Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ALSO BY KATHRYN JOHNSON

Hot Mercy (Affairs of State #2)

The Gentleman Poet: A Novel of

Shakespeare's “The Tempest”

WRITING AS MARY HART PERRY

The Wild Princess

Seducing the Princess

The Shadow Princess

Copyright  © 2014 Kathryn M. Johnson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, contact:  www.WriteByYou.com.

Cover art by Earthly Charms

1

Minutes before she walked into his trap, a warning prickle danced down her back. The muscle along the right side of her neck twitched. Her bare shoulders tensed, and she lowered the crystal champagne flute of
Laurent-Perrier
from
her lips. Turning away from the two women she’d been chatting with, she looked around the ballroom in the former Mexican embassy. For what or whom, she couldn’t have said.

Except…she really did feel as though someone was watching her.

Merely being a blip on someone’s curiosity radar had never rattled her.
Why now?
she wondered. She was accustomed to more than her share of attention as the daughter of a man whose political career had become the stuff of legends, whose mother had captured not one but two Pulitzers for her photo-journalism. A stranger recognizing her from a
Washington Post
article about her resignation as a curator for National Portrait Gallery, or even the recent interview in
Town & Country
, wouldn’t rattle her. This was a darker sensation. An uncomfortably personal feeling of being scrutinized, with a purpose. Perhaps even malice?

Victoria Mercy O’Brien Davis scanned the room but saw nothing at all threatening.

Guests of the United States State Department packed the ballroom. Across the polished parquet floor, beneath glittering chandeliers, spread a sea of chic couples and singles—men in tuxedos, women in designer gowns, looking like they’d stepped out of the
Saks-Jandel
display window in the Watergate complex. It was impossible to tell who was observing whom. Or, indeed, who
hoped
to be noticed. The room exuded Chanel, and the occasional heady whiff of Clive Christian, not to be had for under $2,000 per precious ounce. And pheromones. Oh, yes, Mercy thought, lots of those involuntary signals of lust. Before the night was over, a dozen new pairings would form, if only for a few hours of sweaty pleasure. No place on earth was sexier than Washington, DC when the elite turned out for an event.

But the nastiness that had set her nerves on edge didn't feel at all sexy. Mercy pretended to study the veil of bubbles rising through her glass, only half listening to the young female lawyer and her partner as they argued over the latest controversial Supreme Court decision.
Aren’t they all controversial? To someone at least.
She sipped from her drink, let the cool liquid flow down the back of her tight throat. Took a calming breath then accepted a delicate lobster canapé from the tray of a roaming server.

It’s natural for people to be curious about the wife of the man being honored,
she reasoned. Peter Davis, freshly appointed U.S. Cultural Liaison to Mexico, was one of the youngest attachés in the State Department. Rumors forecasting an early ambassadorship were already circulating. Mercy couldn't have been prouder of him. Nevertheless, she felt like jumping out of her skin.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Taking one more sip of champagne she excused herself from the other two women.
Circulate. That’s why you’re here.
She scanned the room for him. It didn’t take her long to spot him. At six-foot-three, skinny as a Georgetown lamp post, he stood above a cluster of guests on the far side of the room. Among them, the mocha-skinned gentleman who was the ambassador to the U.S. from Mexico.

She shook off the annoying sensation of being a specimen on someone’s glass microscope slide and focused on Ambassador Rodriguez’s strained expression. Even at this distance it was obvious something had been said to irritate him. The possibility that the source of his irritation might be her husband set her in motion. Although a brilliant linguist, Peter sometimes misread people and, when excited, had a dangerous habit of speaking before thinking. That's when she needed to step in. He hadn’t grown up in a political household as she had and was still feeling his way through the social minefield that was Washington, DC.

Mercy wove through the crowd toward her husband, greeting friends and Peter's colleagues as she went. The skirt of her Vera Wang ecru silk sheath whispered at her ankles, an inch above strappy gold leather Gianvito Rossi heels. Without interrupting the conversation, she slipped her hand into Peter’s. His fingers reacted with a little jolt of surprise before closing around hers. He flashed her a smile—white-white Chiclet teeth, ice-blue gaze that somehow always worked in reverse to melt her insides. A shingle of pale blond hair fell over his forehead as he looked down at her. He stood in brilliant contrast to the dark-skinned entourage of the ambassador.

They had developed signals over time. A gentle squeeze to his arm warned him that he might be treading on sensitive ground.

“Cooperation is an absolute,” the ambassador’s words snapped, taut as a flamenco guitar string. His eyes, black chips of annoyance. “My country no more wants
terroristas
crossing our shared border than does yours! But this trade agreement—”

“That’s what it’s
for
,” Peter interrupted him. “The treaty will severely limit illegal transits between our two countries.”

“Not only that,
Señor
!” Rodriguez’s face flushed a furious red. “If my president agrees to sign this document, it will become even more difficult for my people to legally keep jobs in your country.”

Peter’s face went rigid. He started to open his mouth, on the verge of committing political suicide, Mercy suspected, despite her increasingly frantic warning squeezes. It wasn’t his place to argue treaties with Mexican officials; if his boss caught wind of this discussion Peter would be in serious trouble.

She stepped forward, the subtle movement of her body, the flash of jewels at her throat enough to draw the ambassador’s attention. “I’m not a scholar of international diplomacy,” she said, her voice so gentle Rodriguez had to lean in to hear her, “but doesn’t the agreement include a clause that protects Mexican nationals who already have work permits?”

The ambassador tipped his head to one side and observed her for a moment. One of his aides leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. “Yes, of course.” Rodriguez waved the man off. “Your point,
Signora
Davis?”

Peter, thankfully, remained silent.

“So,” she continued, “rather than removing their right to work, this agreement formalizes it. The new wording may actually be a first step toward loosening restrictions along our mutual border, making it easier for residents of either Mexico or the United States to move back and forth more freely. For work, to visit relatives, or simply to travel whenever they wish. I expect it will result in a boon for Mexican tourism.”

“That’s right,” Peter jumped in. He slanted her a grateful glance. “Think of it as cracking open a door that will someday swing wide. The United States only wants protection from those who are intent on perpetrating acts of violence.”

The ambassador looked thoughtful. “I will need to study this document more carefully, I can see.” He turned back to Mercy, lifted her hand and lightly touched his lips to her fingers. “You have a delightful and intelligent wife, sir. My government will be most happy to welcome both of you into our country.”

“
Gracias
,” Mercy murmured. “We’re looking forward to Mexico City’s famous hospitality, and to furthering cultural enlightenment between our countries.” She smiled. “Now I really should say hello to a few of our other friends who are here tonight. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me?”

Reassured that the rest of the conversation would go more smoothly, Mercy moved around the room. Greeting European diplomats and their spouses with traditional alternate-cheek air kisses. Remembering when it was proper to shake hands with a male foreign dignitary, but never with his wife or daughter. Welcoming others whose cultural etiquette demanded only a conservative bow, avoiding the touching of bodies entirely. 

Working the room was her job, one she felt confident performing. She’d begun this ritual for her father when she was a mere six years old. By taking care of Peter’s social obligations, she left the new attaché free to do his job—promote harmony and open communication between the two nations, through a mutual appreciation of their cultures and the arts.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vice President Gray waving her toward his table. He stood to greet her. “Your father would have been proud to be here tonight,” he said with affection.

She gave the big bear of a man a hug. Their families’ friendship reached back to a time when both Glen Gray and her dad first took their seats in the Senate. Five years had passed since her father’s death, but she always felt close to her father at moments like this. He had been the ultimate politician, loving nothing better than an energetic debate or a formal reception.

“Thank you, Glen. I know Peter will do a wonderful job representing our country.”

“I do too, Mercy my dear.” He patted her hand, his eyes sparking with intelligence. “I just wonder why a clever young woman like you isn’t pursuing diplomatic service herself.”

She shrugged. “What are the odds the State Department would assign us the same post?” Lengthy separations were hard on family life—she knew that from experience. Each of her parents had traveled for their work. And she
did
want to have children. Someday soon. If she could convince Peter that his new assignment provided them with the perfect opportunity to start a family, she'd be thrilled. “I’ll leave the diplomacy to Peter,” she said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a phone call. Enjoy the party, Mr. Vice-President.”

As she moved away through the crowd, Mercy glanced down at the small, beaded evening purse looped around her wrist. In it were the bare necessities—her favorite Crimson Moonlight lipstick, driver’s license and credit car, car and house keys, and cell phone. Earlier that day, Mark, her mother’s live-in lover, had called from New York City. He’d been worried that he hadn’t heard from Talia for two days.

“Whenever she travels without me, she always calls to say good morning and good night. This isn’t like her, Mercy.”

“You’ve tried calling her?” she said.

“Of course. But her phone immediately goes to voice mail.”

“I’m sure Mother’s just busy working on her assignment,” Mercy reassured him. “She loses track of time when she’s shooting.”
And you’re a born worrier, Mark.
But she didn’t say that of course.

Mercy thought it wonderful that her mother and Mark, an extraordinarily sweet man and English professor at NYU, had found each other. Talia had been alone for too many years. Mark balanced her high-energy life, brought her back to center.