Free Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Page A

of prince.” Bobby chuckled coldly. “What did she tell you about
     me?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Then how did you know my nickname?”
    “Polly said I’d be sitting behind a hunk of ice cream. I had no idea she meant you.”
    Bobby’s irritation increased. “Did she say why she wasn’t going to be there?”
    “She had a date with a football player.” I tried to look embarrassed. “Unlike you, he left his wife at home.”
    “That was the problem?
Paula?
”
    “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a woman thing.”
    “But our going to that play was official business!”
    Unless he was the best actor in the universe, Bobby had no idea that Barnard was dead. Why was he so upset now? Did he have
     genuine feelings for her? Or was the concept of anyone leaving him insupportable? “Official for you, maybe.”
    “Shit.” He got himself another beer. I looked into the trees, around the lawn: no witnesses but the stars. Bobby’s bodyguards
     had no idea how easily I could assassinate their charge and slip away into the night. Maybe they did know and were keeping
     their fingers crossed. The chains wheezed as Bobby returned to the swing. “You don’t live in America, do you?”
    “I grew up in Berlin. It’s home to me.”
    “Will you be going back soon?”
    “After a few more concerts.”
    He laid a warm, thick hand on my thigh. “That’s not much time.”
    So much for genuine feelings. I put my drink on the floor and looked Bobby full in the face. His mouth was inches from mine
     and closing in fast when I said, “May I use the bathroom?”
    It had to be upstairs because of the skylight. Behind the first door I found the marble tub and potted plants I had seen in
     Barnard’s video. Camera not too cleverly stashed atop the linen cabinet, aimed at the bathtub: Barnard would have noticed
     it within seconds. Maxine was correct: Barnard had made that video on purpose. If I went to the toilet, I’d pass right in
     front of the lens: no way Frost would go on record here. Not yet. First I wanted to know who’d be watching. I went across
     the hall and saw another camera aimed at the gigantic bed.
    Bladder unrelieved, I returned to the porch. Bobby was staring at an airplane as the head on his beer opalesced in the moonlight.
     He had slid another five inches toward my side of the swing. I detoured to the railing, inhaled the damp breeze. “Whose house
     is this?” I asked the trees.
    “A close friend gave me the keys on Inauguration Day. Every president needs a special hideaway.” Bobby slipped behind me.
     I caught my breath as he kissed the nape of my neck. After a moment he drew my hips backward, against his pelvis. Maybe he
     had stashed a piece of the Manhattan aqueduct in there.
    I turned around. “What about Polly?”
    Now his lips started in on my collarbone. “She’s history.”
    “Not to me.”
    Bobby smiled indulgently, as if I were kidding. “I’ve never made love to a woman who didn’t want me.” He resumed at my throat.
     “On the other hand, I never met one who didn’t.”
    I was beginning to understand how he had convinced the voters to put him in the White House. My stomach fluttered as he nibbled
     with absolute concentration beneath my sternum. Resistance impossible: this man’s gift was persuasion. With crowds, on the
     tube, he was reliable as a diesel; one-on-one, he was overwhelming. As his hand slid beneath my dress, wilted a moment as
     it encountered no underwear, enlightenment struck. Forget about his mark on history: Bobby Marvel lived to fuck. Being president
     was just the best means to that end. He truly believed he was conferring some sort of Purple Heart on the women he seduced.
     What higher honor than to be taken by
the president?
His sincerity was stupidly endearing. But I had known too many finer men.
    “You’re very nice,” I sighed, retreating. “However, not my type.”
    Momentary disbelief, then that dazzling smile. “No one’s made me wait in twenty