“No! I mean, you’re a long shot, but that’s not it.”
“I like being the underdog, Grace,” Conover drawls, his lips quirking up into a smile. “I like being a challenger. I like looking forward to who we’re gonna lap, rather than looking over my shoulder and watching my back. What I need to know, here and now, is if you’ve got my back. If I choose you, will you have my back from here through the election?”
I look into his watery eyes, full of sincerity and passion for making this happen. “Yes. Will you have mine?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not my job. My job is to get elected, and I need to choose the best partner to get there. I can’t say I’ll have your back because I might not choose you. I’ve got my staff out vetting and coaching a couple of people, and I’m not going to lie to you and tell you you’re in when we’re far from that.”
Conover’s admission just about knocks the wind out of me. All this prep might be for nothing. I lick my lips, squashing the disappointment in my gut. “I appreciate your candor.”
“And I appreciate your effort, Grace. Look, I’m going to ask you to jump through a lot of hoops in the next month to get ready. I want you out a lot more than you’ve been, at interviews and appearances, so when I make my announcement, you’re ready. Can you do that for me?”
I swallow, my peaceful summer spent paddling and catching up on constituent business before I head back to the congressional session in September vanishing. “Yes.”
He pats my hand. “Good. Then let’s get you over to the university for your first event.”
Chapter Sixteen
It’s a one-two punch. First up: a University of Colorado-Denver appearance celebrating a new federal program to encourage young women in STEM fields: science, technology, engineering, and math.
I get through that appearance just fine, thankful for the briefing notes I read on the flight.
Next, I’m propelled to an event in the Hyatt Regency ballroom, the final night of a real estate developers’ conference. While the university event was almost ascetic, this one drips with money, from the jumbo shrimp cocktails to the top-shelf alcohol for several hundred people.
I take a white wine so I can mingle without looking completely out of place, and an event coordinator shuttles me around the room to meet the VIPs. I soon realize a stark gender divide: the men are here on business, the women are spouses and girlfriends. Virtually every woman here looks like she’s had a nip or a tuck, and I feel frumpy in my power suit next to their plunging necklines and cocktail dresses.
My face feels ready to crack from the smiling, the greetings, and the terse explanations that I’m behind some of the developers’ least favorite legislation regarding development setbacks on land adjacent to salmon-spawning streams.
Basically, my law takes more developable land out of commission, and they don’t like it one bit. I feel like Shep’s thrown me to the sharks, and he isn’t even here to watch the carnage.
I flee to the restroom to compose myself, hiding in a stall for a few minutes as I put my head in my hands and just breathe. I can do this. I can. I might be unpopular here, but I’ll go down in flames with the gun-rights crowd if I can’t find a way to make them like me despite my position.
I wash my hands and reapply lipstick with a shaky hand.
“Grace? I was hoping you’d be here.”
I look up to meet brilliant sapphire eyes in the ladies’ room mirror, and a porcelain complexion framed by perfectly straight blond hair.
“Lauren Kennedy Darrow,” she says, extending a manicured hand with a diamond ring the size of a fat blueberry.
I take her hand and shake, recognizing the former first lady of California instantly. Given her news-anchor background and frequent appearances on the softer women-and-children issues, she’s almost as famous as her husband. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. Have you spoken with my husband yet?”
I shake my head. Aaron Darrow’s giving the keynote speech tonight and I wonder if Conover sent me here to feel out the mood.
“I’ll make sure you two are introduced,” she says. “I think you two have a lot in common on the issues. Where are you sitting?”
“I’m not sure.” The coordinator hasn’t shown me my table yet.
“I’ll make a place at our table for you. We ladies have to stick together in this room full of testosterone.” She laughs, a high, tinkling sound, like ice cubes in a glass. Everything about her is perfect, from her Tiffany blue silk sheath to her pale highlights. Standing next to her in the bathroom mirror, my gray suit and tangle of brown curls look dowdy.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
“So how did you end up at this conference?”
“Uh, a last-minute invitation,” I hedge, knowing that I can’t breathe Senator Conover’s name. “I was in Denver on other business too.”
“The STEM dedication? I saw it on the wire.” Lauren rubs her lips together to smooth her lipstick, and I admire her savvy. She’s a lot more than a trophy wife.
I follow her to a table at the front of the ballroom as a bell sounds and the lights dim briefly, encouraging people to take their seats for the dinner and speeches. With a few brief gestures, Lauren has the waitstaff squeeze a place in for me at her right.
I’m about to be seated when Aaron Darrow appears, giving Lauren a kiss on the cheek and then turning to me.
“Congresswoman Colton. What a nice surprise.” His voice is a rich baritone, his thick, jet-black hair impossibly glossy, with a few distinguished streaks of gray around his temples.
This guy looks even better in person than on TV.
He takes my hand to shake it and his touch is intimate in the slow, deliberate way he shakes. The way his dark eyes appraise me sends shivers down my spine, but not the way Jared makes me melt. It’s like Darrow’s looking through me, probing for answers. “I see that you’ve already met my better half.”
I smile and drop his hand. “Lauren generously invited me to your table.”
“Perfect. I’m surprised that it’s taken this long for us to meet in person, considering we’re practically neighbors.” His chuckle is warm, ingratiating. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
There’s no reason for me to meet this man, a notably big fish in Democratic politics, when I’m a small-fish sophomore member of Congress. Even though our states share a border, I imagine our social and political circles are miles apart. Throughout the primary, Darrow has floated on a raft of Silicon Valley and Hollywood money.
When he’s engrossed in a conversation with a real estate developer at the other side of the table, Lauren turns to me.
“Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
“Here at the Hyatt.”
“Really? I didn’t see you on the VIP list.” Her lip twitches with annoyance. She’s clearly accustomed to having information at the ready.
“I’m staying under my maiden name. For privacy.”
“Oh. How silly of me to assume.” Lauren’s smile returns. “So, Grace, tell me what you’ve been doing with your summer.”
Oh, not much. Just prepping to be a vice presidential nominee while having a steamy, love-hate affair with a political consultant. “It’s pretty quiet. Constituent meetings, a few town halls, local fundraising, and getting ready for the session in September.”
“You’re ready for your election? This year should be an easy run.”
I nod. “I’d never call it easy, but this year I’ve got a big head start.” Last month, an investigative reporter unearthed my Republican challenger’s dubious tax filings. He dropped out of the race, replaced by a shrill state legislator who hasn’t made a big dent in money or the polls. Given the Democratic leanings of my district, I’m considered to be in a safe seat.
She chuckles and leans toward me. “All work and no play? Tell me you’re having some fun, too.”
The thought of Jared’s teeth nipping my flesh, my neck, my inner thighs, sends
the blood rushing to my cheeks. “I’m kayaking a bit. Enjoying the beautiful weather.”
Lauren’s perfectly plucked brows lift. “You must be enjoying it with someone special.”
I look away quickly, all but confirming she’s hit the nail on the head. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t be having this conversation with her.
She touches my hand lightly. “Grace, it’s not inappropriate to date. You lost your spouse. Voters can’t expect you to become a nun.”
I nod, guilt washing over me. It’s not the thought of Jared that prompts the guilt. It’s the fact that there’s so much assumed about my relationship with Seth.
There was sadness in losing my partner of eleven years and the father of my child. He was a good dad. A stable force in our family. He was a safe choice, but I’m still coming to terms with my guilt: I felt relief that I could actually start over after him.
Quit it, Grace. You never wanted him to die. You never wished anything bad on Seth.
“Thank you for saying that,” I tell Lauren, forcing lightness into my voice. “But I’m a public figure. So it feels like there’s no good time to really explore that, you know? If I were to ever … date … it would have to be a foregone conclusion.”
She gives me a knowing gaze and for a moment I’m terrified she’ll see through me. “I understand you want to keep private things private. But in politics, they rarely are.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Don’t get up.”
I roll over, my sleep-blurred eyes straining to see the person entering my hotel room. The digital clock reads one a.m.
“Jared?”
He walks around the bed to where I’m lying, shedding his jacket and shoes and crouching so he’s eye level with me. “Hey, gorgeous.”
Warmth floods me and his thumb traces my jawbone. I never expected this tenderness from the man who demanded I strip and crawl to him. But as his hands trace my naked shoulders, as they skim above the sheet along the curve of my hips, I find myself wanting the tender in equal measure with the hard.
“Who said you could come in my room?” I ask sleepily.
“I’m not in the habit of asking permission,” Jared says, his soft drawl caressing me as his fingers work the buttons on his shirt.
“You just do it and ask for forgiveness later?”
“Grace, I’m not in the habit of asking. Period.”
His shirt drops to the floor and his pants follow. In moments I’m joined beneath the cool sheets by this furnace of a man, his chest hair tickling my arms as one hand slides from my knee up my leg to the center of my thighs.
“You’re wearing too many clothes, Grace,” he growls, and tugs at my panties. I lift my hips and nudge closer in the crook of his arm, reveling in the feeling of his hand skating up and down my now fully naked body.
“You didn’t pack me a nightgown,” I say.
“You didn’t need one.”
“I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”
“But you wanted me back.” Jared’s fingers skim down my belly and tease my seam. “You’re so wet. Tell me where you want me to touch you.”
I arch my back, stretching like a cat to connect with his hand, but it dances out of my reach. “Right there,” I plead.
“Where, Grace? You’re an articulate woman. Tell me.”
“There,” I pant as his fingers work the moisture between my legs until my cleft is slick.
“Keep going.” Jared’s breath skims over my cheek, my breasts rise and tighten. “What do you want me to do to you tonight?”
“Everything.” His hand withdraws and I whimper with frustration.
“Use your words, Grace. Tell me what you want me to do. How you want me to make you feel.”
“I want you to … to …” I can’t say the words. I can’t utter something that feels so taboo.
“You’ve got an excellent tongue, Grace Colton. You use it so well in speeches and debates, so why not use it now? Talk to me. Tell me what turns you on.”
“Stubble,” I say automatically, and my fingers go to his face, feeling the rough tips of his stubbly beard beneath my fingernails. He sucks my index finger and I feel his teeth and tongue, the softness and hardness and heat of him.
He releases me.
“Go on,” he coaxes me for more, his voice a deep rumble.
“Eye crinkles.” I add, venturing to touch his temples. “Chest hair.” I trace the center of his chest, all the way down to his navel, but stop short of where I really want to be. I’m suddenly shy with this inquisition.
“Your breath on me,” I add, and he rolls me slightly so I’m flat on my back on the mattress, his head bent over my chest, teasing me with his stubble between my breasts. He breathes on each nipple in turn, a hot puff, then a cool breeze blown across each tip until they are stiff peaks.
“Lick me. Please.” I’m panting and when his tongue connects with my nipple, it rips open a fire in my chest. I arch and twist as he sucks and nips, his cheek scratching my skin and electrifying it.
His teeth graze my nipples, but then he pulls back. “What else, Grace?”
I’m tongue-tied, my words drowned by a surge of desire that has deconstructed my language to the basics: here, now, more, harder. “I don’t know.”
Jared moves to the foot of the bed, pushing my knees apart and anchoring himself between them. He stares at me and I feel too exposed. “Wrong answer. If you won’t tell me what you want, show me.”
Jared’s dark eyes are in shadow, with nothing but the moonlight outside filtering through the gauzy hotel room curtains. I can’t see the intensity in his eyes, but I hear it in his voice.
“I don’t know how.”
“Bullshit. Show me now, Grace. Touch yourself.”
“I can’t. It’s too …” I trail off.
“You can do it right now, or I’m going to punish you.” The sharp, stinging memory of his spanking on our first night together turns me on more. “And before you think you’re going to like it, I assure you, you won’t.”
I tentatively skim my hand down my stomach, through my short, dark curls, to my folds. I’m drenched with moisture. I draw my finger through it, working it into my clit, moving my index finger in little flicks that get faster and press harder on my bundle of nerves.
Jared’s hands run up and down my legs, nudging my thighs farther apart. He leans closer, watching me, and I shiver and jerk when I feel his fingers slide into me.
“Don’t stop now, Grace,” he warns, as two fingers twist and curl inside me. “Make yourself come.”
I flick faster, press harder, driving myself toward release. I let self-consciousness fall away, curiosity and questions and reservations silenced in my mind. The familiar build, the tightness in my chest, strip the noise and static from the here and now.
A wave of energy starts at my toes and rolls through me. My breaths are shorter, sharper, ragged when I feel his fingers plunge inside me. I clench at my core and the wave crashes through my chest and nearly knocks the breath out of me.
A moan is all I can manage as I twist and writhe, and then Jared’s mouth is on me, his tongue replacing my index finger, and I grip his hair to hold him there as his tongue pushes me forward, bringing wave after wave of pleasure, prolonging my climax to the point where I can’t take it any longer.
I explode and thrash and gasp for air. It’s over. I’m over. Completely spent.
Jared draws his face back, then traces his nose up my chest, his stubble tickling, until he’s nearly covering me. Our bodies are just an inch apart as he supports himself on his arms, leaning over me.
“Let’s make that our lesson for tonight. Ask for what you want. But don’t ask permission.” His lips brush my cheek, and then he rolls onto his back beside me.
I roll toward him on my side, my breast brushing his arm. “OK, then, I want something.”
Jared’s eyes are dark and challenging. “What?”
“I want your mouth.”
“I’ve had my
mouth on almost every part of you.”
“Almost.” God, do I have to fucking spell it out? I feel like an awkward teenager, but it hasn’t escaped my notice the one thing we haven’t done as we’ve become intimate. “I want you to kiss me.”
Jared rolls over, shutting me out. “Go to sleep, Grace.”
“But you said ask—”
“You told me what you want. Noted. Now go to sleep.”
I roll to my back, stunned, stung. I didn’t ask him to dress up in my underwear, or impale himself on a dildo. I asked for one of the most basic things in any relationship: a kiss.
So simple.
Considering I lived in a marriage where kissing was abandoned soon after we had Ethan, I don’t think a little kissing or making out is of the question. He’s seen my body. He’s taken me in nearly every other way.
And yet, no kiss.
I hear Jared’s breathing deepen, his back a brick wall to me, shutting me out of any physical affection.
And so, for hours in an anonymous Denver hotel room, I toss and turn.
No kiss.
Fitting. Jared’s no prince, and my life is anything but a fairy tale.
Chapter Eighteen
“You should buy a new car.”
Jared’s random comment interrupts my reading on the flight home. “I have a car. I like my car.” My little 350Z is another sign of my new life, with no backseat appropriate for hauling Ethan in his booster seat to soccer practice.
“You need an American car. Something more fuel-efficient.” Jared doesn’t look up from his laptop. “They’re going to ask, you know. And we’re going to want to have a better answer.”
“They’re not going to vote for me because of my car.”
Finally, Jared looks up. Fine lines around his eyes reveal tension, maybe worry. All morning, things were awkward between us. “You’re right. They’re not going to vote for a Conover-Colton ticket when you give them a reason to vote for Darrow.”
The Phoenix Candidate Page 7
