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| [The Marquise - by theholyinnocent] |
Beyond the Venetian blinds of Liz Donnelly’s office, day was trading its virtues for the pleasures and colors of gaudy New York night. Nature: The biggest whore of us all, Liz thought. Her fingers anxiously rolled air; she regretted ever giving up smoking. A faster death via lung cancer wouldn’t be such a bad thing—better than babysitting ADAs, placating Arthur Branch, getting your ass reamed by judges, and seeing your aging face on snippets of the local TV news.
Or watching love—or your mistaken ideal of it—fade like a bad paint job.
Just who are you kidding, old girl?
“Liz.”
She looked up. Alex leaned, casual cool, in the doorway. Liz wondered if spending a day in jail would be as seemingly beneficial to anyone the way it was to Alex—despite the messy limpness of her hair, the deepening crescents under her eyes, Alex still retained the carefully cultivated decadent beauty of a European movie star. The white collar of her blouse flared over the rumpled dark lapel of her pinstriped suit like the brightest point of a northern star.
Liz clenched her hand in the firm, delusional belief that the ache in her palm was attributable to craving nicotine and not Cabot. She needed to believe that—it would give her a momentary advantage and the strength to play it cool. “So,” she murmured, “I see Petrovsky let you out of her dungeon.”
“You make it sound as if she’s the gatekeeper to hell.”
“I can think of no one more suited to the task.” Liz opened her hand. “Why are you here, Alex?”
“I wanted to thank you—“
“—for getting you out of jail again? You’re more valuable to me here than sitting on your pretty, bony ass in some filthy cell. Hopefully you took the opportunity to hook up with a more suitable lover.”
Always mindful of her status as once-and-future-DA, Alex stiffened and cast a surreptitious glance into the hallway.
It amused Liz. Alex was destined for the Big Chair, and Liz had every intention of being instrumental and invaluable to Cabot along the way. It would pay off handsomely, in one form or another. But now Liz only snorted derisively at her arrogant protégée. “Get in here and close the door.”
Alex shut the door and glided over to a leather chair opposite Liz’s desk.
“Did I say you could sit down?”
Apparently, Alex was game and not too tired for verbal sparring. She leveled an arch glare at Liz. “No, Mommie Dearest, you didn’t.”
"Good one, Alex. Well, I may be old enough to be your mother but I'm tired of cleaning up your messes." Liz leaned back in her seat and engaged Alex in a territorial stare down. Alex’s icy blues worked on clueless juries, shit-scared witnesses, and suspects already bone weary with hours of interrogation. But not her. “Now sit down and shut your damned mouth.”
Alex slid into the leather chair.
“You can only play me for a fool for so long.” Liz permitted a familiar intimacy to invade her tone. She stood and walked over to the window.
In the darkened pane of the window, framed by two slivers of the blind that Liz pulled open with her hand, she saw Alex react accordingly. Her angular features gentled into the softer planes of regret. “Liz, I—“
“I didn’t say you could speak yet, did I?”
She’d taken things too far; she was as indulgent with Alex as with a spoiled child who wants dessert for dinner every single night. Cherry pie tonight? Of course, my dear. When Alex had shown signs of interest in Detective Benson—smoldering glares, lingering glances at the sublime swagger of Benson’s ass, and, most insulting of all, championing the cops’ point of view all the time—Liz encouraged it. You want her, darling? Well, have her.
There was no need to be possessive; one held with an open hand. Indeed, she welcomed the seduction. She would be the Marquise de Merteuil from Les Liaisons Dangereuses: Setting fools into action like chess pieces, playing the confidant, witnessing the cross and the double cross, watching hopes rise and fall like heaving bosoms. Hogan Place had always been the perfect backdrop for these melodramatic manipulations. And when Alex had arrived on the scene, Liz thought she had found her cold-hearted equal, her Vicomte de Valmont.
Alas, Alex shared Valmont’s fatal flaw: She loved when—and whom—she really wasn’t supposed to love.
But Olivia Benson was no Madame de Tourvel, no pious innocent to be led astray. The one quality, however, that the two shared was pathetic obliviousness. Liz highly doubted that that lunk-headed, self-absorbed butch had any inkling of Alex’s true capacity of feeling for her, that Alex was capable of feeling anything other than multiple orgasms.
Liz turned from the window. Walking back to her desk she hesitated behind Alex’s chair; the whirling ends of her blonde hair, sweeping over the collar of the pinstriped jacket, were a temptation. So close. Liz extended a hand, slightly shaking. Her fingers brushed the delicate, fair fringe.
“I’ve missed you.” It was a simple statement of fact, she thought, nothing more, nothing less. Nonetheless, her entire body trembled.
Alex’s voice was low. “Liz, don’t.”
Liz ignored this. “What’s she like?”
“What?”
“In bed, dear. She’s a terrific lay, you said—but let’s hear some specifics.”
“We can’t play this game anymore.”
“Really?” Liz strutted around the chair until she faced Alex. Sitting upon her desk, she regarded her sulkily defiant prey. Yes, Alex, this is war. Liz extended her leg, drawing the pointed tip of her shoe along Alex’s elegant calf. “You’re not leaving this office until I have an answer.” Liz stopped for a second to discard the shoe with a half-wriggle, half-kick. “And Alex?” Her foot continued its journey, diving under Alex’s skirt, pressing between her thighs.
Alex suppressed a gasp.
“If you don’t tell, Mama will make you show.”
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