A buzzed smile creases into a giggle behind the portable cannabis device, freed by manicured fingers. ‘No, big man, I’m Lilith’s personal assistant. Benjamin Merchant, at your service. Ya’ll come in, we’ve been expecting you.’ The accent is a southern Alabama drawl, laced with saccharine.

Merchant leads them through the grand entrance, the floors polished onyx marble, the bay windows at the rear of the house revealing the pool, its invisible lines melding perfectly into the turquoise shades of the Atlantic Ocean.

‘May I say, Madam President, that finally meeting you is quite an honor. I’m a flamer myself. Probably stems from my upbringing. Did your Catholic priest fondle you, too?’

Heather Stuart’s face flushes pink. ‘No, he most certainly did not.’

‘Yeah, I suppose they restrict themselves to little boys. What about the nuns?’ Moving past a sweeping oak staircase in a drug-induced saunter, he leads them to a matching set of interior doors. ‘The lady of the house is inside. Go on in while I fetch us something to drink.’

Ken Mulder waits for the annoying man to leave before opening the door.

The study is a thousand-square-foot pentagon-shaped chamber, its walls paneled in rich mahogany, its high arched ceiling criss-crossed by teak wood beams. A matching desk houses a wraparound computer station featuring a 270 degree plasma screen. On the other side of the room is a sitting area—three leather sofas and two bamboo chairs forming a square.

Seated on the middle sofa is Lilith Mabus. Brilliant turquoise eyes gaze up to greet them, the Hunahpu-blue radiance exuding the luminescence of a cat’s nocturnal eyes. Wavy raven hair flows like ivy down her black kimono, the sheer fabric pressed against her breasts.

More startling—the mocha-skinned thirty-four-year-old goddess’s lower body is nude beneath the hip-length kimono. With her bare feet propped on the coffee table, Lilith is clearly flaunting her sex, daring her guests to look.

Mulder and Engle’s eyes widen. President Stuart merely shakes her head.

The man-eater smiles. ‘Welcome to the oral office, Madam President.’

‘Cute. But my last name’s not Zwawa and this isn’t a social call, so if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind a bit. You’re the one who requested a face to face, and I find formal wear too conforming. You can have a seat, or stand there gawking, it’s up to you.’

Heather Stuart motions to her two cabinet members. The two men share the sofa catty-corner to Lilith’s, the president selecting a bamboo chair directly in front of their host.

Lilith leans over to the wide-bodied national security advisor and winks. ‘What’s wrong, Donald? Don’t trust yourself? You never averted your eyes when I used to visit John in the West Wing.’

‘You weren’t naked, Lilith.’