Page 50 of Prime Time

Andy nodded, but she didn’t say anything before carrying the tray with the pitcher of tea and two tall glasses into the office. Lyon was no longer seated behind the desk, but sprawled on the leather sofa with his eyes closed. His hands were folded over his belt. He was in shirtsleeves. His vest, coat, and necktie were heaped on a chair.

Andy crept toward him on silent feet. She got to within inches of him before he opened his eyes. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Just resting.”

“Would you like some iced tea?”

“Yes.”

“Do you take sugar?”

“Two.” She shuddered. “I take it that means you prefer your tea unsweetened.”

“I was remembering that syrup I had to drink at Gabe’s. He must use three or four teaspoons in every glass.”

“Why did you drink it?”

“I had to do something while I was getting up the courage to speak to you.”

“Robert cheated on you?”

The change of subject was so abrupt that Andy’s face revealed the same sudden shock as it had when she’d first learned, through a “friend,” of her husband’s unfaithfulness. “Yes.”

Lyon sighed and traced patterns on the frosty glass with his fingertip. “I’ve taken many women to bed. I think that most of those times were mutually enjoyable. But never while I was married. I demanded absolute fidelity from both of us. I think that’s the way a marriage should be.”

“You probably learned that from your father. Gracie said that even after your mother died, he had no interest in other women.”

“He loved her up until … until he died.”

That opened the floodgate, and he began talking about his parents, particularly about the father whom he had loved and respected. “It wasn’t easy being the son of a living legend. Sometimes I resented that. Everyone expected more of me because of who my father was. His self-imposed exile had an effect on my youth. For instance we never traveled as a family, never went on vacations. When I was older, he let me go on trips with friends and their families.”

He talked about the funeral, the flag-draped coffin, the President and his kindness.

“Are you a political proponent of his?” she asked.

“Not at all, but he’s an awfully nice man.” They laughed and he asked her about the current President’s predecessor, whom she had interviewed.

She began telling him how the interview had come about, but after she had gotten a few sentences into her tale, she saw that his eyes were closed and his head was listing to one side as it lay against the back of the sofa. She took the half-full glass out of his hand and set it with her own on the coffee table. Waiting a few minutes until his breathing was deep and even, she put her hands on his shoulders and eased his head down onto her chest as she positioned herself in a reclining position in the corner of the sofa.

He stretched out quite naturally in his sleep to lie beside her. She measured the breaths that struck her skin in moist puffs. Her fingers sifted through his thick dark hair, and it curled around them like silken tentacles. She touched his face, loving it. Her hand smoothed down his broad back.

Once he adjusted his head more comfortably on her breast. The word he murmured might have been her name, but it might have been only her wishful imagination. She held him tight, whispering endearments and expounding on the love she’d never have had the courage to speak of if he were awake. Then she, too, slept.

When she awoke, he was kissing her breasts through the cloth of her dress. His hand stroked down her stomach to find her femininity and cup his hand over it.

“Lyon?” she whispered.

“Andy, please,” he groaned, “I want to make love.”

Chapter Ten

I need you. Right or wrong, whether it makes sense or not, I need you, Andy.”

Her fingers burrowed in his hair. There was no resistance on her part as the buttons on her dress fell away, nor when her brassiere was undone. He buried his face in the velvet cleft between her lush breasts. He was like a child seeking sustenance as his mouth planted frantic kisses on her flesh.

The man who was usually controlled and adept became clumsy and incompetent as he sought the hemline of her dress. She aided him in ridding her of restrictive undergarments. He grappled with the zipper of his trousers, haste making his movements jerky and desperate.

He came to her without preamble, but her body was ready to receive him. She sheathed him completely and tightly, taking his pain and sorrow and heartache into herself. With each thrust he emptied himself of bitterness and callousness. She accepted it. If her body could give him this comfort, then she wanted to be the remedy f

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