The Sentinel Read Online Free Page A

departed. Garrison shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair. He checked the Uzi. It was loaded, and there were extra ammunition clips. If the Aryan Disciples terrorists came calling, he and the agents across the street would be able to give them a warm welcome.
    He reached for the telephone, but stopped himself.
    He sat on a sofa and picked up a copy of Time magazine. The First Lady's face was on the cover. Flipping pages, he scanned another breathless account of her history. He and everyone else in the world already knew the details. Eleanor Hollingsworth Jordan was the divorced daughter of political kingmaker and wealthy philanthropist Joseph Horton Hollingsworth III. When she'd begun dating California Senator Russell Jordan, everyone had wondered what she saw in an aging politician fifteen years her senior. After a marriage ceremony on the Hollingsworth family yacht, she became Jordan's campaign manager and spent millions from her father's estate to fund a campaign that carried Jordan into the U.S. Senate and later the White House.
    It was going to be a long night, Garrison told himself. After a while he dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups, counting out loud. He reached one hundred, took a five-minute break, and then started again. The phone rang. He vaulted to his feet and snatched the receiver.
    "Agent Garrison speaking."
    "Is Walter gone?" Eleanor asked.
    "Yes."
    "I don't feet like eating alone, hon."
    "I never thought you'd ask."
    Garrison racked the phone, picked up the Uzi, and walked across the yard. He didn't consider leaving his assigned post a breach of security. The main house was alarmed and secure. In the event of an emergency, he would be closer to her. He opened the kitchen door and went in.
    Eleanor was at the stove. Her hair was down, brushed shiny after a wash and swept boldly back. She looked comfortably casual in white slacks, a black sweater, and sandals.
    "I hope you're hungry, Pete."
    He placed the Uzi on an empty bookshelf. "Starving."
    He offered to help in the kitchen. She declined. As she worked at the stove, he admired an oil painting that hung over the sofa. He'd never noticed it before.
    "Do you like it, Pete?"
    "It's very engaging." He'd once heard the word engaging used repeatedly by an art critic at a Presidential visit to the Corcoran Gallery.
    "It's called Farmhouse in San Gabriel by Dorothy Hibbert. It belonged to my father. He was a collector of fine art, among other things."
    She pointed above the mantel to an oil painting of a svelte blonde, the wind blowing her hair as she hurried along a dark, cobblestone street with a band of sunken-eyed orphans.
    "That one was painted by Carleton Phipps - a recluse who paints naked on the porch of a cabin in Idaho."
    Garrison could hear the waves outside. "I'll bet that becomes a real hardship for him in January."
    Her courtly laugh revealed perfect, white teeth. It occurred to Garrison that beauty was, as someone once said, in the symmetry. Nothing about Eleanor Jordan was out of balance. Nothing at all. She turned back to the stove to cook. He admired her for a moment, and then walked across the kitchen and turned off the stove.
    "Pete-"
    He wrapped his arms around her. They kissed, and her tongue met his. He embraced her tightly, and the sound of the waves seemed to get louder. Then, in a blurry trance, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. They devoured each other with kisses and undressed one another. He could hear her breathing. His tongue flicked her erect nipples. Then, moving lower, he kissed her abdomen, her navel. Her hips began to move. He gently tasted her sex, making love to her with his tongue for a long time, her hands grasping his head tightly. She pulled him up, kissing him hungrily, reaching for his hardness. They melded together, her legs wrapping around him. As he was locked with her in the driving tempo of sex, her deepening warmth consumed him. They kissed and bit one another