“We’re talking about my life, not the state of American politics.”
“You’re right. Politicians usually listen to me.”
“I’ve always listened to you, but the courtesy was never returned.”
“I’m not going to apologize for wanting the best for you.”
“How could you know what’s best for me? You don’t know me.”
“I hold no stock in this new pop psychology that says I should be your friend. That’s not how I was raised.”
“I had friends. I wanted a father.”
“I’m not going to debate my parenting choices with you.” He turned his focus off his daughter and pointed at Marcus. “Not in front of a stranger.”
“He’s my fiancé.”
“I don’t accept that. Whatever attraction”—he spat the word—“you feel now will fade and you’ll be left with nothing. You need to build a life with someone who shares your upbringing, your goals, and your values. Someone like Devin.”
“Devin?” Her laugh was harsh. “He’s your idea of the perfect man for me? I wasted over a year of my life by listening to you and it almost destroyed me. Between the two of us, I’ll trust my judgment over yours.”
“Your mother—”
“I’m not Mom!” Pamela touched her fingers to her temple and took a deep breath. “And Devin is not you. We are not mirrors of your eternal youth.”
Marcus jumped in. “Senator Harrington, we should have spoken to you first and for that I apologize. But,” he continued, reinforcing his tone with steel, “I am going to marry your daughter.”
“No, you will not.” Harrington turned to Pamela. “You are a Harrington and as long as you are living at the estate, you will follow my rules.”
A thick, uncomfortable silence followed the ultimatum. Marcus swore silently. How had things spiraled so far out of his control? Even during negotiations, with tens of millions of dollars on the line, relationships never deteriorated so far and fast in such a short period of time. He wasn’t naive enough to believe the Harringtons had been one big happy family because they had money. But this was leading to a major blowup, which could devastate Pamela and hurt his agenda.
Pamela’s face morphed from shock to anguish. “America may have voted you their favorite senator, but you fell short in the Best Father category. I’m not going to spend another minute in your gilded cage.”
She turned and, without a backward glance at either man, left her father’s office.
“Pamela! Don’t you walk out on me! Don’t you dare walk out of this house! You will not choose this man over your family. You’re a Harrington, now and always. Do you hear me?” Harrington’s bellow echoed throughout the room, bouncing off oil paintings, plaques, and framed certificates before fading from existence. He placed both palms on his desk and dropped his head.
Pamela’s father had gambled and lost. Something inside Marcus twisted up—compassion? Did he actually pity the other man?
Harrington looked up, and his brown eyes bored into Marcus’s. “This is your fault.”
Marcus thought about his mother, how she’d loved and supported him until the day she died. He knew, with every ounce of his being, she would never have treated him the way this man had treated his daughter.
“Only one man in this room is at fault for what happened. And it isn’t me.” He turned his back and went in search of Pamela. He found her sagging against the wall farther down the hallway. Her eyes were closed and her arms wrapped around her waist. Wanting to give her the comfort she so obviously needed, he pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, her body trembling. He hugged her tighter, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Her words were muffled against his shoulder. “I have to think. Are you going to back out if we don’t get the Senator’s blessing?”
“I don’t know,” he parroted. “Are you going to back out if your father disowns you over this?”
She looked up, tears streaming down her face. “You’re having second thoughts?”
This morning he believed he had a solid plan to finally acquire the Holcombe. His only problem was an overwhelming attraction to his partner in crime. Now, everything was on the verge of collapsing.
The only thing worse than not being on any list was being on the wrong one.
He didn’t lie. “Yes.”
Chapter Seven
The recreation room at the shelter was crammed with boxes and trash bags, thanks to its annual food and clothes drive. Pamela grabbed another bag from the pile, opened it, and started the process of sorting the clothes inside.
“Last night was a disaster,” she said, throwing a coat onto the winter outerwear pile and barely missing hitting Shelly.
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Everything we planned may have been undone in a few minutes.”
Shelly tsked. “I saw the District Dish blog post.”
“You and five thousand other people.” Pamela had been on edge from the moment she’d gotten the Google alert. Once Vivian Holcombe spoke up at the gala, the news had spread faster than rumors of a congressman’s extramarital affair.
And then there had been the Senator’s ultimatum: Marcus or her family.
But she hadn’t chosen Marcus, as her father believed. She’d chosen the women’s shelter, and, in a way, herself.
“How was the gorgeous Mr. Pearson?”
Strong, sexy, and masculine in an exquisitely tailored classic black tuxedo that encased his tall, powerful frame to perfection. When she’d seen him standing there, his hair swept off his forehead, his blue eyes intense, everything, everyone had faded away until, for one brief moment, it’d been just the two of them. But that wasn’t the answer she’d give Shelly. “Frustrating. What is it with men?”
“What happened?”
“For someone who wanted to make a good impression, he did a lousy job. He barely remained civil.” She’d seen it happen numerous times before. A thoughtless comment or offhand remark at a cocktail party led to a loan approval revoked, a bill losing key supporters, a capital project suddenly blocked. Not this time. Not with the shelter on the line. “Why do they have to play Whose Penis Is Bigger?”
“In the middle of the ballroom?” Shelly asked.
“You need to reclaim your mind from the gutter. I think you’re too horny to be the director of a shelter for abused women.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.
“Between two consenting adults, sex and intimacy are beautiful things. Things that have nothing to do with what brings women here. Abuse, control, and power don’t equate to love.”
Pamela put down the T-shirt she was folding. She walked over to Shelly and put an arm around her shoulder. “Do you know how incredible you are?”
“Actually, I do.” Ducking out of Pamela’s hold, Shelly grabbed her left hand and whistled. “That’s a serious piece of ice on your finger.”
Pamela flexed her hand and stared down at the new occupant of her ring finger. It was at least five carats, the color and clarity flawless.
“It’s my first real engagement ring.”
“What about Devin?”
“Devin gave me his great-grandmother’s ring when we got engaged. I thought it was romantic until I tried it on and saw it was too big for my finger. But his mother wouldn’t let me resize it. I wore a ring guard until I gave it back to him.”
“Ouch.”
Pamela saw a volunteer throw a ratty shirt in the trash bin. “Keep that. We can find a use for it. Everything has a purpose.”
“Speaking of purpose, I put your workshop on the schedule for this weekend.”
“Do you think we’ll get a lot of interest?”
“I’m not sure. You may only get a few people the first time you offer it, but your audience will steadily grow.” Shelly tossed a prom dress on the miscellaneous pile. “What are you going to do about your father?�
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“I moved out of the estate.”
“That’s a big step. Do you need a place to stay? You’re welcome to crash with me.”
“Thanks, but I reserved a suite at the Four Seasons.”
Shelly laughed. “Then I might come and stay with you. What about Mr. Pearson?”
“I need to talk to him and figure out where we stand.” She shook her head, hoping the action would impede her tears. “After Saturday’s fiasco, it’s possible he might back out.”
“So could you.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? This may be the universe telling you this is a crazy idea. Plus, I’m worried about you. You’re getting involved.”
“So? You were the one who suggested I take advantage of the situation.”
“I meant sexually, not emotionally.”
“You don’t have to worry. That won’t be a problem.”
She wasn’t emotionally involved with Marcus, although there was no denying their attraction. The way he’d looked at her at the gala made her glad she’d decided to wear that dress.
The halter neckline, plunging back, and scarlet color were designed to make her the center of attention in a way the Senator would call “inappropriate.” But when she’d gotten ready, her hand had drifted past the neutral douppioni silks to the dress that had sat in the back of her closet for eight months. The dress she’d bought on a whim, during a fit of retail therapy at her favorite boutique in Georgetown. The dress that never would have obtained her father’s approval.
It was intoxicating to be looked at with such passion. She could become addicted to the sensation, crave it daily.
Which was why she wouldn’t give in to it. There could only be business between her and Marcus. He was yet another man who wanted her family connections, not her. It had almost been too late before she recognized the difference the last time. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
It was a calm period at the country club’s pub: after the lunch crowd, before the after-work crowd. Pamela sat at a table next to the window, her fingers tracing a path through the condensation on the glass of iced tea in front of her. Her engagement ring glittered in the sunlight, the weight unfamiliar on her finger. Marcus sat across from her and she forced herself to concentrate on fixing the situation and not fixating on how great he looked. He’d removed his suit jacket, having come from the office, and his white shirt contrasted nicely with his tan.
“I understand this isn’t the ideal situation,” she said nervously. “I didn’t expect the Senator to approve, but I never thought he would force me to choose between you and my family.”
Stony silence, lectures on duty and responsibility, looks that blanketed her in disapproval—those were the usual weapons of choice in the Senator’s parental arsenal.
“You said you needed to think,” Marcus said. “It’s been two days. Have you come to a decision?”
She inhaled, the deep breath fortifying her. “Yes.”
“And?”
“I’m all in.”
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. The movement emphasized his broad shoulders and his strong arms. “Have you talked to your father?”
“No. Alice called, playing her usual role of peacemaker, but I…I can’t go back home and ignore everything that happened. I’ve taken a suite at the Four Seasons.”
“You’re putting me in a difficult situation.”
Her heart free-fell. Tendrils of panic fought to snake their way past her projection of calm. She’d walked away from her father for the shelter. There was no going back. This had to work. “This doesn’t have to change our agreement.”
“It has to. Marrying you won’t give me the clout I need if your father isn’t on board.”
She flinched. No woman should have to hear that sentiment once, let alone twice. “The Senator only cares about the family name. Even if he doesn’t approve of you, he’s not going to let other people know he doesn’t trust my judgment.”
“You’re sure?”
She was. “Yes.”
“Are you willing to bet the women’s shelter on it?”
She sucked in a quick breath. This was the other side of the man who’d flirted with her on the golf course and comforted her when she needed it. This man was ruthless. She’d let her attraction get in the way and she’d forgotten who she was dealing with.
“Yes, I am. He may not go out of his way to proclaim you as his son-in-law, but he won’t say anything negative about you in public. The family’s reputation means everything to him.”
He frowned.
“Marcus, we can still—” She broke off when his phone rang.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. “It’s the office. Excuse me for a moment.” He stood and walked to the back corner of the pub.
She stared out the window at the golfers down below. It couldn’t end like this. She had until he finished his phone call to devise a plan or the shelter could kiss its building good-bye. She thought again of that rainy night over a year ago. What would have happened to her if it hadn’t been there?
“Pamela? I thought that was you.”
Her heart stopped. She whipped around to find Devin standing behind the chair Marcus had vacated. Had recalling the memory actually conjured forth the man?
For over a year, she’d gone out of her way to avoid his company, a difficult feat considering they socialized in the same circles.
“It’s been a while,” he said as she slowly rose to standing. “Lots to catch up on. I finally got that promotion. Youngest person ever to make partner.” Satisfaction coated every word.
“You’ve wanted it for a while.”
He smiled, his teeth white against the cinnamon shade of his skin. “Yes, I have.” He hesitated, lowering his eyes in an affectation he’d skillfully honed. “The only thing that would have made it better is having you by my side when I got the news.”
Had that worked before?
He pulled out the chair and sat down, mistaking her silence for acquiescence.
“We had a disagreement, Pamela. Most couples do. But they work through it.”
Her fingernails bit into her palms as she clenched her hands. Maybe if she remained standing, he’d get the hint and leave. “Telling your friends you would marry a paper bag if it got you Warren Harrington for a father-in-law is not a disagreement, Devin.”
“Let’s put the past behind us and move forward.”
“You will never lay a finger on me again,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low.
He flushed. “I said I was sorry! If you hadn’t kept bothering me about—”
“Really?” She arched a regal brow. “You’re going to blame me?”
“I’ll accede that I haven’t acted the way I should and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. But people like us can’t be led by our emotions. The decisions we make impact generations.”
“People like us?”
“Stop being naive, Pamela. Do you know what a Harrington-Wentworth union could do for this city? Our families united as one?”
“You can’t be that cold and calculating about love and marriage, can you?”
“Who you marry matters.” He paused a moment, his eyes turning cold. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Everyone’s talking about the two of you. The District Dish is reporting that you’re getting married. I’ve never heard of the Pearsons.”
“Your snobbery is revolting.”
“You’ve slummed it long enough. We’ll get reengaged and spin it that we both needed a little time. We belong together.”
“You’re sitting in my chair.” Marcus’s words cleaved through the fog of tension at the table.
“Marcus, this is Devin Wentworth. He was just leaving.”
Devin stood and slowly buttoned his suit jacket. Marcus watched him, his eyes hard, his lips a thin line.
“Pearson,” Devin bit out. “I understand you’re not used to the way we
do things, so let me give you a piece of advice: don’t leave Pamela Harrington sitting by herself. If you’re not careful, someone will come along and steal her away.”
“I don’t let anyone take what’s mine,” Marcus replied, his voice low.
Devin turned back to her. “Pamela, think about what you’re doing, the people you’re alienating. What will you do when he’s gone?”
“She won’t have to worry about that, because I’m not going anywhere.” Marcus slid a strong arm around her waist and pulled her close. The heat from his presence warded off the lingering chill of Devin’s proximity and she melted into him, her body craving his warmth.
A muscle in Devin’s cheek jumped. He stared at the juncture of their joined bodies. “Remember what I said.” With a dismissive nod to Marcus, he strode out of the pub.
She was ashamed of the power she’d given him. Looking at him now as he walked away, she didn’t see a monster.
Just a man.
“So that was your ex?” Marcus released her and reclaimed his seat.
“Yes, I—wait, how did you know?”
“Same way you knew I grew up here.” He studied her. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, smiling slightly. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Is he going to be a problem?”
“No.”
“This may be a marriage in name only, but it has to look real to the outside world. And no one would ever believe I’m okay with my wife fooling around.”
“Trust me, that won’t be a problem.” She held her breath, afraid to ask the question. “Does that mean we’re still on?”
His gaze flickered to the pub’s entrance before coming back to her. “Yeah, we’re still on.”
Thank God.
“But no more meetings with your ex-fiancé.”
“That ship has sailed. If I wanted to be with him, I would be.”
He watched her, his eyes taking inventory of her face. She stayed still, sensing they had reached a critical juncture. What was he thinking? Did he believe her?
“We have a wedding to plan. Unfortunately, I have a meeting back at the office. We’ll talk soon.”
She wanted to shout for joy. Later. When she was back at her hotel suite, without the intrusive eyes and ears. That’s also when she would truthfully examine how much of her was relieved for the shelter and how much just for her. For now, the knowledge that it wasn’t over was enough. She nodded, a smile threatening. “I’m going to stay and have a late lunch.”
The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) Page 6
