After securing permission to conduct the interview in English (“My Spanish is embarrassingly bad,” I admitted truthfully), I began to ask Contreras questions and he was animated in his answers. The questions had been carefully worded to inflate his ego, and they certainly did their trick. His chest seemed to swell with each successive answer. As we spoke, I looked him in the eyes as much as possible, trying to appear impressed. My long sessions at the Farm with Dennis Raimundo had given me the requisite knowledge to carry on political conversations, and because I actually seemed to know what I was talking about, I managed to keep Contreras on his toes.
We’d been talking for an hour and I looked out his window and noticed the cinema marquee across the street was lit. Glancing around his office, it occurred to me that the paint on the walls looked particularly new, especially compared to the rest of the aging building. My mind made a connection and I decided to take a shot in the dark.
“Señor Contreras, I have to tell you I adore your office,” I said. “It’s absolutely lovely.”
Contreras beamed. “I had renovations done recently. Newly restored antique furniture, new carpet, new paint. One of the best interior designers in Venezuela did the job for me. And please, I am Miguel to you, not Señor Contreras.”
“It was worth every penny, Miguel,” I told him. “It’s very… well… sexy.”
He smiled proudly. “Wonderful. I’m glad you think so.”
I turned to the painting behind me. “This is the Battle of Carabobo, no?”
“You know the history of my country,” he said. “Yes, that is Carabobo. The painting is from 1821, by Martín Tovar y Tovar.”
“It’s amazing,” I said, standing up and walking to the painting. In my light gray skirt and matching jacket, I could feel Contreras’s eyes on my ass as I stood pretending to appreciate the picture but actually studying the frame. Something must have changed when they re-hung the frame after painting his office. But what? I couldn’t see anything without inspecting it more closely, and I definitely couldn’t do that with anyone else in the room. I had no idea whether I would need five minutes or an hour, but I would have to find some way of being alone in this office.
My thoughts scattered when I suddenly felt Contreras next to me. His arm touched mine as he pointed at a figure in the painting and said, “This is General Simón Bolívar leading his men. Carabobo was a turning point in the war for independence from Spain.”
I turned to face him, our eyes too close for comfort. I wanted to make a move right then, to let him know I was available for more than a mere interview, but I didn’t want to spook him. Moving too quickly might tip him off that I wasn’t actually a professional reporter. Instead I took a step away to let him do the chasing.
Appearing ruffled by his proximity, I said, “I don’t want to take up any more of your time today, Miguel. If at all possible, I would love to shadow you for a day, to remain close enough to watch you work without interfering with your business.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possibly, Miss Sutter—”
“Liz,” I corrected him.
Contreras smiled. “Liz. For reasons of national security, that’s simply not possible.”
Dammit. I gave him a look of disappointment. How could I buy more time? I wracked my brain trying to think of a reason I could keep him in his office and decided I had no choice but to come on to him, even though it might backfire. In mid-thought, Contreras solved my dilemma for me.
“But perhaps we can spend more time together now. Let’s go to dinner and you can continue to ask questions. Anything you want.”
“I would love that,” I hastily agreed.
“Wait for me one moment,” Contreras said. I smiled at him as he crossed his office and opened a door leading to a bathroom. As soon as he closed it I hurriedly inspected the painting and frame, trying to figure why the glass would vibrate less than it had prior to the office renovations. Behind the frame I could see a wall-mount bracket that was shiny black and likely new. I took my cell phone out and had just snapped a picture of the tight space between the back of the painting and the mounting bracket when I heard the door opening.
“Miguel,” I said enthusiastically as I turned my body and slipped the phone back into the pocket of my jacket, “where did you get this picture frame?” I had to have an excuse for being inches away from the side of the painting. “It’s gorgeous!”
He regarded me warily for a second, then seemed to soften up when he saw the smitten look on my face. My many times picking up men in dive bars had served me well; I could fake infatuation with the best of them.
“It’s an antique frame,” he replied. “I do not know where it came from.” He gestured to the door of his office. “Shall we go?”
As I walked with him out of the office, I realized I left my folio next to the chair where I’d been sitting. I considered retrieving it but made a spur of the moment decision to leave it there. It would give me a valid reason to come back. It contained nothing that would blow my cover: my interview questions, the answers I’d been jotting down, and a dozen pages of notes I’d copied by hand in different pens to make it plausible that I was a reporter, should anyone bother to look.
“Where are you taking me for dinner?” I asked. “The Socialist Standard is buying.”
“My favorite restaurant,” Contreras said, “and your magazine can keep its money. Venezuela is buying.”
Seventeen
Miguel Contreras and I were driven to El Arroyo, a steakhouse in the Chacao district of Caracas, and a rented car with Mendez and Krause followed just far enough behind us to not draw attention. I had updated them via text as Contreras and I walked to the car. Again I had Dennis Raimundo to thank for insisting I learn to sent rudimentary texts by touch with my phone still in my pocket.
El Arroyo was upscale and prohibitively expensive for most of the population of Venezuela. Hell, it would have been too pricey for most Americans. My target was trying to impress me with his power, rather than his taste, and I believed I could get him to play into my hands. We initially talked about topics that made sense for the magazine where I supposedly worked, but by the time he ordered a second bottle of Venezuelan Petit Verdot red wine, we had moved on to more personal topics. As we were served dessert, Contreras gestured to my left hand and said, “I see you are not married. You must have a boyfriend.”
“I don’t have time for a relationship, Miguel,” I said, proud of how I was maintaining my British accent, “so I have a few almost-boyfriends instead. What about you?”
“I have a girlfriend,” he replied, surprising me with his honesty.
“She doesn’t mind you going to dinner with gringa reporters?” I asked with a flirty tone.
“Not Isabel,” he said calmly. “She’s very understanding that way.”
“Then maybe I’ll keep you out late,” I said. “You can take me dancing.”
Contreras had a sudden serious look in his eyes. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Something tells me you are not really interested in dancing, Liz.”
There was an agonizing pause as I waited him out. Had he somehow figured out I wasn’t who I claimed to be? Were things about to get ugly? My heart was thumping in my chest.
I gasped when Contreras’s hand touched the inside of my knee, just below the hem of my skirt, but quickly relaxed when I realized my cover hadn’t been blown. He slid his hand farther up my thigh, under my skirt. I looked around the room to see if anyone had noticed, but we were in a corner and the lighting was subdued. His fingers felt good as he stroked the middle of my thigh.
“You’re right. We can skip the dancing,” I said with a slight tremble to my voice.
Contreras signaled for the waiter, but didn’t bother to wait for the bill to arrive. As I put on my jacket I slipped my hand into the pocket and sent Mendez and Krause the one-digit signal that we were about to be on the move. Soon afterward, Contreras was kissing me in the back of the car, evidently not caring about the
driver. He tasted of wine and tres leches cake, not a bad combination at all. Without warning he stopped, scooted to the far side of the seat, and took out his cell phone.
“I need to make a picture of you, Liz,” he said, aiming his phone at me.
“A picture? For what?” I smiled and the flash went off.
He punched a few keys, then set the phone down and said, “To share with a friend,” as he began unbuttoning my blouse. I got goosebumps, as much from the frightening reality that he sent a picture of me to someone as from his fingers being so close to my breasts. As he slid a hand into my bra, I wondered if he had needed the picture for security clearance purposes — and if so, what would they find? I could be in serious trouble.
Contreras’s fingers found my nipple and I found it more difficult to concentrate. Remembering my mission goal, I lowered my voice to a near-whisper and asked, “Miguel, where are you taking me?”
“To show you my house,” he said calmly, “then to show you my bed.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble with your girlfriend,” I told him. “Maybe we should go back to your office instead.”
“My girlfriend won’t be a problem,” he said, then pressed his lips to mine again.
* * *
The house was huge, an all-white mansion also in the Chacao district and just minutes from the restaurant. Nestled at the bottom of a hillside that was part of the El Avila National Park, the estate had a gate with a guard house as well as an armed guard roaming the premises. Again I wondered who Contreras had sent my picture to and whether there would be any fallout at all. The Agency went to great pains to keep its covert agents off the normal intelligence lists, but I couldn’t be sure something wouldn’t come up if my picture was run through a database of possible Venezuelan enemies. I had lost track of the car with my two fellow agents, but was confident they followed me and were nearby. If things went south, they would be my only hope of escape.
I left my shirt partially unbuttoned as I exited the car, my cleavage drawing a long stare from the driver. We entered the house and I clearly saw the evidence of my target’s status; everything was beautiful and expensive. He (or his designer) had exquisite taste in furnishings. We walked over gorgeous travertine floors to a living room bar, where he put ice in two tumblers and poured into each from a decanter. Contreras, a drink in each hand, offered me his arm. I took it and, without conversation, was led directly to his bedroom.
The bedroom was decadent, with a huge bed covered in luxurious blue pillows. Although there were signs that a woman lived there, like the pink slippers sitting next to a vanity, Contreras’s girlfriend was nowhere in sight. He handed me a tumbler and raised his to clink it against mine.
“To not needing to go dancing first,” he said. “Salud!”
“Salud,” I replied and took a sip. I’d watched carefully as he poured the drinks and wasn’t worried about being drugged. Being drunk, on the other hand, was a concern. The liqueur was delicious — slightly bitter with a taste like amaretto. Contreras downed his in one gulp, then implored me to do the same. He set our glasses down then returned to me and slipped my jacket off, setting it in on a chair. When we left the restaurant, I had resigned myself to sleeping with this man. I had no choice if I wanted to get back into his office. Cutting the night short and demanding to go pick up my folio might have worked, but I doubted he would trust me enough to leave me alone there for even a few minutes. If I gained his trust via sex first, I might be able to pull that off.
I removed my shirt as Contreras watched, then I unclasped my bra and tossed them both on the chair. I’d seen a picture of his curvy girlfriend and knew he was okay with my size. His hands were on my breasts immediately as I began unbuttoning him. I had him shirtless in no time, then stepped out of my shoes and slid out of my skirt. Before I could get to my panties, he’d moved me to the bed and we were lying next to each other and kissing again. Contreras wasn’t nearly as ripped as Demarco was, but he was fit for his age with a thin spread of dark hair across his chest and belly.
As our tongues touched and his fingers gently toyed with my nipples, I slid a hand down his stomach into his pants and found him already engorged. I tried to unfasten his belt, but couldn’t figure it out and started laughing. We broke our kiss long enough for him to unbuckle it, then I hurriedly unzipped his pants and slid them down. I wrapped my fingers around the thick bulge in Contreras’s underwear.
I was surprised at how turned on I was and assumed it was a by-product of the alcohol and the lack of good sex in my recent past. Unable at the moment to do anything regarding the painting in his office, I told myself this was part of my mission, too, and decided to put my all into it. I was going to fuck Contreras’s brains out and enjoy doing it.
I pulled his underwear down and stroked his girth. He was circumcised, a rarity in Venezuela, and I assumed it had to do with his privileged upbringing. Looking into his eyes, I lowered myself down his body, then opened my mouth and began licking him. He smelled musty in a good way, a masculine scent that made me want him even more. I slipped my lips over him and sucked, feeling his hardness fill my mouth. Blowing Contreras on his big bed was exciting, and I put so much effort into it that neither of us noticed the figure standing in the doorway. Only when I heard someone clear their throat did I look up.
It was the girlfriend, Isabel. She stared at me as her man’s erection twitched an inch from my open mouth.
“Hello, baby,” Contreras said. Isabel approached the bed, taking off a leather jacket to reveal a snug silver tank top that exposed a sliver of belly just above her equally tight jeans. I sat up, moving away from her boyfriend’s erection. I didn’t know what to do, whether to apologize or just get up and start getting dressed. I’d never been in that situation before and was totally unprepared for it. Just seconds earlier I’d been enjoying the hell out of her man and now I had no idea what was about to happen.
“This is Liz, the reporter from London,” he continued. The woman stood silently at the bed, looking into my eyes. Then her gaze dropped to my nearly naked body, finally stopping at her boyfriend’s cock for a second before finding my eyes again.
“Don’t stop,” was all she said.
What the hell? I looked at her, then at Contreras, who simply smiled and shrugged. Isabel sat on the bed on the opposite side from me and reached for his erection, grabbing it and tilting the shaft in my direction, offering her man to me. I slowly lowered towards it, looking at her as I did. She wasn’t smiling and seemed quite serious as she pointed her man directly at my lips. I opened my mouth and took him in again, sucking him as she held him steady. I tried to keep it shallow enough so that my lips didn’t touch her hand, but I soon felt her other hand on my head, her fingers running through my hair. I didn’t know what to think, but she sure didn’t seem to mind that she’d caught the two of us together in bed.
“Que hermosa,” I heard Isabel say.
“I told you she was sexy!” Contreras responded to her, then turned to me. “Isabel was out with friends tonight. I sent her your picture and told her to hurry home and join us.”
So that was it. That’s why he took my picture.
“Liz, this is my girlfriend, Isabel,” he said.
I looked up at her with a mouthful of Contreras, then pulled off enough to ask, “You don’t mind?”
For the first time, I saw a small smile. “No,” she said. “Please continue.”
I did as told, sucking her man while she held him steady for me and played with my hair. She began pushing my head down, forcing my mouth farther over him until my lips touched her hand. Moving her hand away, she continued to push down until I felt him against the back of my throat. It was all so weird, blowing a guy with his woman watching from a couple of feet away. Her hand left my head and I looked up to see her face right next to mine, her dark red lips opening to take in the saliva-slick hard-on as I relinquished it to her. There was a smile in her eyes as the head disappeared into her mouth and she took over the b
lowjob. I watched in awe for a few seconds before she lifted up and offered her man to me again.
For the next few minutes she and I traded off, and eventually we were both all over that cock. When we arrived at the head simultaneously, she flicked her tongue across my lips, then locked me up in a scorching hot kiss. I had never kissed a woman before and was amazed at how much better she was than most men I’d kissed. It was hot and sensual and sexy and I felt the wetness between my legs.
The kiss ended as soon as it had begun and she resumed sucking Contreras. I helped again and soon heard him moan. His fingers found my hair and I saw his other hand on Isabel’s head as the moaning grew louder. Her mouth came up off of his shaft and she held it out for me again, and I started sucking and heard the moans increase. He swelled in my mouth and his hand held my head tightly in place as he erupted. When I swallowed, Isabel pulled my head back and kissed me hard, probing me with her tongue for a taste. I kissed her back passionately, my mind reeling in the sheer sensuality of the moment.
By the time she pulled her mouth off of me and licked her lips, I was beyond wet. I glanced at Contreras, who looked like the cat who ate the canary. He sat up and slid off the bed.
“Ladies, I am afraid you have ruined me,” he said, looking down at his rapidly deflating erection. “You’ll have to keep yourselves busy for a while.”
Not missing a beat, Isabel grabbed the sides of my panties and slid them off, then dropped between my legs. Her tongue was heavenly, doing everything at just the precise moment I wanted it, moving me steadily toward an orgasm. I placed my hands in her thick hair and held on tightly as she expertly licked me. I felt a finger slide into me and immediately tumbled into a fierce orgasm that slammed me with shockwaves that seemed to last forever. Eventually I had to push her head away because my body couldn’t stand the intensity. She smiled at me, a genuine smile this time.
Sleeping With the Enemy Page 12