Home of Author Herbert Grosshans. Science Fiction with a dash of Erotica
Web of Conspiracy, Book Three
Web of Conspiracy
A decision Jeff Chartrand made in Iraq has serious consequences. A friend rescues him and he has a torrid love affair. News of another murder makes his world come crashing down. He and his team uncover a plot within the US to assassinate the President and it becomes a race against time to foil the plans of a terrorist group.
She helped him out of the car. His limbs had stiffened up from sitting for so long.
“Can you walk?” He detected the concern in her voice.
“I’ll manage,” he said, leaning on her. She was not a big woman, but he felt the hardness of muscles where he touched her.
This was not some soft party girl, even though she looked like one.
She lived in an apartment on the second floor in a building with tight security. They took the elevator from the underground parking garage. Even the garage was secure. No car would ever be allowed to enter without a pass. Only tenants of the building were in possession of a pass.
“Nice place,” he commented when they stepped into her apartment.
“It is home,” she said, smiling. “Sit down over there on the chesterfield. I want to take a picture of you.”
“For possible future use. One never knows when a picture will come in handy.” She helped him to the chesterfield. Looking at him, she shook her head. “You sure look quite a mess. Whoever worked you over did a good job.”
“How about giving me those painkillers before you take pictures?” He sank into the soft material, noticed it was leather. It looked expensive. No imitation here. Everything in her apartment looked expensive. The pictures on the walls; no prints, all original oils. The statue of a man and a woman embracing in the corner was exquisite.
“You seem to be doing well,” he said.
“Can’t complain. Now wait until I get your pills.”
He watched her walking away. She was slim, tall, maybe five seven or eight, with a walk that conveyed grace and strength. And she reeked of sensuality. She wore tight white pants that ended below her knees. Her calves were well formed, her ankles thin. He spotted a picture of her in a gi, with a black belt. It didn’t come as a surprise.
“Here we are.” She came out of the bathroom, went to a cupboard and took out a glass, filled it with water.
He took the pill from her, put into his mouth and washed it down with the water. “Is this water safe to drink?” he asked.
She chuckled and shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve been drinking it without any ill effects.” She watched him empty the glass. “Want some more?”
“No, maybe later. I’d appreciate something to eat, if you have. My belly is growling and calling for food.”
“Let me take the pictures first. Then I’ll make you a sandwich. All right?”
He nodded, winced when a flash of pain raced from his neck down his spine. He could only see with one eye now. His other one was swollen shut. He was afraid to look into a mirror.
She got a small digital camera and snapped some pictures.
“You want me to smile?” he asked in an attempt to be funny.
“Let me do the smiling,” she said. “You would only look phony with a smile right now.”
When she was finished, she went into the kitchenette and proceeded to make a few sandwiches. Then she picked a bottle of wine from a wine rack. “You want a glass of wine or a bottle of beer?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t mind a beer,” he said.
She went to the fridge and took out a bottle. “Glass?”
He shook his head. “Don’t need one. Just the bottle will be fine.”
“Can you make it to the table?”
As an answer, he got off the chesterfield and walked slowly over to the small table in the kitchenette.
“Might as well join you,” she said, filling her glass with red wine. “I like wine,” she said, smiled when she saw him watching her.
“I drink it on occasion but I prefer beer.” His lips hurt when he took a bite from his sandwich. Even his throat ached when he swallowed.
She studied him over the rim of her glass. He noticed that she had gray eyes, like her father. She didn’t wear much makeup; her lips seemed to be naturally red. Her eyebrows looked trimmed and, remembering Morgan’s bushy eyebrows, he couldn’t blame her for not letting them grow wild.
“My father said to take good care of you, Lieutenant Chartrand,” she said.