by Alice Ward
God, fuck the slippery slope. Fuck his politics. He could be all for marrying toasters. It wouldn’t affect the overarching fact that I wanted him.
Desperately. Achingly.
I’d hoped the feeling would go away as time went on. But now, it was stronger than ever.
After all, wanting him had been a given since I’d left The Black Room. Now, not only did I want his body, I’d unbelievably started to think he was a pretty nice person.
And I’d started to think that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t deserve to be brought down.
What the hell was wrong with me? Liking a Republican? I could almost hear a million yellow-horned toad souls crying out in anguish over the revelation.
“I’m so sorry,” I cried, breathless, as I slid into the giant half-moon-shaped booth at the Capital Grille. Kiera was sitting at the very center of it, looking like all the masculine leather was about to swallow her up, sipping on a nearly depleted dirty martini.
I gave her a smile and moved in for a hug, but she backed up. “It’s nearly eight,” she muttered. “And take off the stupid glasses, dork.”
I felt my face. Oh, god. I still had them on. I ripped them from my face and pocketed them. “I’m sorry!” I said again. Then I whispered, “He kept me late.”
“The douche?” she asked. When I nodded, she shook her head. “He is such a douche. Ruining our dinner like this.”
Of course, she easily forgave me after that, since it was all in the name of helping her father. That only made me feel more guilty.
I opened my menu. I already knew I was going to have the Kona coffee rubbed filet, my favorite, but I buried my nose in the pages, hoping my face didn’t give away that I far from thought Cameron was a douche now. I’d always thought that being a conservative, he automatically hated liberals. Didn’t that come with the territory? I didn’t think he could actually be thankful for them.
When the waiter came, I ordered a glass of merlot.
“So,” Kiera said, leaning forward. “What is he like?”
I swallowed. I knew exactly who she meant, but the more I spoke of him to her, the worse I began to feel. “Who?”
“The douche, of course.”
“He’s um…” I coughed, then softly said, “Douchey.”
She chuckled. “So, what are you doing there all day?”
She’d seen my hideous disguise before, as three weeks ago we’d gone shopping at Goodwill and bought all the makings. Back then, I’d been so excited. I’d dressed in it, then sent her selfies, which she proclaimed to be Pure Gold. “I could always blackmail you with these later,” she’d said with a wink.
The waiter came to freshen my drink, and I took a big gulp of wine. “Oh, you know, just the normal stuff. Today I addressed a bunch of gala invitations.”
She screwed up her face. “You should have made up fake names. Like John Q. Fuckface and stuff before sending them out.”
I gave her a look as I took another gulp of my drink. “My job is to find dirt on him, not sabotage him with middle-school pranks.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I’d do.” The waiter dropped off warm bread, and she dove for the first piece. She must have been hungry, so I let her have more. As she buttered it, she said, “Has he been a total jerk to you though? Like, what are some idiot things he’s said?”
I sighed. Actually, nothing he’d said to me had made him seem like an idiot. In fact, his Harvard and Yale education was evident. I couldn’t even think of one instance where he’d been a jerk. I hated to admit it, but the media didn’t have him right at all.
“Everything,” I lied, wishing we could change the subject “It’s just terrible. He’s so…” Deliciously tasty? “Egotistical.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You poor thing! Daddy should give you a raise, having to listen to that shit all day. I’m surprised you haven’t ripped your hair out. Or your wig off. What is your name again?”
“Vi—” I stopped as the door to the restaurant opened, and a group of men in suits strolled in. It wasn’t unusual as this place catered to an upscale business crowd. I did a double take. Any one of those men might have resembled Cameron slightly, because of the suits. But there was no way they could match his style. His build. His handsome face and thick dark hair. His utterly fuckable everything.
Then I did a triple take as the crowd parted and a tall, well-built figure approached the hostess desk.
It was Cameron.
Holy shit.
My mind cycled to his schedule. Yes, he had dinners arranged for every night this week, but his agenda was for another restaurant. It must have gotten changed.
I leaned forward, blinking, as Kiera raised an eyebrow. “Vi?”
“Violet Wilkes,” I said, my voice cracking. I looked around for a menu to hold up over my face, a napkin, something. But I decided all of that would look too suspicious. Finally, I shuffled closer to Kiera in the booth and leaned back, hoping she’d block the view slightly. I whispered, “Speak of the devil and he will appear. Cameron just walked in.”
Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward to get a better look. “Oh, my god! Where?”
I swatted her back. “Chill,” I shushed her, though I sounded anything but chill. “I don’t want him seeing me.”
“Why not? You’re not Miss Mousy Mouse,” she said, tugging on my blonde ponytail, then bobbing her head back and forth to see him among the suits. He’d moved behind a pillar, where I’d lost track of him. I noticed there didn’t seem to be a trace of Bernadette or any other woman, which made me happy. This was just another boring business dinner, not a social thing. “You’re hot shit. He won’t recognize you like this.”
I didn’t worry about him recognizing me as Violet. No, Kiera was right. Even though I worried ceaselessly about being recognized as Violet, I knew that the disguise was too good, and I looked nothing like her. But the only thing separating me from Cassandra was the tiny golden mask still tucked in my handbag.
Of course, I couldn’t tell Kiera that. “I know, but—”
Our dinners came, and I was forced to deal with the waiter while Cameron was being escorted to the private rooms in the back. He’d be in there for at least the next few hours, during which I could make my escape. I heaved a sigh of relief. That was a close one. Too close.
We finished our dinners, ordered two more cocktails apiece, shared a piece of coconut cream pie, and I even managed to carry on some semblance of a normal conversation despite inwardly losing my shit. Was this what undercover agents had to go through all the time? Were they constantly worrying about getting tangled in the web of lies they wove or did it come naturally to them? Because this didn’t feel natural at all. In fact, it was exhausting. By the time the check came, I had the beginnings of a massive headache.
But as much as I’d like to say my mind was consumed only with thoughts of the job, it wasn’t true. No, I’d managed to think of Cameron, sitting in the next room, about a thousand times. Who was he talking to? What was he eating? How did he like his steak? Was he discussing the fate of the state while thinking of me? And on and on.
When we finished splitting the tab, we headed out to the lobby. The crowd had thinned, and only a couple of people were still waiting for tables. Kiera gave me a giant, warm hug, and said, “Where are you parked?”
“On Sansom and Sixteenth,” I told her, fishing in my Michael Kors purse for my keys.
“Oh, me too!” She beamed at me. “Let’s walk together. But first, let me use the little girl’s room. It’s a long ride back to Radnor. I might not make it.”
I nodded as she ran away. I stood by the hostess desk, holding on to my keys and my container of leftovers, as the door to the men’s room slipped open.
And who should be standing there but Cameron.
I couldn’t control my reaction. I gasped and quickly turned away, hoping he’d just go back to his meeting, but I could almost feel the heat of his gaze burning a hole into my back.
He’s seen me.
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Not only that, but my quick movement pulled on the chain down below and the clamp pinched my clit.
I was frozen in place, grasping my foil-wrapped container of leftovers, and pretending to be very interested in the photograph of the Philadelphia skyline at night that was on the wall while trying not to rub my thighs together.
I felt the footsteps sweeping up to me. Him, in those expensive dress shoes that barely made a sound.
I should’ve run. I should’ve pushed open the door and escaped. But that wasn’t possible where Cameron was concerned. Now, I only wanted to run to him.
Before he said a word, I looked down and saw my Michael Kors purse. He’d seen that purse. I’d taken it to the club both times, and he’d taken it from my shoulder. I knew men weren’t interested in such things, but Cameron was observant, and a snob for things of status since he’d caught on to my imitation pearls right away. He wouldn’t let that slide.
“Hello, there.”
Holding my breath, I turned, ready to deny everything.
He was standing so close to me, and that desire was in his eyes. It was enough to set me on fire. That desire had a way of making my insides completely fall apart. My hands tightened on my keys. I nearly dropped my leftovers. My knees buckled.
My resolve broke.
“Cassandra?” he said, his eyes fastened on mine. He didn’t appraise me, didn’t shift his glance to my body. His eyes stayed locked on my own. The connection was palpable.
Dreamily, I opened my mouth to say yes, to confess, to be claimed as his.
And then the women’s room door opened, and Kiera walked out. Her eyes widened at once. Here I was, talking to her father’s mortal enemy, ready to confess everything.
I blinked into reality. What the hell was I doing? I shook my head slowly. “Excuse me?”
His eyes narrowed. “You are Cassandra, are you not?”
I managed a small, confused laugh. “No. I’m sorry.”
Kiera barreled in, all guns blazing. She laced an arm through mine and said, “I’m sorry. She doesn’t talk to douches,” and led me out into the night.
As the door swung closed, we stood on the sidewalk in the humid late spring air. I just stood there, breathing hard. That hadn’t really happened, had it? Kiera pumped her fist in victory. “Did you see his face?” she asked excitedly. “I can’t believe I just called him a douche to his face!”
She was so proud of herself, I didn’t know if she saw the small breakdown I was having. “Do you think…” I couldn’t process what this meant. It was all so confusing, but it felt like my house of cards had just faced a stiff wind. “Do you think he recognized you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “What? Why?”
“As Owen Blakely’s daughter.” I swallowed. All blood had drained from my face, and I was suddenly freezing, despite the warm night. “If he knows I know you, and puts the pieces together—”
That I am Cassandra and also know his sworn enemy’s daughter...
“Don’t worry about that,” she said before I could have a heart attack on the sidewalk. “You know how Daddy likes to keep me out of the spotlight.”
“Right,” I said, still not sure.
“What was with him, though?” she wondered. “Why did he call you Cassandra? I thought you said your name was Violet.”
“I-I don’t know.”
She shook her head, her nose wrinkling in clear distaste. “Just like a douche like him. He probably has so many girlfriends he can’t keep any of them straight. I bet he treats them like garbage.”
“Yes. Probably.” I sucked in a breath of air, still trying to quell the goose bumps. It wasn’t so much seeing him there that had made my skin flare. It was the way he’d looked at me. So much desire, mirroring my own. If I’d revealed myself as Cassandra, I doubted we could’ve lasted ten minutes without getting into it. He’d have had to pull me into a nearby dark alley, and I would’ve welcomed it, welcomed his hands on my body, any way I could get them. The thought made additional goosebumps appear.
She hugged me again once we got across the street to the parking garage. “Take care, Cassandra,” she said with a teasing lilt.
I stiffened at the thought of all these worlds crashing together.
I didn’t go home right away. No, I waited another hour for him to leave the restaurant. I only saw him for five minutes of time, while he shook hands with the other men and stepped into his limousine. But as I was driving home, as much as I knew I was in trouble, falling too deep to ever recover, I felt like somehow it was worth it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cameron
“I agree,” I said halfheartedly. “It makes perfect sense.”
The woman in front of me could have been asking for me to parade around Independence Hall in the nude and I wouldn’t have cared. A journalist for Philadelphia Woman magazine, she’d been calling me for an interview for months. At first, I’d been apprehensive, as I didn’t have the greatest record on women’s issues. But I’d relaxed the moment I saw her. She was middle-aged, perhaps late forties, but doing her best not to look it. Her white-blonde hair was teased atop her head, her makeup thick in the creases of her forehead, and she smelled like a perfume factory. She looked, in a word, flammable.
But the reason I relaxed was because she chattered like an old grandmother, singsonging everything she said. She’d spent five minutes digging in the bottom of her oversized purse for a pen until I’d finally lent her one. Then, blushing, she told me that she didn’t do interviews very often, and she hoped she didn’t “screw this one up too bad.”
“You don’t say,” I’d said, barely looking at her.
She sat at the very edge of the chair in front of my desk and smiled as she wrote something down in her notebook. When she’d pitched the story, she’d done it under the guise of “letting the female population of the city know about the man behind the three-piece suit.” She’d said that most of her readership was curious and that to them, I was somewhat of a sex symbol — a la JFK. I knew when I was being buttered up, so I relented once I had the time on my schedule.
We’d started out talking about my favorite Philadelphia restaurant, Butcher and Singer, then moved on to my favorite libation, Macallan 25 or a dry martini. I figured there’d be a few more mindless questions, like my favorite color and my favorite ice-cream flavor, and I could look forward to a fluffy little write-up, far from Pulitzer-worthy, a few months from now. “So, you don’t mind?”
I smiled at her, thinking of Cassandra. It had been two days, but those two days had only solidified something in my mind: It was her, at the Grille. She’d been standing right in front of me, close enough to touch, to take. Mask off, her face was even more gorgeous than I’d imagined. Her features were sculptured and poetic like a fine Italianate sculpture, her eyes even bigger and bluer than I’d expected. I’d gotten a raging hard-on the second I’d seen her standing there, as if my body had recognized her even before my mind had.
And she’d denied.
“Of course not,” I said, nodding dumbly at the woman as she continued to scribble. “You go right ahead.”
Well, of course Cassandra had denied. But there was no doubt she’d recognized me. I could see it from the way her eyes widened with recognition, the way her pale cheeks had pinked. She’d been with her friend, and she wasn’t Cassandra to her friend. No, she might have been a good girl with an admittedly dull life, perhaps a kindergarten teacher or a nurse, and like me, she’d wanted to escape it. Maybe she still lived with her parents, or a dozen cats, or a boyfriend who didn’t give her the attention she needed. Obviously, Cassandra’s little friend had no idea what kind of double life she led. I could only imagine what she would say if she’d seen Cassandra wearing clamps on her tits and clit, bouncing with abandon on my cock in an upstairs room of a sex club only a few days earlier.
Cassandra.
God, fuck. Cassandra. Gorgeous, wild Cassandra, who I’d be seeing at midnight. Yes, as placid as her normal li
fe had been, she’d gotten the bug, like me. Now, she couldn’t keep away. I’d been counting down the moments. I lifted my jacket sleeve and checked my Rolex. Now, it was down to less than four hours, and I could practically taste her.
But when I saw her at the Grille, I’d realized something. It had nothing to do with the moans of ecstasy echoing through the halls, or the smell of sex. Nothing to do with the abundant sex toys and condoms and lube. Nothing to do with the clamps or vibrators. It turned out, all of those tools that were needed to get that rise before Cassandra seemed worse than cheap. Worse than unnecessary. Almost… an annoying distraction.
I just wanted her.
Naked, and on me.
One more time.
Though even then, I didn’t think I could stop with just one more time. I’d already constructed a plan of what we’d do together tonight, and in the past few days, it’d solidified. No more masks. Nothing between us. I’d let her choose how she wanted to be fucked, and I’d do it again and again until I’d gotten my fill of her. I’d stay there with her until I’d fucked her right out of my head.
Then, maybe I’d be able to put this obsession — and yes, with the number of times I’d thought about her, it had crossed the line into obsession — behind me. Then maybe I’d be able to do what was expected of me. Propose to damn Bernadette or someone equally well qualified in the role as my wife.
The woman across the desk was staring at me like I had snails oozing out of my ears. “I can quote you on that?”
Annoyed by the thought of my family obligations, I frowned at the woman. Had I given the wrong answer to my favorite television sitcom? “I’m sorry. What are we talking about now?”
She crossed her arms, and that mild, grandmotherly smile slid right off her face. “That you’re pro-life with absolutely no exceptions?”
I straightened. How had we ventured straight into this topic, the double-edged sword from hell? Five minutes earlier, we’d been discussing the relatively warm weather we’d been having for May.
