Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “And how do you know for sure?”

  “She doesn’t know I keep records, and believe me, she’s more wrapped up in her own life to even care about anyone else’s.”

  “For now, you need to stay on guard. Tell her nothing, do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t want you to worry too much about this until we know more.” His hands circle my waist. “Whoever has it hasn’t done anything with it. Yet. My guess is that they’ll wait until it’s really valuable and try to use it for extortion.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ronan.”

  “You said there are others?”

  “Right. But they’re hidden. I’m the only one who knows where they are.”

  “If this one doesn’t have my name written in it, I’m not that worried about it. There’s nothing they can say or do that I won’t be able to deny.” His gaze narrows. “But what bothers me is the fact that someone entered your apartment without you knowing. How are you even sleeping at night?”

  “Pfft. With 9-1-1 on speed dial and a lock on my door.”

  “I don’t want you staying there anymore.”

  I laugh. “I can’t do that to Araminta. Really. I have pepper spray, and there’s this program I can download on my laptop that records a video when it senses movement. Whoever took that journal, they can keep it. There’s nothing else of mine they could possibly use to extort anyone, and obviously they didn’t want to physically harm me because they came by when I was out of town. I got a little freaked out at first when I thought it was Bancroft, but now that he’s out of the picture, I’m fine. Really.”

  “You’re a brave woman, Camille.” His blue eyes soften as he runs the pad of his thumb across my hip. “I’m going to have Oliver get us a couple of disposable phones. I want you to be able to contact me at any hour, for any reason.”

  “All right.”

  “And no more journaling,” he adds. “Everything that goes on between us stays between us. Nothing goes on paper. Nothing is discussed.”

  “Understood.”

  “Meet me tomorrow evening at the Hightower.” It’s a subtle way of saying goodbye. “I’ll have a courier deliver your new phone in the morning, and I’ll text you a time.”

  My chest tightens. “I’d rather avoid the Hightower if we could. Last night wasn’t the most pleasant experience.”

  Ronan’s chin tucks and his shoulders widen as he breathes deeply. “Yes, about that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I shut down the conversation, partially because I’m not in the mood to relive that moment, but mostly because I blame myself. I’m the idiot who climbed into the back of Keir Montgomery’s limo and let him put his hands all over me like some floozy bimbo desperate to fuck him. “It was a mistake, and I’d prefer to forget it happened.”

  His jaw tenses. “My brother very much knows about us, and he knows who you are. Does that change anything?”

  My hand covers my mouth. “That fucking prick.”

  Ronan lifts a palm. “I don’t want to know the details, Camille. Just tell me if he hurt you so I can handle this.”

  I huff, my arms folding tight against my body as I stare at the carpet. I allow myself to be weak, to wallow in that pain for just a moment before pulling myself together. With a cleansing breath and my spine zipped straight, I say, “He had a few choice words when he realized I wasn’t going to sleep with him. They stung at the time, and now I’m over them.”

  Ronan’s head tilts, his eyes wincing like he doesn’t quite believe me.

  “Why would your brother want to sleep with a woman he knows is already involved with you?” I ask.

  His sapphire eyes roll. “Keir wants everything I have, and he’s been that way our whole lives. He’s competitive and entitled, and I’m sorry you had the grave misfortune of bumping into him last night.”

  He lifts my chin until our eyes lock again.

  “If he hurts you, I’ll hurt him. You should know that,” he says. “But I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”

  “Do you think he sought me out last night?”

  “Keir’s too lazy. He’s an opportunist.” Ronan scoffs. “I was with him for part of last night, but I went home early when I couldn’t take another minute with his obnoxious entourage.”

  I sigh, waving my hand in the air. “Okay, enough about your brother.”

  “Agreed.”

  I pull away and scan the living room of the suite for my clutch. Ronan walks behind me, his hand on the small of my back. Even after everything that’s transpired, he still treats me like a proper lady. I kind of love that about him.

  We linger by the door, and I catch the graze of his tongue across his bottom lip.

  It feels silly standing here wishing he’d just kiss me, so I force the ridiculous notion out of my head. There’s no good reason for him to kiss me right now.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I give him a bitten smile and flit my fingers in the air as I wave. Walking away, the weight of his stare is undeniable.

  ***

  “Do you have any idea how worried I was about you last night?” Araminta paces the spot in front of our kitchen island, laying into me before I have a chance to kick off my heels.

  “I know, I know.” I drop my keys on the counter. “Last night was completely insane for a hundred thousand different reasons, and to top it all off, my phone died at some point, so I couldn’t text you and let you know I was safe.”

  “Did you leave with Keir?” she asks.

  I groan. “Yes, and let me tell you, he is, hands down, the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”

  Her pretty mouth hangs like I’ve committed treason. “You take that back, Camille Buchanan.”

  She giggles, shaking her head as she flashes an envious smile.

  “The fact that you got him to leave with you is . . . beyond . . . ” she says. “I want to know everything. Is he a good kisser? What kinds of things did he say? Is his cock every bit as beautiful as I’ve imagined it to be?”

  I exhale, wishing I could tell her everything and then some, but I’m not about to throw away my good word for the sake of a little shock value.

  “Yes, he’s a good kisser.” I’ll give her that much. “But as soon as we were alone, he got really rude and aggressive. It was weird, Minty. I got myself out of there before it went too far.”

  “Aggressive like how?”

  I pinch my lips, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

  “Like physically violent?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Or like a man who’s really excited that he’s about to get some so he can’t keep his grubby paws to himself?” She cocks a half smirk.

  “Right. Like that.”

  “Psh.” Araminta slaps a hand on her hip. “My God, Camille, can you blame him for getting pissy with you? You left with him. He thought he was going to get some ass.”

  If only it were that simple.

  “Why such a prude all of a sudden?” She laughs, shaking her head and strutting to the other side of the kitchen to grab a water.

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours.” She sighs. “Always. Anyway, it should’ve been me last night. I’d have gladly taken one for the team.”

  I hope she never has to.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ronan

  “What. The. Hell.” I corner Keir outside the solarium Saturday afternoon after checking out of the hotel. “Did you do last night?”

  The bloodshot whites of his eyes and the telltale stench of day-old alcohol on his breath tells me he was in a bad state last night, but it’s no excuse.

  “No clue what you’re talking about.” He adjusts the Windsor knot of his tie and runs a palm down his cashmere sweater. My brother’s biggest talent is the ability to dress himself to the nines, even in the throes of a head splitting hangover.

  “Why, Keir?” I invade his space like I own it, backing him against a nearby wall. For the moment, we’re alone. Bu
t it won’t last long. “What the hell was going through that arrogant little brain of yours?”

  His lips pull into a stupid grin and his hands fly up in protest. “She wanted me, Ronan. Maybe not at first, but the second she thought I was you, she was all over me.”

  A kitchen staffer wheels a cart of food past us, and I back off my brother though my eyes still burn into his.

  “You knew exactly what you were doing.” My teeth clench. “You don’t deserve her, and you’re nothing but a goddamned weasel, Keir. It’s all you’ll ever be.”

  “I’d rather be a weasel than a sellout,” he snarls. “You’re a conformist. You live your life based on what John Q. Public would think, and to me that makes you nothing more than a coward, Ronan. You’re the one who doesn’t deserve Camille. Send her my way. I’ll take her out and show her a good time, not keep her locked away in some hotel room like you’re ashamed of her.”

  “I’m protecting her,” I say.

  Keir’s face scrunches. “Who are you trying to kid? You’re protecting yourself.”

  “I don’t expect a simple-minded prick like you to understand half of what my arrangement with Camille really means.”

  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.”