“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she said, and she felt that she might be after a little while. It was never fun to be discarded, and she’d been so excited about being the confidante of a president, but she should have known that it wouldn’t last.

Charlotte got out and shut the back door. The driver waited until Charlotte was in her car before driving off.

Charlotte sat in the car and tried to pull herself together. It was late and she was exhausted. She would think more clearly in the morning, but she was certain she’d come to the same conclusion. She should put this behind her and get on with her life. The sex had been okay and she’d had her fifteen minutes of fame, although no one would ever know about it. She sighed and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. She tried again but the engine wouldn’t start.

Oh, great, she thought. Then she laughed. What else could go wrong?

She was bending toward her purse to get her cell phone when the driver’s door was ripped open.

Chapter Seven

When he arrived at the farm, Charles Hawkins was escorted to the library. Two walls were filled with books that actually appeared to have been read. A stone fireplace dominated another wall. Someone had built a fire. A picture window that looked out on a wide back lawn took up the fourth wall. An unusual aspect of the room was the bulletproof glass in the picture window.

“What took you so long?” Farrington asked as soon as Hawkins walked into the library. He was holding a glass half filled with scotch and Hawkins suspected it wasn’t his first.

“I don’t have wings, Chris,” Hawkins answered calmly. He was used to Farrington’s moods.

“I’m sorry,” Farrington said. “I’m upset.”

Hawkins dropped onto a sofa and studied his friend carefully. Farrington looked exhausted, his jacket was off, his tie was askew, and his hair was mussed, as if the president had been running his fingers through it a lot.

“Tell me why I’m here,” Hawkins said.

“It’s that girl, Walsh. You know we talked about the records for Maureen’s slush fund?”

“She was going to get them for us.”

“Yeah, well she called. She said she could get the records tonight. I told her to come here.”

“Where did she call?”

“The White House.”

“How did she get through to you?”

“I gave her my cell.”

“Jesus, Chris. That line’s not secure.”

“Don’t worry. She didn’t use her real name.”

“I thought we’d agreed I was going to handle this.”

Farrington looked down at the floor.

“You screwed her, didn’t you?” Hawkins said.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“You didn’t screw her in Chicago, too, did you?”

Farrington didn’t answer.

“Goddamn it, Chris, you swore to me that you didn’t touch her. You were only supposed to convince her to be our eyes and ears in Maureen’s campaign headquarters.”

“I know, I know.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t pull this shit anymore.”

“I broke it off,” Farrington answered. Hawkins noticed that the president still couldn’t look him in the eye.

“So you let her steal for you, you screwed her, then you said, ‘By the way, we’re through.’”

“I was going to tell her that we had to stop seeing each other when she got here but she’s so beautiful.”

Hawkins sighed. Getting mad at Farrington was useless; he’d always been ruled by his penis, and short of castration Hawkins knew that there was no way to change him.

“Claire is pregnant, Chris,” Hawkins said patiently. “She announced this little fact at the fund-raiser, tonight. It’s going to be a major story in every newspaper and on every television news show in the country. Do you know what will happen if the voters find out that you’re cheating on your pregnant wife?”

“I’m sorry. I know it was stupid.”

Hawkins counted to ten. “How did Walsh take it?” he asked.

“Not well. She threatened to go public.”

“Fuck.”

“I don’t know if she’ll go through with the threat.”

“Yeah, well you’d better hope she doesn’t or you’ll be back in Portland chasing ambulances. Where is she now?”

“I don’t know, but she left her car at the Dulles Towne Center mall. And there’s something else.”

“You didn’t hit her?” Hawkins asked, alarmed by the possibility that Farrington had been violent.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” The president paused. “There was someone in the woods.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone was taking pictures.”

“Jesus Christ! Do you realize how bad this is? Pictures of you and Walsh would sell for thousands to a tabloid or they can be used for blackmail.”

Farrington’s head snapped up. He was angry. “I’m not stupid, Chuck. I know exactly how ugly this can get. That’s why I need you to fix it.”

“How do you know someone was taking pictures?”

“One of the Secret Service agents spotted her.”

“It was a woman?”

“We think so.”

“Why just ‘think’?”

“One of the guards spotted someone on the hill taking pictures. She ran, so he never got real close, and it was dark. Then she hit him on the head and stunned him. But he thought the photographer was a woman.

“The other guards heard a commotion and ran up to check on what was happening. One of them chased the intruder. When he got to the road a car was driving away. He thinks he got the license number but it was dark and the car kicked up a lot of dust. The plate we ran belongs to a Dana Cutler. She’s an ex-D.C. cop who works as a private detective, which would fit with her doing surveillance and taking pictures.”

“That’s a lot of ifs.”

“It’s what we have. Can’t you do something?”

“About what?”

“Both problems, Charlotte and the P.I.”

Hawkins knew exactly what Farrington wanted him to do. He stood up.

“It’s late. If we’re lucky neither woman will do anything until the morning. That gives me a few hours.”

“Thank you, Chuck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hawkins didn’t answer. He was too angry. Instead he shook his head in disgust and walked out of the room. As soon as he was certain he wouldn’t be overheard, Hawkins took out his cell phone and made a call.

Christopher Farrington had been anxious when his misadventure began, but he felt confident that Chuck would fix everything. He always did. And while he may have had twinges of fear and moments of doubt, the president never felt guilty about the way he’d used Charlotte Walsh; guilt was an emotion alien to him.

Farrington returned to the White House a little before 2 A.M. He took a quick shower and tiptoed into bed, feeling much better now that he was clean, as if the hot water had washed away his sins along with the grime. Everything would turn out well, he told himself. Farrington was smiling when he slipped beneath the fresh sheets.

“How did your meeting go?” Claire asked in a voice heavy with sleep.

Farrington rolled toward her and rested a hand on her backside. He really did love her. The other women served to alleviate a physical need, but Claire was his strength, his helpmate. He’d be lost without her.

“I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to be quiet.”

Claire kissed him. “Don’t worry. I wanted to be awake when you got back but I must have drifted off.”

“Did your speech go okay?”

“Didn’t Chuck tell you?”

“I’m sorry, but I was so wrapped up in what we were doing I forgot to ask.”

Claire touched his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. I know the pressure you’re under. But just so you know, I knocked ’ em dead. They didn’t even miss you.”

Farrington smiled. “I’m glad you’re not running against me. I wouldn’t get a single vote.”

“You’d get mine,” Claire whispered, and the president felt familiar fingers snake through the fly of his pajamas and caress him.