by Jamie Canosa
“No.” Inhale. Exhale. Sometimes this close to him it became too easy to forget that breathing was a necessity. “I don’t want to withdraw.”
“Then, don’t.”
Defy a direct order from her mother. Ashlyn’s stomach took a sudden drop. What if she was wrong? What if the threats weren’t idle? What if something happened to her? To Mason? What if she tanked her mother’s career and—
“If it helps . . .” A smile tugged at the corners of Mason’s lips. “I think you made the right decision.”
It helped. It helped a lot. Ashlyn ducked her head to avoid giving him the satisfaction of knowing just how much it helped.
“What are you gonna tell your mother?”
Wasn’t that the million dollar question. “Nothing. For now.”
She hadn’t outright agreed to her mother’s demands. As with most things, the senator had simply assumed they’d be obeyed. Ashlyn had every intention of allowing her to go on assuming for as long as possible. She’d deal with the fall-out of that shit when it hit the fan.
“But if I’m doing this . . .” A lightbulb lit, illuminating sheer brilliance. “. . . you’re doing it with me.”
“What do you mean?” The wariness in Mason’s tone brought a smile to her face. Payback was a bitch.
“There’s a gala coming up in my mother’s honor. I’m expected to be there. And my ticket just so happens to include a plus one.”
Chapter Nine
Mason
“Wow, you look . . .” Mason stood at Ashlyn’s door the night of the gala, scratching the scruff lining his jaw. It was something new he’d been trying out for the past couple weeks and he hadn’t quite gotten used to the feel of it yet. “. . . different.”
Ashlyn’s hands drifted to her hips.
“Gee, Mas, stop. I’m blushing,” she deadpanned.
Shit. That hadn’t come out right at all, but seeing her in pink frilly lace had shocked him straight into stupidity.
“No. I didn’t mean . . . Not bad different. I just . . . I never really pictured you as a girly . . . I mean frilly . . .” Mason sighed. He could practically feel his foot being shoved deeper and deeper down his throat. “I’m digging myself a hole here, aren’t I?”
“For the love of mercy, stop talking.” Ashlyn drew him inside by his lapels and shut the door.
The dress had thrown him, but as he watched her move into the kitchen the distraction lifted and he noted that she looked incredible. Pink frills and all.
Two glasses thunked down on the counter. “You want a drink?”
“I’m not driving?”
“Your truck?” A slow smile bunched her cheeks. “As much as I would pay to see that, my mother’s driver is already on his way. Here.”
Mason glanced at the shot of honey whiskey she slid in front of him.
“Trust me.”
With a shrug and a grimace, he downed it in one swallow. It burned the whole way down. Ashlyn refilled her glass and took a second shot before putting the bottle away.
Outside, a car horn sounded and she groaned. “You ready for this?”
Mason shrugged. He had no clue what this entailed, but if the pre-show was any indication it would prove to be interesting. “Guess so.”
Ashlyn grabbed a pair of white heels from the counter and plopped into a chair. He had to laugh when he noticed that the lime green polish on her toes in no way matched the reserved pale pink on her fingers. They’d be hidden in her shoes, but it felt like some kind of minor rebellion. A bit of his Ashlyn shining through.
***
“Ashlyn, dear.” A woman in a no-nonsense black dress bustled through the crowd towards them the moment they stepped through the doors.
Ashlyn drew a deep breath as she approached. “Mother.”
She had blonde hair to match her daughter, but that’s where the similarities ended. Thin lips were molded into the likeness of a smile that carried none of the warmth that Ashlyn’s did. A sharp chin and beak-like nose did nothing to soften her appeal.
“And who is this?” She turned to Mason and hesitated.
“Mom, I’d like to introduce you to Mason Locklier. Mason, this is my mother Meredith Mills.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mason extended his hand to find it encased in a firm grip.
“Locklier . . .” Her dark eyes shone only with a calculating glint. “. . . as in Locksworth Unlimited?”
He didn’t know why he was surprised to hear the name of his parents company, but he was. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, how nice to meet you. I wasn’t aware that my daughter had such . . . acquaintances.” Meredith shot a stern look in Ashlyn’s direction. “If I had, the invitation certainly would have extended to your parents as well. Please offer them my apologies for the oversight.”
“I assure you they don’t feel slighted. And they wouldn’t have been able to make it this evening anyway. Work function.” The bald-faced lie fell easily from his lips and he didn’t regret it in the least if it would save Ash some grief later on.
“I see. Well, perhaps next time. I hope you enjoy the evening.”
His gaze drifted to the girl standing quietly by his side. “I’m sure I will.”
“Ashlyn.” The senator’s tone turned clipped. “You know how important tonight is. Do find time to mingle and try to be pleasant.”
Mason bit back a grin waiting to break free. The woman didn’t know her daughter at all if she thought issuing orders was the way to get through to her. But it died a quick death when all Ashlyn did was nod and answer, “I will.”
The tension leaked from her body like a deflating balloon as her mother turned and started through the crowd, stopping now and then to shake hands and kiss cheeks. Mason wasn’t a stranger to extravagant affairs. The broad, sweeping dance floor, tables covered with pristine linens, multiple chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling, and oversized arching glass doors that led to multiple balconies overlooking the gardens they’d passed through on the way in didn’t intimidate him. But he felt Ashlyn’s anxiety as though it were his own.
“You want to dance?” It wasn’t exactly a rave, but the couples gliding around the dancefloor seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“Maybe later?” Ash fiddled with her white pearl clutch, snapping and unsnapping the tiny gold lock. “There are a few people I need to say hi to.”
Mingling didn’t appear to be high on her wish list for the evening, but duty called. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to. If you want to get some food, or a drink, or whatever . . .”
“It’s fine.” He felt confident that he could be quite charming when the situation warranted it.
Making their way across the room was a little like crossing a minefield. The ballroom was crammed with the most finely dressed sardines Mason had ever laid eyes on. Wall-to-wall people dripping with gold and jewels. He thought his parent’s affairs had been fancy, but this was some next level stuff. The music being played by a pair of harpists—Mason had never even seen a harp in real life—was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming volume of voices and clatter.
Ashlyn’s gaze darted from one face to the next until she zeroed in on her target. The sheer plastic in her smile as they made their approach caused Mason to cringe, but the older man and his much younger wife didn’t seem to notice.
“Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Wallace, It’s lovely to see you this evening.”
Conversation ensued, every word of which was more sugar-coated than the last. Mason ran his tongue over his teeth, fearing cavities from simply standing so close. He smiled and nodded in all the right places, all the while suffocating on the high levels of perfume and self-aggrandizement in the air.
“I just love this dress.” Mrs. Wallace fluttered a pink frill. “You look adorable as always.”
Adorable was something you called puppies and babies. Adorable was decidedly not something you called Ashlyn Mills. Mason could only imagine the scathing sarcasm running wild through
her mind, but once again she surprised him.
“Thank you.” Ashlyn giggled. She giggled. Mason couldn’t help doing a double-take. It was her alright. The girl he knew stood beside him, but it was like she’d had a complete personality transplant. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure Mr. Wallace would like a chance to show off those famous dance moves of his.”
The man barked a hearty laugh.
“Indeed.” Slipping an arm around his wife’s narrow waist, he led her on to the dance floor.
Faces blurred together after that. Mason couldn’t tell one senator, governor, or mayor from the next, but Ashlyn seemed to know each personally. She spewed more compliments over the next half hour than he’d heard pass her lips in two years. She chatted and laughed, but somehow it sounded like broken glass.
Mason tugged at his collar as the latest couple excused themselves. The temperature in the room was beginning to soar. Sweat tickled the back of his neck and the pungent aroma of body odor clouded with cologne thickened the air, making it difficult to breathe. When the pair stepped away Ashlyn took the opportunity to make a bee-line for the buffet table at the far end of the dance floor. Mason grinned when he spotted the chocolate fondue fountain. Just what the doctor ordered. Nothing fixed a case of Ashlyn blues better than dessert.
“Ashlyn.” A tall, wiry man with more salt than pepper in his hair blocked her path.
“Dad.” She looked startled to see him, but recovered gracefully. “I’d like you to meet Mas—”
“Nice to meet you.” The man—her father—glanced his way and dismissed him just as quickly. “I need you to do something for your mother.”
Ashlyn took a careful step back nearly bumping into one of the waitresses circulating with trays of crab puffs and shrimp cocktails. “What?”
“Mark insists that winning Senator Harding’s support is the key to nailing down this election. He’s the campaign manager and all his research indicates that the best way to reach Harding is through his grandson, Pres—”
“Preston.” Her mouth hung open before she snapped it shut.
Chapter Ten
Ashlyn
“You’ve met him? Wonderful. He’s here this evening. Perhaps you can—”
“Dad, I . . .” Ashlyn cast around for an excuse. Any excuse. An alien invasion, zombie apocalypse . . . hell, a Backstreet Boys reunion tour would have been welcome at the moment. Her gaze settled on Mason and she felt her erratic pulse begin to slow. “I’m here with someone.”
“I realize that. But it doesn’t mean you can’t speak with anyone else. I’m sure he won’t mind loaning you out for a dance or two.”
Loaning her out? What was she, a library book?
Mason frowned. “I’m sure Ash can decide for herself—”
“See there?” Her father was either oblivious to Mason’s sour tone or he chose to ignore it. “You’ve got a good friend. Maybe he can go get a drink while you find Preston. And, for the love of god, do not piss him off.”
All the blood drained from Ashlyn’s face as she watched her father walk away, leaving her lightheaded and slightly dizzy. Shit. Shit. Super shit. It was official; the entire universe was against her. Preston Harding didn’t strike her as the overly forgiving sort. Odds were he probably wasn’t over the whole ‘making him eat his balls’ thing.
“Hey . . .” Mason edged closer, draping his arms over her shoulders to create a semi-private space for the two of them amid the chaos. “You alright? Need some air? Food? We can—”
“No, no. I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. Fine was quickly becoming a foreign concept as she scanned the room for the one face she was looking for and hoped not to see. “Why don’t you go get a drink while I—”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“Then get me one.” There he was, near the veranda with a girl on each arm. Preston threw his head back as he laughed at something someone said, blue eyes sparkling, and the girls swooned. Bitterness coated Ashlyn’s tongue. The charming bastard looked like a cover model for Perv Magazine. “I’m gonna need it.”
***
Ashlyn watched Mason get swallowed up by the crowd before setting her course. She needed to get this over with. Preferably before he returned.
Preston stood sandwiched between a pair of blondes. Obviously, he had a type. Noelle Marsh, daughter of Mark and Linda Marsh, joint CEO’s of a waste disposal company that had made them richer than God. And Vanessa Lewis, daughter of Governor Aaron Lewis. The governor was a nice enough man, but his daughter took after her mother; a gold-digging sociopath.
Ashlyn’s steps slowed to a stop near the edge of the dancefloor. He was talking. It would be rude to interrupt. Excuses, excuses a little needling voice sing-songed in the back of her mind. So what if he was a douche-canoe? They were in the middle of a very crowded room, surrounded by very important people. Not even Preston would dare try anything there. Ashlyn’s chin came up and she squared her shoulders, prepared to march into battle. Her mother was counting on her. She could smile, be polite, somehow charm her way out of this mess.
With a racing heart and no clue what she was going to do or say, Ashlyn stepped forward only to be brought up short almost immediately.
“Ashlyn, it’s so nice to see you.” Roger gave a polite, if somewhat quirky, little bow and grinned up at her. “The belle of the ball as always.”
“Um . . .” Ashlyn glanced over his shoulder. Preston could wait another minute. The first genuine smile of the evening curled her lips as some of the stress eased from her rigid spine. “Thank you, Roger. It’s nice to see you, too.”
His hair was parted down the middle and combed neatly into place. And, as usual, he wore a tux and a friendly smile. “How are you doing this evening?”
“I’m good. Thanks. And you? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. Your mother does throw the best events.” Roger leaned closer. With his height he had a perfect vantage for peeking down her dress, but his eyes never once strayed from hers. “Mainly because you’re at all of them.”
His wink made Ashlyn laugh. He really was sweet. Someday he was going to make some girl very happy.
“Care to dance?” He held out his hand and Ashlyn hesitated. Why wasn’t she that girl? What was wrong with her that she’d let a guy like Preston Harding take her upstairs, but she couldn’t seem to cultivate an ounce of interest in a nice guy like Roger? Something in her brain must have been wired wrong.
“I’m sorry, Roger. I’m actually with someone tonight. And I really must speak with Preston for a minute.”
The warmth drained out of his expression, leaving it cold and flat. “Oh. I thought—”
“Don’t.” Preston materialized beside them and slapped Roger on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “You’ll hurt yourself, Rog.”
Ashlyn’s pulse spiked. She hadn’t even seen him coming. At last glance he’d been thoroughly occupied. Noelle and Vanessa looked like a pair of abandoned puppies, staring after him. If they hadn’t both been raging bitches to her in the past, Ashlyn might have almost felt sorry for them.
“Heard you were looking for me.” A self-satisfied smirk sat below his crooked nose. “I saw you talking to your dad. No doubt he sent you over here with instructions to . . . play nice.”
Preston ran his knuckles down her bare arm and goosebumps sprouted in their wake, sending a bolt of ice cold straight to her core. Ashlyn recoiled as though his touch was venomous and her body responded in much the same way. Pressure built from within, making her skin feel too tight. Breathing became a chore and darkness tinged her vision.
Play nice. Play nice. Play nice.
“Please . . .” She searched desperately for reinforcements, but Roger had abandoned her. She was on her own. “Don’t touch me.”
“What if I want to touch you?” His tone sounded conversational, but she heard the underlying threat. “What are you going to do about it?”
What could she do? Her control was gone. Taken by her mother’s
campaign, by Mark’s research, by her father’s request, and handed over to Preston-dirtbag-Harding. Ashlyn had to extract her fingernails from where they’d embedded themselves in her palms to keep from punching the smug bastard.
You know how important tonight is.
“Listen, about the other night, I wanted to—”
“Yes, about that . . .” Preston leaned in closer, purposely invading her personal space. Unlike Roger, his gaze was not nearly as chivalrous. Ashlyn suddenly wished for a turtleneck, and a scarf, and a Kevlar vest. “I was thinking we could pick up where we left off and—”
Ashlyn took a step back and bumped into someone. Grateful for the intrusion, she spun around to apologize only to have a wine glass shoved into her hands.
“Here’s your drink.” Mason’s glare arched over her head.
“Got yourself a new boy-toy?” Preston gave him an unappreciative once over and sneered. “Watch out for this one, man. She may look pretty enough . . .”
Again he reached for her and Ashlyn had nowhere left to run. She cringed and felt Mason press harder against her back. Or maybe she was pressing against him. Then, out of nowhere, Mason reached around her and grabbed Preston’s arm, bending it back at an awkward angle.
“Hey, man.” Preston struggled, but Mason had been on the wrestling team for three years in high school. He curled his free arm around Ashlyn’s waist and gently maneuvered her aside.
“She asked you not to touch her,” Mason growled.
Ashlyn’s stomach dropped. Pain pulsed through her body as adrenaline flooded her veins. A rising tide of nausea crept up the back of her throat.
“Stop.” Discarding her untouched wineglass on a passing tray, Ashlyn worked to pry Mason’s grip from Preston’s arm. “Let him go. Please, Mason . . . not here.”
“Yeah, Mason. Not here. Not there. Not anywhere,” Preston spit the words in her direction. “This girl’s nothing more than a serious case of blue balls just waiting to happen.”
