Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “He never lets up.” A beep alerted him to another call. A quick glance showed it to be the one person he didn’t want to talk to. Shit. “Speak of the devil. Call him. Tell him something. Come up with any story at all. Just that I am not taking Marla to the July Fourth fundraiser.”

  “You owe me.”

  “Anything.” He switched to the second caller, steeling himself for an inevitable lecture. “Yes, Father, I’m on my way.”

  “Why aren’t you there yet?”

  Jonathan sighed heavily into the phone. “Obviously, your spies have checked in on time.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You need to get on the Senate majority leader’s bandwagon. His bill will pass before the election. You could use some positive attention before October.”

  “Father, it’s Saturday.”

  “That means nothing for a freshman trying to get re-elected. What’s this I hear about you jetting home yesterday for a fundraiser? Don’t take on too many charity cases, Son. Too much hand-holding will bleed you dry. Looks desperate.”

  “I fail to see how attending an event to raise money for a child’s medical bills is hand-holding. And they were desperate.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It’s good publicity and all that.”

  “Not everything’s about publicity, Father. In my position it’s important to—”

  “Like hell. You’re running for office, not a papal honor. Look at your mother and me. We don’t give—”

  “Stepmother,” Jonathan corrected shortly, having barely eked through a yellow light past a taxicab stopping short for a woman with her hand outstretched in a hail. Jesus, where did all the traffic come from on a Saturday afternoon? Most Washingtonians fled like lemmings to the cooler beach on Memorial Day weekend.

  His father cleared his throat, the signal Jonathan was about to get a speech. “Claire always said your heart’s too soft for office and too hard for family.”

  “I’m surprised she recognizes a heart.”

  “Don’t start, Jonathan. She’s done nothing but—”

  “Support me. I know, I know.”

  Jonathan’s stepmother, Sarah’s mother, had smiled through event after event at his father’s side to show support for Jonathan’s re-election campaign. It wasn’t her fault she married the one person who had traded in his own heart for influence long ago. It wasn’t her fault Brond Senior forgot the purpose of public office—to serve the public. “Lobbyist” fit him perfectly today.

  “So, how are you going to handle the Collins show?” his father asked.

  “I’ll play the game.”

  “Good. Because, Son, you need to land in the middle on this thing.”

  “I understand the middle very well, Father.” Christ, did he understand. His two years in office seemed one single, endless meeting, where the only place to land was the middle. More experienced politicians called it “consensus building”—the height of success in Washington. Fuck, he hated compromise. Everyone walked away with a little something but disappointed because they didn’t get enough.

  “Well, when Shane told me—”

  “Why are you talking to my staff?” Jonathan rubbed his forehead. The early summer heat must be taxing his patience.

  “It’s the only way I find out anything. Jonathan, you’ve got to select an issue on which you can build consensus, not turn the whole First Amendment on its ear.”

  Jesus. The old man’s relentlessness had kicked up a notch today. At least he wasn’t bringing up his son’s love life—a recent favorite topic.

  “Father, aren’t you missing a golf game or something?” Jonathan spun his palm on the steering wheel as he turned into the Washington Rosemont Country Club. “Listen, I’m here. Gotta go.”

  Jonathan repeatedly tried to dredge up some sympathy; his father had been hit hard by his own failed re-election six years ago. But his parental manipulation dried up any empathy he might muster. Jonathan had his own agenda—a ten year master plan, actually, where each election would draw him closer to his real life, not his father’s version of living. He couldn’t—wouldn’t— get lost in his father’s ambitions.

  Jonathan handed his keys to the valet and gave a quick wave to the photographers, who had set up camp at the entrance of the club. His first lesson in office had been to play nice with the paparazzi, especially during crises. Just last week, a fellow congressman had been caught in flagrante delicto, cheating on his wife with his assistant. The cliché alone made headlines.

  “Congressman,” they called. “Give us your thoughts on this whole Blanchard affair.”

  “Nothing to say, boys.” Jonathan brushed past a camera shoved in his face. Being nice didn’t include feeding the bloodsuckers.

  Jonathan stepped into the cool air of the club’s domed entranceway and followed the roar down the plush-carpeted hall. He hated arriving late, even to an event he’d never wanted to attend in the first place. Tardiness showed an utter lack of command of one’s environment. Undisciplined.

  He rounded a corner. “Jesus.” A young woman had landed in his arms. Long blond hair and an opera-length pearl necklace swung out as she stumbled backwards out of his hold.

  “Pardon me, I didn’t mean to run over you.” He trailed his fingers down her soft skin, as he steadied her—and studied her.

  She shivered in response. “Sorry. My fault, sir.”

  The lovely woman’s face drew Jonathan’s eyes. Although she wasn’t blatant about it, she appraised him, too.

  Pretty. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Dress understated. He ran an inventory on her assets, an automatic reaction whenever presented with something beautiful. Jonathan paid attention to women in general. He loved everything about them. He didn’t plan to get heavily involved, much less married, for some time. His political career wouldn’t allow for such attachment. Yet, when they offered themselves, they gave a gift, and he took it—at least while it lasted.

  “It appears the event’s in full swing,” he said.

  “Oh, yes.” She glanced up and met his eyes briefly, then ducked her head, fidgeting with her necklace, running the pearls through her fingers—first up, then down. She released the necklace as soon as she realized he’d noticed and smoothed down the front of her plain blue silk dress.

  On any other woman, the dress choice would scream, “Don’t notice me!” On the lovely young lady standing before him, it presented an elegance that couldn’t be overlooked.

  “May I escort you inside, Miss . . . .”

  “Snow. Um, Chris.”

  “Jonathan Brond.” He held out his hand. She took it with reticence, as if she had never shaken hands before. He didn’t release her slender fingers when she tried to pull away.

  “Have we met before?” he asked. She seemed familiar.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  His cock twitched at her soft, sultry “sir.”

  “Well, having a good time?” He stared at her naked pink lips. No lipstick. Very nice. He never understood why women covered up such assets with smears of paint and grease. He preferred no barrier to the tender slips of flesh.

  “Yes. Are you?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I could be. Come dance with me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. Dance.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” She pulled her hand loose.

  Perhaps a boyfriend waited around the corner, though her eyes held an intelligence that would outclass most of the single men trotted out for the debutantes who gathered at such places. No wedding ring, either.

  A woman, sporting a pouf of platinum blond hair that looked like a swirl of cotton candy appeared by his side. Damn, Mrs. Darden. She slid her hand up his back and around his shoulders.

  “Congressman, darling,” she purred. “It is sooo good to see you.”

  The taut skin over her face drew back as her mouth stretched into a thin-lipped smile. It was a look shared by all the Washington professional wives. If he had to guess, Dr. Levine, one of the
finest plastic surgeons in Washington, was responsible for her permanent “deer in the headlights” look.

  “Mrs. Darden. Wonderful to see you, too.” He gave her “Euro” kisses on her heavily made-up cheeks.

  He allowed Christiana Snow to scoot by them, her anxious blue eyes cast to the ground. Yes, he recalled exactly who she was now. Her face rose up from a memory. She was pulling her father from a reception a few months ago. His legislative assistant, Shane, caught him staring and offered up her name.

  Mrs. Darden latched onto his arm. “Really, Jonathan, isn’t it awful, this Blanchard thing?”

  “Yes, terrible.” He let himself be led across the ballroom threshold.

  Christiana slipped into the ladies’ room. Running into the charismatic Congressman Jonathan Brond ratcheted up her nervousness. Running into him? She’d practically mowed the man down! He probably wondered why she didn’t recognize him. Mrs. Darden’s unctuous cooing signaled his high place on the congressional food chain.

  Already the event was like every other big society affair she’d attended—over her head. Christiana tried to get into the spirit, feed off the excitement of being surrounded by powerful people with important jobs and positions. But they rarely held the entertainment promised. She’d find Avery and make her excuses. Perhaps a headache or last-minute change to her work schedule.

  “Jesus, Chris, come on.” Avery’s reflection appeared in the mirror.

  Christiana jumped. “Hey, I—”

  “You’ll never guess who’s here. Congressman Brond,” Avery whispered. She stiffened when a few of the primping women threw backward glances at their reflections in the mirror.

  I know. I nearly ran him down.

  Avery pulled her out the door and steered her toward the music. Her friend wore the requisite pink that most women modeled that day, and her glossy chestnut curls bounced in a messy bun, a style that easily could have taken an hour.

  “This event is looking up. We might even get you a date,” Avery said at the ballroom entrance. “Now stop touching your scar.”

  Christiana pulled her bangs down to cover her forehead. She didn’t mind her scar. It’s just someone always asked about it, and she wasn’t about to share that story with anyone.

  “Oh, Avery, I might—”

  “No. You are going to talk to people, make some new hot friends, and not abandon me.”

  Avery had read her mind. Okay, Christiana could do one hour.

  Swaths of rose-colored parachute fabric, interspersed with swags of white fairy lights, draped the walls. Inside, a mob of women in magenta, cherry, and white gowns gave air kisses to one another between tables draped in fuchsia linens with coordinating pink and white striped chairs. Bejeweled fingers and wrists sparked the air like paparazzi flashbulbs as women waved at one another across a crowded parquet dance floor. Only the fidgeting tuxedoed men, lining up before the bars in each corner of the room, broke the sea of pink.

  The room looked like someone had slaughtered a flock of flamingoes.

  Maybe she’d stay thirty minutes.

  Avery drew her closer. “It’s hunting time. Remember, if anyone asks, we’re part of the committee. Don’t you dare mention waitressing.” Avery spun on her heel and headed toward her mother, the fundraiser’s organizer, off in a corner laughing at something two women said. They bestowed the requisite air kisses on each other’s cheeks.

  Marcella “Coco” Churchill stood regally still as ever, in contrast to Avery’s fidgeting. Though Christiana had admired her beautiful friend’s poise when they were in high school, Avery had acted like a bird caught in a screened-in porch since returning from Stanford University a few weeks ago.

  Could Avery be silently wishing they’d skip this event too? They’d both already met versions of anyone they might meet here—the politicians hoping for connections, impassioned do-gooders convinced their organization could right some wrong, and socialites soliciting fat checks from the concerned and hopeful.

  Christiana tried not to bump into anyone as she weaved through the tables, scanning the room for people she’d seen on political television shows or events she had attended with her father.

  “The real success of a D.C. fundraiser is who actually shows up,” her father had told her at the first such event. “Be sure to note where people are seated. You’ll tell pecking order by table placement.” Her father should know. He wrote for The Amendment, a paper dedicated to watching the comings and goings of Capitol Hill. He was an expert on power—who had it and who wished they did.

  Christiana found her table tucked into a corner. As soon as she sat down, a waiter filled Christiana’s wine glass. After a tentative sip, she wrinkled her nose. The Chardonnay probably cost seventy-five dollars a bottle. It still smelled like dirty feet.

  “Hey, Chris.” Christiana jumped as her friend crouched by her chair. “See the gorgeous blond guy at that middle table? Next to the facelift? That’s him.”

  Not even the dim lighting prevented her from recognizing Congressman Brond. How could anyone not see him? If Mrs. Darden hadn’t used his title, Christiana would have pegged him for a model. His symmetrical cheekbones would’ve been stunning on any man—or any woman for that matter. But his intense green eyes, framed by dark lashes, tipped him into a whole new category of good-looking.

  “God, I hope he remembers me. We met two years ago, but he kind of disappeared from the club scene. He’s one of the youngest members of Congress. And single,” Avery breathed.

  Christiana recalled how his hands trailed down her arms. He probably thought Christiana was the most ignorant woman he’d met and certainly the rudest, not acknowledging his position and refusing his polite offer to escort her inside. Good going, Chris. She could have been more gracious, even if Congressman Brond was an insurmountable, completely out-of-her-reach fantasy. Powerful men like him ended up with the Avery Churchills of the world.

  Avery stood. “I’m going to ask him to dance.”

  “Oh?”

  “You should start talking to all the hot guys here too. Don’t waste your chance.” She pulled Christiana’s wine glass from her and took a big swallow. “But don’t drink too much, Chris. You can’t handle it.”

  Avery swept back toward the head table, her pink satin dress swishing from side to side. Christiana blinked back irritation at Avery’s tone, shook it off. Something had been bothering Avery for the last two weeks since she’d returned from school. But she’d turned away every question Christiana had asked about her year at the glamorous California college. Maybe she found her freshman year as disappointing as Christiana did. It sure wasn’t what she expected—high school on steroids.

  Within minutes, servers danced around one another, putting plates of filet mignon and asparagus, swimming in hollandaise, in front of the seated guests. The clamor of voices and clanking silverware rose over the music. The real jousting had begun.

  “Conversation is the best swordplay in Washington, Chrissy,” her father told her just that morning. Christiana hoped no one expected her to parry.

  She sneaked a look at Congressman Brond. He dipped his head, dodging the wild gestures of the man to his left who accentuated his speech with arm waves and punches to the air. The congressman’s bland expression showed he wasn’t enthralled by the exchange.

  “Are you a friend of the Churchills? I saw you talking with Coco’s gorgeous daughter.” The silver-haired woman next to her washed her meat down with a swig of what smelled like scotch.

  “Avery’s my best friend.” Christiana studied her hands.

  “Well, tell me, dear, why are you here alone? A beautiful girl like you?”

  Christiana’s face heated.

  “You should take a page out of your friend’s book.” The woman nodded to Avery, now standing next to Congressman Brond’s table, offering him a glass of champagne. Of course, he smiled up at her.

  Christiana took another sip of the smelly wine but then set her glass down. Getting tipsy might feel good for an h
our, but it wouldn’t change her life. Besides she had to drive herself home . . . alone.

  3

  If Avery Churchill pushed her breasts any closer to Jonathan’s face, he’d be tempted to give her a good, hard spanking.

  “Well, I guess I should return to my committee’s table.” Avery lowered her eyelashes. “Let me know about that dance.”

  “Miss Churchill.” He rose but couldn’t return her handshake with any enthusiasm. Her practiced, child-like moves raised his ire and added to the tedium of the affair. But she presented a good escape route. He’d kept an eye on Christiana Snow since she entered the ballroom; she’d vanished from her corner table.

  Jonathan entered the deserted hallway. The sweet-looking blond likely headed to the ladies’ room. It’s where all women ended up at some point in the evening.

  Christiana barreled into his chest as he rounded the corner.

  “Well, Miss Snow, I seem to keep running into you—literally.” He smiled as he caught her arms.

  “Oh, Congressman, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  Fuck, he’d like to get into her. “You can repay me with that dance.”

  “Oh, really, I couldn’t . . . .”

  “You don’t like to dance?” He dropped her arms.

  “Oh, no, it’s not that. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

  “You’re that good, huh?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s, well, you’ll want to be seen with someone more—”

  “More what?”

  “Helpful to the fundraising effort.” She bit her bottom lip. “I really should go. My table must be wondering where I am.”

  He watched her hair swing in time with her hips as she marched away from him toward the ballroom. Christiana Snow wasn’t anything like he’d imagined.

  Jonathan had seen the beautiful girl twice before with her father, famed reporter Peter Snow, who hadn’t been too steady on his feet either time. The first was only a glimpse of her helping the intoxicated man into a taxicab outside a Georgetown restaurant but the second wasn’t much longer—when she pulled her father out through a reception exit. After Shane revealed the man was her father, he’d tucked her name away but hadn’t thought to follow up then.