DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

by Renshaw, Winter

  Her jaw softens as she swallows. She’s coming back around.

  “I chose you, Camille,” I say. “I saw you, and I chose you.”

  “You saw me?” She moves closer. “When? Where? Have we met?”

  “Now, you know I can’t tell you any of that.”

  It’s a shame she sleeps with men for money. Slap a pedigree on her and a last name like Lindhurst or Rockmund or Harringwood, and my mother would foam at the mouth for a chance to get her into the White House.

  She presents with regal elegance, but she lives to serve.

  I need to leave before this conversation takes a dangerous detour. The last thing I need to worry about is accidentally letting my guard down around her. She makes me comfortable, her tranquil beauty instantly putting me at ease.

  “Camille, I’m going now.” I rise from the bed, turning to cup her face in my hands. I taste her lips one more time. A sweet farewell. “Thank you for a magnificent evening, and I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  She gifts me with a dispirited half-smile, and I assume her mind is preoccupied with solving the puzzle I’ve just presented.

  A woman like Camille Buchanan has surely encountered an abundance of men vying for an ounce of her attention. I’m just a man whose hidden gaze she dared to meet at a masquerade ball once upon a time. She can rack that beautiful mind of hers all she wants, but she’ll never figure it out.

  FIVE

  Camille

  “This is too depressing.” Araminta reaches for the remote to shut off the TV. The White House has interrupted our programming to bring us a special message from the POTUS himself.

  “No, no.” I take it from her. “We have to stay up on this. Being able to discuss foreign policy and the state of the union is what separates us from the herd.”

  President Harris Montgomery gives an update on a recent bombing in the Middle East. They all blend together anymore, each one seeming to be worse than the one before.

  I listen intently as he commands the airwaves, his forehead wrinkled and his lips turned down at the corners as he maintains composure. He seems annoyed, and his speech feels heartfelt this time, not written.

  Araminta pulls in a shocked breath. “Twelve hundred civilians lost their lives.”

  “Montgomery wants us to go to war,” I say as he rambles on.

  “Did he say that? I must have missed it.”

  “You can tell,” I say. “He’s leaning that way. He’s hinting. There’s always more in what they don’t say than what they do.”

  She rises, shaking her head and strutting to the kitchen. “I can’t listen to this anymore. You’re going to have to give me the Cliffs Notes.”

  Araminta pulls a pre-packaged, perfectly portioned meal from the fridge and heats it in the microwave. Two minutes later, she picks through it with a fork as she floats back down into her chair.

  Her eyes squint at the TV.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  “I’m looking for his sons,” she says between bites. “I’d rather stare at those fine specimens than listen to this sad little spiel.”

  “They are beautiful.” I sigh. For the longest time I thought they were twins. Everything about them almost matches, from their lush, dark hair to their sapphire eyes. “Equally so.”

  “Oh, come on. One’s definitely hotter than the other, at least by a hair.” She sweeps her blonde waves over one shoulder, eyes wide. “Keir has that mischievous glint in his eye, like he’s full of secrets and ridiculously intelligent.”

  “But Ronan has that ultra-confident look about him. I bet he’s sex-on-fire in the bedroom,” I say. “I don’t think I could pick if I had to.”

  “I’d give up this game for a chance with one of them. I’d retire so hard.” She giggles.

  I join her in her quest to find them in the background. They’re always there, suited up and wearing stoic expressions as their father speaks. Their haircuts usually match, though they’re parted on opposite sides. One is left-handed. Both men exude darkness and mystery as if it’s coded in their DNA.

  “Ronan and Keir . . .” She exhales. “And there you are, my princes. I would give it all up for you, and I wouldn’t even be picky either. Either one of you will do, really.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so smitten.”

  Araminta grins. “I’d make a great First Lady, wouldn’t I? I was practically bred for this shit. Daddy Dearest would be so proud.”

  She walks to the TV, placing a French manicured finger on the upper corner where the blue-eyed, raven-haired, future-leaders-of-the-free-world stand side by side with stick-straight posture and hands clasped in front of their narrow hips.

  “I bet you were good at Where’s Waldo when you were a kid,” I say.

  “What’s that?” She turns toward me, her question sincere. Sometimes I forget that she grew up as one of eight Randalls in an estate fit for a king in the Connecticut countryside. Raised by a team of nannies and forced to adhere to a schedule filled with riding, tennis, and French lessons, I doubt Araminta had time for Where’s Waldo. “Is that a Tennessee thing?”

  “Never mind.”

  She takes her seat again, eyes glued. The camera pans the faces of the well-dressed men and women who stand behind the president, and then it lingers on his sons for a solid thirty seconds.

  Araminta fans herself. “Just looking at them gets me all revved up.”

  “You and every other red-blooded, American woman.” I smirk. “Or, rather, blue-blooded.”

  “I wish they’d smile. They never fucking smile.”

  “Would you if you were them? Living your life under a magnifying glass all the time? Every move you make one hundred percent public?”

  “If I were a Montgomery, I’d never stop smiling, dahhhling. That name opens doors. Moves mountains. It’s only one of the most powerful bloodlines on the planet. The entire world is at their fingertips. I mean, sure, I grew up a Randall, for Christ’s sake, but the Montgomerys are leagues above us. Tell me that isn’t something to smile about.”

  “Oh, look.” I rise up, pointing at the screen. Keir just flashed a two-second smile at someone to his left. “Did you see? He has dimples.”

  “Here we go.” Minty rolls her eyes and fights a smirk.

  “Did I tell you my John has dimples? He let me feel them last night.”

  “Maybe your John is Keir Montgomery?”

  “Doubtful. A man like him doesn’t pay for sex.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t need to. Some guys just get off on that. Kinky sons of bitches.”

  “I’m going to pretend my John is Keir from now on.” I settle into my seat and close my eyes, imagining it was Keir’s lips on my body and Keir’s fingers between my thighs last night. My chest flutters, and my lips inch up. “From now on, I’m fucking Keir Montgomery.”

  In my head.

  “God, you know how dangerous that would be? To be involved with one of them? There’d be a price on your head so high. Ugh. I wouldn’t go anywhere alone. I guarantee you, someone somewhere would jump at the chance to set one of them up in some kind of political scandal. A dead escort tied to the Montgomery name?” Araminta shudders before smiling. “But hey, it’d be one way to guarantee that no one would ever forget your name.”

  SIX

  “John”

  “What’s it like to know you can fuck any woman who walks into this bar and have zero repercussions the next day?” I spin an empty tumbler between my thumb and middle finger as Oliver D’Orsay checks out a group of women standing around a high top table ten feet from us. The brunette in the red dress has been eye-fucking him since we got here.

  “Fucking incredible.” He grips his water glass. He’s shopping. He has that gleam in his eye. He combs his fingers through his styled blond hair. “I want her tonight. The one in the red with the fuck-me tits hanging out. They don’t make ‘em like that around here.”

  There’s a reason DC is known as the Hollywood-for-the-ug
ly. The overwhelming majority of women in the area are too bookish, waifish, nerdy, or socially awkward. The physically desirable ones are busy yachting in the Maldives or summering in the Hamptons, and women like those tend to be too cultured, too moneyed. Most of the ones in my family’s circle fall into the latter category.

  “She’s not from around here,” I say.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s fifty degrees out and her dress barely covers her ass. My money’s on Arizona. She doesn’t own any cool weather clothes. Maybe Minnesota. They’re immune to the cold. I hear they wear shorts in January.”

  “Or she just wanted to look hot?” He takes a sip. “Ever think that maybe people aren’t as complicated as you make them out to be?”

  My jaw flexes. “Never. Everyone’s complicated. Show me someone who isn’t, and I’ll show you a liar.”

  “Even Camille?” he asks. Oliver is my number one. He’s my driver, my assigned Secret Service agent, and the closest thing I have to a best friend. There isn’t anything about me he doesn’t know.

  “Especially Camille.”

  Oliver’s lips twitch. If she were any other woman, I imagine he’d be prodding me for the down and dirty details. But he knows better with this one. He knows how hard I searched for her and how much work it took to free her from Senator Bancroft’s tight grip. He saw my preoccupation with the mysterious beauty grow into an inexplicable fixation, and he stood by like the loyal bastard he is as the obsession consumed me.

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t take her on a real date,” he says. “Show her off. A girl like Camille needs to be paraded around.”

  Why, so someone else can spot her? So the poacher can get poached?

  “She’s not a fucking show pony, Oliver.”

  I glance at the girls to our right. They point and smile, mess with their hair, fidget with their drinks. Their beauty is instantly overshadowed by their insecurities and they fade into the background.

  “I think they’ve figured out who you are,” Oliver says.

  It never fails, and it makes no difference that we’re in one of the darkest, hole-in-the-wall bars in the city.

  The girls whisper in each other’s ears and flash me flirty smiles as if they share a goddamned brain.

  “All right.” I throw a cash tip on the table. “Give the brunette your number and take me home.”

  SEVEN

  Camille

  I’m breathless, sprawled across the bed at the Melrose as my body floats back to earth. Three times in less than a week. I’m not sure what I ever did to get so lucky, but I won’t complain.

  The bed shifts, and John–or Keir Montgomery in my mind–moves to my side. I miss his warmth already, his grounding weight. The way he worships and devours me makes me feel sexy, worthy of receiving the kinds of pleasure I’ve only ever given.

  I reach for his face, tracing the outline with my fingertips. I take a detour to his mouth, grazing his soft lips until I can picture their shape, and then I move on to his cheek.

  “Smile,” I say. “I want to feel your dimples again.”

  He sighs, giving in to my silly demand.

  “Thank you, John.”

  The bed shifts once more. I stay silent, listening as he moves around the room, makes his way to the bathroom, and then returns a minute later.

  “Leaving?” I ask.

  I find my answer in his hesitation. He never stays.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out where we would’ve met before,” I say, sensually drawing my knees into my chest as I sit up. I’m not sure where to look or where he’s standing, so I face forward when I speak.

  “Surely you have better ways to spend your time.”

  “You shouldn’t have challenged me,” I tease. “If you stuck around more, you might know me better, and then you’d know I can’t resist a good mystery. The more complex, the better.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m a card-carrying member of Mensa,” I say. “How else do you think I got a full-ride scholarship to Georgetown? But you probably already knew that since you did your research on me.”

  I hear him snicker, and I mentally pat myself on the back for getting him to laugh.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t know about you,” he says.

  “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

  The clink of his belt is followed by the metallic tug of a zipper. Just a few more minutes of sitting here with my blindfold, and as soon as I hear the thud of the hotel door, it’ll be time to put myself back together and head home.

  The scuffing of his shoes against densely piled carpet grows nearer until his scent fills my lungs. His steady hand caresses the side of my face, his thumb under my jaw. In an instant, his mouth is on mine.

  John–or Keir–kisses me goodbye. None of the other men have ever done that. It’s a kind gesture and completely unnecessary. While I have him, I run my fingers through his hair, my nails grazing his scalp. His hair is thick and soft as mink, probably freshly cut. He’s a man who cares about his appearance. I trace his jaw once more and then run my finger along his cheek in search of a dimple.

  “You and those dimples.” I detect a reserved smile in his voice, but he pulls my hand from his face before I get a chance to feel the indentations.

  “I keep wondering...” My voice is a low whisper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Any time I’ve seen a man with dimples this week,” I say, “I keep wondering if he’s you. And I keep wondering if I’d know you if I saw you.”

  “Probably not,” he says.

  “You’ve got to be in the public eye,” I say.

  “That would be a logical deduction.”

  “You have your own security guard.” I wrap my arms around my knees and trail my palms down my shins.

  “As many do in this city.”

  “You’re a very important person, whoever you are.”

  His lips press into my forehead. “Don’t think about it too much. The less you know about me, the better off you are.”

  One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars . . .

  It’s my new mantra, and it drowns out every hint of a gut check that renders me nauseous when I think about the absurdity of this situation. It was exciting at first. Daring. I told myself it’d be a nice break from the norm, and Araminta guaranteed me it’d be easy money.

  I pull in a slow breath and exhale in an attempt to release the worries swirling my head.

  “What is it?” he asks. “You’re frowning.”

  “Nothing.” I force a smile.

  “Camille.”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” I wave him off. “You have a good night, okay, John? I’ll wait to hear from you again.”

  It’s all I’ve done this week–sit around and wait for my phone to ring. He calls from a blocked number. I don’t have his.

  “Goodnight, Camille.”

  When he leaves, I pull my blindfold away and fix my hair, tiptoeing to the curtained window to glance at the hotel guests leaving the front entrance. Men come, men go. Story of my life, really. Rain beads on the outside of the window, and my breath fogs up the glass until the view below distorts.

  I pick up my dress from the floor and stop when I see a little blue Tiffany’s box sitting on the foot of the bed, wrapped with a white bow.

  A gift.

  My heart catches in my throat. The sight of a Tiffany’s box used to send an instant smile to my lips. It’s hardly original, and I’m well aware that plenty of men shop there.

  But so did Trey.

  It was kind of our thing.

  I sold everything he gave me after things got ugly and we went our separate ways.

  My stomach churns, and the room spins. I tell myself it’s just a gift. Pure coincidence.

  Pulling on the white ribbon, I let it fall to the floor before cracking the box.

  Pearl earrings.

  I’m bathed in relief. Trey
only ever bought me white diamonds.

  I slip them on and check them in the mirror, making a mental note to wear them next time. I’ll wear them tomorrow, too. Just because they’re pretty.

  After I dress, I take a moment to text Araminta to let her know I’m on my way home.

  EIGHT

  “John”

  “I don’t know why you torture yourself like this.” Oliver slicks a palm across the leather-wrapped steering wheel of my Town Car as I peer out a tinted window. We’re parked in front of the Melrose. Waiting.

  “I want to make sure she makes it out.” And that no one hassles her.

  “Yeah, because she might get lost on her way down in the elevator.”

  I ignore him, remaining still and studying the front doors as rain collects on the window and disturbs my line of sight.

  A man in a charcoal suit ambles down the sidewalk, stopping next to my car. He glances at the Melrose and tilts his umbrella just enough for me to catch his profile before he heads in.

  “No fucking way.” Oliver says exactly what I was thinking. “Tell me that isn’t Trey Bancroft.”

  My veins heat as I watch him fold his umbrella and nod at the doorman, walking in like he owns the place. The asshole checked his watch a second ago, which tells me he’s likely meeting someone.

  I pull the door handle and step out into the rain.

  “Bad idea,” Oliver says.

  I straighten my tie and head toward the entrance. If Camille is still fucking Trey after everything that happened this year, I’ll lose it. I’ll fucking lose it.

  I bought her exclusivity, and I saved her from that piece of shit narcissist.

  Oliver follows after me, keeping two steps back and scanning our perimeter. I stop before we head inside.

  “You need to stay in the car,” I say.

  His blond brows scrunch, and he reminds me of a dog who doesn’t understand his master’s command.