The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (40 page)

She smiled to herself, as she limped to the
washroom.

Best ever for me, she thought, even though
I'd rather have sex with a Roto-Rooter. It's not often that you get
to screw a sickening bastard to death.

Felicity picked up the half-f bottle of
1,000 mg, timed-release, vitamin C tablets that she knew Draper
kept in his medicine cabinet. The stinker's Right to Life
membership is about to be revoked. She emptied the bottle, and
dropped in the vitamin-C capsule she'd brought with her, the one
that was short on vitamin C, but long on sodium cyanide. Then she
returned the real vitamin-C capsules, and placed the bottle back on
the shelf.

She smiled again, and savored her moment.
'Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, [Draper], and for
the rest of your life.' All you have to do is remember to take your
vitamins.

A Tawny
Trophy

Betty-Jo's game was improving with each match
she played. She was seeing the ball well, and hitting it with pace
and confidence, thanks to the western grip, an oversized racquet
head, superb conditioning, and the use of imagery. When she stepped
onto the court, she was mentally tough, and focused. Before each
match, she pictured a time when she felt fearless and invincible.
The mental image she used most often was her tack-on-the-chair
revenge on old-man Ducksworthy.

It gratified her to know, that she not only
looked great, but that she was also playing tennis she could be
proud of. "I'm going to win this championship," she told Brad.

It was Saturday, and she was playing in her
first evening appearance on Stadium Court at the U.S. Open. She was
into the third round, and about to reveal her outfit surprise to
her eager fans. While she disliked pantyhose, sometimes it could
show what stockings and garter belts couldn't. That was why she
wore a gold aerobics body-top, that rode high on her hips, and
revealed legs that, in their sheer black-patterned pantyhose,
seemed to go on forever. She knew that men who loved leggy
grandeur, broad flaring hips, and a Michelangelo sculptured
rear-end, would go wild.

Prior to her match, Betty-Jo suddenly had a
disconcerting urge to itch between her legs. By the time she
reached the locker room door, she felt as if a colony of fire ants
had taken up residence in her crotch. Damn, she thought! It's
either ants in my pants or itching powder. She suspected the later,
because Valerie Chezkovitch was staring at her—as she ran past her
to the washroom—and the Russian looked pleased with herself.
Actually, itching powder is a rather cute trick, she thought. I
might as well face it; not everyone on tour is going to love
me.

Betty-Jo easily defeated unranked Israeli
national, Jordana Wiseman, six two, six three. But it was not a
victory she enjoyed. Throughout the match, all she wanted to do was
stop and itch. She had been unable to get all of the ants out of
her pants, and the remaining ants were agonizing. The arm of her
chair provided some relief on the changeovers, but she was aware
that the cameras were on her.

If I'm not circumspect about how I scratch,
the whole world will think I'm some kind of pervert.

A few members of the press, enamored by her
blatant sexuality, were predicting a U.S. Open championship for
Betty-Jo. But in the round of sixteen, she would be up against
sixth seated Anna Maria, a classy and seasoned player, who like
herself, was regarded as easy viewing by the male contingent. The
twenty thousand seat Stadium Court had quickly sold out, and
scalpers were receiving five hundred dollars for seventy-dollar
tickets. Tennis enthusiasts had never seen anything like it, and
neither had the American President. An overnight tennis enthusiast,
he invited all round of sixteen women to dinner at the White
House.

Betty-Jo was thrilled to receive an
invitation to dine with the President, until Brad reminded her that
he'd told her a presidential invitation might be forthcoming.

"Could it be that the President is more
interested in delving into you than into your tennis
accomplishments?" he asked as they lounged in their hotel room.

"You're being ridiculous. The President has
more important things to worry about than getting into my
undies."

"Don't be too sure. What's the point in
having power, if you can't exercise it to get what you want from
life every once in a while. Marilyn Monroe discovered that in the
Lincoln room. Tell me, would you like to sleep with the
President?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Idle curiosity."

"You know that you can do me whenever,
wherever and however you want. You also know that only you will
ever be allowed to do me—unless you're foolish enough to give our
secret kiss to some President type."

"Now that's a relief. 'Cause I'm not that
foolish."

"In other words, if I were a library book,
only you would be allowed to thumb through my pages. But the
President would be number two on my circulation list."

"Even before every woman's favorite, Tom
Cruise?"

"Oh yes. There's something about having the
ear, not to mention the sword of the most powerful man in the
world. I'm sick, aren't I?"

"Sick? No, I don't think so. I can understand
why you might want to cavort with the President."

He can be so understanding, she thought. "You
can?"

"Sure. You're certifiably cuckoo." He pinned
her to the bed.

He can also be a total jerk. "Thanks. Thanks
a lot! So it's sex with you—good, but sex with the
President—bad."

He grinned at her. "Yep. But cheer up. I
think your attraction to the President is something other than
mental instability. Men love sex, while women love intimacy and
powerful men."

"Your Tawny Cat loves sex." And to prove it,
she put her hand down the front of his pants, and grabbed him.

"But she's also partial to powerful men. Who
designed such a system?"

"According to you, it's God stirring things
up to amuse Himself."

"And I must be right, or why do-men hit their
sexual peak at eighteen, while women wait until they're thirty-five
to reach theirs. You should enjoy me whenever you can, before I
reach my 'best before' date."

Betty-Jo laughed. "I am enjoying you," she
said, and gave his joystick a tug to prove it.

"And lucky me," Brad continued, "I still have
your best before date to look forward to, well into the
future—unless some powerful man is allowed to camp on your
doorstep.

"Trust me Bad Brad, you don't have to worry
about campers."

"Despite your assurances, I still have to
worry, because the more pleased a man is with himself, the greater
his urge to spread the good stuff around. Successful men believe
they deserve a reward for their achievements, and invariably their
favorite reward is a trophy woman."

"Would you like to have a trophy woman, Bad
Brad?"

"You, of all people, should know that I
already have one. You'd make a fine addition to any man's
mantel."

She smiled big time. "Ask me your beauty
spot's name," she said.

"I suspect that when a guy does something
that's worthy, he's given a trophy woman. What worries me, is what
happens when—like I was—you're given a trophy woman before you've
done something that's worthy? If you then fail to distinguish
yourself, do they repossess your trophy?"

She laughed at him. "If the repo-man comes to
take me away, I'll be sure to tell you.... So if men want a trophy
women, what do women want?"

"That's something you should be telling me,
but I have a theory."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Women want to be protected while they're
having and rearing their children, so they seek out powerful and
wealthy men. They need intimacy to reassure them that they're
loved, and will be protected until their children mature."

"Did you ever consider becoming a
sociologist, instead of a hockey player?"

"No. Everything I know about women, I learned
from Cosmopolitan."

"You subscribe to Cosmo?"

"No. But my unisex hairdresser does. I use
the time I'm there to check up on what women are thinking."

"So what are women thinking?" When she gave
his joystick a few more squeezes, she was pretty sure he would know
what one woman was thinking.

"As best I can tell, women are concerned that
men are thinking about them. Then they're getting all worked up
because of what men might be thinking about them."

"So are men thinking about us, and should we
be concerned about what they're thinking about us?"

"Men think about women all the time, until
they have one. Then they think about getting an oil change for
their car."

Still holding his joystick, she rolled on top
of him. "That's ridiculous—men don't think about oil changes."

"When was the last time you thought about
getting an oil change for Old-yellow?"

"I've never thought about it."

"Exactly. So if I didn't think about oil
changes, we'd have blown a valve a couple of thousand miles ago,
and you'd never have been able to make love with me in
Old-yellow."

"I haven't forgotten that you owe me a good
time in Old-yellow. Why don't you take me for a spin now?" Her hand
encouraged him to say yes.

When
the Moon is in the Eighth House

Felicity had started to carry a handgun when
the stalker was harassing her, and at the Firearms Academy of
America, she'd learned how to use it. Her gun was not some cheap
piece-of-junk Saturday-night-special; it was a sexy $610 Walther
PPK, the best looking gun on the market. It was also the gun James
Bond carried. She knew that the PPK's looks, the 007 connection,
and its popularity in the espionage community, were silly reasons
for owning it, but there were practical reasons as well. The
compact PPK was smaller than the Walther PP, so it was easier to
conceal, and she appreciated the advanced design of the fixed,
3.3-inch barrel with its surrounding recoil spring. Her PPK was the
large bore, 38 caliber automatic, with a seven round magazine, a
weight of only twenty-three ounces, and accuracy to within thirty
yards.

As important as the gun were the bullets. She
chose 180 grain hollow-points, lethal man-stoppers, with a low
failure-to-stop rating. When they hit human flesh and bone, they
made a mess. But she knew that no matter the size and velocity of
her weapon, or how dependable the tissue and vessel disruption
capability of her bullets, there was no substitute for solid hits,
with a minimum number of shots fired. Nothing was more important
than marksmanship.

She had become proficient at shooting from
all stationary positions, and while moving, using both stationary
and moving targets. Her instructor told her that she was a natural.
But for three months she had not practiced shooting because her
concentration, and therefor her accuracy, had slipped. She knew
that she would have to get physically and mentally tough in a
hurry. Failure to be either would do far more to jeopardize her
mission than the capabilities of her weapon. She booked sessions at
the Firearms Academy for Saturday and Sunday. I have to be shooting
as well as possible by Monday.

Felicity planned carefully. She knew where
she wanted to be sitting to have the best opportunity to get onto
the court, and close to Betty-Jo. If she was unable to trade a
scalper her two seats for a front row seat on the sidelines, she
could sneak into a courtside seat toward the end of the match. She
knew that when matches were almost over, the ushers stopped being
concerned about patrons sitting in their assigned seats. I'll be
able to slip past the ushers if necessary.

Protecting Tawny

It was a sunny Monday afternoon for
Betty-Jo's U.S. Open, round of sixteen match. Brad was sitting
front-row court-side in a press box, and trying not to watch
Betty-Jo move while she warmed up, but that was difficult, because
he loved to watch his Tawny Cat. In the early morning hours, if he
awoke before she did, he would lie awake and watch her sleep—it was
an incomparable gift to wake up and find her curled up in his arms.
He was amazed that before his day even started, it had been a great
day.

It has to be all that hugging and kissing.
But for how long can I frolic beyond my fantasies? A Day of
Atonement has to be lurking out there somewhere.

He pulled the silver key to Betty-Jo's
chastity belt out of his shirt, and continued to think about her.
He had decided to forego a promising hockey career so he could be
with her on the Tour. That decision had left a huge hole. For
years, hockey had been his life, but in many respects, his decision
to quit hockey had been easy. Giving up hockey had left a void that
he knew would eventually be filled. The loss of his Tawny Cat would
leave a wound that would fester and spread, until it consumed
him.

"What matters to me, is you," he'd told her.
"Without you, everything in my life is meaningless."

He removed the silver chain from around his
neck, held the key in his hand, and worried about his princess.

What more can I do to protect her? Is there
some detail I've overlooked?

He knew that Betty-Jo's fame, and her blatant
sex appeal, would bring out the crazies. Already she'd attracted a
stalker, a nut-bar named Martin Coombs. Nothing could deter him.
Coombs was like a duck that had imprinted on B-J, and then couldn't
stay away. He had been arrested a number of times, but he couldn't
be held in custody for long, and like a recurring nightmare, he
kept coming back. Mercury could easily recruit a loser like Coombs,
he thought.