Campaigning for Christopher (12 page)

A salmon-colored blush seeped into her cheeks, and her dark eyes searched his face for a long moment before the cab behind her laid on the horn, making them both jump.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping away from him even as their eyes remained locked together.

He shrugged as if he didn’t care, then watched her open the taxi door, step inside, and zoom away.

***

Leaving Philadelphia on a seven o’clock train meant that Julianne would arrive in New York at eight thirty, giving her just enough time to take a cab to the offices of Skid City Cosmetics on Fifth Avenue, where she would meet Frances Watson and the cosmetic executives for her scheduled nine o’clock meeting. It also gave her a solid ninety minutes of quiet time to think.

Her subject matter? Not surprisingly, from the time she’d left Christopher Winslow yesterday, she hadn’t been able to think of anything except him.

She thought about him all the way home from the elementary school and all afternoon as she prepared for New York, ironing clothes and packing jeans for the train ride home. She thought about his face at the wedding on Saturday night, and his beautiful body covered with the cherry-red imprints of her lips. She remembered how his skin had felt beneath her lips—warm and vital—and how it had looked—pale but strong—bathed in the soft light of his brother’s cottage.

She thought about her decision to offer her help and the way he had launched his body at her as she walked into his office on Monday afternoon. A bolt of shame passed through her when she remembered how aroused she’d felt watching two men hold him back. Shame because his body had been taut and strained with fury, and the genesis of his hatred could be found in her actions. His eyes had been focused on her, every atom in his body on high alert.

There was a visceral connection between them, forged in betrayal and hate, and—despicable though it was—it belonged only to them. There was a heat to hate, an intimacy to it that made her heart race, a passion to it that attracted her like a doe to a salt lick. Even as she’d trade almost anything to go back to Saturday night and make a different decision when Black Hat held out his phone to her, she couldn’t deny that the strength and volatility of Christopher’s feelings for her were somehow fascinating.

She could still feel his lips pressed against hers at Monday’s press conference, his thigh flush against hers at Tuesday night’s dinner, and the way it had felt to feel his lips press against her cheek before she left him. The gentle touch had sucked the air from her lungs, and she hadn’t caught her breath for several minutes after, concentrating on the spot his skin had touched. How he could decimate her with the brush of his lips. How desperately it made her want for him to touch her more.

Watching him speak to that audience of primarily Latino and African American parents and teachers yesterday morning had set a fire in her belly, a new sort of heat she hadn’t anticipated or expected. Seeing him up there at a podium, so noble and strong and certain, praising their community service efforts, promising to bring that sort of spirit to Congress, and encouraging them to continue to be an example to other underprivileged neighborhoods of Philadelphia, had been galvanizing for Julianne.

She
wanted
to be on Team Christopher. She was proud to be his “girlfriend.” And she desperately wanted him to win. Every time another woman looked at her with envy and admiration, she allowed herself to pretend, for just a moment, that she actually belonged to this smart, ambitious, idealistic, compassionate man. For a fleeting second, she’d slip into shoes that weren’t really hers, and she’d know the pride of being his, being worthy of him, truly owning the role of his partner . . . and the fantasy was intoxicating.

She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at her after the children left Mr. Mendoza’s music class, his face uncharacteristically soft, and she couldn’t help longing for a day that he’d be able to see past what she’d done to him and truly forgive her. Her waist still burned where he had pulled her closer when Mr. Mendoza complimented her. Even Julianne, who was far from worldly in the ways of men, recognized frank possessiveness when it hauled her up against his hip. But that same lack of worldliness left her confused when she tried to sort out its meaning: What
did
it mean? Did he want her even though he disliked her? Was she okay with that? Did she want to encourage it? Parts of her felt
more
than okay with it and eager to embrace it, which made her cheeks flush with shame. She’d never shared her body with someone who hated her. Despite the way she’d felt when he kissed her, she wasn’t sure she could live with herself if she engaged in a physical relationship with a man who had zero regard for her.

But
did
he hate her? He didn’t deny it on Tuesday night, and his eyes, as he pressed a strand of her hair gently behind her ear yesterday, told a different story. In deep green orbs, an unexpected tenderness warred with suspicion, and lust warred with common sense. Though his offer of a truce spoke volumes about his intentions to put the past behind them and find a way to work together, his snipey comment on the school steps proved that he wasn’t completely ready to back up the intent with action. The truth was that some large part of him hated her. The truth was that he didn’t trust her. The truth was that he probably never would.

Which made her longing heart ache.

Because this is what Julianne already knew: if she spent almost every day with him from now until Election Day, she would be solidly in love with him by the time the polls closed. And yet the terrible decision she had made on the day they met would make it impossible for him to ever, ever love her back.

How did she know for sure that she would fall in love with him?

Because it had already begun.

Because, even though her heart would break in half five weeks from now, when her usefulness was past and they “broke up” and Christopher moved to Washington without a second glance, there was nothing in heaven or on earth that would induce her to walk away from him before that day. Even if she never saw him again after November third. Even if she continued to love him for the rest of her life. Even if that love was never, ever requited. She wouldn’t consider protecting herself if it meant ever hurting him again.

Julianne had walked into his office at the beginning of the week because duty demanded that she try to regain her honor and right a wrong. But by the end of the week, she was staying for different and far deeper reasons—because Christopher Winslow was a man of action, and everything that he stood for made her want to know him, please him, reverse the terrible wrong she’d committed against him, and help his dreams come true.

That’s how she knew she was falling for him: because, despite the fact that her feelings for him would grow exponentially and never be returned, she wouldn’t walk away from him until her usefulness had run its course.

Next week she would return to his side. She would do everything in her power to help him win a seat in Congress. And when he won the election and said good-bye, she would know that her debt was settled. She would also know that the hidden love she’d borne him was strong and true.

And she would have a lifetime to nurse spirit back into her grieving heart.

***

So far, the weekend had been gray and cold, and Christopher had spent most of it in a genuinely bad mood.

His numbers were up—almost back to where they were before last Sunday—and Lori and Simon were fielding more donation and speaking engagement calls every day. By Friday, many of his volunteer staffers had come back to work, and his campaign was humming along, seemingly back on track.

But after a week of attending campaign events with Julianne, attending events without her felt somehow . . . off.

On Saturday afternoon, he had lunch with the Lions Club, initially surprised by the disappointment of the crowd when they realized that Chris had come alone, without
Jules
. Fielding question after question about his gorgeous girlfriend and why she wasn’t beside him forced Christopher to thoughtfully consider where she was (New York) and what she was doing there (attending meetings for modeling contracts). It made him think about how attractive she was—how exotic and alluring—and he wondered if she was being photographed in her underwear and how fucking lucky
that
photographer was. It also tricked him into imagining her as his actual girlfriend, and on the way home from the luncheon, he’d taken out his phone and written the following text:

Hey, Jules. How was New York? Hope everything went well.

Staring at the text, he realized it was completely inappropriate and erased it, typing instead:

Julianne, please don’t forget we visit Penn on Monday and have an appearance on
Good Day, Philly
on Wednesday.

Now he just sounded like a douche.

Shoving the phone into his pocket, he huffed in annoyance, his mind segueing to the dream he’d had about her last night.

She’d walked toward him in her waitress uniform as she had last Saturday night, and they still ended up at Cam and Margaret’s cottage, but there was no drugging, no betrayal, no sordid photos taken and sold to the highest bidder. In his dream, she untied her apron and unzipped her dress, letting both slip down her naked body and pool at her feet, before raising her eyes to his. He’d already trailed his gaze worshipfully up the curves and contours of her lush figure, and when she smiled at him, he drew her into his arms, crushing her against him as his lips found hers, his body shaking with arousal at the moment of contact. He cradled her face in his palms as her fingers slipped to the buttons on his shirt, nimbly opening them, revealing him, and then pressing her naked skin flush to his, his thundering heart hammering into—

He’d woken with a cock as hard as granite. After an intense early-morning workout in his building’s gym, trying to trade lust for sweat and dreams for work, he returned to his apartment, where thoughts of Julianne joined him in the shower, starting the whole annoying cycle all over again.

By Saturday night, Christopher was so distracted by incessant thoughts of her, he could barely get anything done, and he sincerely considered going to some dive bar incognito and finding a woman—any woman—to ease his raging desire. But it wouldn’t have worked. This wasn’t about
any
woman. It was about her. Julianne.
Jules
. Half devil, half angel, and all intoxicating woman, she was like a drug to Christopher Winslow, and he was quickly becoming an addict, disgusted with himself while his mind conjured wistful dreams and his body ached to have her near him again.

Finding and being with women had never been a problem for Christopher. By and large, women liked him—always had. Part of his fascination with Julianne was that she hadn’t. She hadn’t been swept off her feet by his boyish looks and Winslow charm. She had hurt him without even knowing him, and something inside him rose to the challenge of winning her regard.

But then what? For what purpose?

Just to experience her surrender?

Or to hurt her as she had hurt him?

Because his feelings for her weren’t soft. They were fascinated. They were hot. They wanted to fuck her long and hard until she cried out his name and vibrated around his cock. But they sure as hell weren’t tender.

And frankly, for usually easygoing Christopher Winslow, feeling this much animosity toward a woman he was attracted to felt . . . awful.

He had always fallen fast and hard. Always. Without exception. Last Saturday night, he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning the second he saw her face. And the wildly strange alternative reality of this entire situation was that if she hadn’t drugged him last weekend, they might have actually had something good going on by now. He might have eaten the words he’d said to Jessica—about not entering into a relationship during a campaign—right before he glimpsed Julianne for the first time. She
might
have been his exception.

Maybe it wasn’t probable, but it was certainly possible. Because he would have hung around and offered her a ride home from the wedding reception, and he definitely would have tried to get her number. And he wouldn’t have waited three days to call her. He would have called her on Sunday morning bright and early, hoping she’d spend the day with him.

He would have raced to her place and picked her up, held her hand as they took a walk by the Schuylkill while trading life stories, treated her to pasta at his favorite café, and curled up next to her on the couch to watch a movie as the sun went down.

They would have ended up making out, and who knows? Their connection was so strong, even in the fucked-up reality they actually inhabited, maybe she would have stayed over. Fuck knows he would have let her know she was welcome. And on Monday he would have driven her home, asking when he could see her again. And if she let him? He would have seen her every day.

By today—a full week later—he would have been a goner. Completely smitten. Utterly infatuated. Well on the way to something serious.

Instead . . .

He shook his head angrily. Instead, she was posing as his fake girlfriend, and even though he couldn’t stop thinking about her, a future together was unthinkable. And all of that incredibly sweet potential? The walk by the river, the bowl of pasta, the movie, a blissful week spent falling for each other? It was all like sand swallowed by one big catastrophic wave. Impossible to find again. Forever lost.