I’m posting these chapters of my Enron novel (in progress) out of sequence to better confuse pirates and other bad actors. This is the first Broadband scene.
The girl had her own private movie running, sunk into her own thoughts, unnoticed in the mid-day crush of passengers on the train. Not that she was anonymous or insignificant. Far from it. From the moment she stepped into his range of vision, space narrowed to the space she occupied. She was petite – perhaps five feet, maybe a little taller because she wore high-heeled sandals with sexy straps wrapped around her slender ankles. She wore a summer dress in a soft cream color, shoulder-less on one side and draping over her small, fit body, which showed off stunning legs to the mid-thigh. Even with the modernized Grecian dress, one could observe a cinched waist, and no visible means of support: her braless breasts were high and full. Golden wheat-colored hair dropped to her shoulders in a wave. Her face in three-quarters profile was defined by enormous blue-green eyes of uncommon beauty and straight dark brows. It was the elegant heart-shape of her face and character in the set of her lips that finally placed her. Though she appeared slightly displaced – not exactly one of the mortals on the train – he had seen her in a more mundane setting for many years. Sunday Mayfield had been a public relations executive at Emerald Communications while he was there. Furthermore, she was on the prosecution’s witness list.
That fact alone sent sparks of danger from her, but Rex appraised the risk and dismissed it. He had always liked Sunday. She was always changing. While at Emerald, she would appear one day in a pashima and cowboy boots, all free-range cowgirl, and the next day, she’d saunter into the office in some sleek designer suit, fresh off the runway in Paris. She lived her life in costume, and Rex was fascinated by the idiosyncrasies of her taste. Her hair color and style changed frequently: blonde and short to dark and long, and every possible combination in between. Her face could be girl-next-door sunny, and the next moment, movie-star beautiful. Her work, though, was always consistently the same excellent quality. She was scrupulous about having her facts straight, spending days agonizing over the smallest details of press releases, happily ready for any question, no matter how random, when she appeared on camera.
It was because her work was so good that he was surprised during the first trial that John Kromen had listed her on the prosecution’s witness list. Rex knew there was nothing she could say that would be incriminating, but he had been eager to see her on the stand; he wanted to see how she handled herself. She was never called, though she was at the courthouse every day.
Presently, she glanced up as the train began to slow for the Farragut West stop. And there, in the middle of the crowds, her gaze drifted and she saw him.
Her eyebrows knit together in a small frown, as if she was trying to place him, then her eyes went wide as recognition struck her. A broad smile of genuine pleasure and surprise came over her face. The metro doors opened and the people began to push at her. She was carried along in the wave of humanity, out of the train into the terminal, and Rex, acting on something that felt like instinct, moved to the door as well. It was only when he was standing in the terminal that he realized this was, in fact, his stop too. He saw Sunday lingering by one of the benches, shoving her book into a large, slouchy purse slung over her bare shoulder.
“Sunday Mayfield.”
Up close she was even prettier than he remembered. Soft and elegant, smelling faintly of flowers, with blue-green irises flecked with yellow, ringed in a darker blue, and the pupil as dark as the heart of a pansy.
“Rex,” she grinned and stepped forward to spontaneously hug him. The softness of her female form against him shocked him. An instant onslaught of sensation screamed through his body: warmth, and something he remembered from his youth: lust. It was an instant reaction, no more voluntary than a heart attack. Had he wanted to reason it away, he might say that his powerful reaction to her was due to a long phase of uneasy, though self-imposed, celibacy.
Sunday stepped back and looked up at him, her face flushed with pleasure. “How are you?”
“Very well,” he answered honestly. “How are you?”
They began walking toward the escalators.
“I’m a little off-balance, seeing you here,” she replied with a little laugh. “Are you still living in Houston?”
“I have an apartment there but I spend most of my time here, working on my case.”
“Oh Rex.” She turned to him, a pretty frown pinching her features. “It’s horrible what they’ve done to you.” Her voice was soft and wistful. She looked so concerned for him. “I never thought you were guilty. I was shocked to find myself on Kromen’s witness list.”
“It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. Furthermore, he was completely uninterested in the case at the moment, the full force of his concentration being focused on the present, on Sunday.
The reached the top of the escalator and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun was very bright; across the street was a small city park, ringed on all sides by tall buildings. This part of the District in mid-day was busy, pedestrians rushing in every direction, and Rex had the sudden feeling that he and Sunday Mayfield were somehow moving slower than everyone else. Time itself had slowed, or vanished into irrelevance.
Sunday slid huge Jackie O sunglasses over her oceanic eyes, depriving him of their beauty and all the interesting things he saw in them. She was standing uncertainly beside him, a smile playing around her mouth, which caused small dimples to appear in her cheeks. He had forgotten the dimples, which was a shame because they were adorable.
“You ought to have lunch with me,” he said suddenly. “So we can catch up.” He realized suddenly she was probably on her way somewhere, and it occurred to him she might think he was rude for being so forward with her. “Unless you’re busy,” he said quickly, to give her an escape.
Her smile widened. “I’m not busy. Let’s have lunch.”
“Which way are you going?”
She pointed to the left, which was convenient because that was the direction of the Tomko Canalas Ramsfjord offices. Rex did not have a particular destination in mind, nor was he hungry, but it hardly seemed to matter.
They talked easily as they walked a few blocks to the Hay Adams Hotel, and because it was convenient, and because Rex suspected it would not be crowded, they strode inside.
***
The bar at the hotel was quiet and cool. There were a few people scattered about but the lunch crowds had dispersed, a fact that pleased Sunday very much. The danger in being seen with Rex Shelton was very real – and yet the excitement she felt was also real. She would have to be careful, to balance the two extremes.
Rex chose a table at the back of the restaurant, near the fireplace decorated with pictures of elephants. Plush reds and dark woods created the sort of clubby atmosphere she expected at a historical District hotel. She noticed it, then dismissed it at once, because Rex was pulling out her chair for her. She could not recall the last time a man did that. It was such a simple thing, done with an apparent lack of self-consciousness on Rex’s part.
It had been four years since she’d seen him. Court. John Kromen forced her to appear in court several days in a row, saying they were going to call her. She hated it. Hated the whole process, hated Kromen’s heavy-handed approach. She had watched Rex at the defense table with all his attorneys, feeling completely helpless. Then one day during a break, Kromen cornered her in the hallway to dress her down about her reluctance to appear, and she looked away. Rex was walking out of the court room flanked by his attorneys. Her heart had fluttered with sympathy and confusion. His eyes met hers, and he flashed a quick smile before one of his attorneys said something and snagged his attention.
The Department of Justice did not call her. Putting her name on the witness list had been a ploy to make the defense attorneys waste time preparing for her.
Before that day, the last time she’d seen him two years previous, sitting across from him at one of Joe Hawkins’ weekly staff meetings. Yet it seemed like no time had passed at all. She still felt that giddy, searching happiness in his presence.
“Do you know what you’d like?” he asked.
Sunday flushed. “What?”
“To drink,” Rex replied, his expression neutral, but something in the eyes betraying the innuendo. “Do you know what you’d like to drink? Are you hungry? Maybe some lunch?”
“Oh…I…I like merlot,” she said finally.
Rex ordered two merlots, two glasses of water, and two tangy Greek salads with both green and black olives. After the waiter left, Rex looked momentarily puzzled. “Do you like Greek salad? I should have asked but it’s the only thing I’ve tried here and it was very good. If you don’t like it, I can…”
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “Thank you.” It occurred to her that he was genuinely attempting to make her happy and comfortable. This knowledge felt awe-inspiring; she lived in a city where men were always attempting to appear super-cool and nonchalant. Rex’s obvious concern felt interesting and unique.
She watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what he was thinking. He was looking at her with a slight smile on his handsome face, his brown eyes sparkling as he watched her. She had the very strange impression that he was a bit nervous, perhaps because he liked her. She remembered that quality about him – he could seem to be interested but wasn’t. She remembered at ECI in Portland one morning, arriving at the same time at the coffee table. Rex joked about the notoriously bad coffee – a company in Portland with horrible coffee! It was an ongoing joke, everyone complained about it but it never improved. But that day, Sunday had been feeling somewhat bold. “I suppose there are better places to get coffee,” she’d said lightly. A perfect opportunity for him to suggest they find such a place together, but Rex just answered with a smile, “Yeah, anywhere.”
Sunday considered the fact that he wasn’t interested in her in that way, or maybe he had a girlfriend with whom he was madly in love. She was actually kind of irritated with him for seeming interested but not doing anything about it.
Certainly he could not be interested now, after she’d been prepared to testify against him at trial. His life must be totally screwed up by the indictment, which her cooperation might have contributed. John Kromen was a snake. She disliked him instinctively, and when he threatened to indict her if she didn’t talk, she’d been too scared to refuse.
But Rex had not even brought up the topic. It occurred to her that he might be charming her only to find out what she was going to tell the prosecution – a subject she wanted to avoid at all costs.
Her musing was interrupted when their meal was brought to the table. Sunday took a sip of the wine, finding it delicious, and somehow luxurious in the middle of the day. She set her glass down. “Rex, this is sort of awkward, but I find it necessary to tell you that I don’t really want to testify against you.”
“You should do whatever you want,” he said lightly. “Testify if you want to, I don’t mind. And we shouldn’t talk about the case anyway.”
Genuinely puzzled by his blasé attitude about something so serious, Sunday decided he must be posturing. But he did not appear to be. He displayed no defensiveness at all. She remembered a small clash they once had at ECI in Portland.
Rex favored a “submarine strategy” on public statements — say nothing at all until you have your program completely built and in use by several customers. Then when you are ready, surface and launch the cruise missiles at the competition. Sunday, on the other hand, favored as much press and attention as possible. Rex being anti-hype, and Sunday, being pro-hype, had a spirited back and forth during one of Joe Hawkins’ weekly status meetings. When Hawkins largely agreed with Sunday’s ideas, and not Rex’s, she strangely did not get to gloat because Rex seemed totally at ease with the decision and not the least bit unhappy that his opinion is not followed. He simply went on to the next topic. He seemed to have no intrinsic need to defend himself, a trait she found wildly interesting.
He set his fork down for a moment and rested his hand on the table. Good looking hands. Long, blunt-tipped fingers, tanned, with clean, short nails. How many times had she imagined those hands exploring her body, gently finding her soft, sensitive places.
In a daze, she glanced up at him. He smiled a sexy smile, as if he knew the pictures rumbling through her mind. Sunday felt her cheeks begin to beat red. Her throat was dry.
“Are you okay?” Rex asked.
She grabbed her glass of water, and took a sip. “Fine,” she said, willing her mind – and her body – to get under control. Something about that man sent her reeling, careening like a runaway rocket out of control.
“What are you doing in DC?” she asked, to change the subject.
“Seeing my lawyers,” he answered. “A new lawyer, actually. I just brought her on, so I came out to strategize. How about you? Why are you here?”
“After Emerald imploded, I moved here and started my own public relations and strategy firm, Mayfield & Company. Actually, I sort of have you to thank for that.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“I remembered when Emerald bought your company… What was the name of it? Modules?”
“Modulis,” he replied.
“Modulis, of course. I remember you and David Berber and Larry Christopher brought in a great entrepreneurial spirit to the company. It really inspired me. So when Emerald collapsed, I just asked myself if I thought I could run my own company and the answer was yes.”
Rex smiled at her. “How wonderful. I knew you’d be successful at anything you tried.”
The dishes were cleared away. More wine was poured. The wine was warm as blood, as it was supposed to be, but Sunday spontaneously fished an ice cube out of her water glass and dropped it in her wine glass, then took a sip.
“That was charming,” Rex said candidly.
Sunday smiled. “What? What was charming?”
“What you just did with your wine.”
Sunday was pleased, yet she had not intended to charm him. This all seemed too easy. She felt herself blushing again, or maybe it was the wine going to her head.
“How is Harwkins?” Sunday asked. Joe Hawkins had been indicted and tried with Rex, and like Rex, he had a mix of acquittals and hung counts.
“The last time I spoke with him, he was okay. He really can’t think about a new trial though. It takes a lot out of you.”
Sunday wanted to apologize again, but Rex did not seem to be angling for apologies. In fact, he didn’t appear preoccupied with the subject of his indictment at all.
Rex glanced at his watch.
“I’m keeping you,” Sunday said.
“I have a meeting at four.”
“What time is it?”
“Three fifty.”
Sunday could not believe they’d been talking for nearly four hours. It seemed like minutes. She said, “Please, go, don’t be late on my account.”
Rex looked conflicted. He said, “I’m enjoying this.”
“Me too.”
“Okay. I’ll call you.” He stood up, and Sunday did. Then he spontaneously hugged her. For one lovely moment, she could smell the clean scent of his skin, and she breathed in deeply. At the same time, she felt his body, hard and tall against hers, and she remembered, distantly, that back in Portland he had competed in triathlons. He felt solid, safe.
They made small talk as they walked outside. Under the shade of the great landmark building, Sunday said, “It was really nice to see you again, Rex.”
“You too.”
She smiled, trying to embed his face into her memory. She did not expect that he would call her again, and she did not want to forget even a single thing about this lovely, lucky afternoon.
“Bye,” and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
His lips were warm and soft against her cheek; she felt his breath on her ear. Her whole body flushed. She did not trust herself to speak so she just nodded. He walked away.
Sunday stood for a moment, trying to get her bearings. Where had she been going? What had she been doing?
