WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Thanks so much! I’ll be sure to put in a good word about you with Mr. Trammel. And your name is . . . ?”

  “Joe.”

  “Thanks again, Joe.”

  The politician headed off toward the elevator.

  Joe sat back down, closed his eyes, and sighed. He had let the woman go up twenty minutes earlier. He knew Spencer was married and that his wife had cancer.

  It made him sick.

  He thought of his own wife. At 26 and from a small town, Deb had no idea what crap he saw and heard every day. It made you cynical about the country and its leaders.

  He wondered suddenly how long it would take for him to be affected—no, infected by it all.

  He made up his mind, right then.

  After the baby came, he would get them all out of this goddamned town.

  3

  In the bathroom of 1401, Emmalee stared at herself in the mirror and made a few last-minute adjustments.

  Avery had told her to wear the same sexy outfit she’d worn to their lunch meeting at the Four Seasons. The little black cocktail dress—braless beneath. The spiky black heels. The diamond earrings.

  She leaned forward to peer more closely. Her eyes looked better: the dark circles were gone now that she’d been sleeping again. Her lips, crimson and glossy-wet-looking, curved into a wide smile.

  She looked hot.

  And felt excited. She’d found photos online of Carl Spencer at some beach, shirtless and in swim trunks, playing volleyball with kids half his age. He had the body of a lifeguard—all biceps and abs and lean thighs. She watched a YouTube video of him playing lead guitar on stage with some band at a fundraiser. The way he moved and prowled the stage, like some big cat . . .

  It was surreal. It was barely a month since Ash died. That was shock enough. And it left her with nothing. Then too, it had dashed her dreams of living in the White House as First Lady.

  She’d thought her life was over.

  Then, just over two weeks ago, Avery swooped in, like a knight on a white horse. One week later, she’s living at the Watergate—the mistress of one of the most powerful men in the world. She’d managed to seduce him away from one of the most famous and beautiful movie stars in the world.

  And now this man—with sexual appetites as strong as hers, and as adventurous as Ash’s—wants to share her with the stud senator who is Ash’s successor to become president!

  It was insane. Impossible.

  Yet, here she was . . .

  Her eyes in the mirror were narrow and her face felt warm. She had never had this much power over men.

  You’ve underestimated yourself, Emmy girl.

  The images of Carl Spencer and Avery Trammel appeared in her mind’s eye, standing side by side.

  If you play this just right, you can have your pick of either of them.

  She wondered which one she would choose, if it came down to that. After all, you have to think ahead . . . Avery was considerably older, but incredibly rich and connected. She’d never have to worry about money or social position for the rest of her life. Spencer was younger, even sexier, and probably rich enough. But of course there was no guarantee that he’d be elected president. On TV they were saying he was way behind in the polls.

  She chuckled to herself. It’s like I’m Jackie, trying to choose between Kennedy and Onassis.

  Maybe it would all come down to which one might be willing to ditch his current wife for her. It was more likely Avery would do that. Spencer couldn’t—not as someone running for president. Even more unlikely that he would divorce her if he became president.

  Then she remembered what she read: His wife had cancer. So maybe, if she—

  She cut off the thought. It wasn’t nice to think that way. It would be terrible if she died.

  Of course, tragic things happen in life, all the time.

  And if it did, and he was free . . . and if he became president . . .

  The doorbell chimed, startling her.

  She took a last look. Tugged the v-neck of the dress to gape a bit wider. Then walked out and down the hall, past the guest bedroom . . . where Avery told her he’d installed a hidden, closed-circuit TV system, ready to film whatever happened.

  It was like being a porn star, with other eyes watching her.

  The anticipation was driving her crazy.

  4

  Carl Spencer had decided not to use his own key. It felt weird to just barge in, and she might take it the wrong way. He had to play this just right. So instead he rang the doorbell to 1401. He heard the faint chime inside. A moment later, the sharp clopping of a woman’s heels, approaching.

  When the door opened, she stood there looking up at him, back-lit by a crystal chandelier. Blonde hair, mussy-wild. Warm brown eyes. Wide, generous mouth, curved like a red Cupid’s bow.

  But not wearing business attire. He was astonished to see she was tucked, barely, into a little black dress, with lots of boob showing. Like she had just come from a cocktail party.

  “Senator! How good of you to meet me here . . . privately.”

  Her voice was low, a silky purr. She extended her hand.

  Or maybe the party was yet to come . . .

  “Well, of course, Mrs. Conn,” he managed, wrapping her smooth, warm hand in both of his, offering a grin he hoped had a bit of flirt in it.

  She continued to appraise him for a moment, giving his hands a little squeeze. The tension rose in the silence. Just when things were about to get awkward, she broke the contact.

  “Please, come in.” She spun on her heel, sending the short hem of the skirt swirling a few inches higher, then walked away from him into the living room. Walked like a model, one tanned, sculpted leg crossing in front of the other, giving her ass a nice little wiggle.

  Spencer knew women. And over the years, he had heard plenty of juicy rumors about Emmalee Conn.

  She’s giving me a show.

  He was no longer nervous. He was excited.

  “Avery left out some Chardonnay and fruit in the kitchen,” she called out. Then she stopped and turned only her head, cocked to the side. “Hungry?” she asked, arching a brow.

  He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. Flipped the latch to lock it.

  “As a matter of fact,” he answered, “I am.”

  Spencer followed the trailing scent of her perfume into the kitchen.

  They brought the now-opened bottle, wine glasses, fruit bowl, and some plates to the coffee table in the living room. She settled on the sofa, grinned up at him, and patted a place beside her. He took off his suit jacket, tossed it onto a club chair, then stretched, giving her a bit of a show.

  “You don’t look like most of the men in this town,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “Ash had trouble staying in shape.”

  He slid into place beside her. “I try to work out every day. And watch what I eat. It’s hard. Everybody on the Hill wants to meet at restaurants.” He smiled. “So many temptations in this town.”

  She tossed her head back and laughed. “That’s for sure.”

  His eyes roamed her body openly, now confident that she enjoyed it. “Well, it’s obvious you keep yourself in great shape.”

  “Thank you. That’s sweet of you.”

  “Tennis?”

  “And swimming. I also do dance workouts. Did you know I used to be a dancer before I met Ash?”

  “Oh, right. He told me that once . . . Again, Mrs. Conn, I’m so sorry about that.” He felt he had to go through the charade. “He and I were always friends, even though we were sometimes rivals.”

  She patted his knee. “It was so nice of you to attend his memorial service, senator. And please, call me Emmalee.”

  “Sure, Emmalee. And it’s Carl . . . It was such a shock to everyone,” he went on. “I hope you’ve been managing to cope.”

  “Well, you can’t cry forever.” A little ripple of a shrug. “You have to move on.”

  “Yes. That’s the right attitude . . . Here, let me pou
r some wine.”

  He filled the glasses.

  “To new friendships,” he said, raising his.

  “And new beginnings,” she replied, touching hers to his.

  They held each other’s eyes as they sipped.

  “Avery explained your situation, Emmalee. I want to assure you that I came here to help. And please, don’t think it’s charity. A woman like you could be a great asset to me . . . to my campaign,” he added quickly. “I can think of several positions for you.”

  “What positions did you have in mind, Carl?” She kicked off her heels and sat back against a pillow, drawing one leg under her.

  “I can see you planning and overseeing a lot of the campaign events. You’ve had a lot of experience with those.”

  “Yes. Plenty of experience.”

  “Of course,” he added, picking up a slice of mango, “the position would be demanding. It would involve months of travel with me and my staff, flying on my plane from city to city. Living in hotel rooms.” He popped the mango slice into his mouth. “But you’d be well compensated.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said. “It sounds perfect, really. After all, I’m used to traveling with a senator and living in hotel rooms, you know.” Her smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed. “Thank you so much, Carl. If that’s an offer, I’m eager to accept. I just hope I can give you good value. I’d want to give you everything I gave to Ash.”

  “I have no doubt you will,” he said. He had a hard time keeping his hand steady as he took another sip.

  “Is that mango any good, Carl?”

  “Delicious.”

  She set her wine glass down on the lamp table beside her.

  “I’m comfortable here. Could you fetch me a piece?”

  “Sure.” He put a few slices on a small plate and moved closer, offering it. “Here you go.”

  “I’m nice and relaxed now. First time in days.” She smiled, keeping her eyes closed. “Mind popping one in my mouth?” She parted her lips slightly.

  His heart was pounding now. He picked up a piece from the platter. Raised it to her mouth. Tapped it against her lips.

  Her eyes opened. She looked into his as she took a small bite of the fruit. Juice dribbled over her lip, down her chin.

  “Mmmmm,” she said, eyes dead serious now, and holding his like a vice.

  He reached out and brushed his forefinger across her chin and lips, wiping off the wetness.

  Not breaking eye contact, she took his hand in both of hers.

  “We don’t want all that tasty juice to go to waste, do we?”

  She wrapped her glistening red lips around his forefinger.

  5

  Senator Carl Spencer was whistling when, at 8 a.m. sharp, he entered the stately, vaulted lobby of the historic Hay-Adams Hotel.

  Though he’d had only three hours of sleep—and only after he returned to his own residence—he felt more energized than he had in months. He couldn’t stop thinking about her and the night they’d just spent together. He couldn’t believe the kinky stuff she insisted upon—things he’d never tried before, nor ever imagined he’d enjoy. Now, in the bright light of day, the memories embarrassed him . . . even as he had to suppress the impulse to grin like an idiot.

  He trotted up the short flight of lobby steps and turned left, into the elegant Lafayette Restaurant. The dining room’s creamy white walls, gold-framed art, crown molding, and beaded crystal chandeliers reminded him of the Neoclassical rooms in the nearby White House.

  He spotted Avery Trammel already seated at an isolated window table at the far end of the room. Spencer let someone take his coat and made his way through the tables filled with breakfast diners. Trammel had a cup of coffee in hand and was studying a folded copy of the Post on the table before him.

  “Good morning, Avery,” he said cheerily.

  The billionaire glanced up, but did not smile, rise, or offer a handshake. “Have a seat, senator.” His eyes dropped back to the newspaper.

  Spencer caught something cool in the tone. He felt his smile waver as he pulled out an antique-style chair opposite the billionaire and sat. Spencer reached for the silver coffee service between them and gestured with the pot.

  “Freshen your cup?”

  “I’m fine.” Trammel didn’t raise his eyes.

  His manner, so different from their previous phone conversation.

  Something is definitely off.

  “I appreciate your text message inviting me here this morning,” he offered, pouring his own cup and trying to generate a pleasant mood. “I’m most grateful for your generous offer of ‘hands-on’ assistance to my campaign.”

  At that, Trammel looked up again. His hard, colorless eyes reminded Spencer of a bird of prey.

  “Actually, senator, I am here to rescue your campaign.”

  It surprised him. He put down the coffee pot.

  “Rescue? I don’t understand.”

  Trammel kept unblinking eyes on him as he sipped his coffee. Then lowered the delicate china cup to its saucer with a faint clink. Then raised his napkin to dab at his lips.

  “You are a dismal fourteen points behind Helm on Gallup. And the Post”—he tapped the newspaper with a manicured finger—“has you down fifteen points. That deficit is still not insurmountable at this stage of the campaign cycle. However, you are not positioning yourself to turn things around. As Lucas told you weeks ago, your campaign has no theme and no narrative. Perhaps that is because the campaign is an accurate projection of the candidate himself. You realize that the progressive base of the party believes you to be a vacuous opportunist, without convictions or message. Based on your performance to date, I am inclined to agree with them.”

  It shocked him. It had been years since anyone had dared to criticize him to his face, let alone insult him.

  “Now, wait a minute, Avery. That is completely—”

  “No, you wait a minute, senator.” Trammel leaned in, resting his clasped hands on the tablecloth. He turned to the tall, curtained window beside them. “Look over there,” he said, lowering his voice.

  Spencer’s gaze followed his—out across Lafayette Park and its eponymous statue of the heroic Revolutionary War general, to the White House beyond, gleaming under the bright morning sun.

  “Do you recognize that building, Senator Spencer?”

  “Are you joking? What in the world are—”

  “Do you truly wish to reside there?”

  Spencer stared at him. “Avery, what are you driving at?”

  Trammel turned back to face him.

  “Just this. I have invested a great deal in the outcome of this election. Much more than you could possibly appreciate or imagine. And I am not prepared to see this singular opportunity squandered, due to your own shortcomings. For that reason, it is necessary for me to intercede and impose some discipline and direction upon you and your campaign.”

  Spencer couldn’t believe the bastard’s sheer arrogance.

  “What do you mean, ‘intercede’? What in hell makes you think you can just march in and start issuing orders to me?”

  “Only this.”

  Trammel opened up the folded copy of the Post, revealing a large brown envelope tucked inside. He pushed it across the table.

  Spencer undid the clasp and opened the flap. He reached in and pulled out the contents, which spilled onto the pristine white tablecloth.

  The 8 x 10 photos were blow-ups, in full color. Most were full-body shots of her with him, showing graphically and unmistakably what they were doing. And some were close-ups of their faces, showing exactly who was doing what.

  He felt his stomach lurch. Hands shaking and eyes darting around, he scooped up the photos and jammed them back into the envelope.

  “Avery!” he croaked. “How did—”

  Then, as he looked into those cold raptor eyes, he knew.

  “You . . . You and her,” he hissed. “God damn you! You two set me up!”

  “If it makes you feel better,” he
said, “she has no idea about this. You can keep those copies as souvenirs of your tryst. Naturally, I have retained the original digital images. Oh, and when you have a moment, do check out the thumb drive at the bottom of the envelope. It contains extensive video clips of your antics. I must say, Senator, you were both quite . . . uninhibited. Still, even in our liberalized society, I believe most voters would deem much of your behavior distasteful, if not disgusting.”

  Spencer seized the glass of ice water near his place setting, sloshing some onto the tablecloth. He took several large gulps, then he fell back, gripping the arm of his chair and trying to tamp down dizzying waves of terror and nausea.

  “Why . . . are you doing this?” he gasped.

  “You know me, senator. I must have my reasons.” He took another sip of coffee.

  “This is blackmail! But . . . it can’t be for money.”

  That evoked a cold chuckle. “Of course not. You should spare yourself the torture of trying to guess my motive. You never will.”

  “Then what exactly do you want of me?”

  Once again, Avery Trammel carefully lowered the cup to its saucer. Once again, he delicately dabbed his lips with the napkin. Once again, he leaned in, this time with a smile that was almost imperceptible.

  “Now, that is the correct question. And the answer is: From now on, senator, I want you to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “I love riding in the nice car for a change.”

  Annie ran her fingers across the plush leather interior of his BMW 7 Series High Security car. “And you even have my ‘smooth jazz’ station on for me.”

  “Nothing but the best for my girl,” Hunter responded, backing out of her driveway.

  “But I thought you were limiting the use of this Beemer to your ‘Wayne Grayson’ alias.”

  “This is a special occasion. A wealthy gentleman doesn’t escort his lady to a presidential debate in a Subaru Forester. Or—perish the thought—in a Ford van.” He didn’t mention his real motive for selecting this automobile from his collection. The BMW’s body was armored, its laminate windows could resist anything up to a high-powered rifle, and it was loaded with state-of-the-art sensors and protective technology. The custom gun case between the seats was an added plus, and tonight it held a couple of serious weapons.