One

Cheryl Crawford relished the initial seconds of awareness when her husband, Justin, invaded her personal space, crowding her air with his distinguished presence, until every breath that filled her lungs was of him. He possessed a power over her that had her nose so wide open she couldn’t even speak of it in the hushed covenant of privacy she and her sisters-in-law shared.

They attributed her silence to years of cultivated refinement; after all, she’d been with him more than half her life. But they didn’t know how much she wanted, no, needed him in her life. Apart from her relationship with the Almighty, he was her everything.

Justin didn’t even have to be within feet of her; yards were enough to start her juices flowing and make her forget her perpetual state of want. And want him she did with the bleak-eyed focus of a junky.

There was only one way to sate her blinding desire. One definitive conclusion that had ended thousands of times in the exact same manner: with her fetal-like, hoarding the evaporating thrill of having just experienced a simultaneous burst of what she’d come to know was synonymous only with him.

He was Zing.

That mystical magnetic power that raided her body like the GBI on a meth lab, until there was nothing left on her lips but “Ah.”

Zing.

The fire that burned from his gray-eyed gaze would slap her on the ass across a crowded room and make her scurry for the confines of a bedroom, bathroom, closet, or God help her, a balcony.

Zing.

Damn him.

He had it and he knew how to use it. Like P. Diddy to rap, a baby to a full breast, all he had to do was reach out a finger, quirk one full brow, lick his lips or crook up the corner of his mouth and she was his.

As they stood inside the Pacific Mausoleum on the island of Ecuador, Cheryl slipped from the crowd admiring him and went outside into the evening spring air.

“You are exactly as I’d pictured. Absolutely luscious.”

She pivoted on her recent birthday presents, three thousand dollar René Mancini shoes, and looked at her uninvited suitor.

Chad Brown had worked as Justin top aide for the past year and had come into his own as a political insider. Cheryl didn’t doubt that one day he’d make a formidable opponent, in the boardroom as well as elsewhere. In addition to being smart, he was as handsome and cocky as the tilt of his lips.

Bold wasn’t accurate enough to describe a man who’d fall in like with a married man’s wife. Wrong was a better description, but Cheryl stopped short of passing judgment. He was making passes at her, and she hadn’t cussed him out for overstepping his bounds.

The truth was, she bore his flirtations in guilty silence because the rare times he’d dare breach the line of propriety with his highly shined Kenneth Coles, she’d been dying for the attention of another man. Her husband. And Justin didn’t pay her any mind.

“You should be working,” she told Chad, who stood with his hands in his pockets, the single-breasted suit jacket mussed but perfect.

“Even God rested. But then there’s Justin.”

Cheryl wasn’t going there. Not with a man she could see herself getting to know if they’d met in another lifetime. How had Erykah Badu known?

“I’m proud of my husband,” Cheryl informed him. “You should be more respectful of your boss.”

She gathered the train of the beautiful lavender Vera Wang dress and stepped lightly down the stairs.

“Lies from a beautiful woman’s lips are poison in the veins of those who care about them.”

Heat flushed Cheryl’s face. “Why would I lie? My husband is working hard for all of us.”

“Then why are you out here? Lonely?” He walked down the stairs deliberately. “Tired of being so beautiful, and dutiful, and alone?”

He closed the distance between them and Cheryl wouldn’t back away. Chad kept erasing the symbolic line of propriety, until she knew she’d have to be seriously direct, except he was right. She almost couldn’t refute his assessment. “You’re out of line,” she said. “And I’m married.”

“Happy-”

“Has nothing to do with you.”

Cheryl turned and before she could fully extend her arm, the car she’d hired to take her home had been signaled by Chad.

“How did you know?” she said into the balmy stillness.

“You’re royalty,” he said as if she should have known, and opened the car door and extended his hand. “It’s my job to know just about everything.”

She considered what the taxi driver might think, but knew it would get around town if she refused to accept Chad’s hand of assistance. She hated the direction of her thoughts. She was tired of being a public figure’s wife. Tired of caring what everyone else thought. For once she wanted to sit back and just be. She wanted her husband to do the same.

Chad held the door and she slid into the cool vehicle. Before the driver could get back into the car, Chad glanced at him. “Uno momento, senor.”

The man nodded and stepped away.

Chad crouched down until they were eye level. “If he doesn’t know how exquisite you are, he may as well let you be with someone who’ll never forget. Your mouth is—damn.” He sighed as his gaze strolled leisurely over her MAC-glammed lips. “When was the last time you were kissed?”

Before Cheryl could help herself, she licked her lips. Chad swore again, softly. He fingered the silk in her floor-length skirt. “Goodnight, Mrs. Crawford.”

Cheryl waited until the driver had hit the main road before she breathed. Chad was playing with her head. So how could he have known the depth of her insecurities?

She loved Justin to the very core of her soul. And up until now, she’d have done anything for him. Yet, despite her decision to complete the interview process for the teaching job at the University of South Africa, a decision that wouldn’t be popular with her husband, she still yearned for his touch.

Cheryl had to remind herself that sex wasn’t everything. She had to tell herself that the magnitude of her discontent was to a point where she had to follow her dreams or succumb once and for all to “The life.”

Beacons of light from the shore reflected off the dazzling Pacific, strong the way she was supposed to be, and Cheryl silently praised herself for taking a stand on her own behalf.

She wouldn’t be one of those women in the relationship section of Jet magazine married for sixty years, but not a smile to be found on her or her groom. Those couples weren’t fooling anyone. Each was waiting for the other to die before they would either live it up or live in peace.

Hell no, she thought.

That wouldn’t be her.

“Casa, por favor,” she said. A tinge of the loneliness that had taken root in her heart fell from her lips with the words.

Justin commanded respect and got results. He was revered and quoted, articulate and charismatic. When sought, he went, and wherever he went success followed.

He’d conquered her long ago. Were it not for the death grip of assurity that she was doing the right thing, she would be at his side right now, trying to coax him out of schmoozing and into a romp in bed with her, the one woman who’d trusted him implicitly with her body and heart.

They’d done it all, in every way imaginable, but he still had that power of surprise and took her to new heights regularly.

Last night had been rough, raw, aggressive, and powerful. He’d taken hold of her foot, pulled her quivering body to him, and plunged. She’d cried out his name to the melody of a crashing orgasm, and she was sure nothing in life could get sweeter than that.

“Senor,” she said breathless. “Take me back.”

Through the rearview mirror, he eyed her curiously and obeyed. Two-thirds into a three-point turn, her mind and body battled until desperation shoved desire against the glass ceiling of her life and forced her to look.

At night Justin knew how to coax responses from her body she didn’t know she possessed. Out of bed, he barely knew she existed.

“Stop,” she cried in Spanish. “Please, take me home.”

“Senora?” The driver stopped in the middle of the road, causing cars to careen around them, horns blaring.

The metaphor of the swiveling vehicles mirrored her life too closely.

“When it is safe, please turn around and take me home. A nice tip for you. Double,” she said, and pulled the money from her bag.

The cash was enough to suspend his doubt about her sanity, yet he wasted no time in getting her to her door and out of his car.

To his credit he waited until she was inside before peeling off the majestic driveway of her stately home. The tire marks would anger Juan, the property manager. He’d question the staff until the culprit confessed. She’d have to speak with him in the morning before he fired everyone.

Cheryl took the winding staircase up to the bedroom and opened the French doors. She ignored the huge bed and the memories it evoked, stopped at her desk and withdrew a sheet of stationery.

In the past, expressing herself verbally hadn’t worked. Maybe the written word would capture his attention.

Cheryl sank down, kicked the train of her dress aside and let the pen touch the paper. The words began to flow.

“My darling Justin, I love you so much it hurts me to write this, but it’s time you knew how I felt. I miss us. I miss our private time together, the long walks in the park and the passionate kisses we used to share under Atlanta’s bright sun. I miss the person you were before you became an Ambassador three years ago. Before the will of the people became more of a priority than our commitment to each other. Please resign, Justin, and go with me so that I can teach in Africa as we agreed, and in the process I believe we can find our way back to each other. I’m willing to start over. Let’s recapture our love with one intimate kiss under the exotic sky.

I love you with all my heart.

Cheryl.

Cheryl released the pen, suddenly tired. Hopefully Justin would listen.

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