Campaigning for Christopher (2 page)

“Show me the money,” she’d said suspiciously, looking over her shoulder to be sure the catering manager wasn’t nearby. As much as she didn’t love waitressing, she couldn’t afford to lose these jobs for loitering by the garbage cans during setup.

He’d quickly pulled out his wallet and shown her a neat row of hundred-dollar bills. Just like that. There it was: her chance to give her dreams a little more time.

“Pictures of who?” she’d asked, raising her eyes.

“There’s a man coming here tonight. Brother of the bride. Man by the name of Christopher Winslow. You heard of him?”

Julianne shrugged. Sure, she’d heard of him. His face had been omnipresent around Philadelphia all summer: a rich, young businessman running for Congress. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t stared at his picture on the side of a bus or in the newspaper a time or two. He was everything she wasn’t: white and preppy, from a rich family who’d given him a great education. And yes, he was just about the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but he also looked posh and superior—like someone who’d barely give her the time of day.

“He’s not a good man,” Black Hat continued earnestly, sweeping his beady eyes over Julianne’s face. Lowering his voice, he confided, “Not many people know this, but he’s sexist, and . . . he’s a racist.”

Julianne stiffened as though on command, her eyes blazing.

From an early age she’d witnessed the racial struggle between the Indians on her reservation and the white men and women in the border towns. Bodies of her tribesmen found in rivers and ditches. Trials that never quite meted out justice. Two sets of rules, with her people always getting the short end of the stick.

Black Hat had hit a nerve—possibly the most throbbing and painful nerve in her being—

and she took a step closer to him, her blood boiling at the thought of a closet racist being elected to any position of power or authority.

Her inner morality, however, revolted against the notion of taking money for doing what was right. No matter how much she needed the five hundred dollars, no matter how far it would go in allowing her to continue pursuing her dreams, she couldn’t accept it on principle. She could, however, help Black Hat expose a racist and return home with her head held high, knowing that while she’d been forced to leave Philadelphia, she’d done something worthwhile—something great, even—before she left. She wouldn’t be leaving in defeat. She’d be leaving in victory.

“Keep the money,” she said through clenched teeth. “What do you need?”

The man’s eyebrows had shot to his hairline, and he’d stood, frozen in shock, for just a moment before scrambling in his pocket to pull out a small, clear, plastic bag, which he passed to Julianne. She shoved it quickly in her apron pouch.

“That’s Rohypnol. Put two tablets in his drink. It’ll knock him out completely in a little less than half an hour, which means you’ll have about twenty minutes to take him somewhere quiet.”

Her eyes widened. Crusading for a cause was one thing. Prostituting herself was another.

“I’m not going to—”

“No! You don’t have to actually
do
anything with him. In fact, you don’t even have to get your face in the pictures. It’s better if you don’t. Just take some compromising shots, you know? His hand on your leg, a couple bottles of booze surrounding him. Loosen up his tie and mess up his hair. Lipstick on his neck. He’s rich, you know? And good-looking. He’s been able to present himself as this paragon of virtue, but he’s not. He’s not a good man. Just make him look . . . you know—”

“Bad,” she bit out.

“Bad,” confirmed the man with narrowed eyes and a satisfied smirk.

“Expose him,” she whispered passionately. She imagined a photo shoot in her head—the sort of pictures that would look lewd and decadent. The sort of smearing that would destroy a man who deserved destroying. “Ruin him.”

Black Hat nodded. “Exactly.”

The idea of playing some small part in ruining this terrible man made her lift her chin higher, and she owned her mission like a duty on behalf of have-nots everywhere. Not just her and her people, but the children in the poor neighborhoods of Philly—the kids who’d had childhoods like hers, steeped in poverty and uncertainty. Why should a rich white man who’d been born into luxury be voted into a position of power under false pretenses? How could she allow it to happen when she had inside information. The simple answer? She couldn’t.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

The man passed the phone to Julianne with a brief nod.

“I’ll be here—
right here
by the Dumpster—at ten o’clock. I’ll wait ten minutes.”

“Don’t worry,” she’d said, tucking the phone in her uniform pocket, next to the tablets.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she had a moment of self-awareness—she was about to do a great thing if Christopher Winslow was truly bad, but a despicable thing if he wasn’t, and she was basing the entire decision on Black Hat’s unverified information. Looking up, she searched the man’s eyes, looking for reassurance. She didn’t find it. She didn’t find anything. His eyes were dark and cool, which gave her misgivings more gravitas.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know he’s so bad? I’ve never heard anything like this in the news, you know, about him.”

The man smirked at her. “You want proof.”

She nodded.

He took his smartphone from his pocket and swiped his fingers across the screen. “Watch this.”

She’d taken the phone from him, staring down at the video compilation. All the clips were of Christopher Winslow giving various speeches and statements to the press, but it was his words that quickly hardened Julianne’s face . . . and her heart:

“Unwed mothers? Not my problem.”

“Why should a woman be paid as much as a man?”

“I’m qualified to tell you what a single, minority woman needs: a kick in the ass.”

“Personally, I’m very comfortable firing people.”

“I don’t think people of Hispanic origin are entitled to health care.”

“Send them back to Africa.”

“You don’t like it? Too bad. I know what I know.”

“Whatever. I have more important things to do than worry about one poor kid in one poor neighborhood.”

She gasped as her stomach flipped over, and she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

Derogatory. Sexist. Superior. Racist. Condescending.

Evil.

And she’d seen it with her own eyes, heard the words tumbling out of Christopher Winslow’s beautiful, hateful mouth.

She clenched her teeth together and handed the phone back to Black Hat, barely able to contain the force of her fury.

“Thank you,” she grated out.

“Thank you?” he asked, screwing up his brows at her as he took his phone back.

“Thank you for giving me this chance to do what’s right,” she said, gulping over the ferocity of the storm raging within her.

For just a moment, Black Hat paused, his eyes searching her face. “Take the money.”

“No, sir,” she said, surprised to find she wasn’t even tempted. In two weeks she’d have to pull up stakes and buy a bus ticket home, but she’d know that she’d done something meaningful—something fiercely righteous—before leaving.

His face quickly smoothed back into its former blank slate, and he nodded. “Okay, then. Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Julianne said, turning away from him. When she got to the tasting room door, she looked back to find him rooted where she’d left him, watching her thoughtfully. “See you at ten.”

He nodded at her, then slipped away quickly into the half-light of the dying afternoon.

“Jules?” said Joe, snapping her thoughts back to the present. “You need anything else?”

She looked down at the now-full tray, her eyes alighting on the double shot of Killarney that she was going to take to Christopher Winslow.

“No,” she said, pulling the tray to the edge of the bar and slipping the tablets discreetly into the whiskey as soon as Joe turned around to start on another order of drinks. She swirled the alcohol with her finger, watching the tablets dissolve. “I’ve got this covered.”

Christopher Winslow patted his brother Preston on the back as he grinned at their oldest brother, Brooks.

“So I guess next summer will be Sesame Street at Westerly, huh?”

Preston and Brooks had just given a tandem speech at their little sister’s wedding and shared the news that Preston’s wife, Elise, and Brooks’s fiancée, Skye, were both expecting babies in the spring.

“Aw, Chris,” teased Preston, “you’re just pissed you won’t be the youngest anymore.”

“Youngest
brother
,” clarified Jessica, who sidled up alongside Brooks, giving them all a brilliant smile. “And
I’m
thrilled. Don’t be surprised if Alex and I—”

“Please don’t say it,” begged Brooks, his expression souring. “None of us wants to imagine you and Alex doing . . .”

“. . .
that
,” grumbled their other brother, Cameron, who stood up from the table and joined his brothers and sister.

Jessica elbowed Cameron in the stomach before placing her arms around Cameron’s and Brooks’s shoulders. Brooks put his arm around Preston, who put his arm around Christopher, who put his arm around Cameron, and they were a complete, closed, huddle of siblings.

“I can’t believe you’re married,” said Christopher softly, as his eyes lifted to Jessie’s.

In the course of one whirlwind summer, all of Christopher’s siblings had suddenly found themselves engaged or married, and frankly, it was messing a little bit with his head. For the past several months, he’d had to put relationships on the back burner and concentrate his attention on his campaign and on the public’s impression and expectation of him. Any red-bloodedness owned by his age and sex had been deferred in the pursuit of his dreams.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss women.

He did. A lot.

He missed being able to ask out a pretty girl. Even more, he missed being able to bed a sexy and willing girl. But dating and politics just didn’t mix. Christopher wasn’t ready to settle down, and being seen with a different girl every weekend would have made him look like a player, which he wasn’t . . . anymore. He had purposely decided to defer his personal life during his campaign, consoling himself that once he won and his political career was well established, he’d have the time and latitude to meet the woman of his dreams, marry her, and start a family.

For now, whether he liked it or not, whether he missed feminine company or not, he was married—lock, stock, and barrel—to his political ambitions.

“Marrying Alex makes today best day of my life,” said Jessie with a beaming smile. She looked around the circle at each of her siblings in turn. “But you will always be the most amazing brothers a girl could ask for, and I love each one of you more than words can say.”

Various mumbles of “Love you, too, Jess” were accompanied by more than one manly sniffle as the brothers stole glances at their little sister, the beautiful bride.

“I’m so happy for Brooks and Pres, and . . .” She twisted her neck to look at Cameron beside her. “. . . and although I have to get used to you and Margaret being engaged, Flash Gordon, you look good together. Really good, Cam. Really happy.”

“I
am
happy,” Cameron said softly, his eyes looking down, his voice infused with tenderness and wonder.

And there it was again, in Christopher’s gut: that sharp knife that told him he wanted what his siblings had recently found—that he was impatient for it, that he hoped he could find it in tandem with his dreams sooner rather than later.

“Which leads me to . . .” Jessica raised her eyes to Christopher as if she could read his mind, and he recoiled a little, leaving his arms around his brothers’ shoulders, but leaning back appreciably. He knew that look. Goddamn it, he
knew
that look. She wanted to meddle. “Chris. Lonely, lonely Chris.”

Three shit-eating grins of pure delight focused on his face as Jessica narrowed her eyes, setting her sights on her next project.

“I’m not in the market for forever right now, Jess.”

“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Your campaign.”

“I can’t afford to be seen with a woman—
any
woman—until after the election. There’d be too much speculation unless it was serious.”

“And God forbid it be serious,” she quipped.

This irritated him. “It’s not that I don’t want to find someone . . . eventually. The timing just isn’t right, well, right now.”

“Fine. But the minute you win, I’m going to find you a . . .”

Christopher released his brothers’ shoulders, held up his hands, and backed away from the circle of impending doom.

But sometimes the universe laughs at our sensible intentions. And as he raised his head, Christopher Winslow, who’d met many gorgeous girls in his day, locked eyes with the hottest, sexiest, most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

Christopher’s mother, Olivia, was fond of the word
lovely
. This woman wasn’t lovely. This woman blew pasty and placid
lovely
out of the water. With every step she took, she practically oozed sex. She was the full fucking package: tall and voluptuous, with skin the color of honey, eyes as black as her straight, long hair, and legs that were so long they should have been impossible. She had curves that would stop traffic, and she moved with this deliberate, unhurried sensuality, like she might just take all day if she wanted to, because, hell, she knew he’d still be waiting when she finally reached him.

She didn’t look back to see the crowd part in her wake, or the way the men she passed adjusted themselves, their eyes popping out of their skulls as they scanned her delectable curves in dazed wonder. Her eyes stayed locked on Christopher’s with a cool intensity until she was standing before him in a black dress and white apron, holding out a tray with a single drink. His glance darted to it. Whiskey. Neat. His drink of choice.

Stopping before him, her undulating hips finally still, she licked her lips and reached into her apron pocket for a cocktail napkin, then plucked the glass from the tray, offering it to him.

“Your drink,” she said, the barest hint of a smile teasing her full, sexy lips.

Christopher swallowed, willing his gaze not to drop to her full breasts, which strained against the simple black fabric of her uniform. “My . . .?”

“Your drink?” she repeated in a deep, throaty voice. “Whiskey? No rocks?”

He reached for it, trying to remember when he had ordered it. Was it possible she’d taken his order and he somehow hadn’t noticed her? No. Impossible.

“I ordered this? From you?”

Her lips widened into a smirk, and she laughed softly. “No. I’ve been working the other side of the party. You ordered this from Cassidy, the other server, but she’s on her break.”

“Oh,” he murmured, still staring at her, feeling the ground shift and dissolve beneath his feet as he drowned in her deep black eyes.

“Don’t let it get cold, now,” she said, her voice low and smooth, something very suggestive and slightly aggressive in its tone that made his heart beat faster and his blood surge in a primal, insuppressible way.

“There’s no ice in it,” he somehow managed to say.

“Maybe not,” she countered, leaning in, close to his ear. “But it
was
in my hand.”

Stepping back, she grinned at him, her eyes not quite teasing under thick sable lashes. She blinked them once, slowly, languorously, before turning to walk away.

Christopher didn’t know how long he stood there—stunned, stupefied, and so fucking turned-on, it would have taken an ice bath to get his body to cool down. Glancing down at his drink, he quickly lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and let the entire contents glide down his throat . . . which did nothing but make him hotter.

“Uhhhh,” he started, darting a quick glance to Jessica and Brooks, who watched with blatant amusement, before looking back at the waitress, who was headed toward the winery. “I, uh . . .”

Preston’s voice rumbled softly in his ear. “You have to see about a girl?”

“Fuck, yes,” he murmured, blindly handing off his glass to Preston as he moved, as though pulled by a magnet, to follow the hands-down sexiest woman he’d ever seen.

It didn’t take long to catch up with her. Just as she reached for the tasting room door, Christopher flattened his palm against it, causing her to turn around in surprise. Her face, which whirled in anger, with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, softened immediately as she realized it was him.

“Finished your drink?” she asked, glancing at his empty hand.

“Didn’t want it to get cold.”

Her lips twitched. “Can I help you with something else?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You can tell me your name.”

She grinned at him, letting the empty tray between them fall by her side as she leaned back against the tasting room door. Her eyes were cool and unhurried—full of mystery, like she was in total control of whatever was happening between them and he could take it or leave it. Chris wasn’t a stranger to women throwing themselves at him. And hell, since entering politics, it had only gotten worse. But she was different. The sort of aloof disinterest this waitress seemed to feel toward him only lifted the heat quotient to scorching.

“Why do you want to know my name?”

He shrugged, his eyes darting to his hand, still flattened against the door beside her head. If he moved his fingers a centimeter, they’d touch the glossy perfection of her long black hair. He forced them not to. If she could be cool, he could be, too.

“Do I need a reason?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head slowly. “No.”

“I want to know your name.”

“All of us
want
something,” she said softly.

“I
need
to know your name.”

“
Need
?” she purred, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth before letting it go. “Strong word.”

Suddenly he saw two of her, and he blinked, clenching his eyes shut quickly, then opening them again. Damn, he shouldn’t have had that last whiskey, or at least he should have sipped it.

“
Right
word,” he corrected her.

She licked her lips as her eyes traveled leisurely over his face. “Need . . . like air? Like water? Like salt? Like health care?”

He felt himself sway lightly and braced his second hand against the door, trapping her as a bead of sweat wound its way down the side of his face. “Yeah. L-like those things.”

“Like equality? Like compassion? Like . . .”

“Sex,” he blurted out, but his voice sounded slurred and slow, and he cringed inside at how crass the word sounded, thrown out there so uncouthly. The goddess, however, didn’t seem to mind.

“Sex,” she repeated, staring at his lips for a moment before raising her eyes to his. Her eyes were hard but somehow satisfied. “That’s what a girl like me is good for, right? Of course that’s what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want,” he parroted in a murmur, feeling light-headed, trying to keep up with the conversation, but feeling it slip away from him as another bead of sweat followed the first.

“Isn’t this your sister’s vineyard?”

“Not my ssssssister.” He shook his head, and the movement felt heavy and slow, and the world spun. Clenching his eyes shut, he said, “My brother’s . . . ffffffiancée.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, the sound catlike and sexy, and he opened his eyes to find two of her. Frustrated, he blinked several times, concentrating on her eyes, until there was only one of her again.

“Where do they live?”

Where does who live? What are we talking about?
he wondered.
Oh, right. Margaret and Cam. They live here.

“Cottage.”

“Sounds cozy,” she purred.

“Wha’s your . . . mame?” he asked her.

“Is the cottage close?”

“Hmm.” He turned his neck, swaying slightly as he looked at the dark, brambled path that skirted around the reception tent and led to the woods. “Short . . . uh . . . wwwwalk.”

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, her low voice filling his head with filthy fucking thoughts. “Take me.”

Take me.
Damn.

Christopher clenched his eyes shut again. Her words blew his mind, but his whole body was feeling hot and sluggish and sloppy. And somewhere—deep in the back of his head—a tiny, drowned-out voice was telling him to be careful, to beware. But in her enormous black eyes, he saw the twinkle of the thousands of white lights roped around the tent behind them, and it was enough of a distraction to silence the warning.

“Your eyes are . . . like the nnnnnight sky. The . . . uuuuuniverse. The . . . hhhhheavens . . .,” he murmured, leaning so close to her, he could feel the heat thrown from her body, could smell the clean, woodsy scent rising from her pores. “. . . and a . . . a million . . . starssssss.”

For a moment—for just a split, solitary second—she flinched, her forehead creasing and eyebrows pinching together as she stared back at him. But then her tricky, pussy-cat smile returned, and she wrapped her hands around his wrists, pulling them gently from the door, and lacing her fingers through his.