The Maxwell Conference Room

Steve caught up with her as she waited impatiently in front of the elevator door.

“I like it when women are conscientious and punctual,” he muttered through his teeth, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Is that considered a feminine virtue in Europe too?”

“Yes. That is, punctuality is generally viewed positively. For both women and men. They also say that punctuality is the politeness of kings.“

He smiled. ”Then it's a good thing we haven't had a king in the US for 300 years. It would be outrageous if women expected men to follow their schedule. The man decides when it's time for what, and that way he's always in the right place at the right time.”

Marie was seething inside. Apparently, her first positive impression of Steve was wrong. He was a true product of his macho culture, arrogant and condescending.

“In any case, I've never met a woman who complained when I came after her,” he added.

The sound of the elevator arriving saved Marie from having to respond to this lousy pun. She just rolled her eyes and pressed the button for the conference floor.

She ran the last few meters to the door of the Maxwell Room. She stopped in front of it, calmed her breathing, and smoothed her jacket and skirt. Seven minutes to go. Good. Not too late. But a protocol officer was expected to be the first on site and check that the room was properly prepared. She assumed she would have to listen to a lecture from Étienne, her delegation leader, about reliability and a proper sense of duty. But that would follow later. For now, she straightened her back and entered with measured steps.

As expected, she found a large meeting room with a long oak conference table in the center.

Beige carpet, dark wood paneling, and suspended brass lamps gave it an elegant ambience. The entire back wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows and offered a fantastic view of President's Park with the huge Chad Maxwell statue, the Washington Monument, and beyond.

However, she was surprised to find that no one else was present. None of the seats at the table were occupied. A quick glance around the room showed her that none of the delegation members or their American counterparts were present.

However, she was not entirely alone. Five women were kneeling along the long wall, all of them scantily clad in a kind of black bikini.

Steve had walked past her and scanned the room with his professionally alert gaze. He didn't devote more than three seconds to the girls; they obviously weren't important to him.

Marie closed her mouth again. Her heart was beating in her throat. What was going on here?

“Are we in the wrong room?”

Steve looked at his wrist. “No—ah, wait a minute.”

He tapped his smartwatch and put a finger to his ear. He was probably wearing an invisible micro earpiece. He nodded into thin air and looked at Marie. “All right. The start of the conference has been postponed to 1 p.m.”

“Oh. And no one thought to inform me?”

“As far as I understand, the get-to-know-meeting went on quite late into the morning and was… exhausting for the participants. That’s why Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Moreau decided to give everyone a little time to recover. And besides,” he winked at Marie, “you wouldn’t have been available tonight anyway.”

She blushed. To change the subject, she pointed to the five women kneeling on the floor.

“Why are they here?”

The bodyguard followed her gesture, as if he had forgotten that anyone else was present besides them. “I'll check.”

Instead of asking them, he instructed one of them to raise her hand. He held his wristphone close to her forearm, where a flat bump indicated that a chip had been implanted underneath. After a soft beep, he read the data.

“They are... participants from the Department of Commerce. They were summoned here for the negotiations.”

Based on his brief hesitation, Marie suspected that he actually wanted to say “property of the Department of Commerce.” She didn't need to ask what role the women were supposed to play in the talks. In her mind, she called it what it was: they were prostitutes, hired to distract and lull the Europeans into complacency so that the Americans could negotiate unfair, dishonest clauses into the agreement. They had expected dirty tricks, but this was a step up that no one had foreseen.

Now it was paying off that the EU had insisted on sending a female delegation member. She would have to remain vigilant and critically minded. And she made a mental note to kick her colleagues in the shins—verbally or, if necessary, literally—if they started thinking with their dicks.

How fortunate it was that she, Marie, was immune to such stimuli. She smiled to herself. But then the image of Soraya popped back into her mind. She felt herself getting hot.

“What now?”

Steve's question snapped her out of her thoughts. She shook her head to clear it.

“I suggest you use the extra time to relax,” he specified.

That would probably be the most sensible thing to do. However, Marie didn’t really feel like returning to the small, sparse hotel room.

Steve must have seen the skepticism on her face. He took a step closer. His shadow fell over her.

“I’ve got an idea."