Dreamslave

Part One: Sweet Dreams

The main foyer in the Governor’s mansion was covered with mirrors, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. When the butler took her coat, Alice checked her reflection in the smoky glass, running impatient fingers through the stray locks that spilled out of her carefully styled hair.

Usually, she saw her own eyes through the thick lenses of her own spectacles, staring back at her, magnified and distorted, like a startled owl. Seeing them unaided for the first time in her life was a bit of a shock, yet she recognized them.

And below that?

She turned sideways and ran an exploratory hand down the black silk of her dress. This was a stranger she somehow acknowledged to be Alice, a girl who was petite where she had always been gross. The chin was less sunken, the breasts higher and prouder, the hair glossier, the stance more graceful.

Of course, she had almost forgotten. She had once been an Olympic gymnast until that tragedy in Munich had forced her early retirement. The muscular shoulder that her gown left bare still carried the faint traces of a surgical scar. She had recovered completely, but a gymnast sidelined for even a year was effectively prevented from ever returning to serious competition. Gymnastics is a sport for the very young. Most women her age were thinking about starting a career. She had already been forced to abandon one.

The Governor’s wife bustled into the foyer, letting in laughter and a susurrus of conversation from the room beyond. “Alice! I’m so glad you could make it!” She gathered Alice into her arms and planted a social kiss on the girl’s cheek. “There are some friends here that you simply must meet!” She gushed. “They wouldn’t believe me when I told them that I knew you!”

Alice sighed. Fame is a cheap bauble that tarnishes quickly. She would gladly have traded it for a single true friend. She composed her smile and allowed the Governor’s wife to lead her into the party. Heads turned and small talk ceased as Alice appeared. Many raised their eyebrows or lifted a glass to greet her as they caught her eye. It was the usual pack of party hounds—rock stars, sports heroes, super models, and Hollywood icons. Alice had wearied of their company long ago.

“You know the President and First Lady, of course,” said the Governor’s wife.

“How good to see you again!” said Alice, shaking the President’s hand. She had never been able to understand why some women found him attractive. The First Lady threw decorum to the winds and hugged Alice warmly. “Alice, dear!” she cried. “We never had a chance to thank you properly for resolving that crises in East Patania last year!”

A waiter appeared and brought drinks to the President and First Lady. He offered one to Alice as well.

“No, thank you,” she said. Then she noticed that the waiter continued to hold the drink out to her, cupping the glass from below to support a cardboard coaster under it, and his eyes were frantic with silent message.

“Perhaps I’ll have just one,” she murmured. She took the drink with both hands, cradling the coaster. “Thank you.”

The waiter nodded. Relief was evident in his eyes. Someone had offered him a serious reward to deliver this drink, she thought, or threatened him with serious harm if he failed.

As the waiter turned and hurried away, Alice tipped the glass to drink, holding the coaster tight against the bottom of the tumbler and reading the message that a familiar hand had hastily printed on it.

“Meet me on the terrace—urgent!”

Excusing herself, Alice moved across the crowded room toward the French doors, which were open to the night air. The terrace was deserted, but Alice saw two fleeting shadows running hand in hand toward the shrubbery. She might have assumed that they were lovers, seeking privacy in the moonlight, but years of training made her alert to the possibility that they might have a more sinister purpose.

Heart pounding, Alice moved away from the lights that spilled across the terrace and sought the protection of the shadows.

“Are you alone?”

The voice spoke softly from the gloom. She smiled, recognizing the weary baritone that addressed her. “Not anymore,” she said.

He stepped out of concealment, suddenly very near. She had forgotten that he was so tall. He was only a slouched silhouette in a trench coat and fedora, but she could imagine the sad eyes in that rugged, mournful face, the tic that pulled at the corner of his mouth in times of stress.

“It’s been a long time, shweetheart,” he said. “Too long.”

She was trembling. “Too long,” she breathed, raising her chin for his kiss.

Then she was swept up in one powerful arm, gasping as his mouth sealed hers, feeling the light stubble of his chin, savoring the memories conjured by the scent of his hair oil. She could feel the hard erection swelling against her thigh and remembered her surprise that night in Paris when she finally saw him naked and rampant in the soft glow of neon from the sign outside the hotel window. She had been apprehensive then, fearing that she would be unable to bear the thrust of that monster, but his gentleness and skill had aroused her. The strong scent of his cologne had barely concealed the lingering odor of gun oil as he held her close. His scarred hands had played over the tight muscle of her belly, seeking the pink buttons of her nipples and teasing them until she was wet, and open for him, and welcomed him unafraid.