“Your father was probably trying to spare you. You were only seven.”
“I’m not seven anymore.”
“I know, lovely.”
Jonathan rocked her back and forth and listened to the rain pound the glass on his bay window. When he thought her breathing had calmed, Jonathan spoke words he hadn’t in years. “My mother spent time in a mental institution, thanks to my father’s misguided sense of dealing with depression.”
Christiana pulled back and peered up at him. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. Here I am blubbering on and on. Is she . . . did she . . . .”
“She got out and spent her remaining days in her room with curtains drawn. My father divorced her, remarried. She died of a broken heart. I was eleven.”
The dam he’d built to restrain these memories hadn’t been in danger of cracking in years. But Christiana’s anguished face probed the softest places of his heart. Was this how his mother felt when his father announced his intentions to divorce? Or when he delivered his final betrayal, renouncing her very existence?
Jonathan recalled pressing his ear to his mother’s bedroom door, her sobs washing over him, his father’s rumbling voice. Doors slammed. Water rushed through pipes. Long still nights broken only by his own breathing as he listened, hard, for any signs of life from his mother’s room. She’d threatened to swallow the contents of every pill bottle in her medicine cabinet. She never did. She did worse. She withered. Faded away. Left him while still alive.
A single tear ran down Christiana’s cheek. “I don’t want to die of a broken heart. Don’t leave me. Don’t make this just for the summer. P-please, please, please.”
Her words cut.
Jonathan placed his lips over her small mouth. She lost herself to the gesture as if obeying his actions was the easiest thing she’d ever done. He deepened his kiss, playing with her tongue. She whimpered into his mouth when he pulled her over her lap, settling her crotch over his rigid length just like the first night they spent together at Covil Sereia.
After carrying her up the stairs, Jonathan laid her on the nubby, white bedspread covering his king-sized bed. His room was plain—dark walnut furniture, Oriental rug, porcelain lamps. Sarah decorated it years ago. He’d spent so little time at his Alexandria home, it looked like a showroom floor. But Christiana sitting on the edge of the bed instantly warmed the place. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, provided she never left.
Jonathan pulled his tie through from his shirt collar, while toeing off his shoes. A memory of the Cabinet Room cut deep into his heart when his belt zipped through his belt loops.
“When you look at me like that, it makes me want you more,” he whispered.
“I like your more,” she said into the vee of hair above his long, stiff cock that seemed to reach for her. He almost came on the spot when she licked her lips.
Jonathan reached for her jean’s buttons, and soon her clothes joined his abandoned pants on the hardwood floor.
“I’ll never get tired of having you, Christiana. Of needing you.” He slipped his cock into her slick seam, and she accepted him fully.
“Then don’t leave me,” she breathed into his mouth.
Leave her. The idea beat at his insides, a mental movie playing over and over until every fiber of his being furiously fought back. Another man slipping between bedsheets to sidle up to her nude body. Another man making love to Christiana. Another man making her round with his children—beautiful, blond toddlers with large, blue eyes running around her exquisite legs.
Fuck, that last one hurt.
There were so many obstacles to keeping her permanently. Hell, it seemed impossible. His family counted on him, his constituents put their faith in him, and his father may have been right—he may not be good at anything else.
A public life wouldn’t suit Christiana, and his life would always be public. He’d carry the mantle of once being a member of Congress for the rest of his life. The media, the watchdog groups, the civic organizations —they’d watch his every move so long as he lived.
So what? Figure it out. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He had to keep her, even if his conscience told him doing so might be the most selfish thing he’d entertained to date.
Jonathan held her blue eyes with his own. “I’m not leaving you, Christiana. Never.”
31
Jonathan jogged down the brick steps of his townhouse. The full moon illuminated the cobblestones on Old Town Alexandria’s oldest street. A cooler weather front had settled over the region, making it a perfect night to walk.
He headed toward the waterfront restaurant where the Dardens waited for Jonathan to fall on his sword over his absence from their annual July Fourth picnic. Such outrage was par for the course. Large campaign donors required continuous grand, even grandiose, reassurances of their place on the totem pole of his affection. Well, no matter. Nothing could unseat his good mood. Not even groveling like the public servant he was at the feet of those whom he served.
At the corner of Union Street, he drank in the historic Federal architecture of the homes. An elderly couple crossed the street in front of him, while young people laughed and entered an art gallery. The broken streetlight allowed the moon’s glow to cast impressive shadows under the large trees lining the small green space. It’d been too long since he’d taken in a lungful of air scented with magnolia blossoms.
He chuckled to himself over his blatant romanticism tonight. Two hours. Then he’d allow fantasy to take over between a certain woman’s thighs. He didn’t care who’d disapprove.
Christiana got off at ten tonight. He’d pick her up from The Oak after they both had completed their duties. Then they’d take all night to attend to one another and every night thereafter.
Jonathan cut across Union into the empty Founder’s Park, pausing only to glance at a form leaning against a tree just inside the park entrance. A large hat concealed her face, but she seemed familiar. She mumbled a greeting, causing him to stop and turn toward her. She stepped out from under the outstretched tree limbs, lips curled into a snarl underneath the hat brim. She held out her hand.
Jonathan stumbled backwards. A steel arrow of pain pierced his left side, followed by a dull throb spreading across his shoulders and neck. As his eyesight faded to tiny pinpricks of light, the concrete sidewalk smacked the side of his head. He tried to grasp the sudden shift in gravity, but only felt small stones under his fingers.
Someone wrestled with his jacket, stopping his words. Just before the black space sucked the last bit of oxygen from his lungs, an apparition flickered before his fading vision. An angel peering up at him shyly from underneath her lashes. Christiana?
Christiana began to doubt the clock over the kitchen exit still worked. The minutes clicked by so slowly she felt she’d entered a time warp. When ten o’clock finally arrived, Christiana was sure she’d worked for eight days, not eight hours. After dropping off a tray of abandoned beer glasses and lipstick-stained wine glasses to Josh, Christiana sat in one of the booths and scrolled through the screen of her new iPhone. At some point she’d have to return her father’s messages and deal with his lies about her mother and their past. But for now, she only wanted to talk to the man who colored the future she desired.
Jonathan had a dinner planned with a constituent who threatened to pull support, and he promised it would be over long before Christiana’s shift ended. She fought the urge to call him. A blond-headed news announcer’s face filled the screen and an eerie hush settled over the bar. Josh aimed the remote at the screen and the blond helmet-head’s voice grew louder.
“Shit, wow, man,” one of the drunks said.
“Shhh!” Josh’s eyes darted toward Christiana.
Christiana stepped forward to the bar as the announcer’s words cut through her rising heartbeat.
An attempt was made on the life of Congressman Jonathan Brond at approximately eight o’clock this evening in Old Town Alexandria. He was walking on Union Street, near his Alexandr
ia residence, when the gunman opened fire. No other bystanders were harmed, but the congressman has been taken to Saint Joseph’s for immediate surgery. As soon as we have more information, we will be sure to update you. Again, a member of Congress has been shot, his condition is unknown, no one else hurt, and we will have more details shortly.
In other news . . .
Christiana stepped back, glass crunching under her feet. She must have grasped a tray of champagne flutes, sending them to the floor.
Josh’s voice barked in her ear. “Christiana, don’t move.” He crouched at her ankles, mopping up broken glass with a rag.
Christiana’s cell phone vibrated in her hand.
“Christiana? It’s Mark. Jonathan’s been hurt.”
She jogged to the emptiest part of the bar. “I just saw the news. Please tell me he’s okay—alive.”
“Yes, he’s alive.”
“Who would shoot him?”
“We don’t know yet. Now listen.” Mark’s voice demanded attention. “The best way to help Jonathan right now is to go about your life. Act normal.”
“W-what? No, I have to—”
“Stop.” He hadn’t shouted, but the chilling effect was the same. “Do not call attention to yourself with grief that may seem unnatural . . . anything that may lead anyone to deduce your relationship.”
Christiana almost broke under his tone, so like Jonathan. “I’ll try.”
“If you care about Jonathan, you will do this.”
“I will.” The phone line went dead. Act normal? Was he kidding? Mark’s words mixed with the news announcer’s until she couldn’t think anymore. She stared at her silenced phone. Act normal. Do not call attention. Be invisible.
Christiana stood and stepped up to the bar. “Give me a rag. I’ll clean it up.”
Josh handed her a moistened towel. “I’m surprised at you. You’re normally so steady on your feet.”
The undeserved chilling look she shot his way must have landed, as he turned away with a forced shrug. She felt mildly triumphant that at least something lay in her control. For the rest of her shift, Christiana kept one eye on the television while taking the last few drink orders. She returned change. She deposited dirty dishes into the kitchen. She didn’t hear a word anyone said.
Somehow she got home, unaware of the cab drive until her key clicked in the front door.
She crumpled to the floor, a sob bursting from her chest like a bomb. Mark had told her to act calm, cool, and detached, as if her world hadn’t caved in. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.
But, you promised him, Chris. You must do this.
She stood and stumbled to the living room. The real waiting began.
Christiana spent the next two nights, all night, sleeping on the couch. CNN blinked its images over her body. Her ear attuned to the droning of the anchors, listening for any word about Jonathan being released.
During the day, somehow she obeyed Mark. She worked. She breathed. She lived. Her head threatened a migraine. Her insides churned with every step and every false word from her mouth. She now knew how she’d react if he hadn’t agreed to stay together. She wouldn’t have survived. Being apart, she knew what her life would look like without him—excruciating.
Avery didn’t call. But then the Style channel didn’t cover assassination attempts. Her father didn’t call either. But then why would he? Her relationship with Jonathan had been a secret.
Then, finally, finally, Mark made good on his word. Two days and fourteen hours after Christiana heard about the assassination attempt on Jonathan, Mark stood in front of her at The Oak room kitchen door.
“Your supervisor would be delighted if you’d take a break,” he said.
The tension in her stomach returned when Mark, ever the careful driver, refused to drive over the speed limit at any point on the way to the hospital. He pulled into an underground lot and circled the black sedan to the lowest level.
“Photographers are generally too lazy to leave the first floor,” he explained. Christiana knew the time of day was no accident either. Three o’clock remained the final hour for reporters trying to make four p.m. deadlines.
They rode the elevator in stillness, except for Christiana’s leg shaking impatiently. Mark glanced her way and pulled her closer in a brotherly shelter. When the elevator doors opened, he led her to a room halfway down a nondescript hallway. Men in dark suits stood guard at his doorway. They nodded at Mark as they approached.
Clicks and whooshing burped from machines surrounding Jonathan’s pale, prostrate body. Dark circles blued under his eyes, and his cheeks hollowed his face. A small white bandage ran across his forehead. A white sling held his arm close to his shoulder, blood tainting the bandage. She forced herself to not throw herself on top of him.
She squinted in the harsh light. The antiseptic smell rose heavy under her nose. She touched his arm, and his eyes cracked open. His hand captured her fingers.
“Hey, lovely.”
“Jonathan.” She whispered his name as if any sound might harm him more.
She rose and set her hip on the mattress. It dipped, and he winced, but grasped her waist tightly when she tried to retreat.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“Yes. But it will heal.” His words slurred together.
“Oh, God . . . .” Her voice cracked, and she laid her head gently down on the pillow, breathing in a medicinal scent that filmed his body.
“Hey, no tears. I’m fine.”
From the corner of her eye, Christiana noticed Mark faced the hallway like a sentinel.
“You scared me.” Her voice wobbled.
“I’ve heard that a lot recently.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me. Or to you.” He winced, as he tried to pull himself up more.
“Don’t try to move.” She pulled the pillow up behind him to brace his back. “Do they know who did it?”
“They have a number of leads. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to go back to your life—”
“Anything but that.”
“Just until I can sort this out. The FBI is all over the place. Anyone who I’ve been seen with in the last few months will be considered a viable suspect. I can’t let you get caught up—”
“I can lay low. Sneaking in here and there. When do you go home? I could go there and wait for you.”
“No, lovely. You need to go on with your normal routine.”
“But when will I see you?”
“It won’t be long. I promise. Come here.” He beckoned her down to his face. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Mark is going to take you home now. Then, when it’s safe, I’ll call you. Don’t call me. The FBI has my phone. Mark erased it.”
“But—”
“Be my good girl.” Jonathan’s eyes closed.
Christiana experienced Mark’s full strength for the first time as he pulled her away from Jonathan’s hold. “We walk now. Detectives are coming.” Mark led her by the arm out the door and down the hall to a set of stairs.
As soon as the stairwell door clicked behind him, he took Christiana by both shoulders. His gaze pierced through the tears that had taken permanent residence in her eyes. He handed her a crisp square handkerchief, so old-fashioned it had to be new. “I’ll make sure he calls you later.”
“Thank you, Mark.” Christiana wiped under her eyes.
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do to avoid being punched.”
“Mind reader.”
“All part of the job.”
They descended the stairs in silence. When they got to the garage, Christiana’s head had cleared. She promised herself she would see Jonathan soon, even if the CIA, NSA, FBI and the rest of the alphabet soup rained their security forces upon her. Most importantly, she’d master the art of simple verbal communication and tell Jonathan what she l
eft out before leaving his room. I love you.
She turned to Mark. “I’ll need your cell phone number, Mark. I won’t be left waiting by the phone anymore.”
Christiana wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn he suppressed a smile.
Damn his father and his singular attention to Jonathan’s career.
Sarah rose from the side of Jonathan’s bed. “You know he means well, Jay.”
His face winced as the stitches along his shoulder pulled. “He’s thinking about how to turn this—how did he put it?—this unfortunate occurrence into more voter support.”
She smirked. “Well, the offer of body guards was kinda sweet.”
“If it’ll help keep Marla Clampton from visiting.”
“Are you sure, Jonathan? It might take the heat off some of the other rumors.”
“Not you, too.”
“No. But Mother called. Senator Clampton’s wife is her bridge partner, you know. Your father is suspicious. Jonathan, you have to be more careful with Christiana. If anything was ever validated—”
“Nothing’s going to happen, Sarah. I’ve been careful.” No, you haven’t.
“I’ll go talk to the nurses, find out when they’re sending the papers up for your discharge. I’ll also be sure to forget to tell Brond Senior. That way he won’t rush over to your house with a draft crime bill for you to sign.” Sarah kissed him on the forehead, and he softened. No one could calm him like Sarah—except for a certain, young submissive.
Mark cleared his throat in the doorway. “Sir, how are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot.” Mark didn’t deserve the tone, but Jonathan’s ire hadn’t abated since the haze began to clear in the surgery recovery room. He waited for the fear to kick in, remind him someone tried to kill him. Instead pure, undiluted rage had filled his body. He’d barely contained his fury during Christiana’s visit.
Jonathan pulled himself up with a grimace. Mark didn’t move to help him, recognizing that would only underscore Jonathan’s vulnerability.
Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1) Page 28
