DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

by Renshaw, Winter

  “In case Camille comes through the lobby,” I explain. “If she sees you with me, she’ll know I’m . . . John.”

  Oliver retreats to the car, and I head inside where Trey waits in line at the front desk.

  “Trey.” I grip his shoulders. We’ve met a few times before, but only ever casually.

  He startles slightly before turning to face me, and within seconds his face lights as if he’s posing for a picture on his campaign trail. His hand extends to mine.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” he says. “Pleasure running into you here. Didn’t expect to run into you at the Melrose. White House all booked up?”

  Why anyone would think a twenty-nine-year-old man would live with his parents for any reason is beyond me.

  “Something like that,” I say. “What brings you here?”

  I know for a fact the Melrose has no conference center, restaurant, or rental facilities. If you’re not checking in, you’re passing through the cozy bar for a drink.

  “Raining like cats and dogs out there,” he says. “Thought I’d come in to get out of that mess.”

  I don’t believe him. The man’s reputation for lying didn’t evolve by accident.

  “Well, good seeing you, Trey,” I lie. “Just wanted to say hello.”

  Trey nods.

  “Oh, and I think the line for the bar is that way.” I point him away from the front desk, a subtle yet polite way of telling him I don’t buy his bullshit.

  His smile fades. “Thank you.”

  I take a seat in the waiting area, grabbing a newspaper and staying within earshot of the front desk area. Trey is next in line. He hasn’t so much as glanced toward the bar. When it’s his turn, I observe as he tells the clerk he’s meeting a friend but he doesn’t know her room number.

  “The name, sir?” the clerk asks.

  The elevator dings before Trey answers, and our gazes shoot in that direction. Camille steps off, her wool coat buttoned and black leather gloves covering her hands. Her hips swing as she struts past us both, and her tasteful kitten heels click against the marble tile with each stride.

  She doesn’t look at anyone, but everyone within a fifty-foot radius looks at her.

  My heart hammers.

  Never mind that an hour ago I was plunged deep inside her; seeing her here and now, knowing I can’t talk to her or touch her, makes me want her all over again.

  She tucks a sleek, dark lock behind her ear, and I catch a hint of the pearl earrings. I saw them in a window display this morning and thought they were only fitting. Diamonds are cliché, and not nearly as rare as most people think. Pearls, on the other hand, are different. You don’t find a pearl in every oyster you crack, only the special ones.

  “Complimentary umbrella, miss?” The doorman hands her an open umbrella the color of midnight.

  With that, she thanks him and disappears into the night air.

  NINE

  Camille

  “Aw, you didn’t have to wait up.” I drop my keys in the dish by the front door as Araminta stretches on the sofa in front of a glowing TV.

  “It’s okay,” she says with a yawn. “I don’t mind.”

  She reaches for the side lamp and clicks it on.

  “You look very Jackie O tonight,” she says. “Did he like?”

  I shrug and take a seat next to her, kicking off my heels. I want to change and shower, but my body aches. Tonight he fucked me in positions I never knew existed, another sign that he’s very much on the younger side. I never knew flexibility could be such a turn-on for me.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” I say. “How was your night? Did you see what’s his name?”

  I snap my fingers as his name escapes me. Araminta doesn’t do exclusivity unless they’re willing to pay out the ass. Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. Most of the time, I think the men who fuck her get off on the fact that’s she’s the great-great-great-great granddaughter of Hollis Randall, one of the country’s first millionaires who made a fortune off his railroad monopoly during the Industrial Revolution.

  Minty’s father would have a heart attack if he knew she was selling her body. In a way, I think she does this to retaliate for being financially cut off.

  “Chip Dumont,” she says. “That soft drink chairman who gives millions to the candidate least likely to win every election . . . just because he can.”

  “How was it?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “He was just passing through town. Wanted a quickie before heading home to his wife in Georgia.”

  Araminta’s moral compass points in a different direction than mine. Most men who want to buy my time are shocked when they learn I have morals.

  And it is shocking. An escort with morals. It certainly narrows my pool of client candidates, but I don’t care.

  I will not sleep with a married man.

  “John gave me something tonight.” I pull my hair back and point at my pearl earrings.

  “Nice.” She leans closer to examine them. “Classy. Good call with the Jackie O look tonight. I bet that’s what he’s into.”

  “Minty, can I ask you something?”

  “Um, of course.”

  I slouch against the back of the sofa, tugging on a loose thread with a sigh. We paid way too much for this sofa to have pilling issues this soon.

  “This has been bothering me the last few days, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I say.

  She shifts away from the TV, her brows furrowing as she gives me her full attention.

  “I know you would never put me in danger,” I say. “Not knowingly, anyway.”

  “Never.”

  This question has lingered on the tip of my tongue for days, only I was never quite sure how to frame it without offending her. I love my best friend more than anyone, but sometimes the littlest things set her off.

  “This guy, this . . . John,” I begin. “He said he’s seen me before. He said he chose me.”

  Her blue eyes roll and she laughs. “Oh, God. You had me so worried for a second. I thought you had, like, a legitimate issue you needed to talk to me about.”

  I don’t laugh. “It is a legitimate issue.”

  “I’m not following,” she says.

  “If he knows who I am and what I do, and he went through your friend to get to you . . . to get to me . . .” I say. “Then who is this guy? I mean, that’s a pretty strategic move, don’t you think?”

  “Are you weirded out by that?” she asks. “Because I think you should be flattered. This is a word of mouth business. We don’t have billboards. We have horny male clients who like to discuss their latest conquests over expensive shots of bourbon after a long day in the senate chamber.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me the name of your friend who set this up?” I ask. “You’ve always told me everything.”

  “I’m following strict orders.” Her palm lifts in protest. “They want the least amount of information exchanged as possible. It’s a precautionary measure. You’re thinking into it too much, and let me also remind you, um . . . one million dollars.”

  “You don’t think any of this is worrisome?” I nibble my nail.

  “I think this is Washington, and people are crazy and paranoid and rich and powerful. But mostly paranoid.”

  “Right. Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Araminta reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV before rising. She stretches on her toes and lifts her arms to the ceiling as she yawns. “Dahhhling, don’t you know by now? We’re not allowed to be afraid of anything. We survive on bravery and beauty. The rest is completely beyond our control.”

  TEN

  “John”

  “How well do you know Trey Bancroft?” I ask Camille a question to which I already know the answer. The pale glow of her pearl earrings in the dark draws my gaze.

  Her fingers freeze along the back of her blindfold. “Pardon?”

  “Trey Bancroft,” I say.

  Her full lips button for a second. “I’m not su
re what you want me to say. If he is or isn’t a former client of mine, I’m not able to disclose that.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But I think you should know he was here the other night. At the hotel. I saw him on my way out.”

  Her arms reach for something solid, the wall perhaps, but she grasps at nothing.

  “You need to sit down?” I lead her by the arm to a nearby chair.

  Camille’s chest rises and falls in quick succession. “He . . . he’s not supposed to bother me.”

  Her voice is low, shaky now. She reaches for the blindfold, adjusting it before fanning her face. I’ve never seen a woman as put together as Camille fall apart so easily.

  There’s no way I can fuck her when she’s in a state of distress.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I just need a moment.”

  I give her space, walking backward to the mini bar. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” she says, swallowing gulps of air. “Vodka soda.”

  A minute later, she nurses her cocktail with trembling hands, and I’m left more perplexed than ever. Unbeknownst to Camille, I singlehandedly brought down their little affair, but as far as I knew, they’d gone their separate ways months ago.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” she says. “I’ve ruined your evening.”

  “Impossible.”

  Her head turns toward my voice. “There’s nothing sexy about a woman having some kind of psychological breakdown.”

  “Has Bancroft been bothering you?”

  Her chin tucks. “I can’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. I want to, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’d do with the information. I hope you understand.”

  “I want to keep you safe, Camille. That’s my intention. My only intention.” I move toward her, taking her arm and pulling her into me. “Does he follow you?”

  “Let me take off the blindfold, and I’ll tell you everything.” Her lips lift, holding inches from mine. “I need to know who you are first, John.”

  “Nice try.” I push my lips closer, until they almost touch hers. “I suppose if you’re not going to help me help you . . . I’ll have to take other measures to ensure your safety.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “There’s a corporate apartment in Columbia Heights,” I say. “I have access and no one’s living there now.”

  “You want to meet there from now on?”

  “It’s secure. There’s a doorman. No one gets in without a key.” I inhale her floral scent into my lungs. My fingers tangle in her soft hair, and I sigh, prematurely missing all the things I won’t be doing to her tonight. “He won’t be able to come inside. We’ll meet there next time.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Camille.”

  Her jaw falls, offering a silent protest.

  “It wouldn’t be right. Not with you in this state.” I kiss her forehead and step aside. Grabbing a pen and notepad from a nearby desk, I scribble an address and place the paper in her hand. “Oliver, the man outside this door, will pick you up tomorrow night around eight. He’ll drive you there and give you a spare key. If you ever find yourself in trouble, or if you need a place to go where Bancroft can’t get to you, I want you to go there. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Her spine zips as she clears her throat. I’m sure she’s embarrassed, though she has no need to be. “I’ll make this up to you next time.”

  “Camille.” I stop by the door. “Not necessary. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I’ll ensure that a cab is waiting for you downstairs to take you home.”

  ***

  “Well that was fast.” Oliver shuts off his phone and slips it into his pocket the second I emerge from the room.

  “We need to dig a little deeper on Bancroft,” I say as we stride toward the elevator.

  An on-duty cab parks beneath the hotel overhang when we hit the sidewalk. I rap on the window, and the driver rolls it down. I hand him a fifty.

  “A woman in a white jacket will be coming down in just a moment. Her name is Camille. This should cover her ride home.”

  I climb into the backseat of my Lincoln and tell Oliver to wait. Ten minutes pass before Camille makes her debut under the portico of the Melrose. She steps into the cab a second later and they veer off in the direction of Logan Circle.

  No sign of Bancroft. It’s a start.

  ELEVEN

  Camille

  The next morning, I jot the address in my journal and leave a note for Araminta on the kitchen island. I should be home before she’ll get a chance to see it, but this is just a precaution. I wish she were here to hear all about how I ruined last night by freaking out about Trey. She’s the only one who knows about the stalking and the threats after we ended things. Araminta would understand.

  But she’s off doing God knows what with God knows who, as usual.

  A quick peek out the window tells me Oliver is waiting below, parked in John’s Town Car in front of my building. I do a quick check in the mirror before stepping into my heels, grabbing my phone and a little black clutch, and heading down.

  “Hello, Oliver,” I say when I see him. He holds the rear passenger door for me, his eyes covered in sunglasses despite the fact that the sun went down at least fifteen minutes ago. He’s dressed in his usual black, and he doesn’t smile. He only nods. Sometimes I wonder if he’s Secret Service, but I’ve known men in this city to hire guards who look the part because they love to look important.

  The car pulls away a minute later, and I pay close attention to each turn we make. Twenty minutes pass before he parks his car in front of a brown brick building in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. A simple sign with modern, sans-serif font tells me the building is called The Hightower.

  Oliver turns to face me. “There’s a blindfold in the back seat pocket. Take it upstairs with you.”

  “Keys?” I ask.

  He reaches over the seat and drops a black fob into my hand. “Fifth floor. Apartment seven. You’ll need to scan this at the entry to get inside. If the doorman asks who you’re there to see, tell him you’re visiting Henry. He’ll know what that means, and no, his name is not Henry.”

  I figured as much.

  “Thank you.” I climb out and straighten the hem of my dress, my heart beating so hard it pulses in my ears.

  There’s a reason I’ve always opted to meet men in hotels. They’re neutral, public, and the rooms are always registered in their names.

  I do exactly as Oliver instructed, and within five minutes I’m standing before apartment seven on floor five. I swipe the fob and the door unlocks. When John referred to this place as a corporate apartment, I expected bland furnishings and neutral décor.

  But this place is fit for a king. It’s modern minimalist meets pampered royalty. Curves and edges. Shimmer and shine. I’ve shacked up in lavish places before but nothing quite this grand.

  I’m drawn straight ahead, letting the door slam shut behind me as my gaze is glued to a view of the glowing DC skyline at sunset. I press my fingertips lightly against the glass, getting as close as I can to a sight that makes me think this city couldn’t possibly be as toxic as I once thought. Standing here, it’s hard to believe something so splendid could chew you up and spit you out like you’re nothing and keep you coming back for more.

  And maybe that’s the problem. We’re all a bunch of nobodies, so desperate to be somebody that we’re willing to do whatever it takes, even if it means hurting or getting hurt as many times as necessary.

  The blindfold in my pocket falls to the wood floor, almost as if to remind me this magnificent sight will be going away any second. I tug it over the top of my head, unwilling to tear myself away from this window just yet.

  Five minutes pass, then another five, then another.

  I can’t imagine that John would be the kind of man to stand me up. If only I had his number I could call him.

  It surprises me that this apartme
nt isn’t already prepared for my arrival. I expected the place to be pitch dark. Most of the time, the hotel room is so dark I can’t see my hand before my face, which makes it difficult to find the blindfold.

  The shrill ring of my phone echoes off the high ceiling of the expansive room, jumpstarting my heart. I take a second to catch my breath before glancing at the caller ID. The blocked number tells me it’s him.

  “I’m stuck in traffic,” he says when I answer. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “It’s fine, John,” I say.

  “Why don’t you put on the blindfold and wait for me in the last room down the hall? Make yourself comfortable.” He sighs into the phone, a sign, perhaps, that he’s had a long day. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “All right.”

  “And Camille?”

  “Yes?”

  “No peeking.”

  ***

  I tiptoe down the hall, spotting my reflection in the glossy, black wood floors. The last door at the end of the hall is half-open. I swing it all the way open before stepping into the room, as if some kind of boogeyman might be waiting behind it.

  Nothing.

  My heart sprints. They say fear is an aphrodisiac, and if that’s true, I’m going to be primed and ready before John sets foot in here.

  The knot in my stomach urges me to look around and conduct a sweep to ensure I’m really alone. Three other doors are shut tight along the north wall. Inhaling, I step to the first one and twist the knob.

  Laundry.

  My knotted belly relaxes a notch as I step to the next door.

  A bedroom. Unoccupied.

  My gaze feasts on the ornate furnishings and floor to ceiling windows before moving on to the third door.

  A bathroom. Marble with gold fixtures.

  The place appears to be empty. I’d check under beds and in closets if I didn’t think John would be here any minute.

  Feeling slightly better, I head back to the suite at the end of the hall and make myself comfortable—starting with the bed. The monstrosity that anchors the room is so tall that I have to use steps to climb into it, and my body sinks into the plush mattress like it’s some sort of memory foam cloud. With my back against a mountain of pillows in the center of a four-poster bed, I wait.