I remind myself of that each and every day, and especially after spying on her little dinner with Bancroft. I saw red. Then everything went black. I spent the rest of that evening ruminating until I remembered what this was about: nothing more than an opulent fantasy.
I haven’t called her in days. Every so often a burning, jealous sensation creeps into my veins. A few more days, and I’ll have given myself more than enough time to cool down. I’ll meet with Camille, and I’ll remind her that her body and her time belong to me. And then I’ll ask her point blank if she’s still fucking the senator.
“Smart man.” He adjusts his tie in his mirror before checking his face from every angle. “Are you coming out with us tonight or not? My car’s downstairs, and I’m leaving, so . . .”
I rise, undecided. Glancing at my watch, I realize I have no commitments tonight.
“Just come for one drink. Maybe two,” he says. “We’re going all over tonight, so if at any point you want to bail, I promise I won’t try to stop you.”
It’s been years since I truly enjoyed myself, and if I weren’t still livid with Camille, I’d be with her tonight, enjoying myself the best way I know how.
“I’m telling you, once you stop caring what everyone else thinks, your entire life changes.” He peers at his reflection yet another time, finger combing some hair into place. “Let me get you drunk so that you can make some bad decisions tonight.”
I groan. “Fine, I’ll come. But only for a little while.”
NINETEEN
Camille
“Do you think he dumped me?” I slick a coat of ballet slipper pink across the nail of my ring finger before blowing on it. I’m seated on the edge of the bathtub in Araminta’s suite.
“What, like you two were dating?”
“You know what I mean. I’ve never been dropped cold before. Not a single phone call or goodbye. Maybe he’s regretting letting me take off the blindfold, but I swear, Minty, I still couldn’t see anything.”
“He’s paranoid. Forget about him.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the best sex I’ve had in my life.” I clasp my hands together in prayer. “Is it selfish of me to want to keep him a bit longer? I even prayed about it last night.”
Araminta makes the sign of the cross. “Lord, hear her prayer.”
I laugh, fully owning how ridiculously absurd I sound. I’m sure God, if there is one, has more important things to do with His time. The last thing He needs to worry about is some sex-worker sending up requests like He’s some wish-granting genie in a bottle.
“I prayed for a gold Tiffany locket when I was twelve. Got one for Christmas that year.” She shrugs. “I also prayed that God would let me marry my high school boyfriend, and let me just take a moment to thank the man upstairs for unanswered prayers. I looked my ex up on Facebook the other day, and time has not been kind to him. And I heard he cheats on his wife. With men. So . . .”
“I keep checking my phone for missed calls. My ringer’s at full volume. Nothing’s coming through.”
“If he calls you, he calls you. It’s out of your control.” Araminta slicks a tube of red Chanel lipstick across her pout, then makes a kissy face in the mirror. Her blonde hair is unapologetically voluminous, and her dress dips down in the front and back. She doesn’t even have a date tonight—she just likes the attention. It’s a game to her. She sits at a bar, by herself, and tries to see how long it takes before someone offers to buy her a drink. Her record, so far, is a mere ninety-four seconds.
“So am I a free agent now?” I don’t want to move on from John, but I’ve got a waiting list of potential clients and a savings account to fill.
“I’d say so.” She clicks her blush compact and gives the apples of her cheeks a good pinch. “Shall we celebrate the fact that your beautifully cared-for and meticulously groomed lady parts officially belong to their rightful owner again?”
I laugh, grabbing her eye shadow palette and swiping my fingertip along a shimmery taupe. “You find the oddest things to celebrate.”
“Everything is worth celebrating, my friend. Life can be one big party if you want it to be.” She twirls in front of the mirror, peering over her shoulder to check out her backside. “All right. I’m good. Go get ready, you’re coming with me.”
***
This is the cleanest men’s room I’ve ever seen in my life.
Not that I’ve seen many.
The line for the ladies’ room was way too long, and my bladder was two seconds from exploding, so I did what I had to do.
The man standing behind me in line promised to guard the door so I could have it all to myself. Funny what all a sweet smile and a wink can get a girl in this city.
I wash my hands and pat them dry with a paper towel as someone pounds on the door.
“Hold on,” I yell, though I’m sure they don’t hear me. This bar is insanely loud, and it’s not from the music. Everyone is chatting, their voices all layered on top of one another. Everyone loves to hear themselves talk around here, but no one ever wants to shut up and listen. The pounding continues, and I yell, “Almost done.”
Crinkling the paper towel and dropping it in the trash, I check my reflection one last time before heading back out. I pull the handle and swing the door my way, taking a step and bumping right into a man dressed in a black suit and speaking into his sleeve.
“Oh. Hello,” I say.
He wears no expression and his gaze is hidden behind dark glasses. The man turns behind him and motions for someone to come closer. I squeeze between what is clearly a Secret Service agent and the doorway and prepare for a long and arduous search for Araminta. That woman never stays in the same place for long.
A second agent marches toward the men’s room, creating a parted-sea effect. I step aside and attempt to see over his shoulders, but the man’s broad shoulders block my view for a moment.
Once they get closer, I catch a glimpse of a man several yards back in a three-piece suit with his head tucked and his eyes down. Women around me gasp and nudge each other. Some of them point. Another agent walking behind the man sweeps his arms wide, as if to create some kind of shield to keep people from sneaking up from behind.
The crowd around me grows louder, more excited. Women push between other women to catch a closer glimpse. I just want to get out of this area and find Araminta, but I’m stuck in the middle of it all.
I tuck my clutch under my arm and wait for the storm to pass. The second whoever that is is in the restroom, I can push through all these crazy ladies and order another drink. Unsnapping my clutch, I decide to text Minty to find out where she is. I swear this place doubled in patrons in the last ten minutes.
When I’m halfway finished typing a quick text, I hear a woman behind me shout, “Keir!”
Naturally, I glance up.
But before I realize what’s going on, I’ve been shoved by the rowdy batch of ladies behind me, and I’m diving headfirst into the Secret Service sandwich containing one Mr. Keir Montgomery. My arms fly forward to brace myself so that I don’t hit the ground like some kind of clueless klutz, only my palms land on the front of Keir’s suit coat.
I suck in a startled breath. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”
His hands take mine, and I fully expect him to push me off of him like I’m some sort of groupie who flew into him intentionally. Only he doesn’t move. Our eyes lock, and the first thing I notice is that his sapphire blue eyes are every bit as intense in person as they are on TV. His lips spread into a charmed smile, and the second thing I notice are his dimples.
My heart flutters, and heat spreads across my cheeks. This so isn’t me. I’m not a girl who gets star struck or smitten at first sight, but something’s happening to me and I kind of like it.
The agent behind him taps his shoulder, and he turns to mutter something. I can’t hear him. It’s too loud in here. But I think he told him it was okay. The agent backs off, cupping his hands at his hi
ps and scanning the perimeter. Everyone around us stares and smiles, and I’m certain all these ladies are living this moment vicariously through me.
“So sorry about that.” I apologize for what I’m sure is the second time, but I’m not entirely sure I said it the first time. It all could’ve been in my head for all I know. This man’s aura is intensely commanding. “Those women got a little excited and pushed me into your path.”
“I know,” he says. “I saw. You were texting on your phone, not paying attention.”
My cheeks burn hotter than before. Was he checking me out? Was Keir Montgomery checking me out? I fight a smile. Araminta would be green with envy right now. He’s just as handsome in person than I’ve ever imagined him to be.
I remove my hands from his lapels and back away, offering him a dainty wave and stepping aside. The man probably has women throwing themselves at him all day long; the least I can do is let him use the restroom in peace.
Plus, there’s nothing alluring about a woman who fawns over a man after meeting him for all of ten seconds.
I head back toward the bar area, scanning the crowd for a buxom blonde with the reddest lips in the joint, and I do a little bounce and squeal when I see her.
“Araminta!” I grab her from behind, hooking into her shoulders and giving her a shake.
“Good God, what’s gotten into you?” She spins to face me, her eyes drinking me up and down. “You wander off for ten minutes and now you’re all giddy.”
“Keir is here,” I say. “Keir Montgomery.”
Her jaw falls and she whacks the side of my arm with her clutch. “You’re kidding me.”
She sits up in her stool, attempting to see above a sea of hundreds, most of them wearing every conservative shade of black and navy imaginable.
“He’s in the restroom now,” I say. “I bumped into him on my way out. But he’s here. At Bar Twelve. Tonight.”
Her red lips twist at the corner. This is the kind of opportunity Araminta’s fantasized about for years.
“Let me know when you see him again. I’d love to introduce myself.” She takes a healthy sip of her martini, eyes busy scanning.
Her fearlessness both awes and inspires, but mostly it entertains me.
Several minutes pass, and we fill the time with idle chat and shared observations about the people around us. We wait like patient saints, hoping for a sign that Keir has made his way back into the crowd. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. We check our phones like clockwork.
“Wonder what’s taking him so long?” she asks.
“Maybe he’s not in there anymore? He could’ve snuck out a back exit.”
Her face falls and her posture deflates. She runs a nail along a streak of condensation on the bar top in front of her until an averagely attractive man in his thirties approaches her and she snaps out of her funk with a flirty side-eye and a toothy grin.
I stare ahead at the bottles behind the bar, starting with the ones on the top shelf, biding my time until Araminta either leaves with this man or lets him stick around long enough to buy her a drink before she gives him a polite boot.
I’m midway through counting the number of cobalt blue bottles when a warm palm centers on my bare back. I turn around, heart pulsing, only to meet a set of newly familiar sapphire eyes.
“Oh.” I smile as relief pushes the startle clear through me. “Hello again.”
This place is so damn loud, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to hear a word he says, and I so badly want to hear every word this man is about to say.
My gaze settles on his face, focusing yet trying not to stare.
Strong jaw. Perfect nose. Nice lips.
Keir leans into me, and I inhale his cologne because this may be the only opportunity I’ll ever have to know what Keir Montgomery really smells like.
Old money. Leather. Vetiver.
The scent is vaguely familiar, which is odd because I’m quite certain it’s not the kind of cologne a man could buy at any old department store. Barneys, perhaps. Maybe Bergdorf.
And then it hits me. His scent reminds me of John. It’s not identical by any means, but I feel like it’s something John would wear.
For a split second, reality smacks me in the face and reminds me that John hasn’t called in days, and that sinking, ego-deflating heaviness washes over me.
“I’m Keir,” he says into my ear, his low voice tickling my eardrum and sending a quick tingle to my nerves. My skin pricks, and instantly I want to hear his voice again. “Keir Montgomery. What’s your name?”
I lean into his ear. “Camille Buchanan.”
“You look familiar, Camille,” he says, pulling away though standing closer than before. “Have we met?”
There’s a wicked gleam in his deep blue stare that sends a soul-stirring tickle to the deepest part of me. Half of his mouth lifts, revealing a dimple, and it’s all I can do not to melt right in front of him.
This man could take me home right now, hoisting me over his shoulder caveman style in front of all these people, and I wouldn’t try to stop him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met before.” My eyes trace the length of his strong jawline before drawing higher to his lips, studying the way they arch and wondering how they taste. His nose is straight, perfect. And his hair is thick and dark, the kind made for pulling.
In many ways, he reminds me of the way I imagine John might look.
I glance away for a moment, quietly scolding myself for thinking about John right now. He’s in the past. It’s over and done with. He doesn’t get to stake a claim in the forefront of my mind tonight and ruin this beautiful moment.
“It’s really loud,” Keir yells, pointing behind him. “You want to come with me to the VIP area so we can talk?”
I’m numb. Completely numb. And speechless.
How is it that I can walk into any establishment in this city and take pride in the appearance I’ve worked so hard to maintain, but when I’m approached by one of the most sought-after bachelors in the free world, all of my insecurities rise to my mind’s surface one after another?
I’ve perfected the art of looking approachable. I’m trained to represent allure and mystery and sex and fantasy, all the things a man could want and then some. Everything I’ve ever learned about becoming desirable is working in tandem to draw this man to me right now, and I still can’t help but wonder what he could possibly want with me.
“Yeah, sure.” I swallow my insecurities whole and slap a demure smile on my mouth before sliding off the barstool.
Two agents sandwich us as we make our way to an area behind red velvet ropes, and it doesn’t occur to me until we’re already there that I didn’t tell Araminta where I went.
“Phone.” An agent places his hand toward me.
I look to Keir and he nods. “Standard procedure. You’ll get it back.”
The phone goes from my purse to the agent’s palm before slipping into his front suit pocket. A group of six or seven men, friends of his perhaps, and a handful of giggling women dressed to the nines take up the space around us.
“So you were saying?” I wait for him to take a seat before occupying the one beside him. My legs cross, pointing toward him, and I angle my body for optimal conversation.
He leans in. “You look familiar to me, Camille. Do you have any idea why that would be?”
I’m not sure if this is some kind of trick question. A test maybe? Am I already supposed to know the answer?
I lift a brow. “I have no idea why that would be, Keir. I’m quite certain we’ve never met before. I’d remember meeting someone like you.”
It’s my feeble attempt to charm a charmer. Can’t blame a girl for trying.
Keir’s gaze hypnotizes and disarms me all at once, and he lifts his hand to my face. His fingers run the underside of my jaw, leaving a trail of frenzied nerves in their path. If he touches me again, I’m certain my heart will beat out of my chest.
“I can’t shake the feeling we were
meant to cross paths tonight.” His stare hasn’t broken. We’re locked this way.
“I don’t believe in destiny, only random coincidence.”
His hand falls to the side of my neck, his thumb raking the front. I need to swallow but I’m paralyzed. My tongue rakes my bottom lip, and I inhale.
“You’re very beautiful, Camille.” I swear he inches closer, but all I can do is focus on steadying my breathing.
Women pass, gawking, pointing, and smiling covetous smiles. I see them all, but Keir doesn’t.
“Thank you,” I say.
His hand is still hooked on my neck, and his gaze falls to my pout. He wants to kiss me . . .
Keir Montgomery wants to kiss me.
My eyes flutter shut as the pressure on the back of my neck guides me to his lips. His mouth grazes along mine, the heat a tortuous tease seconds before the real thing. This heart-stopping kiss comes with a side of tongue and two of the softest lips I’ve ever tasted.
Keir’s fingers glide up the nape of my neck, taking a fistful of hair while he claims my mouth. His kisses feel like John and taste like fine alcohol. I lift my hands to his face, as if the pads of my fingers might remember the way he felt beneath them.
With eyes closed, everything about this is eerily familiar. His hands in my hair. The stroke of his soft lips on mine. The tempo of his greedy kisses. The rich scent filling my lungs with each breathless gasp for air.
I pull away, studying his face as if I could possibly know what it might look like bathed in pitch black.
“Why’d you stop?” His fist in my hair relaxes.
This can’t be John.
John wouldn’t approach me at a bar, lead me behind a velvet rope and make out with me in front of every patron within a five-foot radius.
DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense Page 9
