Chapter One

Imperial Summons

 

Catherine Roman loves power and loves with power. When a bitter rival challenged Mrs. Roman's authority, she put her life and mine at risk. And in the moment of crisis, she handed me the weapon that turned me into a killer and her eternal slave.

Mrs. Roman's fierce, nearly black, eyes and high cheekbones thoroughly captivated me the first time I saw her, at a bankers' meeting. The subtle slant of her eyelids spiced her beauty with exotic flavor. Although she was a dozen years my senior, I preferred one of Her Majesty's withering glares to all of the smiles from thirty-something women my own age. Mrs. Roman's five-foot-ten frame stretched her classic hourglass figure into sleekness and imbued her with the hauteur worthy of her role as a modern Catherine the Great.

 

Mrs. Roman seized control in our upstate New York town-her hometown and my adopted residence-when the board of directors named her acting chairman of Savings and Trust Bank to succeed her late husband. Peter Roman died of a heart attack one crisp October night in 2002. ("He wanted me to love him to death, and I did," Mrs. Roman once told me-not as a boast, but as a melancholy fact.)

When Mrs. Roman commanded me to become her tool in January 2003, to do her dirty work while she took all of the credit, I eagerly capitulated. I thought I was accepting an invitation, but she preordained my fate. I was whipped. Go ahead and snicker. She actually used a whip, not just...

Not that I'm a wimp. My personality was "forged in the hills of Pittsburgh", to quote a phrase that some flack at our bank, Federal National, put in a news release about me-once. But when Catherine the Great exerted her will, I was more like molten steel than steel beams.

Mrs. Roman called me at my office that fateful Wednesday afternoon in early January 2003 to issue her decree. At least part of me felt like a steel girder at the thought of surrendering to her cruelty. "Francis Prince," she began our phone conversation. "Loved your speech at the Robert Morris conference."

The local chapter of Robert Morris Associates, a national group for commercial bank lenders, had met in December. "Thank you, Mrs. Roman-or should I say Madam Chairman?" Outside my window the trees in the park across the way were bending under a stiff wind.

"Just don't call me Madam Chairwoman-one letter removed from charwoman."

"'Chairman' sounds more aggressive. If you lived in Russia a few centuries ago, you could have been the original Catherine the Great."

"Yes! Francis-"

"Or Frank," I suggested.

"A frank is just a hot dog. How do I know if you can cut the mustard?"

"I prefer Heinz Ketchup."

"From that dreadful hometown of yours. Anyway, Francis," she settled the issue, "are you still senior vice president, commercial lending?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I must address the invitation properly." Dark clouds rolled in from the west.

"A personal invitation? I'm flattered. And honored."

"Visit me at my country home this weekend. Tell me more about the business development plan you presented at the conference. I'll pump you dry."

She had me. Glancing at my desk calendar, I noticed two crucial meetings with key clients scheduled for that Friday afternoon. One was a commercial real estate executive who developed malls, and the other constructed and leased office buildings. Big bucks.

As if reading my mind, Mrs. Roman tightened her rein on me. "I'll send my chauffeur to pick you up at one o'clock sharp on Friday. You will accept," she paused before adding, as if I had a choice, "won't you?"

"Mrs. Roman-"

"Remember, the stockholders will vote on your bank's proposed merger with Leviathan National Bank this Friday. If Leviathan swallows Federal National-take that for all the bad puns in your speech!-you need to keep your options open."

A veiled job offer? "That's very flattering, but I also need to stay loyal to Federal National as long as they write my checks."

"Absolutely," she said, so smoothly that I had the sensation of being undressed without feeling anything. "However," she added, "Harrington Burnside-speaking of the person who writes your check-always preaches cooperation between Federal National Bank and community banks, like Savings and Trust." The purr in her satin voice seemed to say, Strap-on! To make sure I understood the veiled threat, she added, "Let's not disappoint your CEO." Or, to continue the analogy, she might as well have said, Thrust!

I was fully, sexually aroused. "Since you put it to me that way, I'm wide open."

Her silence alarmed me for a moment. She audibly sucked in air, and then her aroused and arousing voice oozed these words: "You and I will get along splendidly! See you Friday."

Cradling the receiver, I pivoted in my chair and noticed that Suki Swisher, senior vice president, consumer lending, was standing right behind me. "What was that all about?"

Suki drew her hefty salary by spying on colleagues instead of doing honest work. "Buttering up Catherine Roman," I confessed. Suki had me dead to rights. "Maybe she has a position for me."

"Yeah, on your knees." Suki's champagne-colored eyes smoldered. With flaxen hair and pale complexion, Suki lacked any resemblance to her namesake from What's Up, Tiger Lily? Her magnetism-from the challenge of her saucy lips to the wide-open look of her pelvis-sneaks up on men. Straightening my tie, Suki winked, "Schmooze your way to the top. Then maybe I'll date you." She tugged on my tie until my face was two inches from the beauty mark on her left cheek, just below her cheekbone.

"Looking for the highest bidder?"

"Yeah! Keep bidding!" She whirled around and sauntered away in a mincing stroll. Not even her beige wool business suit could mask the sensual motion of her shapely ass.

Suki would never understand my kinky desires: Kissing Mrs. Roman's posterior was its own reward. Getting a cushy job at her bank would exceed my expectations.

Late that afternoon, I received and RSVPed Mrs. Roman's hand-delivered invitation. The storm that gathered during our phone call covered our town with freezing rain and sleet before racing to the Atlantic that evening. Temperatures plunged to single digits under starry skies, freezing the accumulated precipitation. Lingering, numbing cold glazed the ice before another cold front rushed in Thursday night and dumped two feet of snow. It was just like Pittsburgh!

My clients canceled our Friday meetings. "Thank you, Goddess Catherine!" I praised her aloud after the second cancellation. I called Grey Templeton, executive vice president and head of our region, to say I would take a vacation day. I considered nestling back in my warm bed, certain that Mrs. Roman would reschedule my visit.

But the phone interrupted my plan. I let the phone ring twice before picking up.

"Martin Covington here. Mrs. Roman's driver. She said to pick you up at your house. This morning. Nothing else going on. How do I get there?"

"The road crews haven't cleared the streets near my neighborhood."

"I'm driving an SUV."

I gave Martin the directions to my house and offered to meet him at the nearest main road.

"No, don't mess up your clothes," he said. "Mrs. Roman wants you to wear a business suit. Looks more professional. Pack lightly. She said not to bring a lot of clothes."

I assumed I'd wear the late Mr. Roman's clothes. Creepy. Mrs. Roman's actual plans would have made me feel freaky. And aroused. I shrugged, as if Martin could see me. "She's the boss."

"Remember that," he growled, halfway between advice and warning.

When a black Cadillac Escalade pulled into my cul-de-sac, I ran out and climbed in on the passenger side. "Strong and elegant," I nodded toward the SUV. "Like Mrs. Roman."

But Martin looked so out of context I almost laughed. Thin, delicate features reflected no humor. His pursed lips turned down at the corners. Martin was probably in his mid-40s, about Mrs. Roman's age, and looked a couple of inches shorter than she. His chauffeur's uniform contradicted the SUV concept. After I buckled my seatbelt, he circled back out of the cul-de-sac.

"Thanks for the lift."

"Let her pamper you," he said without preamble. "Mrs. Roman invited you over to coddle you. If you resist, she'll destroy you."

"I'm fine, thank you. And how are you?" I asked sarcastically.

"Forget the small talk. I'm preparing you for meeting Mrs. Roman."

"Thanks."

"I used to be her girl," Martin continued.

"Beg your pardon?"

"She hates my real name. Calls me Martha."

"I'm Francis. Really." I extended my hand and we shook hands. "My friends call me Frank, but I'll always be Francis to Catherine the Great. She probably spells it with an e."

"You get the picture." He smiled for a split second before the corners of his mouth turned down again. "Mrs. Roman sold me to a mistress in the City."

"Sold you?"

"I'm history at the end of this week. Now she wants you."

"Hold on. She can't just sell you ..." I looked out the window. A cottage about a half-mile from the highway reminded me of a scene from Dr. Zhivago. My mind returned to Martin's incredible revelations. "She blackmailing you?"

"Yeah." He grimaced. "Not that she has to." Martin turned off the highway to a long, elaborate driveway-practically a secondary road-leading up to an ornate, colorful mansion on a small hill. The bulbous, swirl-designed turrets-like giant machine-poured ice cream-reminded me of photographs of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. Pulling up to the garage adjoining the mansion, Martin rolled down the window and pointed the remote control to open the left of two garage doors. "Remember," he cautioned, "just do what she says."