Dutch and Gina: The Power of Love (9 page)

He thrashed her with a final, deepest of deep push that caused his engorged penis to throb with such a throbbing that it strained every muscle in his body.
 
He wanted to scream her name in gratitude for the way she made him feel.
 

And Gina wanted to scream too, as she felt every inch of his engorgement deeply inside of her.
 
It electrified her.
 
She clamped down tightly around his rod as she became overcome with the rush of the feeling.
 
And her entire body shuttered, and then lifted, as she felt the full impact of the overwhelming sweetness of his final, deepest of deep thrusts.
 

And when they both lost all energy and collapsed down, they knew it was just the beginning.
 
Just the warm up act.
 
Just one of many pleasures they were determined to allow themselves this last night of their vacation.
 
And what was to become their long night’s journey into day.

FOUR

The private fundraiser for Senate Democrats was held at the Burk Hotel in San Francisco, California, and Dutch dazzled the crowd of big money donors with his wit and optimism.
 
The mid-term congressional elections, he insisted, was the most important of its kind in a generation.
 
He wanted his party to regain control of the Senate so that legislation could move through both houses of Congress much faster, and his agenda could finally get back on track.
 
It was a bold assertion, all of the donors knew it, but they bought into it just the same.
 
All out of respect for Dutch Harber.

 
But as soon as he left the stage to meet and greet those deep pocket supporters, he thought he saw someone very familiar out of the corner of his eye.
 
But he kept meeting and greeting, working the room, laughing with some, agreeing with others, being the expert politician he was known to be when he had to be.
 

But by the time he worked his way to the back of the room, Allison Shearer, his press secretary and one of his most trusted aides, approached him.
 

“I need you to see somebody, sir,” she said, shoveling her long, blonde hair out of her face.

“And who is this somebody?”

She leaned toward his ear, her voice lowered.
 
“Liz Sinclair,” she said.

Dutch frowned.
 
“And why exactly would I want to see her?”

“She’s in a state, sir.
 
I’ve never seen her in such a state.”

Dutch stared at Allison.
 
She was no drama queen.
 
She was never the kind of woman given to hyperbole or exaggerations.
 
If Allison said it was serious, it was serious.
 

“Lead the way,” he said.
 
And then smiled when one of the donors blocked his path.
 

The Secret Service agents blanketed him as he and Allison headed out of the room, down a short corridor, and up to the door of a small office.
 
The owner of that office, a hotel supervisor, had kindly vacated when Liz was told to wait there.
 

Dutch and Allison went inside, along with two of Allison’s assistants.
 
As soon as Dutch saw Liz Sinclair sitting in that small room, he stopped in his tracks.
 
He hadn’t seen her in months, not since Brussels, and he had been too busy to have any of his people check on her.
 
Especially since their last meeting was a difficult one.
 
But he never dreamed he’d find her like this.

She was drunk, for one thing.
 
The stench of the liquor met all of their nostrils as soon as they entered the room.
 
And she didn’t look like the gorgeous, vivacious Liz he was accustomed to seeing.
 
She still had that tall, elegant sophistication she was known for.
 
Her brown skin was still smooth and unblemished.
 
But her once sharp hazel eyes looked murky.
  
And her clothes, some thrown together white jumpsuit with a big, gaudy belt around her waist, looked cheap and well-worn.
 
Everything that made her who she was known to be, from her flawless style to her almost arrogant sense of self-assurance, was gone.

She attempted to smile when Dutch entered the room, but even that took considerable effort for her.
 
“Dutch,” she said, rising shakily to her feet.
 
“Thanks for seeing me.”

Dutch, feeling a sudden twinge of pain, broke away from Allison and the aides and walked up to her.
 
The alcohol, mixed with the perfume she wore, made for a toxic combination.
 
“Hello, Liz.”

“Thanks for seeing me,” she said again.

“You’re drunk.”

She actually chuckled.
 
“I wish that was all I was.”

Dutch considered her.
 
She was clutching a small black purse, as if in it held all she had in this world.
 
And from the looks of her Dutch wouldn’t doubt if it did.
 

“What’s the matter, babe?” he asked her.
 
“Why are you here like this?”

“I had to see you.
 
Because you’re the only one.”

“I’m the only one?”

“You’re the only one who ever liked me.
 
You’re the only one who ever cared.”

Allison rolled her eyes and moved to stand alongside the president.
 
“Really, Liz, you asked to see the president to tell him that?”
 

“I’m just trying to hold on,” Liz said, and Dutch could see that her thumb was nervously flicking the purse.
 
“I’m just trying to let him know that I appreciate what he did for me.”

“Fine” Allison said.
 
“You told him.
 
Is that it?”

“I did it wrong,” she said, looking from Allison to Dutch.

Dutch stared at her.

“I did it all so wrong.”

“I would not have disturbed the president, Liz, if I knew this was all you had to say.
 
Now is there anything of any substance you need to tell him?”

Liz looked at Allison as if she didn’t comprehend.
 
And it was that look, so fraught with despair and anguish, that caught Dutch short.
 

“Liz, what’s wrong?” he asked her.
 
But she just stood there, a faraway look in her unfocused eyes.
 

“Do you need to talk to me?”

It was only then did she look at the president.
 
She was still confused, still puzzled, but with enough within her to nod.
 
“Talk.
 
Yes.
 
I need to talk.”

“Then we shall,” he said.

Liz nodded.
 
“Okay.
 
Thank-you, Dutch, for seeing me. Even when I don’t look my best.
 
I don’t look very well right now, do I?
 
I know I don’t.
 
But you never cared about that.
 
You always liked me for who I was, good and bad.
 
You always did.
 
You’re the only one.”

Dutch looked at Allison.
 
“Take her to my room.”

“But, sir,” Allison was ready to object.
 
When she saw that the president wasn’t about to change his mind, she frowned.
 
“But why, sir?”

Dutch looked at Liz again.
 
They were close friends for so many years, and had been through a lot together.
 
She disappointed him mightily, especially in Brussels, but something was wrong.
 
Something was so off about her now, she was so obviously begging for help, that it broke his heart.
 
This was no ordinary
she had too much to drink
moment.
 
This went far deeper.
 
He could see it in her eyes.

“I’m not turning her out like this,” he said to his press secretary.
 
“She’s my friend.
 
Good or bad, she’s my friend.
 
Take her to my room.
 
And stay with her until I get there.”

Liz’s heart melted with gratitude, as tears came.
 
“Thank-you, Dutch,” she said.

Crader McKenzie entered the room just as Liz was thanking the president.
 
He was amazed that she was even there, but was too much of a pro to show it.
 
He, instead, began steering Dutch away from her, and back to his paying guests.
 

“Ed Deviney wants to personally present you with a check,” he whispered to the president, and Dutch headed for the door.
 
As soon as he opened it, Ed Deviney was waiting.
 

“Ed, you son of a gun,” Dutch said, extending his hand, “how’s that back nine been treating you lately?”

“Terrible,” Ed said as he and the president shook hands.
 
“Not even one birdy last game out. And the back nine used to be when I came alive.”

The door was closed, with Allison and her aides, and Liz, closed inside.

The aides were staring at Allison.

“You heard the president,” she said snappishly.
 
“Let’s get her to his room.”

Gina and LaLa didn’t see anything remarkable in the entire catalogue.
 
The designer had brought it over and Gina’s stylist had marked some of the more exceptional designs.
 
But Gina wasn’t impressed.
 
She closed the book altogether and leaned back.
 
She and LaLa were in the White House Residence, seated on the sofa inside the family livingroom, and selecting from this American designer who was supposed to be the newest new thing wasn’t working out at all.

“I could get better designed clothes off of one of those picnic tables at Wal-Mart,” LaLa said and Gina smiled.
 
“They’re just awful.
 
And look so cheap.”

“I hear you, girl,” Gina said.
 
“I don’t know what Maggie was thinking.”

“You should fire her.
 
Your stylist should have more style than that.
 
She’ll have you going to that ball looking like some hoochie mama.”

Gina laughed.
 
“Come on, La.
 
It’s not as bad as all that.”
 

LaLa looked at her.
 
“What’s the matter?”

“Who says anything’s the matter?”

“I do.
 
What is it?”

Gina sighed.
 
“I miss Dutch.”

“Miss him?
 
He just left a day ago.”

“And I miss him!”
 
She sighed again.
 
“He makes me feel good.”