"What a barracuda," his boss, Harry Thurston, had mumbled.
Considering Mary Alice Whittaker's reputation as a My-Heart-Bleeds-For-Everything lobbyist, her oversized glasses and her pulled-back hair, it had seemed an accurate description.
But not even the dress-for-success suit she'd worn had been completely able to disguise the made-for-pleasure body. And though she'd treated Conor with the scorn politically righteous reformers often reserved for members of the Washington community, he'd sensed something more.
It was like standing too close to overhead high voltage wires and hearing the faint but persistent hum of escaping electricity.
He'd waited two months, until the embassy party was long-forgotten and Mary Alice was up to her swan-like neck in some new crusade, before he'd phoned. He'd called her not at her prestigious Park Avenue office but at night, at her Gramercy Park apartment.
"Hello," he'd said, no time wasted on preliminaries, "this is Conor O'Neil."
Mary Alice hadn't wasted any time, either.
"How did you get my phone number?" she'd asked in a cool, take-no-prisoners voice.
Conor had laughed softly. "I'm the guy you called a government insider, Miss Whittaker, remember?"
"And why have you phoned me, Mr. O'Neil?"
Her voice was still chilly. For a second or two, he'd wondered if he'd read her wrong but then he'd thought, hell, what was there to lose?
"I phoned you," he'd said, "because I'm tired of wondering what you'd look like with your hair down and your glasses off."
"Good-bye, Mr. O'Neil."
"Shall I be more direct, Miss Whittaker? I have dinner reservations at The Water Club Friday night, tickets to that revival of Westside Story, and one hell of an itch to take you to bed. Are you interested?"
There'd been a pause, a long one, before she'd answered. When she had, her voice had gone soft and husky.
"The Water Club is over-rated," she'd said, "and I've already seen the play."
Conor had laughed. "You pick it, then. I'm easy."
Mary Alice had laughed, too, a low, sexy chuckle that had damned near melted the telephone.
"I'll bet you're not," she'd said—and now here he was, sitting on her sofa, the lights low, an old Eagles album playing softly in the background, with Mary Alice's bare feet in his lap.
They were well-cared for feet, he saw as he traced her polished pink toenails with his index finger. They were also vaguely oversized, which was not what you were supposed to be thinking at a moment like this, but lately his thoughts had drifted at the damnedest times. It was, he supposed, the price you paid for bedding a woman before you knew if you liked her or simply wanted her.
Not that he had any complaints. Safe, healthy, uncommitted sex was the only kind he was interested in. His job didn't allow for anything more. Besides, he'd already tried the other route, the emotional meat grinder people called love.
The pattern of his life since his divorce had been simple. You found someone you could laugh with, someone who turned you on, and you entered into a pleas
ant relationship that, with luck, would last several weeks, maybe even months, until one or the other of you grew bored.
It had come as an enormous relief to find that the world was filled with women who were looking for the same thing.
Mary Alice, for example, was establishing her claim to that enlightened attitude this very second, using her toes to do clever things to his rapidly hardening crotch.
"Hey." He grabbed her foot, brought it to his mouth and gently nipped her big toe. "What do you think you're doing, woman?"
She gave another of those sexy chuckles. "If you don't know the answer to that," she said, "we're in for an awfully dull evening."
Conor smiled. "Come here," he said, and with a purr of agreement, she went into his arms.
* * *
He came up out of sleep the way he always did, quickly and with a minimum of disorientation. It was, his ex had once said bitterly, the only good thing his stint in Special Forces had done for him. He wondered what she'd say if she knew him now, after the time he'd spent working for the Committee.