Yours in Scandal

by Layne, Lauren

  “Points for honesty. So, what kind of ice cream is your favorite?”

  “Gelato. Crucial difference, Ms. Blake. It’s made in-house daily, so whatever the flavor of the day is.”

  “And if you could choose?” A line appeared between his eyebrows at the question, and she laughed. “Nobody asks that, do they?”

  “No. Most people seem rather charmed with my ‘whatever they’re serving’ response.”

  Adeline shrugged. “I’m not most people.”

  “No. You’re not.” His gaze caught on hers, just a touch too intense for the moment, but she couldn’t seem to make herself look away. Thankfully, someone arrived to refill their water glasses, and he broke the contact, clearing his throat. “Chocolate,” he said. “I like chocolate.”

  “How original.”

  “I’m sure you meant to say classic.”

  She gave an amused smile and used it as a segue, pulling out her notebook. “Classic. Safe to say that’s your party vibe?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been cool enough to have a party vibe.” He said it jokingly, but there was a hint of regret there, and Adeline wondered if the pain of losing his father so young had come with a unique sort of pressure.

  “You said three weeks until the party. I’m assuming you’re looking at a Friday or Saturday, or is this a weekday thing?”

  “I was thinking Saturday the twenty-fourth. Close enough to Election Day to be a proper finale to my tenure, without overshadowing the election itself.”

  She nodded and wrote it down. “Still thinking black tie?”

  “I gave eight years of my life to these people. The least they can do is put on a bow tie or ball gown in thanks.”

  He smiled as he said it, and she studied him. “You do a lot of formal events?”

  The mayor hesitated just for a moment. “I do. I guess you could say it’s a legacy of sorts. I remember my parents always treated entertaining as though it were the highest honor and interacting with friends and voters was something to dress up for. I’ve always liked that. The idea of people dressing up for other people, best foot forward and all that.”

  “Anything your parents did at their parties that you’d do differently?”

  His shoulders stiffened slightly, and she wondered if she’d overstepped. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” she said quietly. “But it’s my job to create the perfect event for you. The more detail I have, the better.”

  The mayor took a sip from his water glass. “I like the dressing up and deliberateness of a formal event. I guess . . . I’ve sometimes wondered if there wasn’t a way to build some relaxed fun in there, too. I don’t understand why our best clothing has to bring out stiff behavior.”

  “Strapless bras,” she said, without looking up from her notebook.

  He set his water down. “Sorry?”

  “The women are likely wearing strapless bras with their formal gowns. And/or Spanx. That’s why they seem stiff.”

  She could have sworn his gaze drifted downward, and she was more than a little glad that her dress was a thick, conservative cut. Nothing to see here.

  He shifted slightly in his chair, then jerked his chin at the menu in front of her. “Do you know what you’d like to eat yet?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve barely looked. Have you?” she asked, glancing down at the menu.

  “No, but I don’t need to. I come here at least twice a week, and I always get the same thing.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “The quinoa bowl, add salmon.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I’m all for healthy food choices, but I don’t know that I could get excited about that twice or more in a single week.”

  The server seemed to sense their topic of conversation, because she approached from out of nowhere to take their order. Adeline opted for the butternut squash ravioli. As advertised, the mayor requested his usual.

  “Do you drink wine?” he asked Adeline.

  She hesitated. “I do, though not usually at client lunches.”

  “Might I suggest you’re doing it wrong?” he said with a smile before turning back to the server. “If you still have that Chablis I had last week, we’ll take a bottle.”

  Adeline blinked. “I can’t share a bottle of wine with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just looks . . . date-ish,” she said, realizing how silly the protest sounded when she said it aloud.

  He looked up at the waitress as she reappeared to open the wine and pour a small amount into a glass. “Do you think I’m on a date with this woman?”

  “Mr. Mayor,” Adeline said in a warning tone.

  “No, sir, I do not,” the brunette server said with just the slightest twitch of a smile.

  “And why’s that?”

  The waitress smiled full-on now, obviously more comfortable with the mayor than Adeline had thought at first. “She just called you Mr. Mayor.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Not very romantic, is it?”

  “No, Mr. Mayor.”

  Adeline rolled her eyes at him as the server filled both their glasses and left them alone once more. “Do you flirt with everyone?”

  “In politics we call it schmoozing.”

  “Well, schmooze someone else. I’m here to do a job.”

  The mayor grinned, seemingly unperturbed. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself, and more relaxed than she could ever remember her father or any of his colleagues looking. As though this was who Robert Davenport was, rather than who he pretended to be.

  She picked up her glass and took a sip of the wine. It was excellent, of course. She put it aside. If she had any sense, she’d limit herself to one glass, certainly not half a bottle with this man who put her on edge when she was sober. She’d hate to see his effect on her if she were tipsy.

  “Okay, let’s talk details,” she said, tapping her pen to her notebook. “Do you know if there are any contracts with caterers that I should be aware of?”

  “For anything sponsored by the mayor’s office, yes. Anything I host personally is paid for out of pocket by me. No rules or limitations.”

  “No limitations?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Are you asking me your budget?”

  “It’s sort of a crucial detail.”

  “Let’s just say you should feel free to book the best you can find.”

  “Huh. So the rumors are true,” she said. Apparently she didn’t need more than a sip of wine to feel bold.

  “What rumors?”

  She leaned forward. “You’re successful, good-looking, and loaded.”

  He laughed. “What can I say, the media gets some things right.”

  Adeline shook her head and took another sip of her wine. “Honestly, how you’ve avoided getting dragged down the aisle is beyond me. You’re like George Clooney before he met Amal.”

  “Maybe I just haven’t met my Amal yet.” His gaze flicked up to hers and locked.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday, October 2

  Robert knew he’d caught Adeline off guard. Her eyes flared in surprise, her lips parting slightly.

  He’d caught himself off guard, too. There was no earthly reason why he should be talking to an event planner about his romantic life. Or George Clooney’s hot wife.

  Nor should he be holding his event planner’s gaze, trying like hell to figure out if she felt the same electric pull he did. He definitely should not be wanting to lean across the table and see if her mouth was as soft and sweet as it looked. Should not be wondering what sort of sounds she’d make if . . .

  Adeline’s surprise faded into a slow smile. One he didn’t like. At all. He liked her next words even less.

  “Oh my gosh,” she said, her eyes widening, before she leaned forward. “I hope I’m not overstepping here, but I just realized you and my friend Rosalie would totally hit it off.”

  What the . . .

  Robert took a sizable s
wallow of wine and set the glass back down on the table with a measured calm. “Are you attempting to set me up on a blind date?”

  “You just mentioned you hadn’t met the right woman yet,” she said, still all wide-eyed innocence. “Rosalie’s been on sort of this whole no-dating thing for years to focus on her career, but her company’s just been bought out, so she’s finally got some time to focus on her personal life. She’s really great, truly.”

  Robert didn’t care if the woman had Marie Curie’s brain, Mother Teresa’s heart, and Tina Fey’s humor and was wrapped in Beyoncé packaging. The fact was he’d been sitting here fantasizing about what Adeline’s body would feel like beneath his hands, and she’d been mentally evaluating his compatibility with her friend.

  He’d never felt the sting of being friend zoned before, but he felt it now, and it was decidedly unpleasant. He was the mayor of the most populous city in the country, for God’s sake. He was fucking Man of the Year. Generally, single women at least looked twice. They certainly didn’t pass him off to their friend.

  Most irritating of all was that some part of the back of his brain knew he should be relieved. Interest in Adeline Blake, elite event planner, was one thing. Interest in Addie Brennan, daughter of his future primary opponent and a ticking time bomb of potential scandal, was political suicide.

  His hands lifted in the instinctive need to crack his knuckles, but he caught the gesture just in time, realizing how much the old habit seemed to be resurfacing these past few weeks. First with the Man of the Year nonsense, then with Martin’s questionable strategy of cozying up to Adeline Blake in hopes of getting dirt on her father. Then with Robert’s own out-of-character decision to go along with the plan.

  But if eight years of being mayor had taught Robert anything, it was that every tactic came with a cost. Every win for the education budget meant a little less money for the mental health initiative. Every pop-up flu shot clinic meant there were fewer resources for the city’s recycling program.

  And every Election Day victory came with a cost.

  Robert believed with his entire heart that there was something off about Governor Brennan. The man had rubbed him the wrong way since day one. He didn’t like the way the governor spoke to staff members, the way he looked at women, and most especially, he didn’t like the way the governor seemed to transform into an entirely different person when the cameras were on him. Having a “press face” was one thing, but Governor Brennan seemed to have a press personality. He became an entirely different person behind closed doors, and if the rumors were true, the cocky, grating man Robert had to deal with when the cameras were off was a veneer for an even uglier version.

  Rumors that would stay exactly that, if they couldn’t find someone on the inside willing to get out from under the governor’s thumb.

  Someone like the woman sitting across from him.

  Exhaling, Robert mentally switched gears from man to politician. It wasn’t particularly difficult. He’d quit putting his personal wants first the day after his father’s funeral, when he’d committed to fulfilling his father’s legacy. Everything else came second.

  “I apologize,” Adeline said, breaking the silence with a bland, distant smile that he hated, even though he understood it, as he had one of his own that he wielded when he was trying to control the conversation. “We’re here to talk party details, and I’m playing matchmaker.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, responding with a deliberately cool smile of his own. “What else do you need from me in order to make this party happen?”

  He had to give her credit—she was every bit as professional and focused on the art of event planning as Jada. For the next thirty minutes, he sipped wine and answered a seemingly never-ending string of questions.

  How did he feel about caviar?

  Thoughts on live music?

  Dance floor or no?

  Passed or tabled hors d’oeuvres?

  Signature cocktails or stick to the classics?

  Champagne label preferences?

  Paper invitations or digital?

  Did he have a calligrapher?

  Guest list?

  Parking?

  Were there any outdoor spaces to work with?

  Antagonistic relationships between guests to be aware of?

  Coatrack?

  In truth, it was all stuff that he could and probably should pass to Darlene, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Adeline that he took pride in hosting the way his parents had. Granted, with his parents, it had been a joint effort. He remembered them sitting at the table with a bottle of white and notebooks, jokingly bickering about whether Judge Miller could really be trusted with cocktail sauce in a room with white carpet, or debating whether the rumors about an affair between so-and-so were viable enough to affect the guest list.

  His father had known when to delegate in his professional life, but when it came to connecting with people, Robert Davenport Sr. had made hosting a personal priority. He’d wanted to know exactly who was coming into his home, what that person liked, what that person needed from him, and how to make sure that person left the party with a smile. And yes, a yea vote on Election Day.

  Robert was fully aware that his success as a politician had come from mimicking this personal approach to public affairs. And currently, it gave him a legitimate excuse to stay close to Adeline Blake née Brennan.

  She had her pen between her teeth as she studied her notes. “Okay, how about—”

  “A break from the party talk?” he suggested. She looked up, and Robert nodded at her plate. “You’ve barely touched your pasta.”

  “Oh. Right.” She put her notebook and pen aside with obvious reluctance and picked up her fork, taking a generous bite. “It’s good,” she said, pointing the fork down at the ravioli. “Really good. Better than your grass and beans, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

  “Pretty hard to beat pasta,” he said in agreement, pulling the bottle from the ice bucket and topping off both of their wineglasses.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you trying to get me tipsy?”

  “Do you have any meetings or events after this?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “Me neither. So, what’s the harm?” he asked, lifting his glass.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Me spilling my darkest secrets and saying things I shouldn’t?” she said with a smile, punctuating the statement by picking up her water glass instead of the wine.

  Bingo. Martin would practically be salivating at the lead-in, but Robert found himself hesitating, wishing that Adeline Blake would share her secrets with him someday because she wanted to—not because he pressed and plied her with alcohol.

  He shook the sentimental longing aside. He was the mayor, soon to be the governor, if he played this right. He may be a clean politician, but he was still a politician. People like him weren’t afforded the luxury of emotional indulgences.

  The real question was, which was the right tactic with this woman? His attraction to Adeline made her hard as hell to read. On one hand, she was refreshingly forthright, so the direct approach could work well. On the other hand, she was also wary. If he pushed the wrong button, or pushed too hard, he could lose his chance to get his foot in the door altogether.

  He did a mental coin flip and landed on the frank, get-right-to-it approach.

  “Dark secrets, you say,” Robert said, leaning forward with a deliberately casual grin. “Hard not to be intrigued. I’ve always had a weakness for a woman with a past.”

  The second the words were out, he knew his coin had landed the wrong fucking way. Her entire face seemed to shut down, her body going still like a trapped animal with no way out.

  And not a scared, nervous doe. More like an angry, ticked-off lioness.

  Adeline deliberately looked at her watch, then picked up her notebook. “Actually, Mr. Mayor, I’d love to stay and chat, but I think I have everything I need, and with the time crunch, I’d like to get started righ
t away. If there’s anything else you think of as it relates to your party, feel free to call my office. Cordelia will make sure any details get passed on to me. Thank you for the lunch. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He stood when she stood. “Ms. Blake—”

  The chilling look she sent him froze his words in his throat. Just as well, since he obviously wasn’t choosing the right ones when it came to this woman.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you for joining me.”

  She gave a cool, distant smile. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”

  He nodded in response as she walked away, even as everything felt wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday, October 13

  Robert walked into his office, his attention on his phone. He did a double take when he saw a man sitting in his chair.

  The shock faded immediately into relief and happiness as the man spun fully around.

  “Well, holy hell,” Robert said with a grin, going to greet his chief of staff. “Look who was finally released from the shackles of early matrimony.”

  “If that’s what you call a honeymoon, it’s no wonder you’re still single,” Kenny Lamb said as the two men exchanged a quick thump of a hug.

  “I thought you weren’t back until next week. Wasn’t the whole plan to have sex in the Caribbean for a week and then come back and have day sex in your apartment for the rest of the month?”

  “It’s called a staycation, and it’s what all the cool kids are doing as a way of settling into married life in their own space, in a relaxing and productive manner.”

  “And you were bored?” Robert guessed.

  “Beyond bored,” Kenny said with feeling. “So was Melinda. She also thought her assistant choreographer was after her job and insisted she go down to the theater ‘just to check on things.’ That was four hours ago.”

  “Is she right? About her assistant angling for her job?”

  “Probably. I’ve always said the only thing more cutthroat than New York politics is Broadway. Well, and the music scene. And Wall Street. Come to think of it, is your job even hard?”

  “Not anymore,” Robert replied. “My chief of staff is back.”