A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2)

by Meli Raine

  “I’ll take myself off the case.” My mouth is numb. I am speaking through nine layers of glue.

  “No.”

  I look at him. He’s imposing as fuck, but I’m strangely detached. Not intimidated a bit. This is about reality and facts. I moved from the asset to the liability column with one newspaper photo. I get it. I do.

  “You’re fired. Officially. We’re about to make a very public announcement declaring as much. I’m sure you understand it’s nothing personal. This is about damage control. Read the headline.”

  I look down.

  Deranged Ex-boyfriend Stalks Presidential Candidate’s Daughter.

  “Those assholes.”

  “They may be assholes, but they outsmarted you, Drew. I can’t have them contaminate Lindsay. Thank God, nothing in that article implicates her, but -- ”

  Contaminate?

  “Don’t you see what they’re doing, Harry? Are you kidding me? They’re isolating you. Making you fire me. You’re handing them exactly what they want!”

  “I don’t care about their agenda. Only my own. And you know I have to do this.”

  “Keep Gentian. He’s my best guy. And if you’re going to hire someone -- ”

  “I’ve already called Mark Paulson. Left a message.”

  A tiny tendril of hope shoots through me.

  “Good. Mark’s great.”

  “Stay away from him. I don’t want anyone to know you two are associated.”

  “He works for me.”

  “Not any more. He’s spinning off his own company as we speak. On the record – he’s officially disgusted and shocked by your behavior.”

  I grind my teeth. Damn it.

  “He’s James Thornberg’s grandson. That legacy will rub off on him. Give him legitimacy. Might even help me with polling. A loose mental association between Thornberg and me could help with this mess.”

  This mess.

  I am this mess.

  “And Lindsay?”

  “What about her?”

  “You know how hard this is for her, Harry. I’ve been able to help her with -- ”

  “You mean how you’re helping her in her bedroom?”

  If he said anything else – anything else – about Lindsay, I wouldn’t look away. But even I can’t maintain eye contact with the father of the woman I’m sleeping with as he calls me out for it.

  I have limits, too.

  “Damn it, Drew. Every worst-case scenario is coming true. Marshall warned me this was a possibility.”

  I jolt. “Marshall?” Marshall won’t make eye contact, but he’s also not cowering. The guy won’t even look at me.

  “He said you weren’t ready. And he was right.”

  “Who in the hell are you to decide whether I can do a security job or not?” I make it clear with the way my eyes check him out that this pasty, overweight, pompous overachiever is the last person qualified to judge me.

  “He called it, Drew.”

  “I want to hear it from him.”

  Beady eyes, narrow and angry, meet mine. “This isn’t personal,” Marshall says in a monotone. “The fact that you can’t understand that confirms that firing you is the right choice, Foster. That’s how the game works.”

  “Protecting Lindsay isn’t a game.”

  “I never said that. But the presidential race is a game – a game of strategy. You don’t fit in. Not with your personal vendetta against one of the key players.”

  “Key players? Blaine’s a key player?”

  “He’s more important as a strategic piece than you are. Consider yourself lucky Harry’s found a way to still use Paulson.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that, Marshall. This isn’t about billable security hours or money or friendship. The stakes are higher!”

  “That’s right. They are. A presidency is at stake here, and we’re not going to let you compromise that because you had some kind of argument years ago with Blaine Maisri over a woman,” Marshall snaps back, going for the jugular. A bitter smile makes his lips twitch.

  The fucker is enjoying this.

  I am thunderstruck.

  I’ve seriously underestimated him.

  “A what?”

  “Blaine told me all about it. He dated Lindsay. So did you. You’ve become unhinged since she came back. You aren’t thinking straight.”

  Harry’s watching us carefully, though I can tell his attention is split. He knows this is bullshit. I calculate quickly.

  One of two pieces of information is true:

  1) Marshall is on Blaine’s side and somehow Harry doesn’t realize it

  2) Marshall has been kept out of the loop on all the details from four years ago.

  Both can’t be true.

  And both are dangerous as hell.

  If I have to pick one, though, number two is easier to deal with.

  Number one is the choice I’m most worried about.

  I ignore Marshall and turn to Harry. “You know the truth about Blaine Maisri, Harry. Is this really your final decision?”

  His look doesn’t waver. Unlike Marshall, he doesn’t avoid my eyes. “Already been made. Mark Paulson will call you shortly. Hand over all your codes, passwords, everything, to be changed over to new. Stay away, Drew. Stay far away. It’s about press coverage and appearance.” Harry grabs my arm and pulls me aside. He’s not rough. In fact, the move is smooth, like he knows he can touch me this way.

  I yank my arm out of his grasp.

  He needs to know he can’t.

  Harry gives Marshall a look. The guy leaves the room, shaking his head, on his phone before the doorknob clicks with a finality that feels like a guillotine blade.

  “I mean it, Drew. Don’t come near her. No covert mission. No unauthorized security on her. I’ll consider that stalking and have you prosecuted,” Harry insists.

  “How well do you know Marshall?”

  The question catches him off guard. “What?”

  “How well do you know him?” I stare at the back of the door.

  “Since college days. We were in the same fraternity.” His eyes narrow. “Why? Do you know something about him I need to know?”

  This is why Harry has gotten as far as he has. A lesser man would become angry and defensive with my question. Not Harry.

  He’s all matter-of-fact

  “No, but this doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re clearly upset, and I understand -- ”

  “No. Harry. This. Doesn’t. Make. Sense. My guys cleared the security angle. No one had a reason to take that picture in that exact moment.”

  He rolls his eyes. “So you did plan this.”

  “Yes.” Might as well admit it. What do I have to lose? “And that makes the picture in the newspaper more troubling. Marshall’s the one who came to you with it?”

  “He’s my reputation management specialist. He’s the one who would.”

  “Fine. But how close is he to Blaine’s camp? For God’s sake, Harry, you know that story about Blaine dating Lindsay is bullshit.”

  “He took her to a dance when they were in high school, Drew. We have photos somewhere in an album at home. So does Blaine.”

  I trawl my memory. I was a senior the year Lindsay was a freshman. We weren’t dating yet. “You’re basing my alleged stalker status on that pretense? That bullshit?”

  “It doesn’t take much, Drew,” he says sadly, surprising me. The guy is cool as can be, always in a logical frame of mind, ever calculating. “It’s all about appearance.”

  “You appear to be easy to manipulate, Harry. Marshall’s playing you.”

  “You think he’s a plant?” I expect him to be angry, but he gets to the point.

  “Don’t know. Getting rid of me makes sense on the surface,” I say, conceding the point. “Now that it’s all public and you’re worried about appearances. Your team can spin this.”

  “Already has. It was an accident.”

  “But if Blaine’s lying and claiming this is a grud
ge match over Lindsay, it just thrusts her into the limelight more.”

  “Shit,” he grumbles.

  “Right. Look. I’ll stay away – publicly.”

  “Drew.” My name is a stretched-out growl.

  “But there’s no fucking way I’m leaving her alone.”

  “You don’t trust Paulson and Gentian? Your own guys?” His eyebrow quirks, as if to say, And you let them protect my daughter?

  “I’d trust them with the president.”

  His eyebrows raise. “Good to know.”

  “But I don’t trust anyone but me with Lindsay.”

  Any other man would roll his eyes. Harry just blinks. “You sound like a lovesick puppy.”

  I say nothing.

  “You can’t tail her. You can’t be caught on camera.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “If Blaine’s somehow part of all this – and I still have my doubts – then whoever schemed to get that punch on camera is a step ahead of you.”

  “Parallel to.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not a step ahead – they’re running parallel to me.”

  “You’re splitting hairs.”

  “I’m being precise.”

  “I don’t authorize any of this.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “And what about Lindsay?” he asks.

  “What about me?”

  We both pivot to find her in the doorway, dressed for a run, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face freshly scrubbed.

  She’s glaring at Marshall, who looks at her like she’s an annoying little girl interrupting Daddy’s work as they both walk into the room, Lindsay edging him aside.

  Before anyone can answer, she looks at the newspaper. Her eyes go wide and she whispers a curse word.

  “What is going on, Daddy?”

  Interesting who she chooses to ask.

  “Your security detail was caught on camera punching a state rep,” Marshall answers.

  “Are you my daddy?” she asks, her voice full of sugar but her eyes bleeding poison all over him. “If so, my mom has a lot to answer for.”

  “Lindsay,” Harry barks. I can tell he’s horrified – and trying not to laugh. So am I.

  “I’d like an answer from the man in charge,” she says, pandering to Harry, who knows it.

  And smiles.

  “Drew was caught on camera punching Blaine Maisri. We’re taking him off your security detail.”

  “No!” she gasps. I can’t tell if she’s more upset that I was caught on camera or that I’m being removed.

  “Paulson and Gentian can do a capable job of managing you. Their techniques will be different,” he says, casting a pointed look my way.

  Lindsay blushes.

  Huh. Didn’t know she could be embarrassed like that.

  It’s cute. And if I weren’t consumed by being fired from the most important security detail of my life, I’d find it a little hot, too.

  “I never liked Drew being in charge anyhow, Daddy,” she announces, eyes suddenly hooded. Contempt shoots out of her eyeballs as she gives me a look her old friend Mandy could have easily extended. It’s condescending, haughty, and designed to convince Marshall that she doesn’t want me.

  It’s a ruse.

  “I told you that from day one.”

  Day one. Lindsay’s been home for a handful of days. So much has happened.

  Too much has happened.

  And I know it’s only the beginning.

  Chapter 13

  “I’d like a word with you,” I say to Lindsay.

  “No!” Harry and Marshall are in stereo.

  “In private, away from the windows and anyone with a camera. That too stalkerish for you?” My words are addressed to Harry and Marshall, who look at each other as they decide. Not Lindsay.

  She ignores them, grabs my arm, and yanks me angrily into the kitchen, where Connie is arranging fruit and cheese on a plate. Her head bobs up and she grabs the tray, busily walking down the hall to Harry’s office. People tend to skedaddle when tempers are close to blowing.

  “I haven’t even had my first coffee of the day and you get yourself fired?” Lindsay hisses.

  I pull my biceps out of reach and turn away, opening a cabinet.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, furious.

  “Looking for the coffee beans. I can’t have this conversation right now. Not when the taste of you is still on the tip of my tongue and your father just confronted me about sleeping with you.”

  Not to mention the scarves set me the fuck up.

  “Daddy what?”

  I shrug.

  “You have the most robotic range of emotions I’ve ever seen in a man, Drew.”

  I find the coffee beans, pour some in the grinder, and before I press the grind button, I lean into her and whisper, “You didn’t think so when we were naked and in bed an hour ago.”

  BZZZZZZZZ.

  She can’t argue as a florid blush fills her gorgeous face. I know she wants caffeine as much as I need a distraction. Harry and Marshall aren’t going to give us much time together. Loose tongues can be found in any politician’s household, no matter how careful security is with background checks and ongoing evaluations.

  Trust me.

  I know that all too well.

  How in the hell did someone snap that photo of me punching Blaine yesterday?

  Anya appears, her face pale, eyes narrowed into glittering blue slits that make it clear I’m not on her list of favorite people.

  Not sure I ever was.

  “You okay, Lindsay?” she shouts over the grinder, the ever-present folders in her arms, her face lined with exhaustion. Anya’s been part of the background of Harwell Bosworth’s political world for years. And then I remember.

  Back in the day – way back, before she came to work for Harry – she worked for Nolan Corning.

  “I’m fine,” Lindsay shouts back. “Just trying to talk to Drew.”

  “Looks like he’s not cooperating.” She glares at me.

  I glare back.

  “I’m making her coffee!” I smirk.

  Anya’s perfectly manicured finger points to a spot over my shoulder. I turn.

  A giant silver carafe full of coffee is on the counter behind me.

  Lindsay rolls her eyes.

  “I make better coffee than that mud.”

  “Hey!” Connie’s offended voice comes up behind me. “That is organic Fair Trade ‘mud’ made from beans produced in a Guatemalan coffee plantation that Mrs. Bosworth has supported for years through her humanitarian efforts.”

  “Fired,” Lindsay whispers to herself, blinking hard, looking at me askance.

  I cock one eyebrow. “Let’s grab coffee and some privacy.”

  “Privacy? Here?” She snags a mug next to the big coffee dispenser and makes a cup, her palms encircling the china, her sigh full of so much stress. Earbuds dangle from around her neck, the little nubs brushing against her nipples outside her t-shirt. She sips, her eyelids down, then she looks up at me.

  The sad smile guts me.

  “They set me up, Lindsay.”

  “I know. And Daddy knows it, but he’s all about winning. Have to keep up appearances.”

  “Were you eavesdropping?”

  She shakes her head, a wry smile on her lips. “No. I just have the drill memorized. Daddy only has a few plays in his playbook, Drew. And they all revolve around getting elected.”

  “You know I’m not what the newspaper – that’s just a bunch of lies.”

  “Of course I know that!” A few sips later and she’s pensive. No one interrupts us, but in the background I hear phones ringing, copy machines and printers churning, the muffled busy-ness of a politician who has just declared his candidacy for president.

  “You sure?” Every nerve in me is like a candle wick, on fire and burning down the line.

  She squares her shoulders, the ear buds dropping, her pony tail bouncing slightly. “Yes. I trust yo
u.” Looking around the room, she takes the chance, stepping into my space. My heat.

  My body.

  Her hands go to the nape of my neck as she leans in, hot breath against my jaw, and whispers, “I trust you. I know that now. Nothing you do could make me doubt you. Nothing.”

  I go cold.

  All these years I’ve chased her trust. The relentless pursuit of control over my body, my space, my work, my reputation, has culminated in this moment. I’ve served in combat, killed people, saved lives, nursed wounds, and put my own broken hull of a body and soul back together with duct tape and grit.

  The moment I’ve been waiting for is now.

  And all I can do is feel a massive wave of guilt.

  Because the man Lindsay finally trusts isn’t the person she thinks I am.

  Which means she’s trusting a lie.

  Marshall walks in, gives us a disgusted look, and addresses Lindsay as she pulls out of my arms and retrieves her coffee.

  “Your father needs you for a short briefing.”

  “I’m about to go for a run.”

  “It’ll have to wait.”

  “You don’t control my schedule,” she announces, gulping down the rest of the coffee.

  She flounces out of the room like it’s an Olympic event and she’s a gold medalist in Condescension, pointedly going outside for a run.

  Leaving me shredded.

  Chapter 14

  “Drew! Good to see you, though the circumstances sound intense.” Dr. Salma Diamante’s office is California Fresh, with turquoise walls, creamy sandy-colored carpets, and seashell-themed design elements conveying the feel of the beach. It’s serene, stark --

  And all too familiar.

  “Dr. Diamante.” I sit in my normal spot. Habit. You spend nearly two years coming for once-a-week sessions and you pick a spot that’s safe. You pick the same damn seat every week because that’s one less decision you have to make.

  When your mind is like Swiss cheese at the center of a napalm tornado, the less complexity, the better.

  “You booked a two-hour session, I see,” she comments, eyes intent, studying me calmly. Her body language is relaxed.

  She has all the time in the world.

  Good. She’ll need it for my problem.