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her in and the doors closed soundlessly behind them.
Turning to Davis and the others, Cam said bitingly, "I'll be on my pager."
"Roger," Felicia Davis replied, her expression carefully neutral.
Cam turned without another word, pushed through the double doors, and was quickly lost to the dark.
ChapterS ixteen
Cam hesitated briefly on the sidewalk. It was two o'clock in the morning. She glanced up and diagonally
across the block-wide oasis of trees that comprised Gramercy Park to the building where she lived when
in New York City on assignment. The prospect of pacing for several sleepless hours in her utilitarian
apartment held little appeal. The prospect of tossing in her solitary bed trying to forget the way Blair had
looked walking away from her held even less. Quickly, she walked to the southeast corner of the square
and flagged a cab. She gave the cabbie an intersection in the East Village.
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Traffic was light in the small hours of the morning in Manhattan, even though there was more activity
there at any hour than in any other American city. When she paid the driver and stepped out, there were
still people strolling on the sidewalks, and here and there music wafted from the open doors of taverns
and all-night restaurants. It was a short walk to her destination, and less than a half an hour after leaving
Blair's building, she was seated on a corner barstool in a small, neighborhood bar. The bartender, a
hard-bodied, hard-eyed brunette came over almost immediately. The muscles in her well-developed
shoulders and upper arms strained the fabric of the tight white T-shirt she wore tucked into faded blue
jeans.
"How you doin'?"
"Fine," Cam said. "Glenlivet. Double--straight up."
"Sure thing."
A minute later, Cam was sipping the aged, single malt scotch and trying to make sense of the last few
hours.
Hell, the last few days.
She turned the glass aimlessly on the bar top and tried to make sense of a puzzle from which too many
pieces were missing. It had started with the debriefing in Washington and Stewart Carlisle's odd
capitulation to Doyles bullying threats of an investigation and had culminated with the night's oblique
threat to Blair. And then, of course, there was Claire.
She sighed wearily.  Claire.
From beside her, a voice softly questioned, "Girlfriend?"
Cam jumped, startled, and that in itself spoke volumes about her muddled state of mind. Or perhaps just
her persistent state of fatigue. She turned her eyes to the redhead who had slipped onto the barstool
beside her without her even noticing. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, but might be a
decade older. Her green eyes were wide and liquid with invitation, and her high, full breasts--shown off
to their full advantage in a scoop-necked tank top that exposed plenty of cleavage in addition to the
sharp prominences of her nipples--were ripe with promise.
"Has to be a woman to make you look that down," the woman remarked again.
"No." Cam shook her head. "Just thinking."
"If there's something--or someone--you'd like to forget for a few hours, I can think of a couple of
interesting ways to help you out."
"No, thanks," Cam said, smiling slightly. "What I need is to think, not forget."
"It never pays to think alone," the redhead said, leaning closer, her fingers pressing lightly on the top of
Cam's right hand.
"I'm not alone," Cam said softly.
The woman studied her silently for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll let you get back to whatever is
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keeping you up tonight."
With that she moved away and Cam returned to studying her drink. The touch of the stranger's hand had
made her think of Claire.
Claire. Is she a part of this?
Until a few days ago, she had thought that chapter of her life closed.
After she hung up the phone, Cam hurriedly crossed to the bedroom, stripped off the robe, and grabbed
for the first thing that was handy. She was just buttoning the fly of her jeans when the doorbell rang.
Quickly, she pulled on the T-shirt and opened the door.
 Hello, Claire.
"I'm sorry," the woman in the hallway began. "I know I shouldn't have come --"
"No. It's all right." Cam extended her hand, and Claire took it. "Come inside."
Claire was dressed as she often was--tasteful evening dress and matching heels, her blond hair in a
French twist, her makeup flawless, and her jewelry expensive. She hesitated just inside the door, then
dropped her purse onto the mail table in the small foyer. "You look tired. It's late, isnt it? God, I should
go."
"Come into the living room. Can I get you a drink?"
"Wine, if you have it."
Several minutes later, Cam joined Claire on the sofa in front of the windows where less than thirty
minutes before she had been sitting speaking to her lover. She forced the image of Blair from her mind
and handed the glass of cabernet to the woman who had made love to her countless times. The lines of
stress around Claire's eyes were obvious. "What is it?"
"I've been hearing things from my...colleagues...for the last several weeks. Someone has been asking
questions."
Cam frowned. "Someone has been trying to get information out of the...escorts?"
Claire smiled, her blue eyes troubled. "First you must understand--with this establishment, confidentiality
is absolutely the most critical service we provide. Every one of us is thoroughly screenedthere are
background checks to rival the federal governments, known associates are identified, resumes,
transcripts--everything ever documented is reviewed. No one gives out information about a client. It just
doesn't happen."
"But now you think someone's been talking?"
"I don't know." Claire shook her head. "All I know is that someone, orsomeones, have certainly been
asking questions."
"And why are you telling me?"
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"Because they're asking questions about the President."
Cam shrugged. "There have been rumors going around Washington since before he was elected that he
uses a...service for his...social needs. That's not news."
"I know," Claire said. "But this is the first time any of us has been approached. For one thing, our names
are carefully omitted from any transactions--even on paper. No one has access to our true identities, so
it's almost impossible for us to be individually associated with any particular establishment or client. But
more than one of us has been questioned about him."
Cam was quiet, considering the information. "Which means that someone may have identified your
organization and gotten access to your files."
"Yes. And if that's the case, they might have access to much more than just the escort identities. They
may have the client lists."
"Ah, I see." Cam rubbed her forehead with one hand, trying desperately to assuage the pounding
headache that was making it difficult for her to think. "Are you here to warn me?"
"Partly, and..."
"What?"
"I know who you are." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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