POTUS: A Powerplay Novel Read online

  The door swung open, and Fiona Aronson blew in like a whirling dervish, long scarlet nails, big Texas hair, and thousand-dollar pumps flying into the world’s most famous office.

  “You absolutely will not believe what that prick Jason Arnot is trying to do with the appropriations package we put together,” she bellowed as she grabbed Jessica and gave her air kisses on both cheeks.

  “Oh good, cookies,” she exclaimed seeing the remaining platter of cookies that the staff had left after the ambassador had gone. “I’m famished and the damn pro tem won’t give us a dinner break until after eight tonight.”

  Jessica shook her head at her best friend. The woman was like a tornado blowing from one town to the next. “Why aren’t you grabbing dinner right now instead of bothering me and eating too many cookies?”

  Fiona rolled her eyes in ecstasy as she bit into a chocolate chip and walnut cookie. “Y’all make the best cookies in this place. I swear I never thought I’d find better cookies than my nana’s back in Laredo, but since she’s passed on now, I can say that your White House cookies are actually better than hers.”

  Jessica sat in an armchair and looked on, one eyebrow raised as Fiona stuffed a third cookie in her mouth, barely pausing in her word vomit.

  “So Jason Arnot wants to take five percent of the education budget and put it into his new program for gun safety training, because of course the federal government is the right entity to be providing gun training to civilians.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Don’t worry, that’ll never go anywhere. The other side of the aisle will nix it faster than you can talk.”

  “The other side of the aisle loves their guns.”

  “But they hate the government. Trust me, they don’t want the feds anywhere near their beloved guns, even for training.” Jessica plucked the last bite of a lemon crème cookie from Fiona’s hand. “And you love your guns too.”

  Fiona scowled as she grabbed a macaroon from the platter. “I love my guns on my ranch. Doesn’t mean I think every homeowner in a major metropolitan area should keep five of them.”

  Jessica nodded as she again took the last bite of cookie from Fiona. “You’ll thank me later,” she told her as she did it. “So aside from bitching about Arnot, what brings you by in the middle of a very long workday?”

  Fiona sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, I thought you’d never ask!”

  Jessica knew that voice. She’d been friends with Fiona since they were sorority sisters at Stanford, and that was the voice of trouble coming.

  She slouched down in her chair and covered her eyes with her hand, taking a deep breath at the same time. She knew from all those years of experience that all she could do was ride this out.

  “I have a friend coming into town. An old friend I’ve known for ten years. He owns a cattle ranch out in California. Old family property, next to the ocean in Big Sur.”

  “Mmhm.” Jessica murmured. She saw what was coming. Dreaded it, would do anything to escape it, but time had taught her she had to endure it.

  “So, my friend, Cade Jenkins—who is absolutely the handsomest man you’ll ever see—is going to be in town for a few days, meeting with some consultants who are advising him on going organic, and I thought, what if we got together for dinner with him? You, me, Cade—I’ll invite Denny as well, just to round us out.”

  Denny was code for double date, because he was Fiona’s on-again, off-again guy, a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry, Fiona adored him until she would get disgusted by something big pharma did, and then she’d refuse to see him until she’d simmered down. Luckily, Denny understood that it wasn’t really about him but his employers, so he was patient with the intermittent fits and starts of their relationship.

  Jessica sighed, wishing to all the gods that her best friend in the world wasn’t so obsessed with her love life.

  “I don’t date. You know this.”

  “It’s not a date,” Fiona sniffed, delicately wiping cookie crumbs from her lap.

  “It is. It’s a double date, and I don’t date.”

  “Well, why the hell not?” Fiona railed, tossing her hands up in the air. “You’re only thirty-seven years old, you’re beautiful, smart, and probably the most eligible woman on the planet. Why in the world wouldn’t you date?”

  Jessica stood and walked to her desk. “Because I’m the president of the United States. I don’t have time to date, and it would be entirely inappropriate for me to date even if I could squeeze it in.”

  “You really think the American people don’t want their president to be happy?”

  “I really think the American people don’t want to think about any of their presidents having sex or being influenced by a paramour, that’s what I think.”

  Fiona sighed, long and loud, staring down at her nails.

  “He’s so lovely,” she intoned. “All deliciously tall and sun-kissed. He rides horses and surfs.”

  Jessica sat at her desk and put on her reading glasses. “And lives in California, while I live in DC.”

  “You won’t forever. You have less than two years left on your term, and we both know you’re not going to run for reelection.”

  “You do not know that. I haven’t made any announcements.” Jessica scowled in irritation that her friend was so presumptuous.

  “I do know that, because I know you, and I can tell when you’re unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy.”

  Fiona stood and walked to the desk, propping one hip on its edge. “But you don’t love being president.”

  The tension headache that had been flirting with Jessica all afternoon gave a squeeze to her temples. “I don’t love being president,” she admitted.

  “Well then, you need to start thinking about what your life is going to be like when you’re a former president, and that life ought to include a good-looking, well-to-do, accommodating man.”

  Jessica laughed. Fiona had a flare for the dramatic, no doubt. “No Denny. Just the three of us so it doesn’t look like a double date.”

  Fiona put her hands up as if the president was holding a gun on her. “Fine. No Denny. Just the three of us, and we can eat here so it’s not even public.”

  Jessica nodded, and Fiona hopped up and down and clapped her hands.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Vanessa’s head popped in. “Madam President, the president pro tem is looking for Senator Aronson. Shall I tell him she’s here?”

  “Oh, Walter,” Fiona scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That old snake. He’s trying to use my absence as a reason to delay the appropriations vote and make me look bad at home.” She leaned down and adjusted the strap on her Louboutins. “Vanessa, be a dear and tell the president pro tem that I will be on the floor in the next fifteen minutes, but I expect there to be a vote before six because I cannot go without dinner until eight o’clock tonight. I might swoon in the middle of the chambers.”

  And with that, Senator Aronson blew out in the same fashion she’d blown in.

  Vanessa stood in the doorway until the senator was gone. “Ma’am, what would you like us to tell the pro tem’s secretary?”

  “Just say that Senator Aronson is on her way to the floor now.”

  Vanessa grinned. “Yes, Madam President.”

  “And will you please have the scheduling secretaries get in touch with Fiona’s office about a dinner? We’ll be eating here, and she’ll have a guest with her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once Vanessa was gone, Jessica opened her web browser and typed in Cade Jenkins. The search brought up several images of a tall, well-built man with dark eyes and sun-bleached hair. In both his ranch clothes—cowboy hat on his head—and his business attire—suit and tie—he was classically handsome. But as the president of the United States looked at his photo, all she could think was that she really preferred pirates.

  Chapter 2

  Kamal marched into the condo in downtown Washington, DC and went directly to the bar. It had been
a bear of a day, beginning with a call from the minister of trade at home, and ending with a bomb threat at the embassy that required an evacuation of all personnel right in the middle of the weekly citizen services session. Now he would need to let all those Egyptian expats and tourists with their passport and visa issues come back tomorrow. It took an entire day out of the staff’s workload each week to deal with the myriad issues that Egyptians traveling and living in the US brought to him.

  After pouring himself a generous tumbler of bourbon, he joined two other men at a pool table that was set up in place of the dining room in the small condo. The property wasn’t lived in but rather served as the clubhouse for the exclusive Powerplay club, a group started by Kamal and his best friend, political consultant Derek Ambrose. It was here that a group of five men from carefully selected arenas in Washington came to discuss and create opportunities for each other, as well as problem-solve and trade information.

  “Rough day, Sunshine?” a large dark-skinned man wearing a perfectly custom-fitted suit with his tie askew asked as Kamal approached the pool table.

  “Bomb threat,” Kamal grunted at his friend Teague Roberts, a partner at one of DC’s most prestigious law firms.

  “Third one in six months, isn’t it?” Colonel Jefferson Thibadeux of the US Pentagon asked before chipping in a shot to the corner pocket and causing his opponent, Derek, to curse.

  “Yes, and there was a fourth that was debunked before we had to evacuate.”

  Derek took a shot and scratched. “Fuck.” He turned to Kamal. “What do you think is going on?”

  Kamal took a healthy slug of his drink before sinking into an armchair facing the pool table. “I’m not sure. I’m expecting there to be some opposition to the Millennial Accord, but thus far no one’s spoken up, so I can’t imagine it’s related to that.”

  “Is Homeland Security working with you on it?” Jeff asked.

  “Yes, for whatever they’re worth. I’d rather have my own people handling it, and technically, we should—embassy property belongs to Egypt. But it’s not worth going to the mat over, so I’m keeping my mouth shut and letting your boys participate.”

  Jeff made a hissing sound. “Homeland Security are definitely not my boys. My boys are the ones they call when they finally decide they know who to go after. My boys actually take care of the problem. Homeland Security mostly creates a jumble of red tape and confidential reports.”

  Teague and Derek smirked because they knew Kamal hated nothing more than red tape and reports. He wasn’t apologetic about the fact that he much preferred taking control of a situation and making it into what he wanted it to be. As the oldest son of a wealthy and very well-connected Egyptian businessman, he’d been raised with the expectation that he would take care of everything and everyone around him. His younger siblings, his mother, his father’s expectations, and eventually, an entire country.

  And there was the secret that Kamal never admitted to anyone, even himself most of the time. The political path he was on wasn’t something he’d picked but rather had been chosen for him by his father.

  Mr. Masri had already conquered the frontiers of business and society. He was the wealthiest man in Egypt three years running and had his finger in so many pies—both legitimate and not so legitimate—that even Kamal didn’t have the full picture of the family’s enterprises. But the elder Masri didn’t have the remaining form of power—government. And so it was up to Kamal to secure it for his father, for the family. And being ambassador to the US was the first step.

  For the most part, Kamal didn’t mind it. Being in charge of an entire embassy and all of its associated personnel suited his need to manipulate people and environments to his preferences. There was something about taking an organization and rearranging its parts to make them function as smoothly and efficiently as possible that appealed to Kamal, and he felt confident that his way was nearly always the best way.

  But the red tape and similar bullshit that went along with running government organizations drove him insane.

  Kamal tipped his drink at Jeff. “Here’s to hoping your boys get involved sooner rather than later, then.”

  Jeff returned the gesture with his bottle of beer.

  “I met with the president today,” Kamal added almost as an afterthought.

  “How is Jessica?” Derek asked. “I need to get her endorsement of Melville before the campaign gets too far underway.”

  Derek was managing the presidential campaign of a young, good-looking senator who many were already referring to as the new Kennedy.

  “The president,” Kamal emphasized her title, “seemed a little out of her element. I’ve never met her in private, only at official functions.”

  “What do you mean out of her element?” Teague queried.

  Kamal scratched his head, thinking of how to describe what he wanted to. He’d lived in the US since he started college at eighteen, he knew that his perception of things didn’t always sit right with the cultural norms of Americans, so he’d learned to take a breath before saying certain things.

  “When I arrived, her chief of staff let me into her office without announcing me first.”

  “It’s a casual administration,” Derek confirmed. “I’ve seen it done both ways, it just depends on the president. Personally, I prefer Jessica’s take on it. There’s enough hassle getting there in the first place. Once you’re in the inner sanctum, you shouldn’t have to run a gauntlet to reach the final goal.”

  “The thing is, I don’t think the sloppiness of it all is because the president chose it, I think it’s more that she isn’t being given the respect she deserves.”

  “You mean by male staffers.” Teague’s words weren’t a question. He might be one of the most powerful attorneys in the country now, but he’d grown up in the public housing projects of Chicago and knew more than his fair share of being treated as a member of a marginalized group.

  “No, by all of them,” Kamal continued. “Vanessa Smith, the chief of staff, let me into the office unannounced, and the president was obviously not ready to meet with me.”

  “What, was she walking around barefoot or something?” Derek asked, joking.

  “No, she was dancing.”

  The three other men looked at each other in confusion.

  “Dancing?” Jeff said before clearing his throat.

  “Yes. Earbuds in, things ”—Kamal had to clear his own throat, remembering the sight of Jessica’s firm ass in her tight red dress—“shaking. She was dancing and didn’t realize I had come into the room until the chief of staff made our presence known by tapping her on the shoulder.”

  Derek burst out in a snort-laugh. “Dear God,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” Kamal responded dryly. “And later, when the staff brought in the tea service, the waiter dumped the tray on the table without offering to pour for us or asking the president if she needed anything else.”

  Teague rolled his eyes. “That’s just your British-influenced tea obsession. You former colonies are all so uptight about your tea. We jettisoned that particular custom back in the 1770s.”

  Kamal rolled his eyes at his friend. “Technically, the US is a former colony as well, and I’m quite aware of your history with tea. But I would have had the same reaction if the tray had been full of coffee or vodka. The man owes his president more respect than setting a tray on a table and beating feet to the nearest exit.”

  “Did Kamal just use slang?” Jeff joked.

  Derek pushed off the pool table, laying his cue on the felt top. “It’s a sign of how distressed he is. He only uses slang when he’s particularly offended by something.”

  Kamal strode to the bar and poured himself another drink. One of the perks of being ambassador—he went everywhere in a limo with security. He could drink as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, although he rarely did anyway, but tonight, for some reason, he felt like escaping from the relentless list of responsibilities.

  “I was offended on he
r behalf,” he admitted to the room at large. “She doesn’t have a man there to enforce proper behavior, and it’s obvious that the staff are taking advantage of that.”

  Teague’s whistle was low and long, and Jeff muttered a “fuck” at the same time. But it was Derek who spoke, and as usual, Kamal could tell instantly that he’d blundered into some sort of cultural landmine.

  “You do realize that if there were an American woman in this room right now, she’d skin you alive?”

  Kamal frowned at him. “Because I think that their woman president should be treated with the same respect as her male counterparts?”

  “No, because you said that she can’t command that respect without a man to do it for her,” Teague answered.

  “I fail to see the problem with that. I’m saying that she needs a man to protect her, serve as a buffer between her and the people who are there to serve her. Someone to require that those people who are paid to serve her actually do their jobs.”

  Derek’s voice was gentle, and even though he knew his friend was attempting to be solicitous, it irritated Kamal. In fact, this entire conversation was irritating him.

  “But there’s no reason she needs a man to do those things,” Derek said. “If the president isn’t being respected, then she’s perfectly capable of insisting they change their behavior. She’s the president of the United States. She can manage her own staff.”

  Kamal sighed. He’d never be able to make his American friends understand. Did he believe women were every bit as capable as men intellectually? Of course, that’s why Jessica Hampton was president. But women—even women in a supposedly enlightened country like the US—hadn’t been trained from birth to expect respect. And it was that expectation that tripped them up. People subconsciously took advantage of it—the lack of expectation. The expectation that he would be respected was engrained in Kamal, an intrinsic part of his genetic makeup. But for most women he knew, that wasn’t the case. They’d been shown that they weren’t respected for so long that they didn’t know how to command it. And on and on it went.