Campaigning for Christopher (7 page)

He leaned down close to her as the cameras flashed like crazy. With his breath kissing her ear, he growled, “Fucking smile. This was your idea.”

She swallowed, lifting her chin and plastering the warmest, most engaging smile on her face that she could muster, despite the fact that she trembled and quaked inside.

“Over here! Over here!”

Grateful for her meager modeling training, she smiled and waved until the buzz of the crowd had died down and Christopher whispered in her ear again, “Say something, damn it.”

“H-hello,” she said, clearing her throat before stepping closer to the microphone and starting again. “Hello.”

No one responded, but the murmur of the crowd before her dulled to a hush so that they could all hear her.

“I am, um . . . Julianne Crow, Christopher Winslow’s, um, girlfriend,” she said, her hands slick with sweat.

The hum of the crowd increased tenfold, and her eyes darted around the audience, looking for a friendly landing spot. As the reporters absorbed her words, she found them: smiles of wonder breaking out over the faces of these jaded journalists as they tapped on their tablets or took old-fashioned notes in their little spiral notebooks.

“Um. Well . . . we have b-been together since, um, since M-May, which is, um . . .”

“Four amazing months!” said Christopher jovially, his voice as warm as it had been on Saturday night. Warmer, even.

“Four amazing m-months. That’s right,” she said, taking a deep breath and trying to calm her nerves. “For the sake of Christopher’s campaign and so that we could, um, we could m-move at our own speed, we, um, kept our relationship a secret. On Saturday night, I was waitressing at the wedding of his sister, Jessica. And, um, we snuck away for a few, um, m-minutes.”

Christopher leaned in, close to the microphone, his cheek brushing hers. “Which of you
wouldn’t
sneak away if you had Jules waiting for you, huh?”

As the men in the crowd chuckled lightly, his lips touched her temple tenderly, and Julianne sucked in a surprised breath, looking up at him in shock. His smile didn’t reach his flinty eyes and had none of the warmth from Saturday, when he said, “Tell the rest, baby.”

Swallowing, she turned back to the microphone and smiled at the crowd again, feeling the imprint of Christopher’s lips against her skin. “Which one of you, um, ladies wouldn’t want to sneak away if you had, um, Chris waiting for
you
?”

And this time, the women of the crowd joined the men in a ripple of soft laughter, nodding and smiling, encouraging her to continue.

She thought about the story she’d concocted in her head, and even though she hadn’t had time to run it by Christopher and his team, she thought she may as well try it now.

“I, um, I shouldn’t have taken p-pictures, but I was trying out a new lipstick on Saturday. Um, Skid City’s Rockin’ Robin Red, and, well, you’ve all seen the, um, the p-pictures,” she said demurely, feeling genuinely embarrassed.

“In a reprehensible act of cowardice and sabotage,” said Christopher in a serious voice, leaning forward to command the microphone and every eye in the crowd, “someone stole Jules’s phone and leaked the pictures to the press.” Julianne cast her glance down, and Christopher pulled her closer. No doubt the crowd read this an act of protectiveness and love, but Julianne felt the iron strength in his arm, the way his chest moved up and down beside her as he controlled his breathing against the rush of anger and hate he surely felt for her. “You can imagine our horror, seeing personal and private memories of a happy night turned into a tawdry exposé about racism and alcoholism.”

Genuine tears pricked her eyes as she looked up, glancing at the bevy of reporters who looked at her with compassion and sympathy. Several reached for their cameras and clicked photos of her reaction as she swiped a tear off one cheek before leaning forward to speak again.

“It was . . . well, um, it w-w-was . . .”

Her voice broke, and she turned to Christopher helplessly, surprised when his face—which had been so ruthless and hard since the moment she walked into his campaign headquarters—softened, almost imperceptibly. But a split second later, it was covered in frost, and she felt his fingers curl almost painfully into her hip.

Keep it together, Julianne. Finish it up.

She lifted her chin, taking a shaky breath.

“Christopher d-didn’t want me to, um, to speak today. He said that he would, um, figure out a way to explain what had, um, happened, without involving me. B-but, I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him stand out here, um . . . alone,” she said, turning to him and hoping he could see that she was speaking the truth. “We should have been m-more, um, more discreet.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened for a moment, before he grinned and turned to the mic. “But that’s young love for you!”

The crowd chuckled with enthusiasm, and Julianne heard light applause.

“We’ll take a couple of questions,” said Christopher, easing the clench of his fingers. He nodded to a reporter in the back. “Max, go ahead.”

“Max Klein from the
Philadelphia Sentinel
. Miss Crow, are you—as the reports have indicated—Native American?”

“Yes,” she said, finally turning away from Christopher’s handsome profile, carved in granite for all the warmth he offered her. “I am a m-member of the, um, the Oglala Lakota Nation.”

“Johnny,” said Christopher crisply, adroit at dealing with the press. “You next.”

“Why were you waitressing at Jessica Winslow—pardon me—Jessica English’s wedding?”

“I, um, I m-model. I mean, m-modeling is my real job. I just waitress to, um, m-make ends meet.”

“You’re dating a millionaire, Jules! Let him foot some of your bills!” yelled someone in the back.

“This is one independent lady. She wouldn’t hear of it,” said Chris, who paused to graze her cheek with his lips and whisper with contempt, “She makes her own money . . . any way she can. Doesn’t she?”

Refusing to rise to his bait or let him derail them, she turned to face him with her warmest grin.

His gaze darted away from her fast, like it hurt him to look at her. Or disgusted him. Which she knew it did.

“Two more questions,” he said. “Yes. Belinda.”

“What about the allegations that you have a drinking problem, Mr. Winslow?”

Julianne’s eyes shot with vengeance from Christopher’s face to the reporter’s, nailing the genesis of the question with an unforgiving glare.

“He
isn’t
an alcoholic. Not even a little bit. We were p-playing with those, um, those liquor bottles. I told him I wanted to do an, um, ‘intoxicated with l-love’ photo shoot with m-my new lipstick, and . . . and . . . that’s all we were d-doing. He was staging a silly photo shoot for his, um, his m-model girlfriend. That’s all it was!”

“Did you say ‘intoxicated with love’?” asked a reporter in the front row.

Julianne shifted her gaze from the offensive woman in the back to the reporter, nodding sadly. “We were just having fun.”

“Christopher,” said the journalist, winking at Julianne, “would you say
you’re
intoxicated with love?”

“Oh, Cliff. I would say, beyond any shadow of doubt, this woman is one of a kind.”

Before she could think, Christopher had grabbed her far hand and laced his fingers through hers, turning her to face him. And for just a moment, his eyes held the same searching newness they’d held on Saturday night.

The heavens and a million stars.

“So that’s a yes?” confirmed Cliff.

“Beyond any shadow of doubt,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes.

“Then how about a kiss?” pushed the reporter.

“Kiss her!” yelled another.

“Go ahead and kiss her, you lucky bastard!” cried another from the back.

She saw the warm mask slip away, then the horror of his expression as his eyes darted to her lips with revulsion. Julianne bit her bottom lip, trying to telegraph to him with her eyes that they needed to just kiss and get it over with before going back inside, but she could see he was frozen with disgust.

So she did what she had to do.

Leaning forward,
she
kissed him.

His lips weren’t pliant, but they were warm, and she took a step closer to him, letting her breasts press against his chest as she closed her eyes.

We’re going to ruin this
, she thought, if he stayed stiff and cold.

She drew back, looking desperately into his eyes.

“Chris,” she said softly, using his nickname for the first time.

He flinched and his eyes narrowed, but his arms came around her like bands of steel as he tilted his head and kissed her. His lips, warm and strong, moved against hers hungrily as his fingers curled into the back of her dress. He groaned softly, pulling her closer until his chest pushed into hers with every deep breath he took. Losing her mind with a kind of longing she’d never experienced, she swiped her tongue gently across his lips, moaning as he opened his mouth and his tongue came into contact with hers for the first time.

He tilted his head, running his hands up her sides, skimming over her shoulders, skating up her neck until he cupped her cheeks, kissing her so senselessly, she lost track of time and place, and existed in a world where there was Christopher Winslow and there was Julianne Crow, and there was nothing awful between them—just heat, and promise, and possibility.

All too soon he broke away from her.

He panted as his chest pushed relentlessly into hers, and she heard herself whimper softly as she stared into his shocked, bottle-green eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes shuttered, going cold, rejecting whatever heat they’d just generated together.

He looked out at the crowd of journalists, letting his hands fall from her face.

“Thanks for coming today. That’ll be all, folks,” he managed, placing his palm on her lower back like a brand and ushering her back inside campaign headquarters.

***

As soon as the door had closed behind her, Christopher turned to her with barely restrained fury. “Don’t you
ever
do that again!”

Julianne crossed her arms over her chest and lifted that damned cheeky chin of hers. “You left me no choice!”

“I was about to say you had typhoid! Or pneumonia! Or herpes!”

He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, desperately trying to ignore the fact that he was so turned-on by her, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“Well, I’m sorry it was such a d-disgusting experience for you,” she said, blinking her eyes rapidly as her ample chest heaved in the bodice of her simple dress.

Those curves had been intimately pressed against him thirty seconds ago, and his body—which had savored every goddamned moment of having her in his arms—was threatening to embarrass him with a growing boner that was about to tent the front of his pants. He needed to get away from her. Now.

“I’ll be in the bathroom brushing my fucking mouth out,” he growled, turning and stalking from the room to use the bathroom at the back of the office.

Once there, he braced his hands on the sink, whispering, “Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit, fuck.”

What the hell? What the
fuck
was wrong with him? He was
turned on
by her? By this unscrupulous witch of a woman? No fucking way. Reaching for the faucet, he turned the knob to freezing and splashed his face with water, feeling his erection slowly subside.

But, God, the way she’d kissed him. The way her silky tongue had swiped across his lips, then slid against his. The way she’d moaned softly into his mouth, bowing her back so that her soft, full breasts were crushed against his shirt front. She was kerosene, and he was a match, and yes, he’d fallen victim to their chemistry while they were kissing, but he desperately hated himself for it now. What kind of man took pleasure in kissing such a despicable creature? Not him. No, sir. Not Christopher Winslow.

“It was a physical reaction and nothing more,” he muttered, drying his face with some paper towel, and raking his fingers through his hair. “Absolutely nothing more.”

Satisfied that he’d talked himself off the ledge, and reassured that other parts of his anatomy had deflated, he exited the bathroom and headed back out into the office just in time to hear Lori exclaim, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

“Lori?” he called, rushing to stand beside her desk. “What’s going on?”

She looked up at him, beaming, then started reading from her laptop monitor. “Christopher Winslow introduced his charming girlfriend, Julianne Crow, pictured below, beside Mr. Winslow, in front of his campaign headquarters today. And this publication, for one, owes both Mr. Winslow and Miss Crow a hearty apology. Turns out that high spirits and true love, , not alcohol and ugliness, were responsible for the pictures we’ve all been ogling. The young couple fairly sizzled with affection, sharing doting glances and one swoon-worthy kiss. We only hope that Miss Crow will be a regular addition to Mr. Winslow’s campaign stops, so that we can learn more about this intriguing creature!”