Page 59

Story: The Senator's Wife

“I know beyond a doubt that I was brought into your life for a reason,” she said in a hushed voice.
“You understand what I’m going through. It’s so good to have someone to talk to who’s been through something similar. Oh, Athena.” Whit placed his hand on the back of her neck. He leaned toward her and pulled her close, but Athena drew back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his hand. “I lost control. Please forgive me.”
Athena touched his arm. “There’s nothing to forgive, Whit. I understand, but we need to have restraint. As long as Sloane is alive, you’re still a married man. But as you said, I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.”
Whit covered her hand with his. “I had no right to make you dredge up painful memories.”
“My husband was brain-dead. There was no activity. But still…it was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. It still haunts me.” She gripped his hand. “No one should have to be faced with that kind of decision.”
“Sometimes the decision is made for you,” he answered. “It would kill me to see a vital, independent woman like Sloane reduced to nothing but a shell. Can you imagine living that way?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Thank you for helping me. I’m traveling this road without a map. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Athena. And I hope I never have to find out.”
- 46 -
WHIT
The next day, Whit left his office at six. The short drive to Madelyn’s was a familiar one to Whit’s driver, whose discretion was a major point in his favor. With everything going on with Sloane, a visit to Madelyn’s house was not something he was looking forward to, but he had to get her signature on these bank cards. At least there would be the safety of Fred’s presence while he was there, since Whit had insisted that the visit be combined with catching the live TV coverage of the vice president.
“You can wait on the street. I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Whit said as he got out of the car in front of the Sawyer residence. He strode briskly to the grand bronze entry doors and rang the doorbell.
“It’s open,” he heard Madelyn call. As he entered, he smiled, amused by the curving marble staircase that dominated the entrance, picturing the scene fromSunset Boulevardwhere Norma Desmond descends the stairs. He and Madelyn had sampled each other in every one of the ten bedrooms, and the sex had risen to new heights in the sauna and Jacuzzi.
“There you are.” Madelyn came waltzing into the hall. She looked luscious in a black lace lounging gown. What was she playing at? And where the hell was Fred?
“Your attire is not fair play. How am I supposed to concentrate on business with you looking like this?” He forced a flirtatious tone.
She threw her head back and laughed, then spun around in a pirouette, her long hair billowing around her. “You never used to complain. Only the finest from Bordelle,” she said, eyeing him coquettishly.
“You should put some clothes on.”
“Party pooper.” She pouted.
“What kind of game is this, Madelyn? Where’s Fred?”
“Fred’s out.”
“What do you mean, Fred’s out? Where is he, and when will he be back?”
“Who knows?” she said, glancing at her watch.
With a determined look in her eyes, Madelyn took his hand and led him to the living room sofa, pushing him onto it. A framed photo of Madelyn and Fred stared back at him from the end table. “I want you right now,” she said, straddling him as she unbuttoned his shirt.
Whit grew uneasy, panicked at the thought that Fred could walk in at any moment. But then it occurred to him that Madelyn already knew precisely the time he’d be home. She was far too shrewd to take chances.
She continued to caress Whit and suddenly made a face when she felt the small box in his pocket. Pulling it out, she opened it and looked at the sapphire and diamond earrings. “Are these for her?”
Shit. Why hadn’t he left those in the car? They were a pair from Tiffany that Whit had bought for Sloane. “Have some compassion. She’s sick. I wanted to cheer her up.”
“Maybe she’ll do us both a favor and die,” she said, putting on the earrings. “These are mine now.” She climbed from his lap and walked to the mirror on the wall, tucking her hair behind her ears as she examined the new studs.
“Fine, keep them. Enough talk about Sloane,” he said. He rose from the chair, buttoned his shirt, and opened his briefcase, pulling out the signature cards. “You need to sign these, and I’ll take them to the bank.”
She grabbed the pen from him and scrawled her signature, then held out the cards. As he reached to take them, she pulled her hand back, still holding on to the cards.