12
Clarissa leaned her elbows back on the CIA Director’s desk and relished the solidity of it. The wide cherrywood surface bearing only a picture of his deceased wife with their two Marine Corps sons. She could feel the strength of it behind her as clearly as the power of the man who sat before it.
Director Clark Winston was a breast man—which was ironic, as breast cancer had killed his wife. Or perhaps that was why. He ran his hands up to grasp hers through blazer, blouse, and bra. Maybe it was affirming to him that Clarissa’s were still unsagging and unblemished by disease or nursing a child. Today’s red Merino wool pencil skirt had conveniently oversized buttons running up her left thigh that were now undone just enough to hike it over her hips.
Since they’d become lovers, she never
