The Spy who Fucked Me

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She smiled and batted her eyelashes.

"Don't you recognize me?" she asked.

It was Ms. Hunter with a wig on her head.

"What the fuck?" I asked.

She smiled.

"The hook-up in Portland was a set-up to get some dirt on you," she said. "I'll do anything to get a job done. Keep that in mind in case you ever need anything.

"I'm also a woman of my word. The only two copies of the video are in a bag in the closet. Also in the bag is a DVD movie of the man who ordered up your investigation. You'll recognize him when you see him. The video shows him in an embarrassing position. You just might find it useful. If The Post ever got a hold of that film, they'd definitely find it useful."

"So, that's it?" I asked. "We just go our separate ways now?"

"No," she said. "I'm altering the terms of the deal. We're going to do this from time to time. You're going to be my sex slave."

"Yeah? Why should I?" I asked. "I have the tapes."

"Yes, you do," she said. "But I know what happened, and I have witnesses. And I know what buttons to push to make our liasons public. I may not be able to prove it with video, but I can make things awfully uncomfortable for you."

She rose and moved in close, gently touching my chin.

"Besides," she said softly, "Was it really that bad?"

I smiled.

"Thought so," she said.

Then she slapped my cheek. Not hard, but just enough to sting.

"Now get the fuck out of here," she said.

I let the door slam shut behind me. Then I got in my Mercedes and drove home at twice the speed limit.

Now, every time the phone rings, I secretly hope it's Julia Hunter.