Campaigning for Christopher (14 page)

“Thanks.”

But suddenly he remembered his stupid fantasy about her modeling underwear, and some lucky fucking photographer who got to see her lush curves on display, and he heard himself blurt out, “Underwear?”

“W-what? No!” Her eyes widened, and she laughed in surprise. “Jewelry.”

“Oh. Well . . .” His cheeks flamed with heat. “Good.”

“Chris,” she said gently. “I promise I won’t do anything to embarrass you or sabotage you or hurt you before the election. Even if I’d been offered a Victoria’s Secret contract, I would have said no. I’ll only take jobs befitting the girlfriend of a public figure for now. You don’t have to worry.”

He blinked at her, turning away quickly. On the one hand, he was touched by her reassurances, but on the other, they felt meaningless in light of what she’d done to him, and words intended to comfort him instead reminded him that he barely trusted her. Hell, he hadn’t even totally trusted that she was coming this morning. Though the words were pretty, her promises still meant nothing to him.

But what really troubled him? It hadn’t even occurred to him that an underwear ad could hurt his campaign. He was so worried about some stupid photographer seeing her half naked, he hadn’t actually spared a thought for his campaign. He’d been thinking about . . . Julianne.

Come on, Chris. Get your head on straight.

“So you’ll be in New York on Thursday and Friday.”

She nodded. “As long as it’s okay with you. Simon said we didn’t have anything going on those days, but he
did
say something about going to Washington next week?”

Christopher nodded. “I scheduled a bunch of appearances and meetings for next week. The BIA, the Department of Commerce. I’m meeting with lobbyists and attending a fund-raiser. It’s my final visit to the capital before the election, so yeah, it’s an important visit.”

He watched her face as he told her about his trip. When Simon and Lori informed Chris on Friday that they thought Julianne’s presence in Washington could only help his campaign, he balked, but now, standing in this tiny elevator, staring at her face, he knew he wanted her there. Just as much as he’d wanted her at the Lions Club luncheon on Saturday and here today. Like everything else connected to Julianne, he didn’t feel like examining it. He just knew it was true.

“And you need me to go?”

No. Not really.

He nodded. “Yes. If you’re free.”

“I am.”

Inside, his heart launched into an excited gallop at the prospect of going out of town with her, but he kept his face politely neutral. “Great. I’ll have Simon send over the itinerary. We leave on Sunday.”

***

To Julianne, the exhibit was a strange blend of fascinating and mundane.

Fascinating because the Penn Museum had just acquired a collection of Lakota items, and no doubt some of them were quite old, so they were carefully sealed behind glass with fancy labels. But they were also the sorts of things that she had taken for granted for most of her life: an ornate headdress dripping with beads and feathers, a shinny ball, a beaded pipe bag, and a buffalo hide with a painted sun. In this museum, these items were treasures. At home, these same items were on display at people’s homes, copious at the college where her mother worked, and not at all unusual to her. It made her feel both proud and bemused to see them treated so lovingly in such a foreign place. It didn’t seem like they deserved such special treatment, but she couldn’t deny it pleased her greatly.

“Miss Crow, I presume,” said the white-bearded man approaching them with a wide smile. “I’m Floyd Brainard, assistant professor of anthropology and one of the museum curators.”

“Hello,” she said, taking his hand and smiling back at him. “And please, it’s just Julianne.”

“Or
Jules
,” he said, winking at her before turning to Chris. “And Mr. Winslow, of course. Good to be back at your alma mater?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re grateful to you, of course.”

Christopher nodded quickly, and the professor turned his attention back to Julianne, gesturing to the buffalo hide she and Christopher had been viewing.

“What do you think?”

“It’s a nice robe,” she said simply, glancing at it again.

He leaned toward her as though sharing a confidence. “Between you and me? Most of my students would have guessed it was a throw rug.”

She laughed softly at the mischievous expression in his eyes. “Then it’s good they’re here learning from you.”

“
Lila waste chi lake
!” he said, grinning at her. Oh, I like you!

“
Pilamaya
,” she answered, feeling her cheeks flush.

“I wonder, Mr. Winslow,” said Professor Brainard, still gazing besottedly at Julianne, “if you’d allow Miss Crow to give a short introduction to the exhibit? I’m sure the students would love—”

“Oh no! Chris has some wonderful remarks planned.” Aside from the fact that public speaking made her want to throw up, she had no interest in upstaging him.

“But you have such a unique perspective. This is
your
culture,” insisted Professor Brainard. He looked at Christopher in supplication. “Mr. Winslow, surely you must agree—”

Before the Professor could make his case or Chris could answer, she interrupted again. “Please. I’m just here as Christopher’s guest, Professor. He’s running for office, not me. Please don’t—”

“Jules,” said Christopher from beside her. “It’s okay. You should speak.”

She turned to face him, willing him to understand that she couldn’t do it. What in the world was she supposed to say to this group of professors and students at one of the country’s most venerable institutions of learning? She had nothing prepared.

I can’t.

With his free hand, he reached up and touched her face, running his knuckle along the ridge of her cheek and nodding at her with a warm smile as if to say,
Yes, you can
. When he looked at her like this—in the role of loving boyfriend—it made her heart ache for the real thing. It made her long for that tenderness to be real, to belong to her. And it made her believe she was capable of almost anything, including a completely impromptu speech at a college museum.

“O-okay,” she said.

He accompanied her to the podium in the center of the exhibit, standing beside her as Professor Brainard gave a short speech about the generosity of the Winslow family and how honored they were to welcome Christopher Winslow and Julianne Crow to the Penn Museum today.

She whipped her face to look up at Chris when his family’s name was mentioned, and suddenly she understood today’s exhibit on a whole new level. He wasn’t just here as a congressional candidate or a former student of the university. He was here as a benefactor: his family had donated the money that allowed items from her culture to be displayed at this museum and shared with the faculty and students of Penn.

“
You
did this?” she asked, her heart doubling in her chest and squeezing out all the space that would have allowed her to take a deep breath.

“My family,” he answered, but his eyes burned into hers, and she knew it had more to do with Chris than the rest of his family. She felt it. She knew it was true. He’d funded this exhibit, probably long before he’d ever met her, because he cared about her people and their culture, because he cared about people in general.

The oppressive memory of her initial mistreatment of him lay like a boulder on her chest. A racist? Remembering Black Hat’s disgusting lies about a person full of so much goodness made her want to cry, made her want to scream and bawl and beat her chest with the unfairness of it, with the full knowledge of her gullibility and stupidity.

“. . . and now I’m honored to introduce Miss Julianne Crow, a proud member of the Lakota Nation.”

The students and faculty in the room clapped politely as Professor Brainard stepped away to make room for her. Frozen in place, she looked up at Chris, and he grinned at her, placing his hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. She took a deep breath and leaned toward the microphone, her heart beating so furiously, it was making her light-headed.

“H-hello.”

So many eyes looked at her, waiting for her to speak—to say something meaningful. The pressure was like a vise, and when added to the maelstrom in her brain, it left her frozen.

The connection she felt to the pieces of her culture on display here in Philadelphia.

Christopher’s heartbreaking donation to make it happen.

The very present memory of Black Hat’s deception and her subsequent sabotage.

It all converged within her like a tornado and made her stomach roll over. She pursed her lips shut, willing herself to calm down. With her hands clasped like claws behind her back, she gazed out helplessly at the crowd of people waiting for her to speak.

And then.

She felt Christopher’s warm hands land softly on her own, separating them gently and holding them firmly behind her back. She could feel the heat of his body behind her, the strength and goodness of his presence. He leaned down close, and her breath caught as his voice rumbled softly in her ear.

“Remember how you spoke to the children last week? It’s exactly the same. You’ve got this, Jules. Just breathe.”

On command, her lungs opened up like a sunflower to the warmth of the sun, and Julianne took a deep, cleansing breath, resting her fingers in his as though drawing strength from the contact, borrowing his life force, making it her own.

She lifted her chin and cleared her throat.

“M-my name is Wichahpi Mapiya Kangee, and I, um, as P-Professor B-Brainard said, I am Lakota.”

Damn it.

He’d missed it on Monday because he was so furious with her and so distracted by her appearance. Not to mention, addressing the press had been
her
idea, so he hadn’t questioned her comfort level. On Tuesday, she hadn’t been expected to speak publicly, and he suspected she’d been more comfortable on Thursday because she was with little children in a cozy music room. So today was the first time he’d really noticed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re afraid of public speaking?” asked Christopher as they left the museum together half an hour later.

Their fingers were still entwined, and though they weren’t on display, which meant the pretense wasn’t required anymore, he didn’t break the contact, because he liked touching her. Because, fuck it, it felt nice, and he was just going to leave it at that.

“It completely terrifies me,” she admitted as he opened the door to the courtyard and they stepped into the bright, warm sunlight.

“But, last Monday . . .”

She took a deep breath and nodded as they walked down the stairs and into the gardens at a far more leisurely pace than when they’d arrived. “I gave my first press conference. And yes, I was petrified.”

“Jules,” he breathed, as the pieces came together in his head.

She was terrified of public speaking, and yet her first public speaking engagement was to hundreds of reporters, on live TV, explaining away a scandal. Despite the fact that standing at a podium had rendered her speechless and frozen twenty minutes earlier, she’d somehow found the courage to walk into his campaign headquarters last week, and, with his blazing anger as her companion, managed to speak off the cuff to a pack of rabid reporters, reversing the debacle she’d caused.

“Trial by fire,” she said, laughing ruefully.

“How’d you do it?” he murmured, turning her to face him at the foot of the stairs.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, dropping his eyes and looking down at her broken shoes. A moment later she lifted her chin, her black eyes swimming with tears as she met his steady gaze. “I had no, um, no choice. I had to . . . I had to
try
to m-make things right.”

He stared at her, blown away by her bravery, even as he tried to reconcile the girl she was now to the girl who had taken pictures of him prone on his brother’s couch.

“I wish I could . . . I don’t trust you,” he blurted out, almost more to himself than to her, and wishing—for the hundredth time—that they’d met a different way.

“That’s because I don’t deserve your trust.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to earn it?”

“Because I am.”

Clenching his jaw so tight that it ached, he searched her face, feeling angry and sorry, longing and pissed, frustrated and—for the first time—
tender
toward her. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. Even as he leaned into Hurricane Jules, he sensed its danger, and that made him wary . . . and a little mean.

“Don’t,” he said, a sharp edge making his tone harsh. “It’s not going to happen.”

She nodded, easing her hand from his and clasping it behind her back as they walked along side by side, closer and closer to the wrought iron gate that meant a good-bye he simultaneously welcomed and dreaded.

“I can’t help trying,” she answered simply. “B-but I don’t expect anything from you, Chris. Just so you know, I’m here for the next five weeks, no matter what. I’ll do everything I can to, um, to help you win. Even though you don’t trust me. Even if you can’t stand me. Even if you
hate
me. I’ll still—”

“I don’t.”

She stopped walking. “You don’t what?”

He turned around and faced her from several paces ahead. “I don’t hate you.”

Her eyes widened before her eyelids fluttered, and she blinked at him. He pursed his lips and watched the way her face segued from disbelief to relief to happiness as she processed his words.

“You don’t?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

Her lips wobbled into an uncertain smile, and a tear rolled over the edge of her eyelid. But her face—
oh God, her stunning face
—was brushed with a softness that held him captivated.

She swallowed, taking a ragged breath as her smile grew stronger and more brilliant, blooming beneath his steady gaze. “I’m . . . Chris, I’m so relieved.”

Christopher Winslow stared back at her, certain in the knowledge that in the course of his entire life, he’d never seen anything as beautiful as Julianne Crow right this minute, right here, right now. Basking in the warm light of redemption, she was so beautiful it hurt, and it hurt even more to see how much his reassurance mattered to her. Because it meant that
he
mattered to her, and his heart stuttered with gratitude and wonder as he realized how awesome it felt to know that, on some level, she cared for him. But in the very same breath, it hurt because he’d been truthful before, when he said that he could never trust her, and despite their attraction to each other and regardless of the feelings he suspected she had for him, there was absolutely no chance of a future between them.

Yes, he had forgiven the sinner, but he would
never
forgive the sin.

“I don’t hate you, but I hate what you did,” he added quickly. “And I’ll never forget it.”

“Oh. I . . . I understand.”

The softness drained from her face as she nodded at him, her smiling lips turning down until they were straight and forlorn. Then she turned and started to walk away.

“Do you understand that this . . .
us
. . .” He reached for her arm, clasping his fingers around her elbow until she faced him. “. . . this isn’t real? This is an act, Julianne. That’s all. There’s no . . . there’s no chance for anything more.”

As the words poured from his mouth, he wasn’t sure whom he was trying harder to convince. But as the final warmth in her eyes turned cool and she pulled her arm from his grasp, he didn’t feel an ounce of satisfaction or righteousness. He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling like a bastard, like someone who drowned kittens and clubbed baby seals for fun.

“If you think . . .” Her chest heaved, and her eyes flashed at him as she took a step away, pinkness flooding her cheeks. “If you think I’m infatuated with you, or, um, or have feelings for you or something like that . . . if that’s what you’re implying—”

He shrugged, keeping his expression impassive and his voice bored, even though his heart raced uncomfortably. “I’m just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“Don’t worry.” Though her eyes remained embarrassed and hurt, she lifted her chin. “We are.”

“Good.”

“Great,” she bit out, preceding him through the wrought iron gate and down the stairs to the sidewalk. She hailed a cab before he could think of anything else to say and didn’t spare a glance for him before it pulled away.

***

Julianne was mortified by their conversation in the Penn Museum gardens and arrived at the studios of
Good Day, Philly
on Wednesday morning determined to keep her feelings for Christopher deeply hidden until she could figure out a way to bury them once and for all.

All day on Tuesday, as she took a brisk walk around Philadelphia, did her meager grocery shopping, and spent the evening conditioning and blow-drying her long hair, she reminded herself: no matter how tenderly he touched her, or how warm his words sounded when they were “on,” it was all—as he’d made perfectly and embarrassingly clear—an act. Nothing about it was grounded in truth. Though he didn’t hate her, he didn’t like her, he certainly didn’t trust her, and he would never see her as anything but the woman who had betrayed him. She would do well to treat their time together like a pro bono
acting job, ignore her fast-growing feelings, and turn her attention toward a future in New York as soon as possible.

Despite her pep talk, as Julianne walked into the TV station greenroom for coffee and saw him standing beside the craft table, her heart grew wings.

He wore a charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt, but instead of his usual blue and red striped tie, he wore a dark green tie with tiny repeats of Philadelphia Eagles in navy and white. Glancing down at the tie, then back up at her, he grinned sheepishly.

“Does it make my eyes pop?”

Why, oh why, do you have to be so adorable?

She took a deep breath and sighed, trying not to smile as she approached him. “It looks very nice.”

His eyes trailed hungrily down the front of her simple outfit: a white silk blouse paired with a dark brown faux-suede pencil skirt and matching knee-length boots.

“You look hot,” he whispered.

She blinked at him in surprise, her whole body tensing. If he wasn’t interested in her, he shouldn’t say things like that, and yet how she could reprimand him when those very words fed something primal and needy in her soul? So she didn’t say anything. She stared at him, knowing her eyes were stricken and confused.

“Aw, Jules. I’m sorry for . . .”

“For what?”

“For . . .” He looked down at the floor before meeting her eyes again. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you on Monday.”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging like it was.

“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you had a crush on me, or something stupid like that.”

“Chris, I get it,” she said tightly. “Really. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

He took a sip of his coffee, finishing it, then fidgeting with the cup. “This whole situation is fucking with my head.”

Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. “Tell me about it.”

“I just, you know, God, I just wish we’d met differently. Under different circumstances.”

“Me too,” she said, working to keep her hands from trembling as she picked up a cup and filled it with coffee. “Every day.”

“Well, it is what it is, I guess.”

Remember, there’s no future for you here.

She nodded, turning away from him to take a seat in one of two easy chairs that faced a TV and showed what was going on in the studio. Right now a man with an armadillo was showing the weekday hosts, Kelly King and Sadie Stewart, how the poor thing jumped vertically three or four feet when startled. Julianne bristled, feeling sympathy for the animal and fury at the wildlife “expert.” She leaned forward and turned off the TV.

“I think we’re supposed to watch that,” said Chris, taking the seat beside her. “So we know when it’s our turn.”

“I’m not going to watch someone torture an animal in the name of entertainment.”

“Do you have a fondness for armadillos?”

“I have a fondness for life. All of it. In all of its forms.”

After he stared at her for a moment, his lips quirked up in a small smile. “You know, I barely know anything about you, and yet I know a ton about you. That makes no sense, right?”

She shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. “You know a lot of
facts
about me. That doesn’t mean you know who I am.”

“Exactly.” He grinned at her, and her heart skipped a beat. “Who are you, Julianne Crow?”

“I’m still figuring it out,” she answered honestly.

“Why do I get the feeling that’s not true?”

“How do you mean?”

“Granted, you’re one of the more complicated people I’ve ever met, but I get the feeling you really
know
yourself.”

She shook her head, grinning at him with bemusement. “That’s because I’m an Indian.”

“What?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you see wisdom when you look at me, right? I mean, physically. In my features. In the darkness of my eyes or the height of my cheekbones?”

“Okay, that’s kind of weird, but yeah, I guess you’re right. On some level, you look . . . mature.”

“What else? Hmmm. I’m betting you see . . . communion with nature?”

He gestured to the quiet, dark TV that no longer showed armadillo torture. “Yeah.”

She nodded. “And my voice. It’s low toned and more deliberate in its rhythm than you’re used to. It has a slight accent that makes me accentuate some words and lightly mispronounce others. But somehow it makes what I say have more gravitas. Right?”

“Yeah. Okay. I admit it.”

“Chris, I’m not a—” She used air quotes. “—‘wise, ole Injun’ because I have dark eyes and high cheekbones, speak carefully with a slight accent, and care if an asshole is getting his rocks off scaring a defenseless animal on TV.”

“I never said that you were a wise, ole—”

“I’m a twenty-two-year-old girl who’s far away from home, living in a city she never even dreamed of visiting. I grew up surrounded by more poverty than you can ever imagine, and I’m still learning the ways of the world outside the reservation. I am often confused, always uncertain, and caught between two worlds: one I know and don’t want, and one I don’t know and want desperately. I miss my mother.” She paused, blinking rapidly, and took a ragged breath. Holding it for a moment, she willed her tears away and felt relief when they receded a little. “I
don’t
know myself. At best, I’m
getting
to know myself. And as you know—better than anyone else in the world—I’m making big mistakes as I get there.”