I sat up, after having my face buried between her thighs for the better part of twenty minutes. Never in my life had this ever happened. Exasperated, I sighed and wiped a hand across my mouth. I loved the taste of her on my lips. “Yes, I knew about the money.”
“What about all of this email bullshit?”
I turned to see the red “BREAKING NEWS” banner flash across the screen. The FBI wasted no time in digging around and uncovered a treasure trove of emails that implicated the governor in all the scandals that plagued my campaign. His actions were those of a desperate man. He knew that in the general election, he could never win against me. Governor Huntley thought that Georgie was my Achilles’ heel, but he was wrong and his plans backfired. It sickened me to think that he paid his son to attack a woman and made me question any respect I had ever shown him. Underneath his family man persona, Lamar Huntley was a sick, vindictive fuck.
“That I didn’t know.” I abandoned my planned seduction and sat with Georgie, completely engrossed in watching Governor Huntley’s downfall.
“What happens now?” Georgie asked after a while, once the information had become repetitive.
“I’d very much like to finish my dessert.” I grinned and directed my gaze toward her lower half.
“Jameson! Stop thinking with your dick! I’m talking about the election.”
The ambush on Georgie’s event happened with only days before the third and final debate. The Federal Election Commission contacted the campaign to inform us that “in light of the recent events, the Commission on Presidential Debates has decided to cancel the third debate.” While presidential debates had become a tradition over the previous decades, no law actually mandated them. The Commission on Presidential Debates was well within their right to cancel the event. It was probably a good thing too, because the Republicans needed all the time they could get to find a new candidate.
“The Republican National Committee can nominate someone new, if Huntley doesn’t drop out, but I suspect he will.”
“Who do you think they’ll pick?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” I presumed Sean would meet with me in the morning with a list of possible names. There was literally two weeks left before Election Day. I was confident that none of them had a snowball’s chance in hell of winning, not after the shit-show Huntley and his son just put on for the entire nation.
I grabbed the remote from Georgie’s hand and turned the television off. She made a small noise of protest, which I quickly extinguished with a scorching kiss. Then I reached around and untied the god-awful hospital gown she wore, tugging it down her shoulders until her chest was bare, and her breasts exposed.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather pay attention to you for the rest of the evening.”
Her wicked grin in response was a mirror of the one I knew was planted on my face. She nodded eagerly and my hand slipped beneath the thin covers to her warm, wet center. She adjusted herself, spreading her legs enough for me to work my hand thoroughly into the cleft of her body.
“I hope that door is locked,” she murmured in between kisses.
“It’s not like we haven’t been caught before.” I chuckled and then covered her lips once more.
She was my reality and it was time to return.
When I was finally released from the hospital in Memphis, Jameson and I returned to his home in Boston. News arrived that the Republicans were meeting to nominate a new candidate after Governor Huntley formally dropped out of the race. From the conversations I overheard between Jameson and Sean, the governor didn’t go willingly. We were all but celebrating Jameson’s victory.
On a sunny Sunday morning, Jameson and I sat in his kitchen, catching up on the latest news, sharing breakfast. It was the perfect crisp New England fall day. I was already imagining walking through the city with Jameson, bundled up in sweaters and boots, as we sipped coffee, followed by half a dozen Secret Service agents.
“I have something for you.” Jameson pulled out a red velvet box from his pocket and set it on the table.
I gasped, covering my gaping mouth with my hand.
“What’s this?” I eyed the box, eager to reach out and reveal its contents, but I steadied my trembling hand.
“I found these the last time we were in Boston. They were in the same jewelry store where I purchased your ring. Go on, Georgie, open it.”
My giddiness won out over modesty and I snatched up the box with a delightful squeak. The lid creaked open because. Like the earrings that were nestled inside, the red velvet box was also vintage.
“Jameson!” I gasped. “These are absolutely gorgeous…and way, way too much.”
He inched closer toward me until he knelt on the tiled floor. He took the box from me and lifted the insert to remove one of the jeweled studs. The vibrant emeralds were set horizontally in a rich yellow gold. Below the emeralds were two oval diamonds stacked on top of each other, one horizontal and one vertical. They were very unusual earrings and while they might have been made during the Art Deco era, they still evoked modernity. Jameson held out a single earring in his palm and, with trembling fingers, I took it from him and fastened it to my ear.
Then Jameson grabbed my hands and gazed up at me, his eyes swimming with adoration.
“Georgina Marie Washington, I have a very important question to ask you.” He held on firmly to my hands, his smile wavering slightly as his emotions started to betray him.
“Yes, Jameson?” I managed to croak out.
He kissed my hands once more before peering back up at me. I took one of my hands and swiped at the tears on my cheeks, trying to minimize the wet mess. “Georgie, will you honor me by becoming my wife? You fill my heart with so much happiness and chase away every single doubt and fear. You are my sun and without you, my life is darkness. Please, Georgie, please say you’ll be mine forever.”
I broke out into a fresh round of sobs as I frantically nodded my head, and then Jameson pulled me from the chair into his embrace. I buried my face in his neck, drenching the collar of his shirt.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he murmured into my ear.
I peppered his neck and cheeks with kisses until we were both giggling with excitement. “Jameson, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. And I should have done it the minute I knew I was in love with you. You’re mine, Georgina Washington, and I can’t be the president without you as my First Lady.”
The crowd of gathered reporters were like a pack of rabid dogs, so eager to sink their teeth into what was about to be revealed. They were promised something meaty and juicy and Russell Hunt was not about to disappoint.
He approached the podium, his lawyer—selected and paid for by his father—trailed behind him. Russell had swapped his lurid orange prison-issued jumpsuit for a neat suit and freshly pressed shirt. It was probably the last time he was going to wear normal clothing again because he’d be spending the next thirty years of his life in prison scrubs.
Russell’s father and his lawyer convinced him to take a plea bargain because no one wanted a trial. It would be hard to prove his innocence anyway since he was caught practically red-handed. While he hadn’t murdered those Secret Service agents, he helped plan and plot the attack. The intent was to force Jameson out of the race; no one was supposed to end up dead. But, that was the consequence of hiring extremists; they had their own unapologetic agendas.
While Russell regretted the deaths of the agents, he didn’t regret anything else. He was tired of being hidden. The governor promised him a high-profile position in his administration. Russell was fine with never publicly being Governor Huntley’s son, but he wanted power and prestige. And that was guaranteed if the governor won.
Now everything was ruined.
And if he was going down, then Jameson and his White House whore were coming with him.
“Good evening,” Russell started. “While I take full responsibility for my actions and prepare to face the consequences, th
ere are things that still must be confessed. As a public servant and proud American, I feel that it is my duty to tell you about Jameson Martin’s deception. He is manipulating the American public. He is not, nor has he ever been, engaged to Georgina Washington. It was nothing more than a financial arrangement between an ambitious politician and a greedy opportunist. Do not elect a liar to be the next president. Who knows what else he is lying about?”
Jameson and Georgie’s story will continue in …
CAPITOL PROMISES
Releasing Fall 2017
I want to begin by saying how utterly surreal it is for me to write acknowledgements for my book. I never thought I would ever finish a novel. I have written only for myself since I was little and now, I am sharing a fully finished product with the entire world. Excuse me while I hyperventilate….
It’s important for me to thank my husband and son. Thank you, honey bunny, for constantly asking me, “When are you going to finish your book?” and for telling me all about the Porsche/Ferrari/Lambo you could be driving if only I finished my book. Look, here it is! Thank you for giving me the time to actually write it; I could not have finished this if I had to constantly chase after Peanut.
Peanut – Thank you for being a mostly good boy for your dad while I spent hours writing, editing, and working on this book. Hopefully, we can start saving for your college education. Ohio State isn’t cheap when you live in Arizona! Following your dreams is hard work and it isn’t always the easiest path but you can do it. This book is proof.
To my BFF – thank you for being my very first writing partner! Someday, “Dottie and Regina” will get their story and we will write it together. Thank you for being my first book buddy and for sharing books with me. Thank you for letting me corrupt you with my dirty romance books; I hope you’ve been converted. Or, at least, converted enough to read my books.
My Soul Sisters – Thank you for being my alphas and my betas. For answering my questions about totally random things. For giving me your opinions on covers and logos and names because I am completely and totally incapable of making my own decisions. Thank you for being my cheerleaders and for your constant encouragement. This book could not have been written without you!
Jenn and Jacque – Thank you for introducing me to the world of indie romance! I had no idea such a place existed until you opened the door. Thank you for introducing me to a place where I could make my dream come true.
Meghan March – Thank you for lighting the fire inside of me and for kindling it with your support and encouragement. You inspired me to chase something that I never thought would become a reality. I’m not sure that I would have had the courage to dedicate myself to finishing this book if it wasn’t for your bold, tenacious personal story.
I feel honored to have met so many romance authors in such a short span of time and they have all inspired me to work hard to achieve this dream. So thank you to: Amy Daws, Jessica Hawkins, Staci Hart, Lisa Renee Jones (we haven’t met yet but when we do, I will seriously cry), and Jennifer Berg.
Colleen Hoover and EL James – I’m pretty sure it’s customary for any new indie romance author to thank you both. So, thank you.
Jenn Wood – Thank you for your editing skills and for being the first person who wasn’t my friend to read my book. Thank you for falling in love with Jameson and Georgie and for being their advocate. Thank you for helping me figure stuff out like covers and teasers and suggestions from betas. I know that the rest of Jameson and Georgie’s story is in good hands.
I’d also like to thank Kellie Dennis, Melissa Pascoe, Emily Lawrence, and Tiffany Black for all of their help in making this dream become a reality.
Mullets.
Rebecca Gallo was first indoctrinated into the romance genre by her babysitter who watched hours upon hours of daytime soap operas. She harbored many inappropriate crushes on fictional characters such as John Black from “Days of Our Lives,” Orry Main from the mini-series “North & South,” and Edward Fairfax Rochester from Jane Eyre. She is still in love with Davy Jones from The Monkees.
Rebecca currently lives in the Southwest with her husband, tiny four-year-old terror, and a tuxedo cat with a limp. When she isn’t swooning over book boyfriends or dreaming up romances, she can be found educating the youth of America. Or eating tacos.
Connect with Rebecca Gallo
www.facebook.com/authorrgallo/
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www.twitter.com/RGalloAuthor
[email protected]
Presidential Bargain (The Presidential Promises Duet Book 1) Page 23
