by Lee Taylor
As she practically crawled up his leg, it took her agonized wail to bring him back to earth. “I . . . I . . . can’t do this . . . no one does this to me . . . ”
Not understanding, he managed to say as he held her closer, “Does what, princess?”
“I . . . you . . . don’t understand what’s happening! The only person who can make me feel this way . . . is . . . me!”
Seeing the tears streaming down her face, he tried to understand if she was saying that no one could do this to her, she wouldn’t let them. But then a lightning bolt of insight struck him. Lifting her down, he set her on the ground and pulled her shaking body hard against him. “If you’re saying what I think you are, Gia, all I can say, is you better get used to it, baby. I’m not done with you, not by a long shot . . . ”
She clung to him, then shook her head and murmured, “I changed my locks . . . ”
His harsh laugh was closer to a groan than a humorous response to her poignant assertion. Holding her tighter, he stroked her back, then murmured in her ear, “You need to know, my sexy woman, there isn’t a lock that’s been made that can keep me out . . . ”
She stuttered, “Who . . . who are you . . . ?”
He was silent for a long moment, then said softly, “I’m just what you see . . . and then some.”
Seeing the humor in his smiling gaze, she acknowledged that, unlike her, who she belatedly realized had bared her soul and most of her hurts to him, she didn’t know a damn thing more about him than her significant research had revealed. Which she now knew was no more than the elusive Mr. Fowler had determined was anyone’s business to know, including hers.
****
Sitting on his balcony for what seemed like hours, Logan came to grips with the gut-wrenching task facing him. He allowed himself to remember her luscious body clinging to him, thrashing with excitement in his arms. The only way he’d kept from taking her on the hood of his fucking car was her strange assertion that she couldn’t be feeling what she was feeling . . . that no one but her could make her feel that way. Intuitively understanding what she was saying and knowing how very wrong she was, he rose to his feet and went inside to his desk. Taking out his Mont Blanc fountain pen and a sheet of his monogrammed stationary, he inscribed the challenging words in his bold script. Quickly folding the single sheet, he put it in a matching envelope and wrote her name on the envelope. He didn’t have to reread the message. It was the cruelest note he’d written. It was unlikely he’d forget it.
“Gia: I regret to tell you that I will not contribute funds to the Maxwell campaign. Thank you for the opportunity. I wish you and your candidate well. —Logan”
Chapter 16
The flushed maître d’ at the Commonwealth Club raised his hands and shook his head in dismay. “I . . . I’m sorry Mr. Fowler. She . . . said it was an emergency.”
Striding past the trembling attendant, Gia marched up to his table. An eerie silence settled over the bustling luncheon crowd at her fearsome entrance.
Gia’s passionately low voice echoed across the suddenly silent room. “I need to speak with you. Now!”
Logan blew out a hard sigh. He folded his napkin, then dropped it on the table as he rose to his feet. He excused himself to his wide-eyed luncheon companions, then grasped Gia’s elbow firmly and ushered her past the crowded tables into the hallway.
When he led her into a coat closet, she jerked her arm free and whirled on him. As angry as she was, standing in front of him and seeing his dark frown and rigid jaw, she lost some of her bravado. She bit down on her trembling lower lip so hard, she drew blood. Swiping at her swollen lip, she struggled to speak. Shaking her head, she could only say, “Why?”
He blew out a hard sigh. “Because I’m a good judge of character.”
“And I’m not?”
His voice was soft, controlled, intense. “I also know a lost cause when I see one, Gia. The only thing Maxwell’s campaign has going for it—is you. Unfortunately, I fund candidates, not campaign managers. Especially those who are engaged to their mediocre candidates.”
She reared forward in fury. “And you didn’t have the decency . . . the fucking courage, to tell me to my face? Instead, you send me a fucking note?”
He shrugged. “I know you don’t understand—at least now, but it’s also because . . . I care for you . . . ”
Her rage flared. Stepping up to him, her fury was incandescent it was so hot. “You fucking asshole. How dare you? After what you did to me last night and then you do this? You dare to say that you care about me? What the fuck do you do to someone you don’t care about?” Struggling for words, she shook her head fiercely. Shoving at him, she stepped back when he grasped her arms and held his ground.
Shaking off his hands, her voice was contorted with anger and what he knew was pain. Glaring at him, not bothering to swipe at the tears streaming down her face, her voice shook. “I despise you, Logan. I didn’t know it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate you. Don’t you ever darken my door again. Do you hear me? If you come within a hundred yards of me, I will report you to the police or the fucking FBI or CIA or whatever fucking dark, off-the-grid operation you’re part of.”
She was shaking so hard, he stepped forward and reached out to hold her. She leapt back, slapping at his hands. Choking on her anger, she said, “So . . . so help me God, if you so much as come within a mile of me . . . I will take out a restraining order . . . and . . . have you thrown in jail . . . ”
He held up his hands, then said quietly, “I assure you, that won’t be necessary.” Turning away from her, he strode back into the restaurant.
When he returned to his office several hours later, a flustered Arnold met him at the door. “You aren’t going to believe this, sir. I . . . I was going to . . . to call the police, but I thought it was better for you to see this as it was when it arrived.”
Logan didn’t have to ask what had horrified his pale-faced, hand-wringing associate. The overpowering odor of single malt scotch filled the air. Glaring at the plastic-wrapped crate filled with smashed bottles and the remnants of several thousand dollars of expensive Macallan whiskey, he shook his head. Even as he instructed Arnold to throw the mess in the incinerator, he couldn’t help but be impressed at the sheer brilliance of her attack. In one infuriated gesture, she’d slashed at his expensive conceits and struck him in his most vulnerable place . . . his heart. Quixotically, he thought of Fredrich Nietzsche’s wry quote: “Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.”
****
Gia woke with a start at the sound of her doorbell ringing. Glancing at the clock, she was stunned to see that it was nearly nine thirty, which she told herself wasn’t possible. She never, ever slept past seven o’clock. Remembering her astonishing evening, she gave herself a break. In that it had taken her hours to finally get to sleep, she shouldn’t have been surprised that she slept in. When she got home, she’d paced her small house for what seemed like hours, reliving the life-changing highlights of her still unbelievable evening with Logan. Their conversation in the back of the HT&M was remarkable enough. God, the things she had told him. She should be horrified at her admissions and in many ways she was. How did he get her to say the things she said? Not only about her father but her mother? And good God, what she had said about Aiden and her crazy “power behind the throne” theory?
Most shocking was the way that she’d enjoyed taunting him. Even going so far as to tell him that heck yes, she’d been stalking him, and she’d learned more about him than he’d likely told anyone. She’d especially reveled in her demeaning description of his “go-to” girls and how vapidly predictable they were. But all her victories paled in comparison to what he did to her after he walked her to her car. It was what had made sleep almost impossible. Even now, her body hummed at the memory of him essentially assaulting her. Except that she’d more than reciprocated in the passionate tryst they shared. She tried to obliterate the memory, but it was no use. Even n
ow, the morning after, she remembered blurting out the fact that no one could make her feel what she was feeling except her.
Oh God, she’d wished she could drag the ridiculous words back, confirm that she’d merely thought them, not spoken them aloud. That he was surprised at her mindless assertion was predictable. What she didn’t expect after first being puzzled was him declaring that she’d better get used to feeling the way that she did because he wasn’t done with her “by a long shot.” Hearing the clanging doorbell and realizing it was the third time she’d heard it, she pulled a reasonably modest robe over her revealing shorty pajamas and went to the door. Seeing the serious deliveryman in the doorway, she was surprised when he held up an envelope.
“I’m sorry to wake you, miss, but I was ordered not to give this to anyone except Gia Tremaine.”
Pulling her robe more tightly around her, she responded, “I’m Gia Tremaine.” Seeing the distinctive handwriting on the envelope, her stomach flipped crazily and her knees felt like rubber bands. Clinging to the doorjamb for support, she forced herself to sound somewhat coherent. Nodding at the frowning man, she said, “Please give it to me. I’ve been expecting it.” When he handed her the envelope, she clutched it, then closed the door and leaned against it for support. She realized that she had been expecting it. Not like this or even so quickly. In fact, if anything, the campaign donation hadn’t been on her mind. Logan was. But she knew in her heart of hearts that Logan would never have done the intimate, crazy things he did to her last night if he didn’t intend to support her. The only question was how much he would pledge. She’d never mentioned her need for a half mil. She wished now that she had. It would be bad form, to say the least, if she had to go back and tell him she needed a “smitch” more. Not able to wait a second longer, she ripped open the envelope and read the two-line note.
****
“Damn, Gia. Are you all right? You look like death warmed over.”
Gia merely shook her head and without answering Ben’s concerned query, walked into her office and closed the door firmly behind her. Glancing at the time on her phone, she was surprised to see that it was after noon. The morning was a blur. She vaguely remembered her surprise that she’d slept in. She now wished with all her heart that she never got out of bed. She forced herself to remember answering the door. In retrospect, it was not surprising that she’d done what she did. After the first moments of shocked disbelief, she was overcome by anger so intense it was a miracle she survived it. Calling on every god and evil devil to strike the despicable traitor dead in the most violent ways possible for what seemed like hours, she prepared for action.
After she’d done justice to the fucking gift he’d sent her and called a delivery service to return it, she forced herself to prepare for the next steps. Pulling up her BTLFW calendar, she noted that he spent most of his daytime hours in meetings but always had lunch with one of his clients or backers. Knowing that most of those lunches took place at the Commonwealth Club, she got ready for her coming confrontation. Looking in the mirror, she wasn’t surprised that she looked pale. But dear God, did she have to look like a survivor of a death camp? Determined to put on the best face possible, she took out her makeup kit and went to work. Unfortunately, the blush and eyeliner only served to heighten her pallor. Giving up, she turned to her closet, then realized she didn’t give a flying fuck what she looked like. Grabbing the nearest skirt and blouse and a pair of shoes, she declared herself ready. Ready for what, she wasn’t clear about. She only knew that if it was the last thing she did, she had to confront him, tell him how much she hated him, and how she wanted him to rot in hell.
Now sinking into the chair behind her desk, she allowed herself to remember the scene at the Commonwealth Club. She permitted herself to conjure up the pitiful, apologetic maître d’, the stunned diners—ninety percent of them men—and finally Logan. When he rose from his chair and led her from the room, she was glad. Without his firm grip on her arm, it was unlikely she could have made it out of the dining room. She hadn’t known what she would say to him. She hadn’t prepared a speech. If she had, it certainly wouldn’t have been the incoherent, expletive-laden assault she fired at him. And she definitely wouldn’t have cried. But for better or worse, she had done all of that. Giving herself credit for surviving his deeply troubled, narrowed gaze, she remembered his pitiful excuse. In the lowest blow of all, he’d declared that he cared for her. Jesus fucking God, if this was the way he showed he cared, she should be thanking her angels that she was throwing him out of her life forever. Shoving at the pain gnawing at her gut, she acknowledged that was going to take time and a hell of a lot of tears.
“Gia, I’m sorry. I knocked . . . several times, but you didn’t answer.” Ben blew out an audible sigh, then yanked out one of the chairs in front of her desk and sank into it.
Gia met his troubled gaze, then shook her head, not knowing if she could answer his unasked question without bursting into tears.
Ben let the silence continue for a blessed moment, then said, “I take it the Conclave didn’t go as I’d hoped that it would.”
Gia was confused. It took a significant effort to understand what her halting friend was referring to, then she remembered. Oh yes, the Conclave, the event that Ben had been sure would work in their favor. He’d predicted that she would rock the superstars’ world with her mere presence and all the stars would be aligned. She shook her head, then forced herself to speak. “Uh, no, Ben, to the contrary. The Conclave was hunky-dory. Everything that you predicted would happen did. I looked terrific and he more than noticed. We ended up at the HT&M and, over a bottle of expensive scotch, came on to each other.”
When she stopped talking, Ben waited, then tentatively persisted. “Then what happened?”
“Hmm, let me see. Oh yes, after we stumbled out of the bar and dry-humped each other in the parking lot, somehow I made it home. BTW, he is a first-class dry-humper.”
When she couldn’t continue because the lump that had been forming in her throat was now the size of a grapefruit, she just shook her head.
After a very long moment, Ben broke the heavy silence. “Then what . . . happened?”
Gia frowned, not sure what Ben was asking. Then she remembered. She’d almost forgotten exactly what had happened. Most of the morning and now apparently the afternoon was a blur. She sucked in a deep breath and was glad that at least her heart and lungs were still working even if her life had gone to shit. Meeting Ben’s frowning gaze, she shrugged. “What happened next?” She held up her hands in defeat. “I was wakened by a messenger who was delivering an envelope addressed to me.” Not able to say the words, Gia reached into her purse and pulled out the embossed piece of paper and handed it to Ben. Hearing his shocked gasp, she nodded and blew out a hard sigh. “Yeah. Classy, isn’t he? Monogrammed stationary and all. Hell, I haven’t had monogrammed stationary in my life. Big Bart always cautioned me. When I was going to tell someone to burn in hell, do it personally. That way I could deny I’d said it.”
She swallowed against the re-emerging lump in her throat and forced herself to conclude, “Apparently, Mr. Fowler intends to stand behind his word.”
Chapter 17
The next two weeks flew by at an alarming speed. Gia wondered if this was what it felt like when you were driving over a cliff and no matter what you did, the brakes didn’t work. She’d pulled out all the stops, even convinced Franklin Maxwell to cough up his half mil though she hadn’t come close to matching it. Although she despised the man, she was glad that he was as contemptible as he was. Knowing his litany of financial misdeeds and his amazingly open solicitation of prostitutes made convincing him to donate to the campaign a slam dunk.
Unfortunately, if Franklin didn’t hold her to his insistence that she find funders to match his contribution, Gia knew that he’d been wise to insist on that caveat. She knew that she needed at least a mil to run against Gus Underwood. Not only was the guy an incumbent, but he’d had most of his money lin
ed up before he ever declared his candidacy. After she’d eliminated Mike O’Brian as a competitor, according to her sources, Underwood had stopped fundraising altogether. Apparently, they considered Aiden so weak a candidate they didn’t want to waste their time seeking money they didn’t need.
The funding dearth wasn’t Gia’s only problem. The biggest one was Aiden. He’d never been a gung-ho candidate, but as she upped his schedule to a measly three appearances a day, he balked. After showing him the schedule for the next week, he’d attacked her.
“Dammit, Gia. You have to know I’m exhausted. This is totally ridiculous. You know all the polls show that I’m going to whip Gretchen Engle’s ass. I don’t get why I have to keep meeting with people who aren’t even going to vote. Why should they? Everybody knows it’s a given I’m going to win.”
Gia kept from saying that if and when he did win the primary, it sure as hell wouldn’t be due to anything Aiden had done. Rather, it would be because she and Ben and the rest of the team had been working nonstop. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make Aiden understand that having the primary in the bag was a gift they couldn’t squander. They literally had three weeks of unopposed campaign time, and her biggest problem was getting her lazy client out of bed.
Accepting that even with her significant coaching, Aiden’s media appearances were getting worse, not better, she stopped scheduling him and began assigning the task to Ben or Kaila and Emma, who were rising stars in their own right. She purposefully assigned herself only the most critical interviews. The ones they couldn’t afford to fuck up. Even as good as she was, she had to spend a third of the interview explaining why her candidate wasn’t there beside her.
