin pink from being scrubbed. When his cell beeped, he fumbled to pull it from his pants pocket. Fermi.

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September 07, 2006

TSOTF, Part 15

Fermi was indistinguishable from the other old men lunching in the ristorante. He sat quietly with his merluzzo, picking at the flaking flesh with his fork, contemplating another glass of his favorite vino bianco. His stomach rebelled and he pushed his plate away. The news of Martin McKay’s refusal to raise his bid for the formula was not unexpected. That Marco reported one of Coleman’s teppistas following Jack and the woman from the airport merely confirmed his suspicion that Jack would be eliminated at the first opportunity. With no further bids expected, Vincenzo had told Jack that he would contact him directly upon Dr. Richardson’s arrival in Rome, to arrange for the exchange of the samples and the formula in return for verification of the deposit. If Jack can stay alive long enough, Fermi thought.

Fermi had relinquished his own guardianos to assist Marco, trusting that the others would carry on should he meet with an untimely death. His own life was a small price to pay, and he willingly accepted that fate. The cancer had eaten at him slowly. He was more than ready. Besides, death with dignity was preferable to dying knowing he could have done more.

He glanced up briefly when Martin McKay walked in, pleased that the man was responding to his message. Joseph knew that he was taking a huge risk, but there was no other choice. When McKay’s eyes focused on him, he nodded and looked to the seat across the table. Martin weaved through the animated crowd and stood at the chair.

“Please, sit,” Joseph said, pouring both himself and Martin a glass of wine. He waited patiently for McKay to seat himself, not surprised to see the anger in the man’s eyes.

“You said you had important information about a business deal,” Martin said, ignoring the offer of wine and glancing nervously at the other diners, “involving a man named Coleman.” The man is indeed impatient, Fermi thought.

“I know all there is to know,” Fermi said softly. “Has he informed you that your partnership no longer exists?” Joseph took a sip of his wine, his eyes taking in the way Martin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Are you curious to know the identity of the second bidder?” Fermi asked as he reached into the pocket of his comfortable tweed jacket. Martin’s left eyebrow raised as he watched the old man light a cigarette and inhale deeply. Joseph was a patient man. He supposed that if he were in Martin McKay’s shoes, he would wait silently as well.

“With all of the conflict in the middle east, I imagine you thought the formula would bring great power to the United States, and great wealth to you,” Joseph said, letting the smoke escape through his nostrils. “Mr. Coleman intends to deliver the formula into the hands of your enemy, Mr. McKay. I have been trying to secure the formula anonymously, with the intent of destroying it. Within moments of my associate receiving the samples and the formula itself, Dr. Richardson will be the victim of an unfortunate and quite deadly accident.” Joseph took another sip of his wine, savoring the flavor.

“However,” he added with a deep frown, “the identity of my associate is no longer anonymous to Mr. Coleman. Tell me, Mr. McKay, do you love your son?” Joseph inhaled deeply, allowing the pungent smoke to fill his tumor-ridden lungs. He watched Martin’s face grow red, the muscles of his jaws tensing with anger. Joseph smiled softly.

“I am not threatening your son, Martin. I have grown rather fond of the young man.” Fermi sat back in his chair, nodded slowly, and requested that the waiter bring a second bottle of wine.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Martin finally asked, his voice loud and angry, ignoring the quick glances from the diners nearest them. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned.

“My associate,” Joseph said as Martin looked up at his son.

Martin had long ago stopped listening to the two men speaking. He’d never been more angry in his life, than he was to learn that his own son had betrayed him by working to secure the formula himself. The old man had gruffly told him to shut up and listen, and reluctantly he had. He knew it shouldn’t have surprised him to learn that his son hated him. He’d been hell bent on building an empire, regardless of the personal cost, much the same way his own father had. His life had revolved around power, and risk, and his own needs. Nothing else had mattered, not his wife, and not his son.

He frowned and took another long drink of his wine, draining the glass. I have become the man I most despised, he thought sullenly. He looked at his son, and swallowed hard. He’d hated his own father enough to set him up and let the man blow his brains out. Surely Jack’s hatred ran just as deep…

“Which is why it’s vital that you and Mrs. McKay board your jet tonight and leave,” Joseph said to him, his voice hoarse and strained.

“No,” Martin said. “There has to be another way.”

Posted by *Theresa* at 05:56 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

September 06, 2006

A Little Twist

For those of you who are following along with the suprisingly long story (I didn't plan it folks, it just sort of wrote itself to this point) I've been posting here, thank you for indulging me. Now I have a request.

You tell ME - of the three main characters, whom do you dislike the most and why. Naturally, one of them must die, and I think I know who that will be, but I'm curious to know which one YOU would kill off.

Humor me, because I have a monster headache and a busy day, and odds are the next part of the story will have to wait until tomorrow...

Posted by *Theresa* at 07:04 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

September 05, 2006

TSOTF, Part 14

(Some details required more research than I was willing to do, so if there is a glaring error, forgive me.)

The second McKay jet arrived at Ciampino airport a mere twelve minutes behind schedule. The limo was waiting to take Jack and Kate to The Grand Hotel Plaza, one of the oldest and most prestigious hotels, situated in the heart of the historical center of Rome. Jack had reserved one of the ten suites in the two hundred luxury room hotels, with a view of the Trinita dei Monti, home to Via dei Condotti and many of the biggest names in fashion and jewelry, including Armani, Prada, and Versace. He figured Kate, with her love of exorbitant spending, would be thrilled with the prospect of indulging in the best shopping in Rome.

Kate herself had expressed a desire to visit the Sistine Chapel, to gaze upon Michelangelo’s depiction of the Last Supper, which was cleaned and beautifully restored just over a decade ago. Her request had surprised him, given that he had never pictured her as religious, or even particularly interested in art, but he’d promised her they would. As a matter-of-fact, he found himself thinking a lot about what would please Kate, and that bothered him.

He’d spotted the tail the moment they stepped into the limo, and recognized him from the photo Fermi had sent. If anything went wrong, Fermi had assured Jack that his man would protect Jack even if it meant giving his life to the cause. What worried him was that he knew they had been followed by a second man. He’d first seen him, a short ox of a man with almost white blonde hair and brows at the airport. The man hadn’t even looked away when Jack caught him staring. Now, standing in the elegant lobby of the hotel, that same man was no more than thirty feet away, and still openly staring.

“I am exhausted,” Kate said, her head resting on his shoulder as they waited to get the key to the suite. Jack pulled her protectively closer, doing his best to ignore the fear that was creeping into his chest. He just knew that something had gone wrong, and that suspicion was confirmed when he saw that Fermi’s man was also watching the bold ox. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had known when he entered into his agreement with Fermi that the situation could become dangerous, even deadly.

Damn it, he thought angrily, grabbing the key from the clerk and hurriedly escorting Kate to the elevator. He should never have invited her to join him. He’d pushed aside the realities of his trip in order to enjoy her body, and he had wanted his father to see Kate with him when everything fell apart. He wanted to hurt him further by humiliating him with the knowledge that his own son had stolen his pretty wife. He glanced over at her when the elevator door closed, and realized that when he had first asked her to accompany him, his father had been the last thing on his mind. He had simply wanted to be with her.

When the elevator door opened, Jack stepped out into the hallway cautiously. He needed to call Fermi, needed to get Kate back on the jet and safe. For an irritating moment, he thought of his father, and felt the first stab of regret.

Posted by *Theresa* at 08:30 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

September 01, 2006

TSOTF, Part 13

Martin took another drink and set the glass on the table beside the bed. He loosened his tie and thought of Kate spreading her legs for his son. Clipped to the back of the papers Coleman had left was a photo, obviously taken from the grounds outside his office. Jack was sitting in Martin’s desk chair, while Kate straddled his hips, naked. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy. The slut was fucking his son!

He pulled his tie off and threw it to the floor. He wondered just how long she had been inviting him to her bed. Days? Months? Years? He knew he had no right to sit in judgment of her, given his numerous affairs and the high-priced hookers he indulged in, but to sleep with his son? She couldn’t have hurt him worse, he thought. She was his wife, damn it! Did she love Jack, or was she simply fulfilling her need when he was away? The possibility that Jack was nothing more to her than a distraction, much the way his mistresses had been, entered his mind. Still, he thought, she was bedding his own son! Right then he knew he would kick her ass to the curb and divorce her as soon as flew back to the states.

He reached for the papers and stared at them a long time. If he signed them he would recoup his losses plus some, but he would lose the formula. He thought of Jack, and what might happen to him if he refused to sign the papers. Sighing deeply, he realized his son was more like him than he’d thought. He had never turned down an attractive woman’s offer for sex. In a way, he couldn’t blame Jack for not having the strength either.

He knew he could never do anything that would endanger his son. He sighed heavily and cursed himself for allowing his greed and lust for power to over-ride his usually cautious business sense. He hadn’t even bothered to investigate Coleman or the others when Coleman approached him. All he saw was the chance for the formula to be refined and eventually sold to the military for billions. He’d been stupid to think Coleman was simply seeking a partner with the funds to help him acquire it.

Coleman obviously didn’t need the financial backing of anyone. His employers, Martin thought. Why hadn’t they bid on the formula? He knew Vincenzo had conducted a thorough background search and investigation in Martin’s holdings before he agreed to accept his initial offer. What was Coleman’s employers trying to hide?

He signed the papers and tossed them onto the floor, watching as the photo of Kate and Jack settled by his feet. He knew Kate would walk away with a couple million, according to the prenup. Jack, on the other hand, Martin thought angrily, needed to learn just who was the alpha male of the family.

He stood and undressed, pleased that his anger had aroused him. Lying back on the bed, grateful he hadn’t allowed his assistant to request a replacement for the whore he’d kicked out earlier, he closed his eyes in anticipation, knowing he paid the woman enough to forget that he was her employer for the night. When he felt her lips on him, he wondered if his wife were doing the same to his son at that very moment.

Posted by *Theresa* at 12:34 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack