“Don’t lie to me, Camille.” The hollow above his jaw tenses. “Did you feel something this weekend?”
“I enjoyed my time with you.”
He releases a hard breath, his nostrils flaring and our eyes locking.
“Why the resistance?” he asks, rising and moving closer. Within seconds, he stands before me, taking my hands in his and pulling me up.
“At the end of the day, we had a business arrangement,” I say. “It’s natural, when you spend time together the way we did, for feelings to develop. Sometimes they’re confusing. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last few years, it’s that they’re never real. If you give them enough time, they eventually fade away.”
“I don’t want this to fade away.” The smooth roll of his words makes my stomach tingle. “I knew you were special when I first saw you, and I’ll admit it was the outside that caught my eye. But now that I know the inside, Camille . . .”
His hand beneath my chin brings my lips to his. A soft kiss preludes his fingers in my hair, and I’m as weightless as I’ve ever been . . .
“You’re the most genuine woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve barely scratched your surface,” he says.
As weightless as I’ll ever be . . .
“My future was mapped out until you came along. Every moment in my life was painstakingly planned and controlled by my mother, even when I didn’t always realize it. I thought I knew what I wanted.” He pulls in a loaded sigh. “And now, all I know is I no longer want to be burdened by the Montgomery name and everything that entails.”
“What are you going to do? Denounce your throne?” I half-kid.
“I know my mother better than anyone else.” He holds my face in his hand. “And I’m going to end this the only way I know how.”
I release a puff of breath. “How? Cut her off at the source? That woman has power, Ronan. I’m not sure how you’ll be able to stop her from doing what she’s inevitably going to do.”
“I have an idea.” His eyes squint softly and release. “Do you trust me, Camille?”
I stare into his calming blue gaze and nod. “I trust you.”
THIRTY-TWO
Ronan
“I’d like to relieve Oliver D’Orsay from his post, effective immediately.” I stand before my father in the private study just off the Oval Office the day after seeing Camille.
He glances up at me from across his polished wooden desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose.
“I beg your pardon?” His shoulders square with mine. “Oliver’s been with you for years.”
“I question his loyalty,” I say.
My father sits up, tossing his pen across his desk. “Oliver D’Orsay has always been a loyal agent to this family. I will not relieve him of his duties.”
“Then relieve me of mine.”
My father’s attention moves past my shoulders, and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway.
“What’s this about?” She smiles but not with her eyes.
I rise from the guest chair, my hands calm at my sides and shoulders taut. “I was just asking Father to relieve me of my duties.”
My mother laughs, her hand splayed across her chest as she exchanges looks with my father. “What are you talking about, Ronan?”
“I won’t be working on the campaign trail.” I refuse to make a spectacle of this or allow any sort of deliberation, so I leave.
By the time I’m halfway down the hall, the sound of my mother’s pumps scuffing across the low-pile carpet tell me we’re not about to go down without a fight.
“Ronan, don’t be ridiculous.” She struts toward me, then batts her hand and laughs at me. She doesn’t take me seriously, which is going to be a problem.
For her.
“Number one, you have to work on the campaign trail. It’s mandatory. America needs to get to know you better, and this is a prime opportunity for you to get out there,” she says. “Someday, when you run for office, you’ll be glad you did this.”
“I won’t be running,” I say.
My mother scoffs.
“I’m glad you find it funny. I was worried you’d be upset.” I lift my brows. “You understand I’m being completely serious.”
“Ronan, you don’t have a choice in the matter. You’re running. Maybe not five years from now, but at some point in your life,” she says. “It’s your birthright. Your obligation.”
“I couldn’t possibly run for president with a foundation built on lies and corruption.” My gaze zeroes in on my mother’s pinched face.
“Son, I’m not following.”
“Please, allow me to fill you in,” I say. “We can start by discussing the way you used the Secret Service to do your dirty work.”
“You’re making it up. All of it.” Her nose wrinkles.
“Deny all you want,” I say. “I know the truth. And Camille knows the truth.”
“Camille.” She huffs. “You just had to run off and find yourself a whore, didn’t you? Plenty of nice girls to pick from, and you aim for the bottom of the barrel.”
“I’d hardly say she’s bottom of the barrel.” I lift my head high. “Had you done a little more checking around, you’d have discovered that Camille Buchanan is actually a Darlington.”
The night before I left Oakdale, I cornered Linda when Camille was in the shower. I stressed to her how important it was that I was made made fully aware of the identity of Camille’s biological father now. I explained, in not so many words, that Camille had a few political affiliations as a consequence of associating with me, and that it may be dangerous for that information to land in the wrong hands before Camille has a chance to hear it first.
Linda cried and made me swear not to tell Camille, to let her be the one to tell her first. When she’s ready. And then she whispered his name.
Rupert Darlington.
My mother’s jaw falls and her eyes narrow. “I refuse to believe that preposterous claim.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” I say. “Just know that I’m keeping that little tidbit safely tucked away in my back pocket for now.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “What, is that some kind of threat?”
“Leave Camille alone and I’ll keep the information between her, her mother, and myself. I’m sure the last thing you need is any kind of scandal attached to the Montgomery or Darlington names when you’re launching a new campaign.”
“Fine.” She groans, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Protect her. Get her out of your system. You’ll come back around once the novelty wears off, and I’ll fully expect you to be good and ready to get back on track.”
“That will never happen.”
Her hands run down her sleeves as she sniffs. “Fine. If you’re not going to run after your father’s next term, then I will. I can do a better job than any of you Montgomery men combined. You’re pathetic. All of you.”
“I sincerely hope you run for office someday, Mother.” I smile. “Hand to God. I hope you do. And I wish you nothing but the best of luck.”
You’re going to need it by the time I’m through with you . . .
Because I’m not done yet . . .
I turn on my heel, hands clasped behind my back, and exit my father’s study for the final time. Years from now, when my mother runs for office, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that Busy Montgomery’s pristine persona, as America has come to know it, is reduced to chum.
There will be a feeding frenzy, and there won’t be a damn thing her team of highly paid PR consultants can do to stop it.
I’m burning the Montgomery legacy to the ground and taking Busy with it. And as for me? I’ll slip quietly into obscurity, living a quiet, simple life, free of familial obligations and stifling surveillance. No longer will I live under a microscope. No longer will my life belong to everyone but me.
I’ll be free to live the life I was meant to live, and free to love the woman I was meant to love, whomeve
r she may be.
If I’m lucky, she’ll be Camille Buchanan.
THIRTY-THREE
Camille
“Would you like some more coffee, Ronan? I can make a fresh pot if you’d like.” My mother flits around our tiny kitchen like she’s serving the King of England. “The last one was a little strong. Did you think it was strong? Let me make another pot.”
“Mom.” I laugh.
Ronan smiles. “I’m fine, Linda. Thank you.”
“Calm down,” I say. “Come sit with us. Your food is getting cold.”
Ronan returned from Washington last night, and Mom gladly allowed him to stay with us.
Her alarm sounded at six AM this morning, promptly followed by clinking and clamoring in the kitchen as she prepared a breakfast feast.
Completely unnecessary, but totally her.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had Mickey Mouse waffles.” Ronan saws a chunk off of Mickey’s ear and forks it, his strong jaw flexing as he chews.
He’s so handsome like this, stripped down, gray sweats and a white t-shirt, his hair a mess for reasons that bring an immediate blush to my cheeks as we dine with my mother.
“When Camille was nine years old, I took her to Disney World.” Mom grins, and I brace myself for a story I’m sure is going to embarrass the hell out of me. “Oh, Ronan, she was the sweetest little thing. It rained on us the whole time, but my baby never stopped smiling. And how could she? Gosh, I’d give anything to relive that week all over again.”
She rests her chin on her hands and stares across the table.
“I’ve never been there,” Ronan says. “But I can imagine how magical it might be for a child.”
My mother swats at his hand. “Get out! You’ve never been?”
“Never had the chance,” he says.
Last night, Ronan told me about growing up at boarding school, how homesick he was the first few years, and how he never really felt close with his family because they were never together. I suspect the main reason he wanted to follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps was to feel closer to them the only way he could.
“My goodness, well you’re just going to have to tag right along with us when we go next month.” Mom grins. “We’re still going, right?”
I nod. “We are.”
Ronan glances at me. He doesn’t smile, but I see a relaxed contentedness in his blue eyes that I’ve never seen before.
Mom checks her watch, pops up from the table and dabs her mouth with a paper napkin covered in flowers. “I’m running late for the library.”
“You don’t have to be there for another twenty minutes,” I say.
“Ten minutes early is still late to old Mrs. Edna Roush.” Mom swats her hand. “You know how she is. Hasn’t changed a lick in fifteen years.”
“Have fun,” I say as she steps into a pair of quiet-soled shoes and swipes her keys from the counter.
“I’ll see you two just before supper tonight.” She smiles, pausing by the door leading to the garage. She likes Ronan, which says a lot, because as sweet as my mom is, she doesn’t warm up to people that easily and she trusts no one. Mom nods and disappears into the garage.
I watch Ronan finish his breakfast, his napkin in his lap and his knife in his left hand. Even the placement of his orange juice glass is proper.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask, taking in the view of the exquisite man sitting beside me.
He finishes his bite and leans back. “Hang out with you. Do normal things.”
I laugh. “What kinds of normal things?”
“Anything we want. But first . . .” Ronan pushes his chair from the table, reaching for me and pulling me into his lap.
My hands hook behind his neck, and I lean in for a maple syrup-flavored kiss. I grin when his fingers trail underneath my shirt. The hardness that begins to poke from his low-hanging sweats is an open invitation I’ll gladly accept.
He closes his fingers around my ponytail and tugs until my head tilts back and my neck is exposed. Hot kisses pepper a trail from the underside of my chin down the side of my neck, and then along my left collarbone.
“You’re so fucking worth it, Camille,” he breathes between kisses. His hands unfasten my bra before sliding around to massage my breasts with his strong, soft hands. “You should know that.”
I pull his scent into my lungs over and over, my hips circling in his lap as a flood of arousal invades my sex. This man sends my body reeling like no one else can.
Ronan grips my ass, lifting me as he rises, and carries me upstairs to my room where my bed is all kinds of disheveled from last night’s romp. He flew in late last night, and we burned the midnight oil as if it were all going away the next day.
You don’t know what you have until someone threatens to take it all away. And then you fight like hell for it.
That’s exactly what Ronan did. He fought for me. I’ll never know what he saw in me that night at the masquerade ball, but I’ll be forever grateful he never stopped searching.
“You’re completely insane, you know that, right?” I laugh as he tugs his sweats down and I reach for his swollen cock.
“How so?” He crawls over me, yanking down my pajama pants and pulling me closer. My legs relax, spreading wide as my pussy pulses with pure anticipation. Ronan was inside me less than eight hours ago, and still I crave more of him.
“For leaving Washington.” I cup his face, pulling it close and kissing his perfect mouth. “For standing up to your family. For choosing me over everything.”
His lips graze mine before our tongues merge.
“No, Camille, I’d be insane to let you go. I’d be insane to walk away from the possibility of a future I might actually enjoy.”
My belly flutters.
“Are you still moving west?” he asks, gripping his cock and teasing it against my seam. He runs the tip up and down as I squirm.
I nod, biting my bottom lip as my nails dig into his biceps.
“Good. I’m coming with you,” he says, pushing himself farther inside. His rock hard cock fills me as he moves deeper. My hands drag along his back, resting at the smooth dip above his tight ass. “Say the word and we’ll go.”
EPILOGUE
Camille
{One Year Later}
Today’s the day I sell my soul.
“I believe I speak for an entire nation, Ms. Buchanan, when I say we’re on pins and needles as we wait for the release of your memoir. What made you decide to write this tell-all?” The woman interviewing me cocks her head and offers a look that makes me want to open up to her, but the concern in her eyes is for the viewers at home.
And she should be concerned. This book is going to change everything for a lot of people.
I never wanted to write it.
But what choice did I have?
“Well, Denise, I believe it’s important to know what goes on in our nation’s capital when no one’s looking.” I keep a light cadence in my words, just like I practiced all afternoon. My PR team says to keep my interviews spry to counteract the bomb I’m about to drop. It’s not every day that the carefully crafted images of an American blue-blooded family are shattered.
This is my big moment. I’m experiencing a historical moment in real-time. Clips of this interview will play out on countless documentaries someday, and my name will forever be linked to his. For better or for worse, I’ll be unforgettable.
Just like I always wanted.
“I’ve had the privilege of reading a few excerpts from your book, and I must say to the viewers at home, there are some extremely heavy allegations.” She repositions herself before resting her chin across the top of her hand. We’re just a couple of girls having a conversation. Denise Stone makes it easy to forget we’re being filmed for a nationally televised special, but I suppose that’s why she’s paid the big bucks. “What would you say to the naysayers who might accuse you of looking for a big payday?”
“We’re fortunate enough to
live in a free country.” I deliver my lines like I rehearsed and ignore the fact that I’m melting under these hot lights. “No one has to read anything or believe anything they don’t want to. The only thing I’d like everyone to know is that my book, my memoir, is one hundred percent factual. Every word of it is true.”
I steal a quick glance behind one of the cameramen where Ronan stands and watches the interview, his arms folded casually. He gives me a nod that both reassures and empowers me.
This memoir, after all, was his idea.
“Now, in your memoir, Dark Paradise,” Denise says, “You claim to have worked as an escort in Washington, DC for five years before meeting the son of President Montgomery. Is that correct?”
“It is.” I smile, but it’s only for him.
“And the details of your love affair with Ronan Montgomery are all going to be discussed in your book?”
“That’s right,” I say. “When you strip away the scandal, there’s a really beautiful love story there. We wanted to share our story because we live it every day.”
“Now you two are still together, is that correct?”
“We are,” I say, holding up my left hand and wiggling my ring finger. A radiant solitaire dazzles beneath the bright lights. “Going strong.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment, given the hurdles you two have gone through to get here.” She glances at her notes for a second. “In your book, you discuss in detail the threat placed on your life by the Montgomery family when they discovered your relationship.”
I nod, glancing at Ronan again. I still can’t believe we’re doing this, but a year ago, he asked me to trust him, and within a week, we were deep into the first draft of my memoir. And just as he anticipated, his mother refused to retract her claws, sending him letters and phone calls. They’d always start out sweet and unassuming, and as soon as she realized she wasn’t making headway, she’d spew venom and threats.
She never respected Ronan, nor did she take him seriously.
I bet she will now.
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