Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(49)

Fulmer put his back to the crowd. “I don’t want them to see me here.”

As if he hadn’t heard Fulmer, Hornden’s smile broadened. “And here she comes.”

Fulmer turned around to see a willowy woman in a simple black cocktail dress and exceptionally high heels approaching them. She matched Hornden’s smile, revealing small, white, even teeth. Unlike the other women in the rooms, she wore only a modicum of greasepaint, as Fulmer called makeup. Her skin was flawless, clear and dewy as a child’s. He was rocked by a sudden, unbidden thought: She has the face of an angel and the eyes of a devil. Those devilish tawny eyes regarded him with a straightforward interest, mixed with a certain curiosity. They were so light they gave her skin a burnished glow.

“National security advisor Marshall Fulmer, meet Gwyneth Donnelly. She’s the genius behind this place.”

“Stop it, Harry,” she said as she held out a perfectly manicured hand. As Fulmer took it, she said, “Call me Gwen.” She cocked her head. “And what shall I call you? Mr. Fulmer? No, too formal. Marsh?” Her laugh was like the tinkling of small bells. “No. I think not, judging by the horrified look on your face.”

Fulmer cleared his throat. He felt a bit dizzy. Was it overly warm in here? “Mr. Fulmer will do quite nicely.”

Gwyneth nodded. “As you wish.” She lifted a well-toned arm. “This way, gentlemen.”

She led them through the library, where their passage went totally unremarked. One of the hallmarks of the place was that every one of the clients kept his eyes on the women. Each to his own, self to self, could have been the business’s motto.

Thus heartened, Fulmer crossed to the far side of the library. They looked to be heading toward a wall full of books, until Gwyneth released a hidden latch and a door-size section of the wall swung inward. The three of them went through.

Down a wood-paneled corridor, lined on either side by Audubon lithographs of tropical birds, at the end of which was a door Gwyneth opened. The room was capacious, decorated not as an office but as a den. Lamplight only, turned low, gave the place a nestlike aspect. Oversize easy chairs covered in tobacco-colored leather, an abstract pattern rug under their feet, a glass coffee table, a small sofa upholstered in the same material as the chairs, between them a low cocktail table with a shiny, mirrored top. The papered walls were hung with Currier & Ives prints. In all, it felt like stepping back in time, into a men’s club from the nineteenth century.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Gwyneth said as she crossed to a sideboard holding a dozen or so bottles of liquor. “Mr. Fulmer?” she said over her shoulder.

“It’s late. Nothing for me.”

“Harry? Your usual?”

“Perfect.”

Gwyneth brought two glasses, handed one to Hornden, sipped at the other as she settled herself in a chair directly opposite Fulmer.

Is it my imagination, Fulmer asked himself, or did she take an extra few seconds crossing her legs? Either way, he glimpsed more of her than he had before. He liked what he saw, but was loathe to admit it to himself. Instead, he stiffened his spine, like a good soldier preparing for inspection.

“Harry,” Gwyneth said, a small smile playing about her lips, “be so kind as to remind me why we’re here?” She was looking directly at Fulmer, which she had done since she sat down.

“The national security advisor would like you to answer a question,” Hornden said.

“Just one?” That smile, less enigmatic, more playful now. “Oh, dear.”

Hornden cleared his throat. “Fulmer would like a bit of clarity as to who told you that he was responsible for the latest LeakAGE debacle that brought down General MacQuerrie.”

Before Gwyneth could answer, a repeating noise sounded, growing louder, like an approaching police car, causing Fulmer to start, only to relax as Hornden drew out his mobile. Gwyneth’s brows knit together.

“Dammit to hell, Harry, how many times do I have to tell you—”

“Sorry, Gwyneth. Mr. Fulmer.” He rose. “I have to take this.” And he exited the room without another word.

“Honestly,” Gwyneth said, clearly irritated, “I don’t know why I continue to tolerate that man.”

“Perhaps because he’s a good source of income,” Fulmer said, feeling more in control than he had since he’d stepped foot inside the townhome.

Gwyneth seemed to consider this for a moment while regarding Fulmer over the rim of her glass. That tinkling laugh rose again. “A pity you’re not a drinker.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She graced him with a sly curve to her lips. “You know, late at night, when most of the city is asleep, is the best time to drink, the best time for conversation, the best time for reviewing what went before and planning what is to come.”

“For that, I require a clear head.”

She drained her glass. “Liquor clears my head.”

“Then I salute you.”

Leaning forward, she put her glass down on the mirrored table, and Fulmer was treated to the sight of her full, creamy breasts. He was startled to realize she wasn’t wearing a bra. Didn’t every woman wear one?

“Harry warned me that you were no fun,” Gwyneth said, straightening up, but none too quickly.

It took more effort than he would have liked to keep his eyes from bugging out. “Harry knows very little about me.”