Campaign For Seduction

by Ann Christopher

  “No,” she agreed.

  That would have been the end of the conversation except that something came over her. Part need, part temporary insanity and part the kind of irresistible impulsivity that made kids dart into the street to capture runaway balls. Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it or let this moment pass without touching him—just this once.

  What could it hurt? Who would know?

  “You can’t do things like that now, Senator.” She paused. “But I can.”

  He stilled.

  With the sound of his labored breath, her own thundering pulse and Teddy Pendergrass’s “Love T.K.O.” filling her ears, Liza reached out. She didn’t know what made her do it—only that she had to. Cupping his strong jaw in her palm, absorbing his surprised gasp into her body, she ran her thumb along his lush bottom lip and the heat surged between them

  One touch wasn’t enough. She’d been a fool to think it would be.

  She had to taste those lips.

  Standing on her tiptoes, exerting slight pressure to bring his face lower, she tipped her chin up and brushed her mouth over his.

  Mmm.

  He was perfection. Pleasure fanned out from that point of contact and filled her until she mewled with the sensation.

  The tiny sound sent a shudder rippling through him.

  Not pausing to think, she ran her tongue across his tender lips and tasted mints and something so primal and delicious that she wanted to gorge on it until it killed her.

  He shifted closer.

  Yesss.

  When she felt the vibrating energy of his growing lust beneath her fingertips and the insistent clenching between her thighs, reality intruded.

  Stop, Liza. You have to stop.

  With all the reluctance in the world, she pulled back and let him go.

  He’d just started to reach for her, but now he dropped his hands and stared at her with glazed eyes. They watched each other for a minute, both sets of lungs pumping as if they’d just sprinted a hundred meters, and Liza’s face and scalp prickled with the new heat of embarrassment.

  But she wasn’t sorry. If she’d just committed career suicide, that kiss was a fine consolation that would keep her warm for many nights to come.

  “I don’t—I don’t know what made me do that.”

  Lame, yeah, but the best excuse she could offer for her behavior.

  “I think you probably do.”

  The magnitude of her recklessness began to sink into her lust-fogged brain, and she wanted to throw herself out of the nearest emergency exit. In addition to making a move on a man, something she’d never done in her life, she’d just broken more ethical rules than she could count with the person who might one day be her president.

  If he wanted to, he could make one phone call and get her fired. On the other hand, if she wanted to, she could tell her story to a tabloid and start a feeding frenzy that would damage his chances of winning the nomination.

  Where did that leave them? Nowhere good for either of them.

  Her hand, moving on its own again, went to her mouth. Whether it was to hold his kiss there or wipe it away, she didn’t know.

  “It won’t happen again.”

  One of his eyebrows rose, making him seem vaguely irritated and, if she wasn’t mistaken, amused by her naiveté. That riveting black gaze sent goose bumps racing over her skin.

  “You crossed a line I wouldn’t have crossed, Liza.”

  “Forgive me, Senator.”

  What else could she say? Ducking her head and giving herself a swift mental kick in the butt for her unspeakable impulsivity, she hurried out before the mortification sent her entire face up in flames.

  There she was.

  John saw Liza Wilson the millisecond he walked through the double glass doors of the conference room at his Cleveland headquarters and all but cartwheeled with excitement.

  It was still dark outside and ungodly early—five-thirty in the morning. They’d all been up for hours because John had gone with his staffers and the whole entourage for an early-morning swim at his club, and yet she looked fresh and beautiful in her green dress and black boots, her head bent low over her clipboard as she murmured with Takashi and their cameraman over in the far corner near the sideboard. They’d begin filming soon, so her heavy on-camera makeup was in place, but John found himself wondering how she’d look without so much paint. After a minute he came to the unwelcome conclusion that she’d be more beautiful rather than less.

  Damn woman.

  Two long days had passed since The Kiss because she’d been recalled to Washington to confer with her executive producers about the logistics of her new assignment with him and Sitchroo. But she was back now, and the sight of her made all his body’s systems—pulse, temperature, breath—go haywire, just like always.

  Edging past the bleary-eyed but cheerful staffers already assembled at the massive table, calling good morning as he went, John could acknowledge the magnitude of his mistake in spending time alone with her. What had he thought? That Liza would irritate him? Had he actually been that stupid?

  Yeah, Warner. You were that stupid.

  She’d been so irritating he’d almost swallowed her whole.

  What else had she been?

  Unexpectedly sweet. Charming and funny, but also fierce and strong.

  Sexy enough that his blood still ran hot every time he thought of her. Really hot. So hot he was in danger of melting the clothes off his own body.

  And her smell…some sophisticated combination of a spring garden with a healthy dose of sultry siren thrown in. The kind of scent that made a man’s knees weak, his mouth water and his eyes cross.

  Liza, Liza, Liza.

  The woman demolished his reserve, destroyed his focus and made him think crazy thoughts, like the following:

  Campaign? What campaign?

  Or: what harm could there be in kissing her?

  Or this little gem: I wonder if I can lock this cabin door, throw her across my table and make love to her until the plane lands. Would anyone really notice if we were in here alone together the whole night? It could work, right?

  That’s right. He, Jonathan Matheson Warner, who had never in his life done anything impulsive, had been millimeters away from grabbing that woman and taking her any way she wanted it. Hard and fast? No problem. Soft and easy? No problem. Well…no problem after the first hard-and-fast time. Upside-down while hanging off the plane’s wing? Whatever Liza wanted, he was there. Who cared about a presidential campaign when there was a woman like that in the world?

  John shuddered. Five minutes alone with Liza Warner and he was now wallowing in self-destructive behavior. Could playing Russian roulette be far behind?

  He already had a paparazzi fire to put out at this morning’s Sitchroo meeting because a tabloid was running pictures of an airheaded celebutante kissing him at a Hollywood fundraiser last week. His poll numbers had already taken a hit because of it—a small hit, but still a hit—and he didn’t have any more numbers to lose.

  The last thing he needed was another fire about his personal life, and he wasn’t fool enough to think he could have an affair with Liza—even a discreet affair—and keep it secret for very long. No matter how much he wanted to.

  Luckily he had the gift of focus. Without too much trouble he could usually hone in on the real issue in any given situation, the one that needed addressing. That focus would help make him an exceptional president if given the chance.

  Normally focusing on his work was no big deal; it was how he’d become this successful in his career and managed to control the three-ring circus that was a presidential campaign.

  On the other hand, normally he wasn’t obsessed with Liza Wilson.

  Concentrating on his work had gotten him through the last couple of days without seeing her, but it was easy to resist temptation when temptation wasn’t there. Temptation was back now, and his work didn’t seem to mean jack or shit when she was this close.

  Determined
not to stare at Liza, John sat at the head of the table, ready to get this party started. Forget Liza Wilson, he told himself. Forget her. And he started to. For nearly half a second he did. But then the insidious thoughts started working on him and he glanced her way again, hoping for some flicker of acknowledgement in her eye, a half smile, a blush, a look…something…anything…but she kept her head low, and there was nothing for him to cling to except the powerful memory of her sweet lips on his.

  Adena, meanwhile, was staring across the table at him with a knowing and irritated look in her eyes. “John.” The warning in her voice couldn’t have been louder or clearer if she’d used a megaphone. “Should we get started with the—”

  Screw that.

  John held up a hand to silence and dismiss Adena and, with her, John’s doubts. He could make time to say hello to Liza; it was only polite. And anyway—what could happen in a room full of people?

  “Give me three minutes.” He stood again. “I need some coffee. Talk amongst yourselves till I get back.”

  The staffers resumed their chatter, and John left the table with Adena’s glower skewering him through the shoulder blades. He shrugged it off, his mind on Liza with a single-minded focus that was so absolute he was barely aware of the other people in the room.

  “Takashi.” He held out a hand. “The Pats lost last night. That’s another large you owe me.”

  Takashi, who had the unfortunate habit of betting on every losing team in the NFL, NBA, or any other sports league with three letters, looked around with a sheepish grin and they shook. No money would ever change hands between them and they both knew it, but it was always fun to rub Takashi’s face in another loss.

  “The Celtics are still in play, though, Senator. Should we make it double or nothing?”

  “No. I want to leave you some cash for your retirement years.”

  Maybe Takashi said something else, but John’s entire existence was now centered on Liza and he didn’t hear it. She’d glanced up from her clipboard long enough to give him a tiny smile that made him unreasonably happy.

  “And how are you this morning, Liza?” John took excruciating care to keep his expression friendly but not intimate and his voice exactly the same as it’d been when he’d greeted Takashi.

  Her color heightened as she looked up with a wry twist of her lips. “Not as good as I’d be if you started your day at a decent hour.”

  Staring at her, smelling the flowers on her skin, wanting her, John felt the first cracks in his discipline and hated her for it.

  Why, at this critical moment in his life and the country’s future, had this woman arrived to torment him? If he couldn’t have her, he shouldn’t want her. Not this damn much.

  “Takashi.” God, he couldn’t take his eyes off her for a second, even when he was talking to someone else. How crazy was that? “Give us a minute.”

  Takashi hesitated, as though he knew that what was on John’s mind was nothing innocent, but then he walked off. Right about then, an unwelcome thought crept up on John, screwed with his mind and gave him another reason to be angry with this woman who jammed his circuits at every opportunity:

  Was something going on with her and Takashi?

  None of his business, but tell that to his knotted gut.

  He stared at Helen of Troy and tried not to think about how much he wanted her sweaty, moaning and naked in his arms. That was hard enough. Not thinking about how much he wanted to spend time alone with her and learn everything about her life was impossible.

  “You shouldn’t have kissed me,” he told her.

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 6

  R eaching for a coffee mug, John tried to keep his voice even and his hands steady.

  Liza, unfortunately, didn’t cooperate and had the nerve to sound huffy. “I already apologized, Senator—”

  “The damage is done.” He put sugar in his coffee and stirred it roughly until it sloshed over the sides. Cursing, he reached for a napkin. “I’m having a little trouble getting the genie back in the bottle. What do you propose we do about that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  She looked up at him with those wide eyes, the model of innocent bewilderment, as though she couldn’t understand what the big deal was and why he insisted on yammering about it.

  “It was one small kiss that’ll never happen again. Why should we get all worked up about it? We’re both professionals, aren’t we?”

  Choked with sudden anger, John gaped at her. Nothing she could have possibly said would have goaded him more. One small kiss? Was that what she was calling the job she’d done on him with her lips the other night? When she’d given him a small taste of heaven and then snatched heaven away?

  Because it sure as hell hadn’t been one small kiss to him. It’d been the unwelcome explosion of something huge, the insertion of a Liza chip into his brain that sent him off on endless fantasies of Liza naked in his bed when he should be thinking about health care and Social Security.

  Seething, he fired the words out like bullets. “One small kiss?”

  Hitching up her arrogant chin, she shrugged and gave him a cool, distant smile designed for the sole purpose of telegraphing how meaningless he was in her life, how forgettable.

  “I can be professional, Senator. Can’t you?”

  She was good. He’d give her that. If not for the telltale patches of color high over her cheeks, he’d want to strangle her for her indifference when he was panting after her like a dog with his first bitch in heat.

  A beat or two passed during which she stared at John without blinking. He got her silent message loud and clear. Whatever attraction she may have felt for him came a distant second behind her career and always would—end of story.

  John understood. This was right and appropriate.

  Period. Whew. Bullet dodged.

  And still he felt the overwhelming need to rise to her challenge. To demonstrate in explicit detail that she couldn’t just kiss him senseless and then pretend it meant nothing. To explore the budding attraction between them and see where it led. To claim both prizes he wanted: the presidency and Liza Wilson.

  The Sitchroo meeting began a few minutes later, after the senator formally welcomed Liza and Takashi to the group.

  The two of them occupied one corner of the conference room and tried to be quieter than church mice at St. Peter’s Cathedral while they observed the proceedings. The senator’s staffers, twenty or so of them, all juggled laptops, cell phones and coffee, and all looked bright-eyed and eager to conquer the world.

  The plan, which had been finalized after much negotiation between the senator’s people and the network, was the following: in addition to trailing the senator all day, which Liza was doing anyway, he’d answer a few of her questions at the beginning and end of every day.

  These segments would air on the network’s morning and evening news shows, and Liza would continue to provide analysis several nights a week on the network’s cable affiliate. She’d also use all the behind-the-scenes footage for a one-hour special, Inside Sitchroo, to air either after the primary season ended or, if the senator won the nomination, after the general election in November.

  Liza and Takashi’s instructions for today and every day were therefore the same: shut up, observe and shoot. After the meeting ended in a little while, Liza would have five minutes to question the senator about whatever she wanted; then she’d do the morning show, and then they’d all traipse off for another full day of campaign activities.

  Simple, right?

  Not even close.

  The trying to be quiet and observe part was generally no problem for Liza. Trying to banish the senator’s taste from her mouth, well, that was impossible.

  He still wanted her. The heat in his eyes had been banked since the other night, yeah, but it was still heat and still there. It was real, this attraction between them. Powerful, real and dangerous.

  She’d almost convinced herself that she
’d imagined the whole interlude with him the other night, but seeing him again proved that the worst-case scenario was not a figment of her imagination. He was as violently attracted to her as she was to him, and every endless day on this campaign was going to be a tormenting exercise in futile longing and unfulfilled desire.

  Spending time alone with him had only thrown gasoline and kindling on her fire. He was genuine, to her everlasting dismay, and she liked him. He was also shrewd, funny and nice. What you saw with him was what you got, and she couldn’t be more furious about it. What was he trying to do to her by being likable? Why couldn’t he be a jackass like everyone else?

  And why, Liza thought as she irritably uncrossed and recrossed her legs in this uncomfortable chair, was she evaluating him as though he were relationship material?

  Feeling glum about her apparent lapse in sanity, Liza watched and tried not to doze while a couple of staffers debated the latest poll numbers. Had she thought covering Sitchroo meetings would be exciting? Ha. So far this morning it’d been a yawn fest. The only good thing about it was the opportunity to stare at the senator, and since her breasts always swelled and ached at the sight of him, that wasn’t really a good thing, now, was it?

  He wore today’s dark power suit, white shirt and yellow tie and looked as though he’d been sent over from central casting to play the president in some blockbuster action-adventure movie. Everything about him aroused her, including his hands, which were the current objects of her obsession.

  Those long fingers with their neat nails were now wrapped around his omnipresent soccer ball, the one he allegedly couldn’t think without, as he strode around the room listening to various reports from assorted people. That was another bit of trivia about the senator: his relentless energy rarely let him sit still for long and he did his best thinking, or so he said, while holding his soccer ball and pacing.

  When Adena changed the topic to the tabloid photos of Francesca Waverly, which had just hit the stands, Liza stopped daydreaming and started paying attention. Waverly was a size-two Hollywood airhead with no talent and a bikini collection vast enough to outfit every woman in America. What had the senator been doing with her? The question suddenly had a whole new relevance.