Fatal Conceit (16 page)

“What do you think about that?”

“It's great,” Allen said. “Somebody in this family ought to be into healing people instead of figuring out how to kill them.”

Allen went quiet after that last remark for a half-mile or so, then apologized. “I'm sorry. That was a little heavy for this early in the morning. I guess I've been to too many bad places and seen too many bad things. I'm still learning to let go of some of that. But to be honest, while I'm proud of my son at West Point, I'd rather he didn't have to see the things I've seen; I don't want him to someday have to write a letter home to some wife or mother who's never going to see her husband or son again. I'd rather he didn't have to make the types of decisions I had to sometimes. I wouldn't have minded if they both wanted to be doctors. And even without the bad things, the army isn't the best life for anyone who wants to be a good father and husband.”

“Where's your wife?” Blair asked impulsively.

They ran on a dozen more steps before he answered. “Not here,” he said, and then he took off. “Come on,” he yelled over his shoulder, “race you back to the house.”

She wouldn't have stood a chance even if he hadn't bolted away from her. When she ran up gasping for air, he'd already recovered and was looking at the waves. A minor meteorological disturbance off the Eastern Seaboard had stirred up four-foot waves. “Do you surf?” he asked.

“Not well, but I like trying,” she said. “You suggesting . . . ?”

“Meet you back here in a half hour. They have wet-suit tops and boards at the main house; I'll bring the gear for you, too.”

“Oh, my God, five miles running in the sand and now the man wants to surf.” She laughed. “You're going to kill me!”

“I don't think there's any danger of that,” Allen replied and ran off.

At the designated time, Blair was back on the beach wearing a formfitting two-piece swimsuit. This time his eyes did wander appreciatively over her body.

“Nice muscles,” he said with honest admiration.

“Likewise,” she said, taking in his broad shoulders, smooth, muscular chest, and six-pack belly. She noticed a deep indentation in his upper chest just below his left shoulder and pointed. “What happened?”

Allen looked down and frowned. “That's a very minor example of what a round from an AK-47 can do to the human body. I was lucky. It went through without hitting any major blood vessels, though it did a number on my shoulder blade where it came out.” He turned and showed her the indented, puckered exit scar. “Gross, huh?”

Impulsively, Blair reached out and gently touched the old wound. “No. It's sort of a beauty mark. It's part of what makes you who you are.” She looked up into his eyes just as he blinked hard as if he'd been reminded of some old pain.

“I've . . . uh . . . never heard it put quite that way,” he stammered.

“I do believe you're blushing, General,” Blair replied.

Allen laughed. “Nah, I just fry in the sun. Anyway, enough war stories, surf's up!”

They spent the morning surfing before going to their respective cottages to shower and then met again in the main house for lunch. “Ah, here's our surfers,” Fauhomme bellowed as he and Lee approached the pair. “Kowabunga, dudes!”

Allen glanced quickly at Blair in a way that told her he found the fat politico as disingenuous as she did. But he smiled and said, “Jen here is trying to remind me what it's like to be young, which is tiring.”

“Well, you both looked great out there, a regular Frankie Avalon
and Annette Funicello,” Fauhomme said, and slapped Allen on the back.

“Who?” Blair asked.

“Before your time,” Allen replied.

“Indeed,” Fauhomme echoed, and then looked across the room. “Look who decided to join our gathering. The president's national security adviser, Tucker Lindsey, and his . . . um . . . ‘friend,' Ike something. I can never remember his last name. Lovely couple, and Tucker is sharp as a tack. Good man to work for, Sam.”

“It's my understanding that the director of the CIA answers directly to the president,” Allen replied. He'd said it quietly but pointedly.

Fauhomme's smile froze for a moment but then relaxed again. “Well, let's say you'll be working closely together, but the president does rely on Tucker's opinions. I'm sure he'll rely on yours after you get to know each other, too. In the meantime, we're a team and we all try not to step on each other's toes.” He cut off any follow-up remarks by turning to Lee and saying, “Let's go say hello to Tucker and Ike.” With that, Fauhomme grabbed Lee's elbow rather forcefully and guided her across the room toward the two men.

Watching them go, Allen asked, “How did you say you met our host?”

Blair bit her lip. “Well, I've known Connie for five or six years. We're pretty good friends. She started going out with Rod about four years ago. And, uh, sometimes I get invited to their parties. I'm really not in these people's league.”

Allen tilted his head slightly and looked into her eyes. “No, you're way above it.”

Looking back, that might have been the moment she fell in love with Sam Allen, though she would not have believed it at the time. “Do you know Tucker Lindsey?” she asked, attempting to regain her composure. She'd met Lindsey at a few parties and had never liked the man; she thought he was arrogant and looked down his
nose at everyone. She wasn't sure if he knew about her arrangements with Fauhomme. She got the impression that he did from the way he could hardly be bothered to say hello when they'd meet, and that might be the only thing he said to her the entire event.

“Yes,” Allen said. “Actually, he's the one who recommended me for the CIA job, though I didn't know him at that time. We've had quite a few conversations since.”

“You don't seem to be all that impressed.”

Allen's eyes narrowed as she looked back at him, and she wondered for a moment if he'd guessed the game she was paid to play. But then he smiled wryly. “You're very intuitive, Jenna Blair. It's probably not fair; I haven't spent enough time with Mr. Lindsey to really know him, and to be sure, he is very smart and sure of himself. . . . Let's just call it an old soldier's distrust of civilians when it comes to military decisions.”

“Why is that?”

“Because men like him are good at starting wars that soldiers like me and my son, and many other sons, have to fight.” He put a finger to his lips. “But shhhhhhh . . . let's not talk politics, war, religion, or the CIA this weekend. I've had enough of all of it to last me another lifetime.”

After lunch Allen said he was going back to his guest house to “lie in a hammock and read a good book. I haven't had much time for that lately, and you've about worn me out.”

Blair would never be sure if it was because he saw the look of disappointment on her face, but then he added, “I know it might not be too exciting for a young woman of your energy levels, but if you have nothing else to do, find something to read and come on over. There are two hammocks and I was going to make up a pitcher of mojitos.”

She surprised even herself by how quickly she said it sounded like the perfect way to spend the afternoon. By the end of the second mojito they'd put their books down—he was reading
Atlas Shrugged
and she was devouring a romance novel—and were
chatting amiably across the space between their two hammocks. She told funny stories about being a struggling actress in New York City, and he told funny stories about being a soldier from Africa to Afghanistan. She noticed, however, that he avoided what he referred to as “war stories.”

Fourth of July dinner that night was a catered affair on the beach complete with a wet bar and a Benny Goodman–style orchestra. Blair had changed into a simple white cotton dress that accentuated the positives of her figure and rose to way up her thigh. As she walked up to where the party had been set up inside twinkling lights that had been strung up around the perimeter, her eyes again went immediately to where Allen stood talking to several men. He was dressed in long khaki shorts and a loose, white cotton top. He broke from the others when he saw her and met her halfway across the sand between them.

“Were you spying on me?” she said as she reached out and tugged on his shirt. “We look like twins.”

“That's what I do,” he said with a laugh. “But don't worry; your secrets are safe with me.”

“And yours are with me, O man of mystery,” Blair replied.

Except they aren't, are they, Jenna
. Her conscience had taken that moment to show up on her face.

“Are you okay?” Allen asked, suddenly concerned. “For a moment there you looked like something you ate wasn't agreeing with you.”

Smiling weakly, Blair shook her head. “I'm fine,” she said. “I just think I need something to eat. Some crazy man has been running my body and mind ragged all day.”

After wolfing down a cheeseburger, potato salad, beans, and two more IPAs, Blair announced that she was stuffed. Having inhaled several double shots of scotch with his meal, Allen was ready for hyper-libido-laced romance.

“Wow, I'm impressed,” Allen said. “How do you fit it all in that little body?”

“I'm like a hummingbird. I burn the calories off faster than I can put them in.”

“The envy of women everywhere. So let's go burn some more.”

Before she could protest, Allen had led her out onto the sand in front of the orchestra where several other couples were dancing. She'd never learned to dance “old-fashioned,” but Allen was a wonderful teacher and guide. Pretty soon he had her moving as if she'd been doing it all of her life. They danced off and on as the sun set and darkness fell. Then they grabbed two large beach towels from a table and sat next to each other on the moonlit beach near the waterline to watch the fireworks display that Fauhomme had arranged.

That was the first time he kissed her; leaning in close after one explosion for a sweet, quick brushing of lips. She was ready for more, but he turned and watched the next explosion overhead as if it had never happened. A few minutes of that and she grew impatient; she stood and picked up her towel, holding her hand toward him. “Come on,” she said. “I need to walk this cheeseburger off.” Allen didn't say anything but stood up and grabbed his towel, and they strolled off down the beach.

Somewhere out of sight of the others, their hands met and fingers intertwined. She led him to a spot between two large dunes tufted with sea grass. There she turned and this time kissed him, long and deep. He responded with hunger, but she pushed him away with a laugh. In the next moment, she lifted her dress off in a single movement, turned and dashed for the water, unclasping her bra and dropping her panties as she ran.

“What are you doing?” he yelled after her, looking back up the beach to see if anybody was walking toward them.

“Skinny-dipping! What does it look like, you old fuddy-duddy!”

Watching the naked young woman dive into the waves, Allen started to run toward her, stripping his clothes off. “Fuddy-duddy?” he yelled in mock outrage. “I'm not a fuddy-duddy!”

Soon they were competing at trying to catch waves. He would later admit that he was “painfully aware” of her body as they floated on the swells. But he didn't try to touch her. That didn't happen until a wave cast them both onto the shore at the same time, the power of the water rolling their bodies together.

The next thing Blair knew, she was in his arms, kissing him as the receding wave hissed around them. “This is like that old movie . . .” she whispered, her voice husky.

“From Here to Eternity.”

“What?”

“That's the name of the movie you're thinking about,
From Here to Eternity
, it's the scene where Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr are lying in the surf . . .”

“Shut up and kiss me again, Sam.”

The large beach towels they had brought came in handy when they moved to the secluded spot between the dunes and consummated what had begun the evening before when he'd first looked into her eyes. Later, they lay together, her head on his chest and a leg stretched over his body, lost in thought and spent. “You know I'm married and things are complicated right now . . .” he said as he stroked her hair.

“What? Not even a tennis bracelet?” Blair sat up and hugged her knees. Suddenly she was tired of what she'd become.

“Tennis bracelet? I don't understand? I was just trying to say that my marriage has been over for many years, though it took meeting you, and tonight, to realize that I need to do something about it. What I meant by ‘it's complicated' is that I need to think about how to navigate these waters I suddenly find myself in, both in regard to getting a divorce—I want to make it as easy on my wife as I can—and this CIA job. I hope this doesn't sound like I have too big an ego, but I think U.S. intelligence agencies need someone who can bring a soldier's eye to the decisions that are made. Anyway, my country means everything to me, and I'm not done serving her.”

“Never mind, I get it; I'm a big girl,” Blair said bitterly as she stood up and started putting her clothes on. “I had a great time today and the sex was pretty good, too. We should be getting back to the party.”

Standing when she did, Allen took her by the shoulders and turned her so that the moonlight lit both of their faces. “I had a great time today, too, the best I've had in a long, long time. And the sex was more than pretty good; I know it and you know it. I'm not trying to get rid of you. I want to see you after this. I shouldn't—the possibility of hurting people I care about and losing this appointment worries me—but I do. I've been waiting for someone like you for more years than I care to remember, and I don't want to lose whatever potential we have. If you want to wait to see me again until after I'm divorced and we don't have to sneak around, I'll understand. But now or in the future, I want to see you.”