“For falling in love with you,” he finally said. “For figuring out what was happening between us. For trying to give us a chance to be together.”
It was true? He loved her? He loved her? She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“I’ve wasted my time.”
“I love you, Sawyer,” she admitted in a rush. “Forever and always.”
“Then why were you kissing Travis?”
Her eyes widened. “We were faking it.”
“That wasn’t fake.”
“The kiss was real,” she admitted. “But we’re only friends, closer to siblings than anything. He was helping me salvage my pride.”
“Very gentlemanly of him,” Sawyer ground out.
“It was.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“I love you, Niki.”
A smile stretched across her face. “I can’t even believe it.”
“How can I prove it?”
“Since we can do anything and go anywhere, and we don’t have to hide anymore, you can take me golfing.”
Sawyer coughed out a surprised laugh.
“Take me to Wailea,” she clarified.
“Nothing in the world I’d rather do.” He moved in and kissed her again. This time he kissed her long and hard and deeply.
Minutes rolled by as they clung together, and satisfying passion took over her system.
Footfalls sounded on the ground, growing closer. “Get a room,” Travis’s voice interrupted.
“I think we’ll need a suite,” Sawyer responded, drawing back to gaze lovingly into Niki’s eyes, smoothing back her hair, cupping her face.
Then he looked at Travis. “You know, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Travis was completely unrepentant. “Figured it was worth the risk.”
“You think of her as a sister?”
“Always will.”
“Okay,” Sawyer nodded.
Travis grinned. “She’s all yours.”
“Hey!” Niki protested their cavalier attitude.
“What?” Sawyer glanced down. “You think there’s any chance in the world I’m giving you up?”
Epilogue
Their penthouse suite at the Wailea Sapphire Hotel overlooked the beach on one side and the fairway of the sixth hole on the other. The three rooms were spacious, classy and comfortable. But the real feature was the veranda. Long and wide, it wrapped around the corner of the building. It featured lounge chairs, a dining table, a hot tub and views extending miles out into the Pacific.
They’d only arrived on Maui this morning, but they’d already played nine holes of golf, skipped along the shoreline in a compact catamaran, gone snorkeling on the reef and swam in the warm waves at dusk. Afterward, at Sawyer’s insistence, Niki had changed into a flowing white cotton dress they’d purchased at a high-end hotel shop. Sawyer had gone with khakis and a short-sleeved shirt.
Their early dinner had been served on the private deck by an efficient butler and two assistants. Now, with the servers and dishes cleared away, they stood side by side at the rail gazing over the beachfront, while the sun slid down to the watery horizon.
Niki wasn’t sure she’d ever been this content.
“Is that what I think it is?” she whispered to Sawyer, leaning up against his arm.
“Somebody’s getting married.”
While they watched, a group of hotel attendants wove flowers into a white, latticework archway. Others were setting up chairs, and a pathway of torches leading from the hotel.
“That’s the way to do it.” Niki sighed. “No muss, no fuss. Just a few good friends on a beach.”
“You’d like that?” he asked her in a low tone.
“I would.”
He turned to face her. “I have a present for you.”
“You don’t think flying to Maui, a luxurious penthouse, golfing, and a candle-lit five-course dinner is enough for one day?”
“No, I don’t believe it is.”
“Well, I can’t think of a single thing that’s missing.”
Sawyer gave a slow smile, reaching over to the table, extracting a wrapped package from beneath a napkin. It was compact and flat, about eight inches long. The embossed, silver wrapping paper glinted in the candlelight.
“You didn’t need to do this.” Niki tugged on the delicate bow.
“I don’t need to do anything,” he told her. “Not anymore. Now it’s all about what I want to do.”
“That seems rather self-indulgent.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.”
She peeled back the edges of the paper, eager to discover what he’d chosen. The paper fell away to reveal a plain white box.
Puzzled, she lifted the lid.
She had to blink. Then she moved closer to the candles on the table, angling the box. “Is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Niki reached out to run her fingertip across the tan leather of Gabriella’s diary. “I thought you said you destroyed it like we planned.”
“It’s yours, Niki. Nobody but you has any right to do anything with it.”
An unexpected surge of emotion overtook her. She reflexively pulled the diary against her chest and held it there, feeling close to her mother once again.
“You okay?” Sawyer moved to draw her into his embrace.
“Fine,” she whispered, tears clogging her throat.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head in denial, leaning into him. “You didn’t. It’s good. Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re happy?”
“So happy.”
He gently extracted the box from her hand, setting everything down on the table, so they could hug each other properly. “Making you happy is all I want to do.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
He took her left hand, brought it to his lips, and before she knew what was happening, he’d slipped something cool onto her finger.
“What?” She pulled free, only to find a large diamond winking at her from her ring finger.
She stared at him in disbelief, and he grinned unrepentantly back.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a question that comes along with this?” she asked, her brain struggling to accept what the ring had to mean.
“You think I’d give you a chance to say no?”
“You want to marry me?” She didn’t know if she needed to confirm it in words.
“I want to marry you,” he echoed. “No, wait. I’m going to marry you.”
He turned her back to the beach where the wedding preparations were still underway.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Sawyer. “But that down there, it’s for us.”
“The wedding?” She gave her head a small shake.
“The wedding,” he confirmed.
“Oh, you’re joking.” She tried to laugh.
“I’m not joking, Niki. Caleb flew your family in this afternoon.”
Her gaze went back to the picture-perfect wedding on the beach. “You’re serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“What if I’d said no?”
“You weren’t going to say no.”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “I would never say no.” The contentment in her chest turned to full out joy. “I love you, Sawyer Layton.”
His arm went around her. “I love you, Niki Gerard.” He nodded to the beach. “Look. There they are.”
The staff lit the torches, and a group of people made their way to the folding chairs. She easily picked out Reed, Caleb and Travis.
“I better get down there,” said Sawyer. “Dylan’s meeting me with the rings.”
There was a knock on the door.
“That’ll be Katrina,” he told Niki. “She’s got your flowers.”
Niki felt like the world was spinning around her. “We’re really doing this? We’re getting married right now?”
“Right no
w,” Sawyer confirmed with an unabashed grin. “Then we’re going back to Lyndon Valley. I’m keeping the ranch. The rest we can make up as we go along.”
“I love being near my brothers,” Niki admitted on a sigh.
“And I love being near you.”
The knock sounded again.
Sawyer reached for her hands. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“This is why you insisted on this particular dress.”
“This is why I insisted on you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed hard. “I love you, Sawyer.”
He held her tight. “Then let’s make it official and forever.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Conflict of Interest by Barbara Dunlop
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One
It was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.
For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.
The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.
She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.
“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.
Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.
“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.
Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.
“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”
Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”
“Another speaker.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It’s done,” said Sandy.
“Well, undo it.”
The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.
It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.
“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.
“Don’t you think I tried?”
“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”
“They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”
Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.
Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.
Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.
It rang but then went to voice mail.
She hung up and tried again.
She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.
The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.
Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.
Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.
She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.
Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.
Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch he
els instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.
“Where are you going?” It was Max’s voice in her ear.
“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.
“You have that determined look in your eyes.”
“Go away.”
He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”
“Not now, Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?
“Your destination can’t possibly be a state secret.”
She relented. “I’m trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”
“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.
His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn’t hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he’d been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.
Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.
“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.
“For the record,” she responded, “I don’t know any state secrets. I don’t have that kind of job.”
“And since I’m not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”
An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.
A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She’d failed to stop him.
“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”
The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.
“Your friends,” Mitch continued with a hearty game-show-host smile, “your supporters and your mother and father must all be very proud.”
Cara strained to catch the president’s expression, wondering if he would be angry or merely annoyed by the deviation from the program. But there was no way to see through the dense crowd.
Millionaire in a Stetson Page 18
