Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “You’re not changing the subject on me.”

  “Dad, I’m not—fine, I’m changing the subject to this insurance form. I really need you to fill it out.”

  “I’m gonna do it.”

  “When?”

  “After Meet the Press.” He took it. “See?”

  She gave him a weak smile.

  “Did you see a man with—”

  “Dad!”

  “Alright, alright. I’m going to watch TV now.” He left Christiana in peace to make another pot of coffee.

  Her father would’ve killed to attend the club fundraiser last night. He loved events, any kind where he could angle for an interview or test his theories on someone. But given his penchant for social networking—and scotch—Avery wouldn’t have extended an invitation to him even if Christiana had begged. Christiana thought how alike her father and Avery were about social gatherings. No occasion went unconsidered. Few events went unattended.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open,” her father always said. “You might learn something, Chrissy.” But, really, how many different ways can a girl smile at the nothings she heard?

  How many Sunday brunches, ballroom dinners, mansion soirees had she attended with her father? Some guy always seemed to angle her into a corner of the kitchen where he breathed liquor fumes down the neckline of her dress. Or worse, focused on her forehead and reminded her of things better forgotten. Christiana would duck away as soon as the booze forced him to clutch the edge of the counter with both hands. Her father would be talking loudly in the living room, barely holding on to a tumbler of scotch. When they were the only ones left, she’d help him to the car.

  Several male voices thundered from the TV in the living room. Christiana sighed and moved to join her father. If she didn’t, he would yell from his throne about how a reporter or consultant had just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

  Christiana curled her feet underneath her on the sofa and picked up her laptop. She launched Quicken to start updating the household accounts. They’d been woefully abandoned. The data entry work would distract her from the noise of the Sunday political television show.

  A lot of words for a whole mess of nothing.

  She was deep into reconciling her father’s checking account when a familiar, rich baritone pulled her gaze to the TV. Oh! Him.

  On the screen, Congressman Jonathan Brond’s eyes shone more sea-green than emerald. She held her breath when he spoke. Her inner parts tingled as she remembered how he said her name.

  The congressman leaned forward. “Privacy is on everyone’s mind right now, David. Public confidence in online security seems to be lessening as usage of the Internet and social media, in particular, is growing.”

  The political pundits around the table watched him as if mesmerized, drawn in like Christiana. The congressman’s conviction was palpable. Even the host, David Gregory, stared, engrossed by his words.

  “There is mounting evidence that security holes exist,” he continued. “We need to construct a protective framework, including legislative action, without violating the First Amendment. If we don’t protect the American people from false information, fake news stories, and predators, who will? For one, allowing cyber bullying is criminal.”

  “Look at him. He can control a room,” her father said. “But, then the Bronds always could.”

  The Bronds. She rolled the name over her tongue, silently.

  “Listen to this, Chrissy. This social media thing has got some issues, and he seems to be the only one taking action.”

  Most politicians’ voices dripped with air kisses and firm handshakes, affable and approachable, telling you what you wanted to hear. But Jonathon Brond had an edge. The man didn’t hide the power in his voice.

  Congressman Brond scratched his chin. Her belly clenched at the thought of his hands and how strongly they’d held her on the dance floor.

  “You and your friends may fill your days and nights on YouTube and Facebook,” her father said. “But, mark my words, all this exposing yourself so freely online is going to get ugly soon. That poor girl who killed herself from online bullying. Shameless.” Her father spat his last word.

  Christiana wished her father would stop lecturing her on social media; he knew she hated Facebook and Instagram and all those vanity selfies.

  No, she wanted to hear what her father knew about the Bronds. “So, the Bronds have a prominent history in D.C.?”

  “Political family. Very wealthy. Legacy politicians like the Kennedys and the Rockefellers. The Bronds started out in the Midwest somewhere and then hit the national stage sometime in the forties. Then they decided to get away from their roots. Moved the whole kit and caboodle to Rhode Island. Well, that wasn’t too popular,” he said.

  “Why wasn’t it popular?” Christiana couldn’t imagine anyone disliking Jonathan Brond.

  “Some big scandal. A divorce, I think. Not a very smooth move by his father, Senator Brond. Then, of course, that whole mental health debacle the good Senator started. The family’s not very graceful.”

  Not graceful? She recalled Congressman Brond’s smooth movements as he twirled her on a dance floor. “I danced with him last night,” she said to the TV.

  “You danced with Congressman Brond at the fundraiser?” Her father pointed an accusing finger at the television. “You danced with him.”

  “Jeez, Dad. Yes. One dance. That was it.” She snapped the laptop shut and stood to retreat into the kitchen.

  Her father lurched from his recliner and followed. “Well, what did you talk about?”

  “Nothing. Typical politician. All charm and small talk.” The ache between her eyes returned.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Christiana turned to face him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “You said he was charming,” He held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Charitable. Taking pity on a girl who he thought was alone.”

  Her father’s eyebrows raised. “A famous politician who’s known for womanizing.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did he talk about the Internet bill? It’s your generation who—”

  Christiana’s phone rang, down the hall. She pushed herself from the counter’s edge and jogged to her room to answer, glad for an excuse to leave the awkward discussion.

  “Chris.” Only Avery could scold someone by saying their name.

  “Hi, Avery.”

  “Where did you go last night?”

  “Everyone seemed to be leaving, so I thought I’d call it an early night.” Christiana flopped on her bed.

  “Well, what did you and the hot congressman talk about on the dance floor?”

  The tight band around Christiana’s head turned into a vise. Little stars of light pricked her vision. Great. A migraine.

  “Not much,” Christiana said. “I told you everything. But you danced with him later, right?” Christiana’s chest filled with both pride and guilt. She knew he hadn’t. She had the handsome man’s attention first although the thought was difficult to enjoy with the invisible screws boring into her head.

  “No, he said he had to go. Early meeting or something. Then, I got caught by the dreaded twins.”

  “The twins?”

  “Yeah, those two college guys. Dad made me talk to them. Something about clerking for him. He wanted me to convince them Washington was the most fun place to be, ever.” Avery’s earring clinked against the phone. “So, did you meet anyone?”

  “Um, not really.”

  Avery sighed into the phone. “What about that guy at your table? He was cute.”

  “Who?”

  “Jeez, Chris. I’ve never met anyone less interested in guys in my life.”

  “Like I’ve ever raised my hopes around guys?” Of course, one man in particular hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d met him.

  “Whose fault is that? Jesus, you’ll never get anyone’s attention if you don’t go for it. But, I’ve got great news. I
managed to get out of going to church. What do you want to do today? Shopping’s the only option. Stupid rain.”

  Christiana didn’t know what would be worse, being cross-examined by her father at home about a man she’d never attract or being steamrollered in a shopping mall by Avery’s chatter about all the men she could attract.

  “I have to spend time with Dad.” At least at home she could hide in her room.

  “Not another one of those parties, Chris! You won’t meet anyone suitable there.”

  “No, it’s just I’m leaving in a few months, and Dad’s been alone all year. I’ve got some catching up to do. Dad hasn’t touched Quicken since I left. And, I—

  “You shouldn’t be doing all that. I’m rescuing you. You and I are going to the pool on Tuesday. It’ll be sunny. No arguments.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working. God, Chris. I don’t know how you stand it, serving food to all those tourists.”

  “Those tourists leave great tips.” Christiana rubbed the back of her neck, vainly attempting to coax the blood flow to continue.

  “Okay, girl. Tuesday. Be at my house at nine-thirty. We have to get good placement,” Avery said.

  Christiana’s phone silenced. She pushed deeper into her pillow and stared at the little rosettes on her bedroom walls. Little-girl wallpaper.

  Christiana closed her eyes and shut out the pink. The hum of distant voices from the television drifted down the hallway. The reverberation of his deep, rich voice strummed over her body. She inhaled and remembered the scent of leather, wool and the mysterious ingredient unique to a man named Jonathan Brond.

  Her hands trailed over her belly, and she slipped nervous fingers under the waistband of her sweats, dipping into the silky hair beneath. She cupped her breast with the other hand and rubbed her thumb over her nipple. She imagined pressing her breasts against his hard chest. The steel band around her forehead relaxed. Updating her dad’s accounting could wait.

  The congressman’s rich vocals vibrated through the paper-thin walls, a deep string instrument, teasing, yet serious. The sound wrapped around her fingers and urged her to continue. She dipped a finger through her fleshy folds into dampness.

  Echoes on the other side of the pink-rose barrier grew more pressing. Someone said something another didn’t like. She focused on his muffled voice, and let it drive the rhythm of her hand.

  Her middle finger rubbed up and down over her hardened clit. Licks of warmth built to a fire as recollections of strong arms holding her on a remembered dance floor blocked out the sounds in the living room. Christiana lifted her other arm over her head. She curled her hand around an iron scroll in her headboard, recalling black braided ropes hanging over the edge of a bed in the Jefferson Suite.

  Christiana spread her legs and slipped a finger inside herself as her thumb rubbed her sensitive pearl. The congressman’s deep voice entered the room—and shut out all others. She plunged her finger in and out, her longing coating it with her juices.

  Her hips lifted to meet her penetrating finger. She danced on the edge of tipping over. She wanted to hold back a little, to follow the murmurs floating through the room.

  His charged words cut through the debate. “I intend to dig in deep, blow things wide open.”

  Air shot out of her lungs as her body arched off the bed in a tidal wave of sensation. She rode the last of her orgasm and released the voices on the other side of the wall. She slipped her fingers free from her wet, swollen tissues and tuned into her own breathing.

  Maybe he did it intentionally. Was he talking to her in some secret code in that rich, stunning voice?

  You really are exquisite, Christiana.

  Clarity struck her like a lightning bolt. She knew where she’d heard that velvet purr. Congressman Brond was the man from the Jefferson Suite.

  5

  Jonathan kept his regard on Shane and ignored the demanding vibration of his phone blinking his father’s name repeatedly. Jonathan had heard little of his aide’s briefing on web statistics. No matter, he could talk Internet privacy and protection in his sleep.

  “Well, that should be enough to keep Collins on track,” Shane said.

  “What else is on the docket today?”

  Shane scanned a legal pad in his hand. “Lunch at noon. Television studio at two-thirty. Reception at six. There’s that stack of letters for you to sign. You know how donors love the personal touch.” He looked up. “And Mrs. Nelson wanted a minute on the phone to thank you for coming to her son’s fundraiser. She suspects you had something to do with the therapy bills being paid.”

  “I trust you disabused her of that notion.”

  “Of course, but, sir, I’ll say it. I’m not sure why you don’t want them to know—”

  “To keep you from putting out a press release on it.” Jonathan shot him a grin. “Some things have nothing to do with elections. And this is one of them.” He stood and reached for his jacket, signaling it was time to move. “Snow still calling?”

  “Yes, sir, I put him off as you requested.”

  Peter Snow had been the real reason concentration eluded Jonathan this morning. Christiana’s father had been calling Jonathan’s office every few hours the last two days—since the night Jonathan had danced with Christiana.

  Since then Jonathan had tasked his personal assistant, Mark, with investigating Peter Snow. Mark had unearthed, in addition to the man’s unwavering commitment to a reporting career, Peter’s love of Dewar’s and distaste for fatherhood. No wonder Christiana carried such sorrow in her pretty azure eyes.

  “I didn’t find a lot on her.” Mark had handed over a thick file folder. “But, her parents were a piece of work. In particular, check out page fourteen. The death of Snow’s wife left him to raise a seven-year-old child on his own. No reason to disappear into a bottle, but, well, just take a look.”

  Nor an excuse for making Christiana a designated driver after she grew up.

  With every word on the page he read, an intense need to help Christiana built inside him. She didn’t seem the type to ask for support. Christiana’s working life—another fact uncovered by Mark—proved the point. She might as well unfurl a sleeping bag in The Oak’s kitchen to keep up with her shift schedule.

  Did she have many friends? That Avery Churchill girl couldn’t be much support, unless it involved fitting a ball gown.

  Surely Jonathan could come up with something to improve Christiana’s circumstances. His mind returned to one thought, which he shuttered—quickly. Her age alone made his imaginings inappropriate.

  He needed fresh air. “Lunch, on the terrace.”

  Shane glanced over his notepad. “I should handle some things here.”

  “I’m surprised. Giving up a chance to sit under an umbrella instead of a fluorescent light? We’ve got plenty of time.”

  They both required a reward given the morning’s tedium. Plus Shane’s presence in his car would ensure he didn’t make a pit stop at a certain reporter’s office and rearrange the man’s priorities. Perhaps even a few body parts.

  Christiana never appreciated seatbelts or ponytails as much as when she rode in Avery’s blue Fiat. Avery yanked the gearshift into fourth gear and raced up River Road, squeaking through another yellow light as it turned red. The top was down and Christiana let go of the armrest long enough to peel stray hairs, whipped forward by the hot wind, from her lip gloss.

  Avery’s cell phone rang for the fifth time since they left her house.

  “Man, that’s Chase,” she said.

  “Still not over you?”

  Avery shrugged and switched off her phone as she pulled into the country club entrance.

  Madonna’s love life had nothing on Avery’s. Her collection of ex-boyfriends would rival any game hunter’s trophy wall. Most of them lasted a few months. Lucky Chase had the good fortune to last her whole senior year in high school. Apparently, he wanted a repeat.

  Christiana jogged behind Avery a
cross the parking lot. Her heart skipped a beat as they walked past the empty Adirondack chairs where she talked with Congressman Brond. Avery hadn’t grilled her anymore about her dance with him. That didn’t stop Christiana from replaying the encounter in her mind a hundred times. She’d spent the last two days trying to shake his voice from her head. You really are exquisite. She scarcely believed she’d heard those words.

  Avery dragged Christiana through the grand foyer to the pool area behind the restaurant and turned a lounger to face the sun. Christiana pulled its twin to settle underneath an unfurled umbrella. Tanned, thin women occupied nearly every chair and chaise around the pool, feet pointing east to allow maximum exposure to the rays.

  Christiana dropped her stuff on the shaded table and collected her necessary accoutrements. Extra towel from the pool stand, bottle of water from the large barrel holding assorted drinks, and sunscreen to slather over every inch of exposed skin.

  Her checklist completed, Christiana flipped her long ponytail over the back of the lounger and took in the view of the golf course. Acres of greens cascaded down a hill to surround a large lake at the bottom, water glittering under the harsh sunlight. Half a dozen men in red and orange polo shirts swung golf clubs and squinted into the air, their faces etched in silent prayer that their balls would land well. The landscape was manicured, groomed and pruned to perfection. Too perfect if anyone had asked Christiana. Unreal. Artificial.

  Avery flicked through a magazine and Christiana let the sunshine lull her into a doze. She had worked a late shift the night before, and her feet still ached from running table to table at The Oak Room. The tips grew larger as the weather improved, but so did the work. If she wasn’t serving impatient tourists trying to get to Ford’s Theatre, she attended the locals dashing in between meetings at the White House or the Treasury Department.

  Christiana’s eyelids drooped shut. Time slipped to a dream, and heat from The Oak Room’s kitchen pressed on her chest. She was back in the main dining area, a nineteenth century Edwardian room, with dark mahogany booths and shiny brass fixtures. A man with green eyes and gold hair smiled down at her. He opened his lips to speak and drops of ice hit her stomach.