by Krista Holt
“No one is getting whacked,” I assure her, taking the cold beer the bartender hands me. “So, tell me, how is life at the FDA?”
She scowls slightly. “Same ole, same ole. They added me to a team analyzing the long-term effects of synthetic sweeteners. Let me tell you, they aren’t sweet. This one guy—never mind, I probably shouldn’t be talking about it. Do they have you guys sign NDAs, too?”
“They do.”
“They probably shouldn’t entrust secrets to people in their twenties, especially if alcohol loosens our lips.” She takes a swallow of her beer, shrugging one shoulder. “Everyone seems to talk anyway though, no matter what they signed.”
She’s right. Secrets are practically a currency in this town. Everyone has them, and everyone wants to know them. They’re traded back and forth like favors. Ask any press secretary worth their salary, the “if you don’t print this, I’ll tell you about so and so” conversation happens every day.
Becca taps my arm. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodged my question about Scott. What’s going on with him?”
“Nothing. He’s a co-worker. That’s all. He said he might stop by for a drink though.”
Her eyes gentle with sympathy, letting me know what’s coming next. A pep talk, the same one we’ve had a hundred different times. “You know it’s okay to move on, right? It’s been a year and a half, Reagan. The Italian is not coming back.”
“I know he’s not coming back, Becca. Trust me. Ducking the whole Scott thing is more about not blurring the lines of co-worker and dating partner. I don’t want to be distracted at work.”
“You’re so old-fashioned. Anyone else would be going after what they wanted, completely forgetting about their work priorities.”
“It’s just the way I am.”
“I know, but—”
“Becca!” One of her coworkers waves her over toward the jukebox. She shakes her head no, but I see the opportunity to wiggle out of this uncomfortable conversation.
“Go.” I nudge her leg. “It’s fine.”
“You sure? I don’t want—”
“Go. I’m fine, I swear.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” I force a smile to show her just how fine I am.
She slides off the pleather seat and joins her friends. They shout seconds later when an old Styx song blares over the jukebox speakers. I pull out my Blackberry to distract myself and scroll through my recent emails.
The jukebox cycles through a couple more songs, and another crowd sweeps into the small place, pressing everyone even closer together. We’re packed like sardines against the bar, and after getting elbowed twice in the back, I decide it’s time to go. Grabbing my coat, I text Becca, letting her know I’ll be outside getting some air.
The creaky door slams closed behind me, cutting off the noise of the crowded bar. I greedily inhale the cold air, watching my breath dissipate into the night sky. I close my eyes, and for a second it’s so quiet my heartbeat is the only sound echoing in my ears.
Then my Blackberry beeps.
I grab it out of my coat pocket and open an email from Scott.
Not going to make it for drinks. Got held up. Rain check?
My fingers dance over the screen as I debate replying. I shouldn’t. I should just pretend I didn’t get it. But—
A harsh noise brings my head up. I look around the street, but it’s empty. Even the cabs that normally line the curb are missing.
I glance over my shoulder at the pristine white Capitol exterior lit up against the dark night sky, but no one’s there. Get a grip, Reagan.
I scan the sidewalk one more time. Almost missing the shadowy figure that steps out of a nearby alley. It pauses, and then moves, quickly, toward me.
The streetlights reveal fragments of a man as he moves down the sidewalk. Black dress shoes. Black slacks. A black overcoat. His face is hidden, but here’s something familiar about him. Something I can’t put my finger on.
He slows, stopping just a few feet away from me. The tainted yellow streetlight falls on his face, ripping the air from my lungs.
“Nic?”
“Reagan,” he replies, moving closer.
His mouth opens to say something else—and I slap him, hard, across his face. An awful silence follows as my hand begins to throb. I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe he’s really here.
He rubs a hand over his cheek, now a deep red. “I guess I deserve that,” he says dryly, “Didn’t expect it, but I deserve it.” A slow smile spreads over his face. “You look good, sweetheart.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s all you have to say to me? Where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been around.”
“I . . . I don’t even know what to say to that. I mean, seriously? That’s it?”
“I really can’t give you a better explanation right now.” He pauses, fingers still on his jaw. “But I do need to talk to you, and I need you to listen.”
“No.” I glare at him. “I’m not doing that.”
“You’ll listen.” He smirks down at me. “You’re forgetting I know you. There’s always twenty denials before you inevitably say yes.”
I shake my head. I am not falling for his charm again. “No, we aren’t doing this. You don’t get to come back in here—you don’t get to show up after all this time. No!” I take a step back. “Absolutely not! What you did—how you left—that was not okay. It was so completely far from okay that all I want to do is scream at you!”
A flash of pain twists his face, further confusing me. “Give me ten minutes.”
“No.”
“Come on.” He reaches for me.
The movement exposes olive skin previously hidden under his heavy coat. My eyes run up his arm to his face. His dark hair is a little longer. His face is thinner, and now carrying dark circles under his eyes. An unwelcome twinge of sympathy flows through me, and it must show on my face because he moves closer.
“You’ve missed me.” He smirks at me again. It’s the same one from back then, the one I both loved and hated. Right now, I just hate it.
“I didn’t miss you at all,” I say vehemently.
“Liar.”
I take another step back, holding my hands up between us. “What do you want, Nic?”
His eyes fall to my wrist. “You aren’t wearing your bracelet.”
I’m thrown for a moment as I follow his gaze to my bare wrist. “No, I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Why,” I repeat. “Why? I haven’t seen you in over eighteen months. Your phone is disconnected. You disappeared. If it hadn’t been for your less than specific notes, I’d have assumed you were kidnapped and murdered.” The corners of his mouth turn up, as if my concern is amusing, and it makes me even angrier. “Why are you back? Why now?”
His mouth opens to reply, but a large group noisily exits the bar behind me, interrupting him. I search the crowd, hoping to find Becca, until he touches my arm with a gloved hand, squeezing gently. “We’ll talk soon.”
His words hang in the air, but he’s already left. His back moves swiftly down the street, disappearing into the darkness.
Becca appears at my side a minute later. “What are you looking at?” She follows my gaze down the street.
“Nic was here.”
“What?” she screeches, peering harder into the dark night. “And he just left you here? What did he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Exactly what it means. I don’t know.” I stare at the empty sidewalk. “He didn’t explain, and now he’s gone.”
Again.
CHAPTER 8
Nic
Reagan is the only person alive who could slap me and leave me smiling.
If anyone else did that . . . well, they wouldn’t be alive for much longer. But approaching her in public was a mistake. It didn’t give me enough time to fix things between
us. I couldn’t help it, though. She came out alone; I saw her, and instinct took over.
After all this time, she still pulls me in. Like that night back in California when I first met her. I didn’t have a choice then either. I was at her table scaring that asshole off and introducing myself before I knew what was happening.
A smile pulls at my lips as I switch lanes, heading north, away from the heart of D.C. I can’t believe she hit me. My hand runs over the cheek she struck. The pain is gone, but the memory lingers. The way her eyes lit with surprise, then anger, and then remorse. She still has a soft spot for me. And I plan on using it.
The car decelerates as I turn onto a side street, heading to my apartment. I’m a block away when an automated voice announces, “unknown number calling.”
Hitting a button on the steering wheel, I accept the call. “Yeah.”
“She made it back to her place.”
I exhale. “Good.”
“I’m heading out. I gotta say though, I’m gonna miss this job. Easy money.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done. If you need anything, call me,” I tell him. “And remember, this stays between us. No one else needs to know.”
“Got it.”
I end the call and relax into the leather seat. She’s home, safe and sound. I like having that assurance, even if she’s mad at me. Somehow, it makes it easier to breath.
Pulling into an underground garage, I park in the spot assigned to apartment 45E, and head to the resident’s elevator. When the doors open, I turn down the hallway, passing a few doors before unlocking the one closest to the emergency exit.
The apartment is pitch black, and I don’t bother turning on a light. This place is a safe as it can be. But I still lock the door behind me.
In the dark, I pour a glass of scotch and wander over to the couch while tugging at my tie. With a click of a remote, I light the large gas fireplace. The flames illuminate my face, spreading heat throughout the cold room.
I close my eyes, and my mind races back to the woman I can’t stop thinking about. Reagan.
She’s adorably predictable. If I’d heard her five-year plan once, I’d heard it a thousand times. That’s how I knew she’d be in D.C. How I knew I would find her working on the Hill. It made it that much easier to calculate her movements. Not that I hadn’t been keeping an eye on her. I had, from a distance.
My phone rings, and I grimace when I recognize the tone, and by extension, the caller. It’s as if he can sense I’m thinking about something other than work.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Nicola,” my father replies. “There’s a church. St. Matthews on the corner of M and Capitol Way. Senator Thomas needs a favor.”
“Fine.” I set the glass down. “What is it this time?”
“Another intern.”
“Are you kidding me? Can the man not keep it in his pants? This is getting ridiculous.”
“I don’t disagree, but you know as well as I do how helpful he is when it comes to our needs.”
Helpful is debatable, but whatever. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” There’s a pause. “Your mother sends her regards.”
“Tell her I’m fine.” My hand covers my eyes, massaging my temples.
“I need you back in the city next week. Something we can’t discuss over the phone.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. Use your discretion with the senator, and call me afterward.”
“I understand.”
* * *
The clock on the dashboard changes to 2 a.m. as I sit in the dark interior of the Benz, a block away from the church, checking the shadows for any signs of an ambush. There’s nothing suspicious, though. No idling cars, no one standing around. To be fair, most normal people are home, asleep. Only the monsters are out.
Bracing for the cold, I get out of the car. Shoving my gloved hands into the heavy coat, I jog up the stone steps and pull open the battered wooden door. My eyes sweep the interior of the church out of habit. Finding it empty, with the exception of the senator, I step inside.
Walking down the small aisle, I pass the ornately carved pews on my way to the front. My hands work from memory as I strike a match and light a candle. It flickers in the votive, surrounded by a few other lit candles. I cross myself and mumble a platitude before walking back up the aisle and dropping into the pew directly behind the senator. After a minute, I clear my throat.
He pivots in his seat, facing me. Mistake number one.
“Turn around,” I utter. To anyone watching, this is just a chance encounter of strangers, and him talking directly to me ruins that illusion. Something he’s well aware of.
“Sorry,” he stammers, turning to face the front.
“I understand you have an intern problem. Please tell me she’s at least out of college?”
He hesitates, and it tells me everything I need to know. Disgusting. The man is nearing seventy, and the thought of him messing around with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter turns my stomach.
“Yes, I have a problem,” he says softly, the smallest amount of shame tingeing his confession. “And no, she’s not. She’s eighteen.”
I sigh. “What’s she threatening?”
“To tell my wife, and the press.”
Typical. “What does she want?”
“One hundred thousand.”
I whistle softly. She probably put up with him just long enough to hook him. Thanks to the Internet and congressional transparency efforts, I bet it only took her a few keystrokes to figure out his net worth. She doesn’t know about all the others, though, and how his bank account shrinks with each indiscretion.
“What are you putting up?”
He hesitates again.
“You are putting up something,” I lean forward, “aren’t you?”
“I can’t, not again. The last one made too big of a dent. If I withdraw more from my 401(k), my wife will get suspicious.”
A dark smirk crawls onto my face at the mention of his wife. He focuses so much on his affairs that hers slip right past him. Not that I’ll be pointing it out. He’s only helpful if we have in him in our debt.
“Fine. You better keep your pants zipped for a while though,” I say harshly. “You’re way in the red with us.”
“Hey!” He spins around, practically spitting with indignation. “Don’t talk to me like that. Any agreement I have is with your father, not you.”
Mistake number two.
I twist my finger, telling him to face the front. He does, and I lean toward his ear. “What you don’t seem to understand, Senator, and I use that term loosely, is that eventually I will replace my father. And we both know that you’re in so deep with us it’ll take you two lifetimes to pay us back. So, I recommend you watch how you talk to me. I’m the one doing your dirty work after all.”
I stare at the back of his head until he nods.
“Does she have proof?” I ask, steering us back to the matter at hand.
“A video.”
I grimace. Did I mention this jackass is disgusting?
“I’ll handle it. What’s her name?”
“Mandie Brighton.”
“She interning for you?”
“Yes.”
“Not anymore, she isn’t.” I stand. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
He grabs my arm before I can walk away. “Nicola, I’m sorry about earlier. I do appreciate your help.”
My gaze drops to his hand on my coat. He follows my line of sight and quickly lets go.
“Like I said,” I clear my throat, “I’ll handle it. I’ll be in touch after it’s done.”
“Thank you.” He extends his hand to me. Like a handshake somehow makes this perverted mess dignified.
I look at it for a split-second, and then walk away. “Be careful tonight, Senator,” I toss over my shoulder, “bad things happen in the dark.”
CHAPTER 9
Reagan
Noon.
Bartholdi Park.
That’s all his text said. I’ve been rereading it, over and over for the last thirty minutes. I have to go. But I’m not ready to deal with him. Not yet. I need to figure out what I want first.
“Morning, Reagan.” Scott takes a seat on the edge of my desk, saluting me with his red Marine Corps mug. “Ready to put your nose to the grindstone?”
I grimace, setting my phone down. “You make it sound so pleasant.”
He grins. “I always say, if you aren’t willing to sacrifice your free time and your social life, you aren’t working hard enough.”
“If I hadn’t seen you fall asleep at your desk last week, I’d say you were joking.”
He stalls, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Was I snoring?”
“No.” I laugh.
“Good, that would have been embarrassing.” His Blackberry chimes, and he checks his new emails without missing a beat. “I know it’s a little before ten, but do you mind if we get started now? It might take us all day to get through everything.”
“Uh, yeah. I might have a lunch meeting though.”
“That’s fine. We’ll just pick up whenever you get back.” He stands. “Did you drop off that signed non-disclosure with Brent?”
“I left it in his inbox last night.”
“All right then, let’s take this to the conference room.”
“Right behind you.” I wait for him leave and then reach for my phone, texting back a simple “yes,” before trailing after him.
I’m halfway through our small lobby when our staff assistant, April, calls my name. We were hired about the same time, and as the only women in the office, we’ve formed a tight bond.
“Hey, April. What’s up?”
“Are you working with Scott now?” Her brows rise to her platinum blonde hair, gray eyes sparkling mischievously.
“Yes, why? You want me to set you up?”
She purses her lips. “You think he’d be interested?”
“No idea, but it can’t hurt to ask, right?”
“You guys haven’t . . .” She trails off.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “We work together. That’s all.”
