by Shenda Paul
I’ve come to realize that while being sexy is about sex, the physical; sensuality is about the senses. While nuances between the two may appear subtle, they speak volumes, and to me, sensuality exudes much more depth than sexuality ever could. Angelique appeals to all of my senses—it’s that, which makes her so extraordinary to me.
So I greeted the vision last night by staring dumbly until her look of nervous anticipation roused me enough to speak. "You’re so incredibly beautiful," I breathed. I wanted nothing more than to lay claim to her but managed, somehow, not to succumb to the almost overwhelming desire to drag her into the bedroom.
My feeling of possessiveness hadn’t been helped by the fact that she attracted the attention of practically every male in the damned place. She remained oblivious, which only intrigued them more, but her lack of response went a long way to soothing my territorial instincts. We enjoyed a delightful dinner, during which I couldn't help but tell her again just how beautiful she is and how much I loved her dress. She blushed, predictably, but turned pensive a moment later. When I asked, she confessed it was the first time she'd worn the dress. Her mother, she explained, gave it to her immediately before her devastating car accident and has never seen her wear it. I suggested that I take a photograph to show her mother, and she surprised me by agreeing. We ended up back in her suite where I took several shots of her.
After, I removed my jacket and tie while Angelique changed into a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt. When she returned, I pulled her onto my lap and finally satisfied my need to kiss her. Our kisses, which started out gentle, grew increasingly passionate until we were both left panting. I still don’t know where I found the strength to leave, but I did. As soon as I entered my suite, I stepped into the shower with the intention of taking care of my rather painful arousal. An act I regard as normal, and which had become second nature since puberty, suddenly felt wrong. I readily acknowledge that my reluctance to masturbate to visions of Angelique relates to what I know of her past. I abhor the men who objectified her and can't get past the idea that I'd be no better if I masturbated to visions of her without her knowledge.
I concluded, while standing with my throbbing member in hand, that I wanted my pleasure to come from her and with her. If I’m to pleasure myself to visions of her, I want her to know about it, preferably to be present when I do. Of course, all I could picture, then, was masturbating while Angelique watched.
You are so fucked! I groaned when, in reality, I wanted to scream in frustration. I turned off the hot water and increased the pressure on the cold instead and, later, threw myself into bed to sleep.
I glance at the bedside clock. I have an hour before the time Angelique and I arranged to breakfast together and then do a bit of sightseeing. Our plan, after, is to take her mother to lunch and spend the rest of the day with her before flying home at six. I hope, desperately, that our meeting goes well so that future trips together become something we both can look forward to.
.
.
Dark blue eyes, shaped like Angelique’s, take in our clasped hands before slowly lifting to appraise me.
"Mom; how was your morning?" Angelique nervously asks, releasing my hand to kiss her mother's cheek.
Her face softens into a loving smile as she looks up at her daughter. "I've had a good morning, sweetie," she says before returning her gaze to me.
"Mom, I'd like you to meet Adam Thorne; Adam, this is my mom, Grace Thompson."
"I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thompson." I extend my hand, thankful that I had the foresight to ask Angelique about her mother’s physical limitations. Her hand is soft and warm, but I feel the fragility Angelique described.
"Please call me Grace," she says with a polite smile. Angelique’s also inherited her soft, somewhat husky voice from her mother, I note.
"Thank you, Grace," I return warmly. She's wary and assesses my every action, but I expected it. What parent, even under normal circumstances, wouldn't be cautious of a man interested in their daughter; and the circumstances surrounding the start of our relationship can hardly be described as normal. Angelique’s been taken advantage of, and the knowledge that she prostituted herself to pay for her care must devastate her mother. Now she turns up with the man who increased her public humiliation; who can blame Grace for not welcoming me with open arms?
"We've found a restaurant in the area we think you'll like. It's Thai; you always said you wanted to try Thai food, didn't you, Mom? Do you need anything before we leave?" Angelique babbles nervously as she watches the interaction between Grace and me.
"Would you mind finding Dave, Angel? I'd like to freshen up before we leave," Grace asks. Looking uncertain, Angelique worries her bottom lip with her teeth. I reach out to gently release it and then soothe it with my thumb.
"Your mom and I will be fine," I promise, kissing her forehead.
"She's nervous," Grace remarks as we watch her leave.
"So am I," I admit.
"There's no reason to be nervous unless you intend hurting my daughter, Adam," she returns with steely determination.
"I would never hurt Angelique," I tell her earnestly.
"Take a seat, Adam, Angel will be a while tracking Dave down," Grace says, motioning to a chair in the corner.
"You don't really need him do you?" I ask as I bring it close.
"Very perceptive," she says unapologetically. "I wanted to talk to you."
"I'm glad. I was going to ask to speak with you alone after lunch."
"Oh?" she raises a surprised brow.
"I assumed you'd have things to say and questions to ask that you'd prefer not to do in Angelique’s presence."
"My daughter’s been used and hurt, and I feel responsible," she says, her voice trembling. "No matter what anyone says to the contrary, the fact is that my daughter sold her body to take care of me. I promised her father I'd take care of her, but I've failed him, and more importantly, I failed Angelique.
"Because of a decision I made, Dieter Quandt was able to indulge his obsession with my child and destroy her dreams, and then, after my accident, I relied too heavily on her to carry the burden of my responsibilities. She ended up parenting me instead of the other way around. She sacrificed her self-respect for me," she says, pain etched on her face and in her voice.
"All I know about you is that you're the man who increased her humiliation. Angelique’s explained the circumstances, but I'm her mother; all I care about is that she was hurt, and you played a part in that. Then I discover that you're responsible for offering her what seems like the perfect job. Angel’s assured me that she'll be working for your mother and that the charity is a family concern, but she also said you’re funding it.
"I can't help wondering if it's all too good to be true; if you're too good to be true. My daughter’s staying at a hotel with you, you walk in holding hands, and she's looking happier than I've seen her in years. I worry that she’ll be hurt again. What do you want from Angelique, Adam? You’re a man with a bright future, and you’re obviously rich. Why would you want to be with my daughter whose reputation is damaged… because of me?" she finishes with a strangled sob.
My heart breaks for her. Even though she can't be held responsible, I understand her feeling responsible. A mother’s supposed to take care of and protect her child and, through no fault of her own, Grace has been unable to do either. Being able to question and vent at me gives her a sense of control. I also understand her feelings of guilt and helplessness; I’ve lived with those same feelings and the pain of Eleanor's tragic life for more than two decades.
"Mrs. Thompson…Grace, I understand your sentiment, and you have every right to question me," I tell her. "I assure you, from the bottom of my heart, that I’d never intentionally hurt Angelique. You should also know that although she and I stayed at the same hotel, we did not share a room. I won't lie to you. I want Angelique, more than I've wanted anyone or anything befor
e; but you need to understand that I want her in every way, and I’m determined to do things properly. She deserves that, especially now.
"I intend to marry your daughter one day, Grace; if she'll have me, of course."
Chapter Six
By the time Angelique returns with a carer, not Dave, in tow, Grace and I have cleared the air and are discussing New York landmarks. Angelique looks relieved but still tentative, and as soon as we leave the room to give Grace privacy, she asks what we discussed.
"Your mom and I have reached an understanding, after all, we both love you," I tell her.
"But what did you talk about?" she repeats, her delectable mouth forming a pout when I fob her off with, "Nothing for you worry about, Darling." I touch my lips to hers, "I promise," I whisper, silencing her curiosity with a kiss.
Grace does, indeed, enjoy Thai food. I remain aware of her continued scrutiny, but she grows increasingly more relaxed as the day wears on. By the time she’s ready to go home, I’m thankful to say that any residual tension between us appears to have melted, and we’re chatting away comfortably.
On our return flight, Angelique leans her head on my shoulders. "Thank you, Adam, for insisting that we visit. It’s lovely to see Mom relaxed and happy again."
"You have nothing to thank me for, Darling. I like Grace very much, and I hope to make many more trips with you to see her."
On Monday morning, I meet with Bristly for our regular progress report before Jodi and I retreat to a conference room to revisit our strategy and my opening address for Joseph Cordi’s trial. Anxious to speak to Angelique, I call her during our lunch break and immediately detect the distress in her greeting.
"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to contain my rising panic.
"Did you get my message?" she questions in return.
"I’ve been in meetings, so I haven’t checked my phone. Angelique, you're worrying me; where are you?"
"I'm with your mom at your place to look at the library."
Mom will take care of her, I tell myself, and I'm even more comforted by the fact that she's safely ensconced in my home.
"Why do you sound so worried?" I ask.
"There are more photos in the press," she says, her voice deeply apologetic.
"From the performance?"
"At the airport. I'm sorry, Adam, you don't need this, especially now, when you’re about to start this trial."
"Darling, we'll deal with it. Are you all right, though? You haven't been accosted by reporters have you?"
"No, your mom picked me up. We stopped off at Starbucks and then came straight here."
"I'd like you to stay there until I get home. Would you do that?"
"Your mom’s probably got things to do," she protests.
"She can leave. Just make yourself at home, and I'll try to be there as soon as I can. Let me talk to Mom, please. I love you; everything’s going to be fine."
"I love you too," she tells me before I hear her softly call for Mom.
"Hello, darling," Mom's calming voice comes on the line.
"How is she really"? I ask.
"More worried about you than anything else."
"I'm all right, Mom. The DA and I have agreed on how to deal with the press, but I worry that they’ll find out where Angelique lives. She has enough to worry about with that damned stalker."
"What stalker?" Mom asks sharply.
"I don't have time to get into it now; ask Angelique to tell you. I need to get a handle on what's appeared in the press. Also, I've asked Angelique to stay there until I get home."
"It'll blow over soon, just keep reminding her of that," Mom wisely advises and then lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Did I hear 'I love you' being exchanged?"
"You did," I admit, unable to suppress a laugh at her obvious delight.
"I'm so happy for you both."
"Thanks, Mom. Tell Angelique I'll be home as soon as I can." I hang up, liking the way that sounded.
I never imagined becoming someone who researches himself online, and I'm shocked at the number of links associated with me. I turn my attention to the first article I come across, which also happens to be the latest posting by a reputable newspaper.
Unlikely Lovers Get Away
It appears that the sighting of Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne and Angelique Bain, former paid escort to Senator Justin Wade, at a recent local ballet production was not accidental. The couple was sighted boarding a flight to New York on Saturday for what we can only assume was a romantic weekend getaway.
I readily identify the location and occasion of each of the two accompanying photographs. The first must have been taken as we waited in line to check in at Logan. I couldn't resist wrapping my arms around Angelique’s waist. "I love you," I whispered against the soft skin of her neck. She looked up at me, blushing delightfully. The photographer perfectly captured that moment. The second was taken at La Guardia as we left the terminal hand-in-hand. Except for the one mention of Angelique having been an escort, the article isn’t at all damaging.
"Have you seen this?" Jodi storms in a short while later, waving a folded newspaper.
"I've just read it."
She looks at me quizzically. "You're calmer than I thought you'd be."
"It's annoying, but it's pretty innocuous."
"Well, I think it's despicable," she says, dropping it onto my desk with a thud.
"Fuck!" I exclaim angrily when reading the headline. Snatching up the offending paper, I continue.
Notorious Escort Targets Another of Our Finest Sons
Angelique Bain, the highly paid escort responsible for Senator Justin Wade’s recent downfall, appears to have found her next victim in Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne.
The pair was spotted jetting off to New York together, no doubt, to avoid drawing attention in Boston. One has to wonder how long the prosecutor has been having a clandestine relationship with a prostitute, and just how being involved with the woman at the center of the senator’s trial adversely influenced his handling of the Wade and Cordi cases.
I'm pacing by the time I reach the end. "Can we reconvene in the morning? I have to deal with this," I ask Jodi.
"Sure. Text or call if there’s anything I can do," she says instantly. I'm already gathering my things as she turns to leave.
.
.
"Let me make myself perfectly clear. Ms. Bain is not responsible for Senator Wade’s so-called downfall. No evidence was uncovered during the police investigations or disclosed during trial to support the claim made in your article, so I challenge you to justify what you’ve printed.
"I also demand that you produce evidence that points to me starting a relationship with Ms. Bain before or during the Wade trial and which proves misconduct or oversight on the Commonwealth’s behalf during his or any Cordi-related trial," I say, holding the wavering gaze of the now profusely sweating editor.
I made my way straight from my office to that of the newspaper responsible for that inflammatory report. The receptionist, at first, tried to turn me away but after a few terse words from me, she scurried off to deliver the pointed message I scrawled on the back of a business card and returned within minutes to show me to the editor’s office.
I dropped the copy of the newspaper on his desk, pointed out every libelous comment and demanded that he cite the evidence to substantiate the assertions made in an article that he, ultimately, had approved. He tried to bluff his way through by quoting the 'right of the people to know' and that 'it was a reasonable conclusion to draw.’ I bluntly reminded him that the public had the right to know the truth and that the only truth to be found in the report was that Angelique had once been a paid escort and that we’d traveled to New York. Everything else was speculation and scurrilous gossip.
"Unless you’re able to provide irrefutable proof, you’ll find your newspaper, yourself and yo
ur questionable reporter the subjects of a libel suit. It will cost your publication its reputation and millions of dollars, and quite possibly you and the reporter your jobs," I tell him now and, seeing his trepidation, deliver my final blow.
"You don’t want to test me on this because you haven't only made false statements about Ms. Bain and me, you've also indirectly questioned the way the DA’s office conducts business. The DA will decide how the Department responds, but as I've stated, I will act to protect Ms. Bain’s and my reputations. So, while you scramble around trying to gather non-existent evidence, I expect to read a retraction in tomorrow’s edition. If not, you'll be served by the end of the day and face me in a courtroom soon after."
I place a business card on his desk. "I expect to see a draft before it goes to print. Email it to this address by the end of today."
I leave, only barely resisting the urge to slam his door on my way out.
.
.
I watch, unseen, from the entrance to the living room as Angelique moves her hand in a graceful arc while speaking to Mom. Her mouth curves into delighted a smile when she looks up and spots me.
"Adam, you're home," she exclaims sounding both overjoyed and relieved.
I don't remember consciously moving; all I remember is how what she said resonated with me; home—with her. I stop before Angelique and cup her face in both hands. The feel of her soft lips beneath mine ignites my blood, and I don't know exactly how long it takes before Mom's giggle penetrates my brain.
I tear myself away reluctantly to find Angelique flushed, breathless and clearly embarrassed at the realization that Mom witnessed our passion. I caress the curve of her cheek reassuringly and, looping an arm around her waist, turn us both to greet my smiling mother.
"Hello, sweetheart. How was court?" she asks, unable to hide both her delight and amusement at what she’d seen.