Each question is answered with vague statements about how my private life must remain private, but I won’t engage in any activity to distract myself from the opportunity to bring new leadership and prosperity to America.
“Are you pregnant, Congresswoman Colton?”
That question, a blatant fishing expedition launched by the Globe reporter, stops me in my tracks. My hand moves instinctively moving to cover my belly and I force it away, throwing on a mask of distain to cover my surprise and fear. “I’ll be happy to answer personal questions when they’re appropriate. Right now, they’re not. Ask me anything you want when we’re having a sleepover and braiding each other’s hair, OK?”
The reporter grimaces at that verbal slap. I stand from the little table and make my way back to the rear cabin and the empty seat by Sasha, swaying with the turbulence.
“How’d it go?”
“Rough. But I stayed on message.”
She pats my hand. “Good job. Ready for the hard part?”
“I thought that was the hard part.”
“We’re just getting warmed up.”
***
It’s called a Grip and Grin because that’s what you do—grip as many hands as possible, smile at the donors and thank them, smile like you’re just so damn glad to be there.
But I don’t want to be here.
I want to be in Jared’s arms, but he’s probably thousands of miles away. I can’t keep track. Sasha’s somewhere in this hotel ballroom lining up the biggest donors for me to thank, and Jared’s…
Well, he’s with Shep. He’s doing his job. And it kills me that the job has torn him from me so completely that I can’t count on him to be my emotional support through this roller-coaster election run.
It’s rare he’s in the same city as I am, much less in my bed. The distance gnaws at me. I must be crazy to imagine we could ever become a nuclear family, that we could ever have a home and a child and the kind of stable, normal life that most of the voters want.
I guess that’s why it’s called public service. When I only had a mission to live for, which was avenging Seth and Ethan’s death with my gun-control legislation, it was easy enough to give up all the other things that made me me in service to the cause. No family. No hobbies. No social life.
But now I have more than a cause or a campaign. I have a child growing steadily, and in few weeks I’m due at the doctor to hear his or her heartbeat, to see the new life growing inside me on a fuzzy black-and-white monitor.
“Congresswoman Colton? Could I have a word?”
“Of course.” I shake off my stupor and extend my hand. I force a smile, force my eyes to focus on the gentleman in the well-cut suit.
He’s smooth with pleasantries, injecting just enough specifics about his business that I understand the kind of influence he hopes to buy. Soon, Sasha interrupts him and steers me to another man, and then another, and I go through the motions again.
Between each interaction, I catch glimpses of my Secret Service detail as they smoothly reposition themselves. I wink at Mac; she’s traveling with me and she gives me a quick smile.
“Snap out of it,” Sasha whispers as she propels me to the next cluster of people. “You’re daydreaming.”
“I’m dead on my feet,” I mutter. I’ve been up since dawn, Eastern time, and now it’s long past sunset in LA. But more than exhaustion, loneliness threads through me, dragging me down.
A few texts and stolen moments for phone calls are all I have with Jared. It’s a shaky foundation for a relationship.
The crowd in the ballroom swells and I spot a blond head and a blazing red dress among the dusty navy and charcoal suits. The straight curtain of hair, the slim figure … I recognize her even before she turns to reveal a sharp, porcelain profile.
Lauren.
I cut off my conversation as politely as possible and hustle to Sasha’s side, gripping her elbow and forcing her to look away from her ever-present tablet.
“What the hell is she doing here?” I hiss, cutting my eyes back to where Lauren Kennedy Darrow appears to be holding court for a bevy of admirers. A dozen feet away, I spot her husband’s glossy black hair and angular jaw.
Fuck. They really are a poster couple.
“This is supposed to be Shep’s fundraiser.”
Sasha frowns, stepping to the side so it doesn’t appear as if we’re staring at her. Them. California royalty. “LA’s their turf. Even though the guest list is donors-only, it’s not hard to get in when you used to run the place.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, clamping my lips against a flow of curses. “But what are they doing here? Lauren pretty much called me a slut on TV this morning and Aaron’s making nice with the Republicans, neither of which supports our ticket.”
“Leave them alone.” She glances at nearby groups and then steers us across the room. “You’ve got to remember that a lot of your newest supporters used to back Darrow. Especially here in California. Seeing them at your event tells the donors it’s OK to back you, even if Aaron’s being a dick about giving us an endorsement.”
“You think they’re helping?”
Sasha tilts her head and shrugs, indicating it could go either way. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re here to undermine you.” My mouth drops open but Sasha barrels on. “The point is that you are the star here and anything you say to them will only legitimize their presence. You’ll give them more influence. So ignore them.”
I snort in frustration, then take a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray and sip it. It tastes like vinegar, curdling my stomach. I have no business drinking with a baby onboard, a fact that Sasha’s curved brow hasn’t missed.
I backtrack. “Can you grab me some water while I speak with this next group?” I gesture to a cluster of men and women a short distance away.
Sasha nods her approval of my take-the-high-road maneuver and drifts away. I muster all of my remaining energy to work the room.
But between each conversation, I find my eyes flitting back to the crowd, taking stock of where Lauren and Aaron Darrow are. There are several other dignitaries here including Hollywood celebrities, local mayors, and former members of congress. I greet each of them, thank them for supporting the ticket, and do my best to project the kind of strength and composure Shep Conover would surely ooze if he were here.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that at thirty-nine, most of the donors are much older than I am—I look more like their arm-candy girlfriends.
And yet, I’m doing this. I’m a congresswoman and a vice presidential candidate. I summon everything I learned in law school and on Capitol Hill to make my presence count.
I won’t let them make me feel as stupid and small as my mother once did. My mother. Shit. The clock is ticking on her demand for cash and I haven’t figured out how I’m going to get it together. I need to call my broker and liquidate something.
I’m deep in a discussion with two police chiefs about proposed changes to drug laws when the familiar, tinkling laugh interrupts us.
“Hello, Grace. It’s too bad Shep couldn’t make it out to California tonight.” Lauren smiles prettily and bats her eyelashes at the cops who instantly make room to welcome her into our circle. Double shit.
Lauren learns the chiefs’ names—no introduction needed for Lauren, of course—and offers each an anecdote about visiting their cities when she was first lady: leading the Rose Bowl parade, and opening the new science building at UC Davis. She ignores me completely, as if I’m just part of the hotel ballroom’s decorations.
“Would you gentlemen please excuse me?” I have to get away, but the minute I turn to make my escape, Lauren twists and follows me, pinching my elbow painfully to arrest my motion.
“You can’t keep Jared under wraps forever,” she whispers. I plant my feet, struggling for a mild expression as I face her.
“It’s nobody’s business.”
“It is. America wants to know. And then they’re going to tear him apart.”
<
br /> “Why?” I should know better than to ask questions I don’t know the answers to, but I wonder what Lauren’s got against Jared? What can she hurt him with?
“Because they can’t trust him and neither should you.”
I laugh, a hoarse and ugly sound. “You’re the one I don’t trust, Lauren. You tried to ruin my candidacy with those pictures. That backfired, and now you’re trying to fuck with my relationship.”
Lauren pauses a beat, appraising me. “So it’s serious.” It isn’t a question and I realize that using the word relationship again, just as I did on the Gloria Alton show, is telling her precisely the information she went fishing for.
Dammit.
“It’s seriously none of your business.”
“It’s every bit of my business when I’m the one holding the cards. I’ve got the grenade—Jared’s identity. And plenty of juicy details that will make voters hate him, and hate you for loving him. So I’m the one who gets to decide when to lob it to the media.”
“And when might that be?” I grit out.
Her cold, tight smile reveals two thin lines bracketing her lips. “When it will do the most damage, of course.”
I shake my head, amazed by her brazenness. She’s like a school bully who’s found a new favorite pet to pick on and she won’t be satisfied until she’s reduced me to tears.
I stand taller, square my shoulders, and inject my voice with as much venom as I can. “Get over it, Lauren. We won. You lost. Fuck off and go torture someone else.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Her eyes brighten and her smile widens just in time for me to turn and see a photographer click his shutter. Great. Now he’s got a shot of happy-face Lauren next to my scowl.
“Let’s do another,” Lauren volunteers to the photographer. The eager young man raises his camera again.
But I withdraw, shaking my head and avoiding eye contact. The last thing I need is a file photo with me and Lauren, as if we’re buddy-buddy.
If she pulls the strings—and undoubtedly she would—the photo would be timed to appear after she reveals her “secret” knowledge about my affair. It would add legitimacy to any lies she tells about my relationship with Jared.
“Now’s not a good time,” I mumble to the photographer. I scan the room for Sasha, but she’s nowhere. I edge away.
“We’re not done here,” Lauren says, eager to keep me at her side.
“We are.” I lower my voice but the steel in it comes through. “And if you decide to lob a grenade at my personal life, be ready to have every ounce of firepower I’ve got turned back on you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I trudge back to my hotel suite after the fundraiser, thoroughly exhausted from the day. All I want is a shower and my yoga pants. But the TV is on and a pair of argyle socks are propped up on the coffee table.
My heart soars. Jared’s dark head swivels and he catches my eye.
“How was it, darlin’?”
I can’t get to him fast enough. I collapse next to him on the couch, kicking off my shoes and curling under his strong arm. I bury my face against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent.
“I’m so, so glad you’re here,” I whisper.
His arm tightens around me. “Me, too. God, I missed you.” His other hand touches my cheek, tucking a dark curl behind my ear. “I needed you.”
The confession makes my heart beat faster. He needs me. “Tell me more about that.”
Jared’s slow smile is equal parts warm with interest and heated with intent. “I needed to touch you. To smell you. To feel you in my arms.”
“So I take it this isn’t just a campaign stop?” I tease him. “You aren’t just here to brief me?”
I feel Jared’s chuckle rumble in his chest as I’m pressed against him. “Sasha knows I’m here. She tagged out to meet up with Shep in Chicago and she wants me to prep you for the debate. But right now, the only kind of prepping you need is the kind that can’t be shown on network television.”
Jared’s long fingers slide between my blouse and jacket, nudging it off, then he pulls my blouse out of the waistband of my skirt and over my head.
I sigh as he touches me, leaning into his fingers that tease my nipples through my bra.
“Fuck, Grace.” Jared flicks my nipple and it hardens through the satin. “You get more beautiful each time I see you.”
His eyes burn my skin, a starving man hungry to devour every part of me. I close my eyes and let him explore me, feeling his touch skip from light to demanding, from a tease to a harsh pull at the cords of my own desire.
He pulls me up from the couch, his arms caging me in, forcing me to hold still. Still, still, and I pant as he strips me to nothing.
Just me. Just this stolen moment between us when none of the press or politics can touch us. He kneads my back, his fingernails scraping a column down either side of my spine, gripping my ass hard, telling me he wants more.
He kneels in front of me, his lips feathering across my hip bones, his stubble longer now, nearly a beard, tickling my skin with its tiny brushes.
He kisses me—there—at the corner of my sex, where my curls begin. His nose moves toward my center and I feel his breath on me, tempting me to melt and open and release myself to him.
“I love the way you smell.” He nudges my legs apart as I stand, then his tongue flicks out, sending bolts through me. “And the way you taste. So sweet on my tongue.”
He pushes me backward so I’m sitting on the couch, presses my knees farther apart, and then his mouth is on me, ferocious and demanding. “I need you. I need this.” His words are a jumble with my thoughts as I feel him advance and recede, his tongue dancing through my folds, twitching against my bud, taking me higher and higher.
“I need you, too.” It’s more than a confession. It’s a lifeline. He doesn’t know how much I need this reassurance in our connection.
“You’ve got me.”
“All of you?”
“Every part.” He raises his head, his mouth glistening with my juices. His eyes are on fire.
I dare to ask one more question. “Always?”
“For as long as you want and need me.”
I close my eyes. It’s a half-answer, maybe fueled more by passion than true commitment. It’s not enough.
I don’t want him to be with me as long as I need him.
I want him to be with me because he needs me—desperately, completely. I want him to need me for himself, for his own life.
Jared bows his head again and this time plants a soft kiss on my stomach. It hasn’t rounded yet, but this simple, familiar touch sets of a flurry of butterflies that are nearly my undoing. How can he be with me, right now, when he doesn’t know?
And if he did know, would he still be here?
I push myself up off the couch, plant my hands on his shoulders to cement an even distance between us. I wait until I’ve locked eyes with him again and then I ask. “I need to know this. I need to know how … you want me.”
“I want you in every way. I just told you that.”
I want to believe him, to take this at face value. But insecurity makes me push further. “But what happens if Shep and I win? Would you want me even then? Even if our lives get a million times more complicated?”
A shadow passes across his face. “Why are you asking me this?”
I shove a hand through my hair in frustration, our sexy mood rapidly evaporating. “Because I need to know, OK?”
“Why? Why do you need to know? What’s driving all these questions?” Jared’s eyes crease with mistrust.
All I can give him is a half-truth. “Because I need to know what you want, for when things change.”
“Look, win or lose, I want you. Isn’t that enough?”
I shake my head miserably. “No.”
“Then what? What do you want? You want a ring? You want me to propose to you? We met barely three months ago. With all the change that’s happening in your life, do you r
eally want to force the issue of us right now?”
Keep it light. Keep it quiet. Keep it casual. Jared’s words from before echo painfully in my brain.
Shit. I’m an idiot. I’m forcing his hand when he’s already told me he plans to fold. Or at least, that he’s not all in.
And I’ve decided to keep the baby. I’m all in, whether Jared’s playing or not. Do I want to force the issue? “No. I don’t want to force anything.”
He pulls me into a hug. “Then don’t. We don’t have to have all the answers right now. Just focus on what you need to get through the next couple of months.”
I hesitate, but I have to ask. Lauren’s threat to expose him hangs over me and I wonder if outing our relationship first could be a preemptive strike. “Do you want us … do you want me to ever … make us public? To name you?”
Jared’s brows shoot up. “Is that what this is about? The fact that people want to know who’s in the picture?”
“That’s part of it,” I hedge. I replay my conversation with Lauren, her threat to expose him ratcheting up the urgency to define our evolving relationship.
Jared pulls away from me and sits next to me on the couch. “Let me put my campaign manager hat on for a sec, even though that’s for Sasha to do now. Let’s say you’re dating someone.”
I feel the chasm growing between us as Jared’s dark and dirty voice is replaced by the direct, demanding political consultant.
“Are you seeing him regularly?”
I nod.
“And is this a relationship you’re willing to share with the public right now? Someone you want to expose to a whole shit-ton of media attention?”
I shake my head.
Jared’s face pinches, but he goes on with his consultant’s calculus. “Then you don’t say a word. Lauren won’t tip my name unless she stands to benefit. Right now, neither of you benefit. If you introduce your lover to America, you create a distraction. And if we broke up, it could be disastrous for your campaign.”
The fact that breaking up is even on the table shakes me. I bite my lip against against the million things I want to say and secrets I need to tell. I can’t. Even though I’ve promised Shep I will, I haven’t promised when. I’m positive now’s not the time.
The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2) Page 10
