Campaigning for Christopher (21 page)

Holding his hand as they were escorted around the well-marked exhibit, she became distracted from Chris by looking at the artifacts from a cultural similar, and yet different, from her own. She gingerly touched a robe made of wolf skins, marveling at its softness after a hundred years of hard use. She recognized a tribal drum similar to the ones used during powwows at Gray Elk, and just for a moment, she longed to hear its low, certain thrum. There was a terrific reproduction of a wigwam and authentic wooden snowshoes.

“Miss Crow,” said the museum docent, a friendly woman named Sherrilyn Full Moon Frome, “we were wondering if you’d be willing to speak for a few—”

“Miss Crow prefers not to—”

“I’d be honored,” answered Julianne smoothly, dislodging her hand from Chris’s and taking her cards out of her purse.

His eyes flicked down at them, and she saw the realization pass across his face, followed by admiration, and despite his jackassery in the car, she couldn’t help offering him a small smile.

“I’m prepared this time.”

His eyes bore a tunnel straight to her heart, which beat like the drum she missed so terribly.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

He leaned forward, pushing her hair out of his way, and her eyes fluttered closed for just a second. His breath was warm against the skin of her neck as he dropped his lips in a tiny kiss before whispering, “Go get ’em, Little Star.”

When he drew back, she looked up at him helplessly. She hadn’t realized that he knew her birth name, but hearing its English translation drop from his lips so naturally was like the sweetest and most unexpected blessing. As her night-sky eyes stared into his grass-green eyes, she heard the word
Thečhíȟila
fall softly from her lips.

His face registered none of the shock that he would have felt had he understood Lakota. Instead he smiled curiously, scanning her eyes. “What does that mean?”

I love you.

“N-nothing.”

“I’ll find out someday,” he said, his grin teasing. “Is it a bad word?”

She rolled her lips between her teeth for a second before releasing them. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Too many things to explain right now.”

“Another time?”

A time you believe will never come for us.

“Sure,” she said halfheartedly, turning to the small podium and arranging her cards with trembling fingers.

Twenty minutes later, every person in the small meeting room was on his or her feet as Julianne finished her remarks, concluding with why she felt the Lenape Nation deserved federal recognition and why Christopher Winslow was the candidate to make it happen.

She beamed at the small audience, feeling proud of herself. Her voice had barely shaken once, and she’d overcome her stuttering by concentrating on the cards and lining up her next comments before she finished the card she was on, so she always had something ready to say. She looked around the room at the various members of the Lenape tribe, her eyes finally resting on Chris, who stood tall—and so very, very proud—in the front row.

Bravo
, he mouthed, clapping along.
And thank you
.

She nodded her pleasure, giggling softly to herself in triumph. Though public speaking would never be her favorite thing, she had been brave and strong today, and her words had mattered.

After visiting with members of the tribe for a few extra minutes and taking some pictures for a local newspaper, she and Christopher gathered their coats and headed back to the car. As soon as the doors slammed shut, Chris turned to her with wide eyes, nodding his head slowly with surprise and approval.

“You totally rocked that.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You were amazing, and you connected with the audience about ten times better than I could’ve.”

“No way,” she said, slapping his arm gently. “I’ve heard you speak. Everyone’s always riveted.”

“I’m telling you,” he said seriously, catching her hand before she could pull it away. “You were phenomenal, Jules. Poised, prepared, and professional. I can’t even tell you how proud I feel that you’re my—” He cut himself off, frowning as he looked down at their bound hands.

“It’s okay,” she said, the warmth of his praise cooling a little as she realized what he was about to say, and that he wouldn’t allow himself to say it.

She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip tightened as he looked up at her, his eyes slamming into hers.

“
Please
reconsider,” he begged her.

She didn’t fight for her hand, but her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away from him, looking out the window. “No.”

“Okay,” he murmured, the sound a poignant mix of anger and acceptance.

They sat holding hands for several minutes before he spoke again. “Do you love modeling?”

Surprised by the change in topic, she turned to face him. “No. But part of me is grateful for it.”

“I think . . .” He looked like he was puzzling through something. “If you don’t love modeling—hell, even if you
do
—I think you
belong
in Washington. I’ve gotten to know you, Jules, and I know you want to make a difference, and I just think, well, I think you could be a powerful spokesperson for the rights of indigenous Americans. I mean, have you thought about a career change?”

She didn’t realize it took only a few perfect words for a heart to grow wings and soar, but hers did. It was as full as the moon over harvest and as light as a feather as she processed what Christopher was saying. In three short sentences he’d given her the greatest compliment of her life, and she took a moment to bask in his words and feel them from the top of her head to the tips of her toes . . . before reality set in.

And . . .
thunk
.

“They don’t just hand out jobs in Washington.”

“To a beautiful American Indian, who was ten credits short of a college degree, recently found her voice, and has something worthwhile to say? I don’t know, sweetheart. They just might.”

Her heart beat wildly as this compliment fell atop the first, creating a small treasure tower of precious words in her head.

But your future’s not in Washington
, asserted her mind through the haze of wonderful.
Your future’s in New York.

This cold reality landed with a
thwack
in her consciousness, and she winced because it was true. It didn’t matter if Washington was where her heart belonged—in politics and with Chris. Her wallet would be empty by January unless she signed with Skid City, and her hand, filled with the warmth of his right now, would be empty by then too.

Oh, Chris, thečhíȟila, thečhíȟila, thečhíȟila. Please find a way to love me back before it’s too late.
Longing squeezed her chest until it ached, and she withdrew her fingers from his, folding them demurely in her lap.

She couldn’t help her voice from breaking when she whispered, “Thank you, Chris.” Then she leaned her head against the window beside her and closed her burning eyes.

***

I miss her.

Fuck.

I miss her.

Christopher hadn’t seen Jules since dropping her off at her apartment on Monday afternoon. After a stilted good-bye, he’d had the driver take him to his campaign headquarters, where he’d spent the afternoon speaking to various supporters and given a phone interview to a newspaper reporter in Washington. But Jules was constantly on his mind. In the tiny moments between well-chosen words, she was there. In the large moments, when he was asked to comment on his relationship with her, she was definitely there. She was everywhere lately, and surprisingly, it didn’t bother him. What bothered him was that she wasn’t sitting next to him, or giving him a hard time, or waiting for him at his apartment (preferably naked and in his bed) at the end of a long day, and—more and more—that’s exactly where he wanted her.

Up until their trip to Washington, Jules had been largely ornamental in Christopher’s campaign—this sexy, gorgeous girl on his arm who’d sabotaged, then boosted, his election hopes. But after yesterday, he couldn’t deny anymore that she was much, much more than just a pretty, and very distracting, face. She was a wholly untapped resource and could be a crucial asset—not just here and now, but in the long term.

Hell, what she’d achieved over the course of four days in terms of overcoming her fear of public speaking and putting together a terrific speech made his head spin and his chest swell with pride. She had coached herself on how to speak publicly with poise and confidence, she’d researched the Lenape Nation and zeroed in on issues important to the tribe, and then she’d woven into her speech all the ways that Christopher Winslow was the right candidate to address those issues in Washington. It was a beautiful thing to see. And a crazy-potent turn-on.

She could be useful to him in Washington. Or hell, not just useful to
him
, but to government in general. Her background and point of view were unique, she was fiercely passionate about the issues close to her heart, and, once poised, she was fascinating.

She had loved it in Washington, right? She’d said so. And she’d been forthcoming about her indifference to her modeling career. What if her own future could lead her to Washington too? Not as an extension of his career, but because it was her own, individual destiny? It would mean that they’d be headed to the same city. It would mean that they wouldn’t need to say good-bye in two and a half weeks after all.

The idea took root in his head on Monday night, and by Tuesday afternoon, while he was supposed to be writing a speech for “young minds” on his laptop, he couldn’t shake the notion of Jules in Washington with him. They’d be this amazing power couple who shared a commitment to the greater good, each using unique skills and talents to maneuver within the political machine. Independent. But together.

My God, we could be epic.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

“Bureau of Indian Affairs, Kerry speaking.”

“Hi, Kerry. This is Christopher Winslow. I was hoping to speak to Tim Poser.”

“Is the assistant secretary expecting your call?”

“No, ma’am, but I was his special guest for a tribal document signing last week. I’m a congressional candidate for the Seventh Congressional District in Pennsylvania.”

“Ah, of course, Mr.
Winslow
. May I tell Secretary Poser what this call is regarding?”

He hesitated, but decided it was best to be honest.

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Oh.” She paused for a moment. “Let me see if he’s available.”

Christopher waited as the line went silent, screwing up his face as he second-guessed the wisdom of this phone call. But just when he thought he was off the hook, someone picked up the line.

“Mr. Winslow,” said Tim Poser’s deep voice. “How are you?”

“Please, Tim, call me Chris.”

“Of course. You know, I’m glad to get your call. Haven’t made any headway on the Lenape yet, but I dug out the file, and we’re taking a closer look at it.”

“Oh, that’s great to hear,” said Christopher.

“I was
very
pleased to meet you,” said Tim. “It took me a minute to make the connection between your last name and the recent endowment at the National Museum of the American Indian, but once I made it—”

Christopher winced. This was what he’d been dreading. He didn’t like trading on his family name, and tried to downplay it whenever possible.
But for Jules?

“My family loves to support the arts, Tim, and my sister, Jessica, is a particularly avid supporter of our nation’s museums.”

“Well, please thank her, would you? Your family’s support will make it possible for the museum to create some really amazing outreach programs this year.”

“I’ll mention it to her. Sure.”

“Well, it was great talking to you, Chris. Was there anything else?”

“Actually, yes. I . . . uh, do you remember meeting my . . . girlfriend last week?”

“I’d have to be blind not to remember Miss Crow, son.”

Christopher chuckled softly. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

“That she is. A stunner. And very warm too.”

“You know, she could be a real asset to the BIA, Tim. That is, if you had any openings on staff.”

“Huh. I have to say, I’m surprised.”

“How so?”

“Forgive me, but I assumed Miss Crow was a society lady. Planning fund-raiser galas and 5K’s for good causes. And isn’t she a model?”

“She is a model, but I don’t believe her heart’s in her work. I think, well, I think she might be happier in DC.”

“Closer to you,” said Tim with a knowing chuckle.

“Sure, I’d love to have her near me in Washington, but the reality is that I think she’s got a heart for Indian affairs. She’s smart. She was born and raised on a reservation. I know she looks like a supermodel, but I think she’d be just as happy behind a desk at BIA, knowing she was making a difference.”