Rough Hand (Bad Boy Fighter Romance)

by Amy Faye

  And the one thing that she hadn't realized, a gaze that made a woman's knees go weak. She thought she was prepared for this job. She was a professional. She'd dealt with philanderers before. With serial adulterers. They get what they want because they've got enough money to buy it.

  That wasn't the case for Adam Quinn. The way he looked at her, she'd have dropped to her knees right there in front of the press, God, and everybody, and she'd have done it for free.

  Chapter Three

  Adam Quinn sits down for the first time tonight, and for an instant he allows himself to enjoy the respite from the day's work. He lets it wash over him and then looks at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Still work to be done. It's time to start taking himself more seriously again.

  There's work that's left to be done. Work that he needs to be doing. If he can't even keep up with his usual workload, then he might as well drop out of the race. The American people don't need a president who can't work a few long days.

  He stands up and flicks the news on, walking away and not particularly listening until he hears a familiar voice that catches in his mind.

  Mr. Quinn turns toward the TV, the last of the day's work temporarily forgotten. His 'campaign manager' is on the screen. Jesus, she looks good. For an instant, he feels the edge of arousal starting to form. Then he pushes it away.

  Not right now, not while he's running for President. Not with her. That would be a terrible idea. Still, he can't take his eyes away. She looks good. She's more comfortable with the cameras than most people who Quinn plucks from the rank-and-file.

  Up until now, she's probably mostly been in the background. Campaign manager is a terrible name for what she's doing. But then again, how else would he explain her presence?

  No, her job is to mop up his messes, so that he can make them with impunity, and that's exactly what Adam has every intention of doing.

  America needs a mess. They need a mess to understand exactly how bad the situation they've gotten themselves into. And he's more than ready to be that mess, if it means that everything else starts getting worked on as well.

  He forces himself to turn away from it. There's other work to be done. At least two calls to be made, and the sooner the better. Anything else can be done any time. He can wait until three in the morning if he has to. But the phone calls? At some point, they'll go to sleep.

  He picks up the phone. Tom Delaney won't be asleep, but if he only makes one call, then it has to be to Tom. Three rings, and the call connects.

  "Yeah?"

  "Tom? Is this a bad time?"

  "Adam Quinn. You son of a bitch. I was wondering when you were going to call. How's politics treating you?"

  "If these boys had to spend five minutes in the business world I think their heads would pop clean off," I tell him. And it's true.

  I turn back towards the TV just in time to see Linda walk away from the cameras. They have better taste than to watch her ass while she walks, but I can imagine it pretty well anyways.

  "Yeah, they're still green on some shit. Then again, I suppose you already knew that."

  "Suppose I did."

  "You been feeling alright? Still sleeping, what, six hours a night? Five?"

  "Four most nights."

  "Shit."

  "You don't hear me complaining, do you?"

  "I guess not."

  "Look, I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing in a minute. I just needed to get in touch with you. I'm interested in your, shall we say, particular brand of political advice. When can you start?"

  Delaney doesn't respond right away; a fraction of a second that I can only imagine is spent pretending to look at his watch. "When does your office open tomorrow morning?"

  "Good man. I'll talk to you more tomorrow."

  "Sure thing."

  I disconnect the call without hanging up the phone and start dialing immediately. Some folks have PR people. I suppose I should, too. But there are some things important enough that you take care of them yourself.

  A woman's voice answers the phone. She doesn't sound tired, but she does sound distracted.

  "Ellen Holden, who's this?"

  "Ellen? It's Adam Quinn."

  I hear something fall off the table on her end of the line.

  "Uh. One second. Jeff, can you get me a notepad and a pen? Five minutes ago. Go."

  "I can wait. You sound busy."

  "No, not at all. Thanks for calling. What can we help you with?"

  "You called my office earlier. An interview, I think?"

  "Yes, we were asking about that."

  "What were you thinking?"

  "Thank you, Jeff. Uh. We were thinking…" Adam wonders if she's waiting on advice from a production manager. Television is a mess. There's no other way to put it. A god damned mess.

  Quinn's met Ellen once or twice, and if he's learned one thing, it's that she's smart as a whip. If they just let her control her own damned show, they'd have something ready to air all the time.

  But there's too much for any one person to do, between setting up teleprompters, gathering stories, writing copy, getting the set design just right, getting clothes just right, makeup, everything.

  She's smart enough to do it, and she's smart enough to hire the right people for the things she can't do herself. But of course, the network wouldn't let anyone fly solo. No chance in hell.

  So they put their greedy little fingers in everything, and it comes out a big mess, and everyone gets to act surprised that it didn't all go perfectly smoothly.

  "Ellen?"

  "Sorry, I was just confirming something. Yeah. We've got a slot open tomorrow afternoon?"

  "No. Too soon. What would you say to an exclusive next week? Thursday."

  "An exclusive?" Her voice is trying to hide the sound of her pleasure at the idea. She can't afford to tip her hand too much. Not for any reason, really.

  "I'd expect that you would put in a certain amount of effort to making sure that people who might be interested in it would know it's coming up."

  "And you won't be doing any interviews before that?"

  "Nothing sit down, not with me. I want to keep the mystery up a little."

  "Okay. You got it, then."

  "Are we filming this? Or doing it live?"

  "Which would you prefer?"

  "You know what I'd prefer, Ellen. I'd prefer to be able to get whatever I say straight to the people."

  "You're still not going to be able to say 'fuck' on live TV. It's on a delay."

  "Not even a little one?" I let her hear the laugh.

  "Not even a little one. They don't even let me say it."

  "No, I suppose not. Well, live is better than edited, I think."

  "Live it is, then."

  "I'll see you in a week," he says, and he sets the phone into its cradle.

  A week is a long time, and he's going to have to give her plenty to talk about in that time. Plenty to talk about means plenty of coverage. And an exclusive interview is the perfect time to assure people that it's all under control.

  The perfect time, indeed.

  Chapter Four

  Adam Quinn takes his coffee black. He's avoided sugar. It's one of the things to which he attributes his health. There's something to be said for the amount of time in the day that you have when you barely sleep, but it's hell on your constitution.

  In spite of that, he's been going hard and strong for years. No sick days. No days that he's considered it.

  Politicians have to be careful about what they do with their recreation time. They can't afford to get caught by the wrong people with a nose full of coke, or a heroin needle in their arms.

  Of course, for the sort of person who needs to run for President, needs to run for Senate, needs to make a career out of being loved by people… that sort of constant threat is exactly what they want. They can't get enough of it. They need to be taking risks all the time.

  When you're in business, risk is something that's very important. Something
to be managed carefully. You don't want to take too much. If you bet everything on a turn of the die, you're a fool.

  But if you don't take enough risk… then you don't grow. You might as well be gambling your entire business on the other guys all blowing themselves up. Which they might do, but it's not a winning bet.

  Now, the twist comes in. Because you have to take the right risks. It's not okay to say, well, I'll just hedge my bets in business, but I'll play it risky by also driving NASCAR. That's risky, right?

  Well, sure. But it's a risk that doesn't pay off.

  Drugs are a risk that doesn't pay off. Alcohol isn't even a risk. It's got no payoff at all, never mind one that equalizes the value. Sugar… well, sugar's a fair question. A man might choose to consume sugar and he wouldn't be wrong in doing so.

  Call it a little risk. And it's paying off. Stay healthy, and then when your country needs someone to come in and introduce a little healthy risk, you're strong enough to do the job and you don't have a nasty coke habit to kick.

  Or a nasty Coke habit, for that matter, so you don't have to explain why it's totally fine that someone with a sixty-inch waist should be president. It keeps you out of the hospital, and that in turn keeps the papers from speculating that you might be dying any day now.

  God only knows, celebrity magazines already had enough ammunition to throw at him, he didn't need to be giving them more.

  The lights in the office flick on, and for the first time it occurs to Quinn that the lights were off. He'd been working on a computer, and the lights hadn't been needed, so he hadn't even considered it.

  "Oh," a woman's voice says from the door. "Good morning, Mr. Quinn. I didn't realize you were in here."

  "Linda. How are you feeling? You handling everything okay?"

  She smiles faintly. I like that smile. She's able to very effectively skirt the hard-ass look that most women in the political arena develop. Too many people at the high level of politics, men and women, look like they're hoping for a chance to stick their foot up your ass and break it off.

  "I'm feeling fine. You've really taken over the media since the announcement."

  She clicks a remote, and a television on the wall turns from black to gray. A moment later, CNN starts playing. The morning show is going over the same things that they were talking about all yesterday, only now they're doing it with light-hearted banter.

  "So, about this announcement from Adam Quinn, what? Is this a joke? Or something?" The host laughs. "I just. I'm really surprised. He's never seemed—"

  His co-host pipes in. She's an attractive young woman. "No, I guess he hasn't. But if someone's going to do it—I mean, he's already done everything else, hasn't he? He must have been thinking, 'well, I might as well,' right?"

  The chatter isn't adding to anything.

  "Is that a problem for you, Miss Owens?"

  "It's a lot to take in, but I don't think it's a problem, no."

  "I knew you could handle it, or I wouldn't have hired you. Even if you didn't know it yourself. I never doubted for a second."

  She can't keep the smile off her face well enough to hide it from him.

  "I don't want you blind-sided by this, Miss Owens, but I made a few calls last night, and I made a bargain with Ellen Holden."

  "Okay."

  "I said I'd be on her show next Thursday. Exclusive. I figure that's the first time we give a serious sit-down interview, and then we back off for a while. That sound alright?"

  It had better, because the deal was already made, and Adam Quinn was no liar. The accusation wouldn't stick. He'd never been a liar before this, why would he suddenly start to be one now? The answer is obvious enough on the face of it—he wouldn't—but you maintain a reputation by doing it, not by relying on the reputation while you lie your ass off.

  "We can make that work."

  "Good girl. Now, I need something else. Maybe talk to some of the others about this. I've got a guy coming in, you'll be working alongside him. Think of you as my shield, and him as my sword."

  "A guy?"

  "I don't know if you've heard his name before. You might not have, you haven't been in Washington too long."

  "Okay," she says. Quinn doesn't know if she thinks he's condescending to her. He very well may be.

  "I also got in touch with Tom Delaney, and he'll be joining the campaign."

  She looks down for a moment, and then nods. "Of course, sir."

  "I need you two to sit down, and I need you to figure out how much of a mess you can make in the next eight days. Ellen's got to have plenty to discuss if we're going to make the splash I know we're all hoping for."

  She nods. "Yes, sir."

  Adam smiles. Now, back to work. He's got a business to run. Then a Presidential campaign for dessert.

  Chapter Five

  Linda settles into her seat and tries not to think too hard about the looks that she was certain that he was giving her. It's nothing personal. If it was, then it didn't mean anything.

  But she could deny the hard gaze that he leveled at her. The way that it made her feel weak. Like a child, all of a sudden. Was it something wrong with her?

  She wasn't sure. Couldn't begin to say. And even if she could, she wouldn't want to try if she didn't have to.

  Sure, he's got a long history with women. And women have a long history with him.

  Sure, he's the man that she was thinking a lot more about than she probably should have been, ever since she was old enough to think about men that way.

  That all added up to the reason that she was absolutely imagining things. She could play it cool, though. She'd already had to learn how to do that.

  This was just a particularly advanced application of playing it cool and keeping herself under control, after all. Nothing to panic over and certainly nothing to write home about. She turns towards the TV and settles in with a note pad.

  At some point, Tom Delaney's going to show up, and then they're going to have work to do. So she'll just have to catch up on whatever she misses later. More than likely, there won't be much to miss, thankfully.

  Not until she and Tom get to spreading all kinds of saucy rumors, anyways. It feels strange to think about it, really. They should be trying to keep rumors locked up. Keep everything quiet.

  But if the candidate wants controversy, then she can at least try to keep that controversy contained. And if that candidate is Adam Quinn, then that goes double. Jesus flipping Christ. It really is real. He's really right there.

  She lets herself steal a glance over. Even at a desk, he's got impeccable posture. His back to her, he looks imposing. Larger than life.

  There's an old joke in Hollywood, people expecting actors to be taller. To be bigger. They shoot films that way. They shoot everything that way.

  People naturally attach importance and size together. Someone who's important must be very large indeed, and the camera helps to create that image. Important people fill the frame. They zoom in to make people look as big as possible.

  Linda's met a few celebrities. The experience is one that she knows well enough. It's always a surprise when you find out that some hot stud is actually five-seven, when he looked big and imposing on screen. It's the magic of camera-work.

  Adam Quinn doesn't have that. She met him and immediately thought that he looked so much bigger than he did on television. Like there was something to him that the camera couldn't contain.

  The door to the office opens. Maybe they should have had separate rooms for separate things. But it wasn't her job to make decisions like that. Adam knew how he wanted it, and he'd set it up as a massive bullpen.

  Linda looks over her shoulder. A man smiles at her and raises his hand as Adam turns to look as well. He's got a toothy look to him. Predatory. She's never seen him in person, but Linda is surprised that Tom Delaney is just like Adam.

  She'd seen his picture, once or twice. You have to know who he is, because he's essentially a nuclear bomb in the political world, and you need to p
repare for every option at least a little bit.

  He looks average from the photos. Tired, maybe. Sometimes. A little past his prime, maybe. From the photos, at least.

  Looking at him now, he doesn't look anything like he's past his prime. He doesn't look aged at all. He looks every bit like the mean son of a bitch that his reputation would present him as. If Adam Quinn were a lion, he'd be a hyena.

  One proud, the other mean. Neither one of them is something that you want to fuck with on a safari. Those cool little hats aren't going to keep you safe, and your rifle's going to do piss-all if you let them get the upper hand.

  "Tom. Glad you could make it on such short notice."

  "Please," he says. He's got a memorable voice himself. He speaks with a growl, like Louis Armstrong. "I was already in town. Hoping you'd call ever since I heard the announcement yesterday morning."

  "You know me so well, Tom. This is Linda Owens. You'll be working with her. She can fill you in on the details of what you'll be doing. We can catch up later."

  "You got it, Adam. I'll hold you to that."

  "I wouldn't expect anything less," Adam answers. He turns back again and Tom steps up to the leather sofa that Linda does most of her work from.

  'Hyena' doesn't capture Tom Delaney well, either, she realizes. Hyenas are small. They're dangerous because they're mean and they run in packs. But Tom Delaney, he's dangerous all by himself. The look that he rests on her is like an animal looking down on a piece of meat.

  "Miss Owens. I saw you on the television last night. Let me guess—Adam sprung that interview on you completely by surprise?"

  "Not at all," she answers. What sort of impression is she supposed to give him? What sort of impression does he want from her? And what will he do if she steps out of line?

  "Oh, you don't have to be coy with me. I know exactly how much of a son of a bitch Adam Quinn can be."

  "I was on my way to the bathroom when I ran headfirst into him."

  "Yeah, that sounds like him. You know he left me in Vegas with no car and no shoes?"