DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

by Renshaw, Winter

  My brother laughs, his hand holding his lower abdomen. “Wait a minute, are we pretending now that she’s not just some really expensive prostitute? Are you acting like you actually give a damn about her now, or are you taking the most convenient stance for the sake of this argument? I mean, I know we’re a family of fucking politicians, but that’s the oldest trick in the book. You can do better than that.”

  I won’t pretend to understand how a man could grow obsessively infatuated with a mysterious beauty, track her down, buy her exclusivity for twelve weeks, and then claim the arrangement is purely for sex. Maybe it started that way. I’ll admit I was drawn to her for selfish, superficial reasons at first. But now that I’ve spent a little time with her, I’m seeing there’s much more to her than meets the eye, and it would be a shame for me to prohibit myself from enjoying every facet of my time with Camille.

  “I won’t discuss her with you.” I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and turn away, only when I round the corner, I nearly collide with Lydia, of all people. Not in the mood for pleasantries or anything remotely cordial, I release an audible groan and attempt to sidestep her.

  Her ruby lips widen, and her lashes flutter. “Were you just talking about me?”

  “What?” My brows furrow. “No, no.”

  She trails a finger across her conservatively exposed décolletage and pouts her bottom lip. “Oh. Then who were you talking about? I heard you say you weren’t going to talk about ‘her.’ Are you seeing someone, Ronan?”

  My mother peeks her head around the corner, staring at the three of us before batting her hand.

  “My goodness, why is everyone standing out in the hall? Come on now.” Judging by the slight giggle placed in my mother’s tone, she’s in an exceptionally good mood today. “The photographer is waiting. We need to pose for some photos and then your little social hour can resume.”

  Any time my mother is in the same room as a camera, she can’t help but smile and flit about like she’s Mary fucking Poppins. She hangs on my father’s arms and refuses to call him by his first name, Harris, opting for Mr. President instead, because she thinks it makes her more relatable to the voting public.

  We file into the solarium and smile for photos which I’ll probably never see, because my mother is having them published in God-knows-what newspaper in God-knows-where, but at least it’s done and I can go about the rest of my day.

  I check my watch. Oliver should be buying the disposable cellphones any minute and having Camille’s delivered. In a little more than twenty-four hours, I’ll see her again.

  “You’re smiling, son.” My mother’s voice is low as she leans into me a minute after the photographer finishes up. “I saw that you and Lydia were chatting in the hallway.”

  She steps in front of me, partially so she can capture my full attention, but mostly so she can trap me in this corner of the Sky Parlor. Mother’s hands smooth out the lapels of my jacket and she tilts her head while wearing a toothy smile.

  “I just want you to know, it means the world to the President and me that you’re speaking to Lydia again. It’s a small step, I know, but someday you’ll be grateful.” Her dark blue eyes rest on mine. “One of these days, it’ll be you in the Oval Office, and it will be painted portraits of you and Lydia gracing these hallways. I know it probably isn’t the life you’ve always dreamed of, but you were born to lead, Ronan. You’re my quiet calm in the storm. Nothing rattles you. And you have a good, strong heart. Our family’s legacy is going to live on because of you and all the wonderful things you’re going to do for this country.”

  She wipes away the tiniest sliver of a tear, which is the most emotion anyone will ever get out of Busy Montgomery, and pats my shoulder.

  “Lovely speech, Mother, but I’m not reconciling with Lydia.”

  In an instant, her saccharin expression melts and her frown lines deepen. Before she has a chance to respond, my father calls for her from across the room.

  “This conversation isn’t over.” She slicks her hand over the top of her hair and strides away in her meticulously lint-rolled navy pantsuit. The small crowd of people steps aside when they see her coming. No matter her surroundings, Busy Montgomery can command a room like no one else. Sometimes I wonder who’s really in charge of this country. My money’s on the woman standing twenty feet away with her hand on my father’s forearm and flashing that signature smile that lights up the room.

  A vote for my father is a vote for Busy. She’s setting herself up for her own turn in the Oval Office. I should’ve known. This was always about her. Every photo opportunity, every pre-planned PR maneuver, every humanitarian platform and political agenda . . .

  The only thing more concerning about a manipulative ice queen running the country is the fact that Busy Montgomery has never met a goal she couldn’t conquer, and she’s not afraid to obliterate every bump in the road on her way there.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Camille

  Well this is different.

  Six hours ago I boarded a direct flight from Dulles Airport to Des Moines, and a half hour ago I checked into the most adorable little historic hotel tucked away in the heart of a cozy downtown.

  It feels safe here. Everyone smiles. No one’s in a rush to get anywhere.

  The hotel lobby makes me feel as if I’m stepping back in time. Crystal chandeliers, oriental rugs, and polished mahogany paint a picture of another era, yet my room is modern and luxurious.

  I’ve barely settled in, and already I don’t want to leave.

  After freshening up and dressing for the cool, December weather, I wheel my bag to my room and then go for a walk around the city. Evergreen wreaths tied with red ribbons hang from street lamps, and several local businesses have colorful lights in their windows. Huge snowflakes fall from the sky and melt when they land on my face. A light dusting of snow sticks to the ground, and out of nowhere, I’m flooded with warmth that summons a nostalgic giddiness I haven’t felt since childhood.

  It’s easy to ignore those pleasantries back in DC. Everyone’s so busy and constantly on the go. We’re all too busy doing everything we can to stay ahead and to stay relevant than to stop and look around.

  The disposable cellphone Ronan gave me almost a week ago buzzes in my pocket, and I try not to read into the fact that I’m smiling. As much as I try to deny the fact that he makes me unreasonably happy, life has a way of smacking me in the face with those reminders on a daily basis. At the end of the day, he’s still my client, and this is still strictly about sex, but it’s different with him.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Smooth and uneventful,” I say, kicking my boots along a powdery sidewalk. The snow has picked up a little more, blanketing everything around me in a glaze of white. “I’m all checked in. Just out walking around, taking in the scenery.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  I glance around for a street sign and take a few steps to the north, squinting. “Grand and Fourth Street?”

  “All right. Stay there.” Ronan hangs up, and I shove the phone back into my coat pocket. I’m blanketed in silence as the streets empty out, and I tap my toe against the slick concrete. The sound echoes just enough to give me a little reassurance. I’ve never seen a downtown area so vacant before, and I assume the bulk of the employees head straight for their suburban family homes come five o’clock.

  A black Lexus pulls up to the stop light beside me, and the passenger window rolls down.

  “Camille,” a man’s voice says.

  Crouching down, I peek inside the dark car. It’s Ronan. I fight a smile and climb in beside him.

  “I didn’t know you drove.” I click the seatbelt, my gaze catching on two steaming Styrofoam cups in the holders between us.

  “Of course I drive.” He smirks, pulling back into the street.

  “Where’s Oliver?”

  “I gave him the night off,” he says, glancing at me from the corner of his eye
. “I thought we could spend some time together, just us. I got us some hot cocoa. Thought we’d take a little cruise, see if we can’t find a country road and get a little lost.”

  I laugh. “Ronan, this is so unlike you.”

  His lips jut. “Not at all. You’ve just never spent time with me outside a hotel room.”

  Bringing the cocoa to my lips, I blow through the vented lid and take a sip. Ronan drives for miles, until we’re past the downtown city lights and endless suburban streets. He pulls onto a highway that stretches forever, and we’re surrounded by nothing but a twinkling black sky and the vision of giant snowflakes dancing across the windshield.

  “This reminds me of rural Tennessee,” I say. “More snow here—a little flatter, but all the country roads, driving for miles and miles, and the endless night sky.”

  “It’s peaceful.” His hand relaxes on the steering wheel as he studies the road. “Wide open and private. Nothing like we have back home.”

  “I used to think DC was magical. All the history and charm. So much power and prestige in sixty-eight little square miles.” I exhale a wistful sigh and rest my forehead against the cold glass of my window. “My second semester at Georgetown, I had this professor.”

  I tuck my head and look at Ronan from the corner of my eye.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” I laugh. His silence tells me he’s tuned in. “Anyway, there was this exercise we did in class sometimes. You find someone of the opposite gender and try to get them to believe you’re in love with them. One day, we were odd-numbered, so I had to partner up with him.” My fingers dance across my lips as my body tingles. “He said the most beautiful things to me, Ronan. Things no one had ever said before. He professed his love for me, and I believed it. I believed it because I felt it. It was that real. The way he touched my hair, the soft drum of his voice in my ear, the sincerity in his grey eyes.”

  My eyes water just thinking about how real that moment was for me.

  “And when it was all over, he stood up, smiled and snapped back into professor-mode,” I say with a soft chuckle. “That’s the moment the magic died, Ronan. So many people spend their lives searching for this larger-than-life love that makes you feel on top of the world, but how great can it really be if you can evoke that feeling with a few well-spoken lines? I knew then that everything could be faked, that fantasy would always be better than reality.”

  “Love is overrated,” he says.

  I nod. “You summed up my entire story with three little words.”

  “Shall we head back?” he says, pulling off onto an exit a half hour later.

  My shoulders fall. I could drive around for hours with him and talk about life. Araminta’s too busy to sit around and wax poetic, and it’s rare to find a man who actually understands the art of listening.

  “Sure,” I say, visions of drifting off to sleep filling my head.

  His hand finds my knee in the dark car, inching up until his fingers graze my inner thigh.

  “Oh,” I say with a grin. Of course that’s what he meant. The flurry in my belly rivals the snowflakes outside. As relaxing as this country drive is, going to bed with Ronan would be the perfect nightcap.

  ***

  Ronan lifts my arms above my head, pinning my wrists against the door inside my hotel room. His lips graze across mine as his free hand works the button of my jeans.

  “I’ve been waiting all day for this,” he breathes.

  Me too.

  This is will be the fourth romp of ours in less than a week, and I’m quite certain he’d meet me every day if his schedule permitted. And I’m not even sure what he does with his days, I just know he’s busy. Always coming and going, meeting people and spearheading campaigns. I think he’s the president of several different councils, but I don’t pry. The only things he’ll tell me are things I could easily find on Google anyway, and none of it matters. I’m not interested in how he spends his days, only his nights.

  Ronan releases my wrists and hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them off along with my lace thong. A moment later, his hands slick up the length of my body, burrowing beneath my shirt until my breasts fill his palms.

  We find ourselves in a blur of tangled clothes, unbuttoned shirts, and bare skin. His fingers invade my core, his touch transporting me somewhere else entirely. Fucking Ronan is meditative.

  I don’t think, I just feel, and I feel it all.

  His steady strokes between my thighs halt my breathing. My legs shake until I can no longer stand, so I fall to my knees and take his cock in my hand. Bringing his swollen erection to my mouth, I devour his length, pumping and stroking and licking until I taste a preview of his sweet and salty arousal.

  Ronan’s fingers sweep through my hair, gathering it into his fist and pulling me into a standing position. His hand on my lower back guides me into him, and our bodies press together seamlessly.

  His lips on mine are urgent, and I breathe faint moans into his mouth when he teases my clit with his hardness. Just once, I’d like to feel a man bare inside me. I imagine it would be the ultimate sinful pleasure, but it’s a rule I’ve never dared to break.

  He pulls away for a moment, and returns with a condom. Ripping the packet with his teeth, he sheaths himself and circles my waist with his needy grip. He spins me to face the wall, and I brace myself.

  A flood of wetness is the only precursor to the slow and tantalizing insertion as my body accepts his. We’re bound together, joined with a fusion of heat and lust, and every muscle in my body liquefies as my cheek presses against the smooth wall before me.

  Ronan’s hands on my hips pull me against his cock, thrust for thrust, and his hot kisses run the length of my spine. I’m covered in goosebumps, my body quivering.

  “You’re so fucking wet for me, Camille.” He groans as his fingers snake to my front and glide between my thighs. The tips of his fingers circle my clit, pressing harder as he thrusts. His other hand takes my right breast, pulling the budded nipple taut until it snaps back. “Do you have any idea how much it turns me on when I see the way your body responds to mine?”

  Arching my lower back so he can fill me to the hilt, my body tenses and relaxes as pain and pleasure wash over me in waves. His breath against my ear, the hint of a grunt, and the slapping of skin is an erotic symphony meant only for us.

  “I could do this all night.” His teeth drag across my earlobe, followed by the swirl of his tongue.

  Without warning, Ronan pulls out. Grabbing my arm, he flips me around to face him, and my heart sputters when I see the chiseled lines of his perfect face. Each time feels like the first. It’s a view of which I could never see myself growing tired. He takes my ass in his hands before hoisting me up around his waist and pinning me on the wall. Positioning his cock, he slides into me again.

  I bury my smile in the warm crook of his neck, kissing the bulging muscles that roll as Ronan Montgomery fucks the hell out of me.

  I’m getting close with each plunge. With my back straight against the wall, I stare into his beautiful blues and slip my fingers into his thick, dark hair. I want to taste his lips and look into his eyes, but I can’t do both.

  Ronan’s fingers dig into the flesh of my thighs until it hurts, and I know our bodies are syncing.

  With palms along his strong jaw, I press my mouth onto his and let go, riding the wave, feeling everything as he empties into me. I feel his mouth pull into a slight smile a moment before he relaxes his hold on me, and my thighs slide down his.

  Just when my knees threaten to give out, he pulls me into his arms, leading me to the bed where we collapse into a contented heap.

  Love. Love is for suckers and losers.

  This is the real thing. This is what makes the world go round.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ronan

  “Can we get some shots of the Montgomery boys with Vice President Darlington’s daughter?” A photographer with the Des Moines Register lifts the camera a
ttached to a strap around her neck and smiles. “Just a few photos to go with the interview.”

  “What interview?” I glance at Lydia.

  My mother and father stand across the small reception room in the state capitol building, shaking hands and grinning. My father places a palm on the shoulders attached to every hand he shakes, smiling more with his eyes than anything else. When he speaks, he emphasizes with a relaxed fist, a move perfected in the Clinton-era when my father was a mere New York governor.

  “The one your mother set up,” Lydia leans into me, keeping her voice low and smiling at the photographer.

  “Okay, I’d like Lydia to be front and center.” The woman with the camera points. “Keir and Ronan, if you could flank her sides, and then we’ll get one of just Ronan and Lydia.”

  My body burns. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

  Keir chuckles, his brows lifting as he refuses to meet my gaze. If this is some kind of joke, I’m certainly not in on it.

  “Everyone’s rooting for you two.” The lady flashes a controlled smile and a wink, as if she’s referring to some secret she heard. “Don’t worry, we won’t say it’s official until it’s official.”

  “Excuse me.” I clear my throat, tugging at the knot in my tie, which has suddenly grown several centimeters too tight. Pushing past, the three of them, I make a bee line for my mother, only I’m stopped by one of my father’s Secret Service agents.

  “Sorry. Can’t interrupt. They’re finishing an interview,” he says.

  “This will only take a minute.”

  His palm on my shoulder prevents me from stepping past him, and my good manners prevent me from causing a scene.

  “Ronan, what are you doing?” Lydia taps my back, and I can hear the faux smile in her voice. She’s putting on a good face around all these reporters and local political heavyweights. “Come, let’s finish our pictures. It’ll only take a second.”