Disclaimer: All 'My Gal Sunday' characters are owned by Mary Higgins Clark, publisher Simon & Schuster, and whoever else can legally lay claim to them. I am making zero dollars for this fanfiction. I am simply borrowing them (as usual) for my own twisted and nefarious purposes. (So kindly refrain from suing me.) Spoilers are a possibility in this story, so do yourself a favour and run out to your favourite bookstore or library and get 'My Gal Sunday' if you have not yet read it. To the un-initiated, I am not responsible if you find out details of plots in this fanfiction that you would rather not know – you've been warned. To reiterate: If you don't want stuff spoiled, I'm warning you that there are SPOILERS ahead, and you probably shouldn't read my inferior story before you read Mary's book. Clear as mud?? Good.

My Gal Sunday

A Twisted Kind of Love

January 2002

The pale winter sun that peeked through the curtains of the comfortable bedroom was barely enough to disturb the sleep of Henry Parker Britland IV and his wife of five years, member of Congress Sandra O'Brien Britland, whose now ineffaceable nickname was 'Sunday'.

Henry, former President of the United States, finally opened his eyes and stretched quietly, not wanting to disturb his still-slumbering spouse. Propping himself up on one elbow, Henry rolled over and gazed at Sunday, smiling at the thought that he was often captivated by her very presence so close to him. He reached out a hand and carefully brushed aside a stray strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face. The action, however, caused her to stir, and she opened her eyes. Smiling, she said "Good morning."

"Good morning," Henry replied. "I didn't mean to wake you. I apologize. But you see, there was this errant length of hair that was obscuring your lovely face."

Laughing, Sunday replied "Henry, it's much too early in the day to be using such flattery. And I can't be that attractive without having brushed my hair and my teeth."

"You're attractive any time of day, darling," Henry insisted, and kissed the top of her head to prove his affections.

Sunday's words of admonition caused an unsettling memory to return to Henry at that point, and he let the kiss linger to convince himself that he still wasn't dreaming that she was with him.

Almost five years earlier, the brother of a former client from her days as a public defender had abducted Sunday. He had lead Henry and numerous others on a wild goose chase for over 24 hours, and had almost succeeded in drowning Sunday in the Atlantic Ocean.

When they'd been reunited on the chilly, winter Long Beach Island shore, a shivering Sunday had tried to deter Henry from kissing her, at least not before she'd had a chance to brush her teeth. Henry had ignored her then and kissed her anyway, so very thankful that she hadn't been killed by her captor.

"You're quiet all of a sudden…all out of words of adulation?" Sunday looked up at him, a teasing expression in her blue eyes.

"No," Henry replied slowly, "just counting my blessings, the biggest of which is my lovely wife."

With all his wealth, prestige and accomplishments, Henry acknowledged that his marriage to Sunday was the best thing that had ever happened to him. When he had first been introduced to Sunday, Henry had felt like the man in the biblical parable that finds a priceless treasure and sells everything to obtain it. Henry hadn't had to sell anything to marry Sunday, but he felt he would gladly give it all up if it suddenly became the only way he could keep her.

Henry sat up, and climbing out of bed said "I'll let Yves know he can start breakfast, and I'll bring in the papers and coffee."

"Okay," Sunday yawned, "but I get dibs on the Post."

She was, of course, referring to The Washington Post, which as a member of Congress, Sunday felt was definitely required reading.

"That's fine, darling," Henry replied, and left the room, humming ' Sunday Kind of Love'.