DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (17 page)

“What did they do to keep you
out of trouble?” she asks.

I sniff, my brows arching.
“They never had to do anything. I always listened. Did what I was told.”

“You never did anything bad?
Not once?”

The corners of my mouth dip as
I contemplate her question. “Nothing that I can think of.”

I put a live Maine lobster in
Lydia’s bed once when her family visited our Montauk estate. We were teenagers,
and for the first time, I was beginning to crush on her. But I won’t share that
memory with Camille. Lydia’s name doesn’t belong here in this moment.

“Must be rough being so perfect
all the time.” Camille tucks her hands into her coat pockets and rests her head
against the back of her seat.

It is . . .

More than she could imagine.

“Did you have a nice
childhood?” I ask.

She tucks her shoulder against
her chin. “Yeah. It was just my mom, and me, but it was a simple childhood. We
didn’t have much, but we didn’t need much.”

“What happened to your father?”
I’d been wondering that for quite some time. When we ran a background check on
Camille, we couldn’t find any mention of a father. That side of her birth
certificate seemed to have been intentionally left blank.

“I wish I knew.” She smiles,
though her eyes are misty. It must be a sore subject for her. “My mom said he
was a summer fling. Some older man from the DC area who worked in politics and
lived in Alexandria. She said he was ten years older than her at the time. And
married. With a daughter of his own.”

Her eyes roll as she huffs.

“That could be literally anyone
in DC.”

“Exactly.” She sighs. “She
refuses to narrow it down. I’ve begged her for a name, a clue, anything. I
found a letter tucked under some clothes in the back of her closet once when I
was younger. It was a love letter, and it was signed with the letter ‘R’.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult
it would be to be missing a chunk of your identity.”

“That’s just it,” she says. “I
just want to know who he is. I don’t want to meet him. I sure as hell don’t
want to have a relationship with him. If he abandoned us, he doesn’t deserve
us. I just want to see his face. See if our eyes match. See where I got this
nose. I want to know if I’m German or Irish or Swedish.”

“Is that why you came to DC?” I
ask. “Most people who study theater move to New York.”

“I guess so? Maybe. I don’t
know. I don’t like thinking about this too much. Can we talk about something
else?”

I’ve never had Camille shut
down any topic of conversation. Most of the time she’s an open book, fully
allowing me to flip page after page with no restrictions whatsoever. This must
be where she draws the line.

“Do you want me to help you
find him?” I make an offer I know I can’t guarantee. “I won’t make any promises,
but I can have someone do some checking around. It’s a huge shot in the dark,
but I’m willing to try if you are.”

Her dark eyes widen, and she
sits up. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Before I can check on the
windshield situation again, Camille flings her arms around my shoulders,
burying her head in my shoulders. I drag the scent of her gardenia perfume into
my lungs, enjoying how crisp and clear it is in contrast with the cool, dry
air.

The last chunk of ice glides
down the wet windshield and lands with a plunk on the hood of the car.

“Let’s head back, shall we?” I
say.

Camille returns to her side of
the car, strapping in. “You want to sleep over tonight?”

I laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I’m really
enjoying your company, Ronan. And it’s our last night here. Not ready for this
to end yet.”

Camille

I flip mindlessly through the
TV stations as Ronan knots his black tie the next morning. The mild scent of
his soap floats on a humid breeze from the open bathroom door. Our
half-finished breakfast rests on covered trays outside the door. We barely had
time to finish it when we both decided we’d rather devour each other instead.

From the corner of my eye, I
watch as Ronan combs his hair, parting it on the left, and slips his suit
jacket over his shoulders.

The last two nights in Des
Moines have been ones for the books . . .

At least if I were still
chronicling this jaunts.

Rolling to my stomach, I grab a
pillow and curl up with it. I’d rather watch Ronan get ready than watch some
celebrity get interviewed during the third hour of the Today Show.

I study every angle of his
perfect body from his thick head of hair to his carved chest to his taut abs and
everything below, and then I wonder how much I’m going to miss this chapter of
my life when it’s long gone. When I look back on my life someday, is this
little weekend in the middle of the unassuming state of Iowa going to be a
moment that defined me?

“We have, what, nine weeks
left?” I muse out loud.

He sprays cologne, capping it
as he turns to me. “That’s random, but yes. Nine weeks. We’d better make them
count.”

He gives a mischievous wink in
a rare moment when Ronan Montgomery reveals that he does, in fact, have a
playful side.

“I’m going to miss this.” I
pull myself off the bed and saunter over to him, gripping his tie and pulling
his mouth to mine. “I wish you didn’t have to leave. Wouldn’t you rather stick
around, play a little more?”

He kisses me, and tingles
radiate from the top of my head as I’m bathed in warmth.

“Maybe we should come to Iowa
every weekend?” I whisper between kisses. “You’re a different person here. I
almost feel like I’m cheating on Washington Ronan with Iowa Ronan.”

His mouth smiles against mine,
and he runs his hands through my hair.

“Are you going to remember this
someday? When you’re old and gray and stuck in a sexless marriage?” I inject a
teasing, singsong tone into my question, batting at his shoulder. “Are you
going to look back and remember the weekend you spent in Des Moines with some
random girl?”

Ronan’s hands drop to my waist,
and he captures my stare in his. “You’re not some random girl, and I will
forever remember this weekend with you.”

His answer brings
weightlessness to my heart and heaviness to my stomach. I want to live in this
moment a little while longer.

But the clock ticks on.

I memorize his face like it’s
the last time I’ll ever see him. The notion is quite dramatic, especially for
me, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve reached some kind of pinnacle as
far as this arrangement is concerned. I don’t know how being holed up in some
swanky hotel back home will ever top midnight car drives and leisurely
breakfast sex romps. I can’t imagine that any part of the next nine weeks will
be better than it is right here, right now.

Here, for two little tiny days,
we were free to enjoy each other’s company, and subsequently, I saw him in a
new light.

I entertained thoughts I had no
business entertaining, and I wallowed in them like it was my job.

Ronan spins me around, placing
one last kiss on my lips before making his way toward the door. I stand back
and appreciate how sexy he looks as he fishes for his keys, checks his
reflection in the mirror, and turns to me.

God, he’s handsome.

“I’ll call you when I land
tonight,” he says.

In an instant he’s gone, and I
summon the motivation to pack my things. In a few hours, I’ll take a cab to the
airport and this weekend will be nothing more than a memory.

His towel hangs on a bar in the
bathroom, and like some crazy person, I gather it into my arms and pull in a
long breath, desperate to smell him one more time.

And then I let it fall to the
floor when I catch the reflection of the woman in the mirror who has clearly
lost her marbles. The woman in the reflection knows damn well not to get
emotionally vested with her clients, and she’s well aware that this is nothing
more than a paid, physical arrangement.

I also take a moment to remind
the delusional woman staring back at me how easy it is to fake the very
emotions that give us butterflies and make us do stupid things. She’s perhaps
the most skilled of them all.

After a shower, I throw my
toiletries in a bag, disgusted with myself, and zip up my suitcase a moment
later.

An unexpected knock at the door
sends my heart into a spiral plunge and sucks the air from my lungs. I hate the
fact that I know damn well it’s going to be housekeeping, but a small part of
me wishes it’s going to be Ronan, saying he forgot something or that he had to
come back and kiss me one last time before he leaves.

Checking my reflection in the
mirror, I pull my damp mane into a loose side ponytail and tiptoe to the door
to peer out the peephole.

Oh.

My.

God.

My heart hammers, and my hand
lingers on the deadbolt in case I decide not to open the door for who is
clearly First Lady of the United States, Busy Montgomery.

A Secret Service Agent in black
reaches in front of her and pounds three times.

“Open up, dear,”
Busy’s
voice penetrates the door. “I’d like a quick word,
and I know you’re in there.”

“One minute, please.” My ears
pulse as I attempt to calm myself with three long, deep breaths. When I open
the door, Busy Montgomery smiles, though it’s more of a leer.

“May I come in, dear?” she
asks.

I widen the door and step away.
Busy strides in with her head held high, followed by two Secret Service Agents.
She glances around the room, her eyes landing on the messy bed and then darting
to my wet hair as her lips fall into a frown.

“I suppose you’re wondering
what I’m doing here.” Her arms fold casually at her waist, and her head tilts.

I nod, my voice trapped in my
throat.

“First of all, I wanted to give
you this.” She reaches into her patent leather Gucci shoulder bag and pulls out
a folded sheet of paper. The agent on her left takes it and hands it to me.

With hands trembling, I unfold
what appears to be a printed copy of a newspaper article, the headline
announcing the impending engagement of Ronan Montgomery and Lydia Darlington. A
photo of the two of them accompanies the story.

She’s smiling. He’s not.

“That’s right, dear. The man
you’ve been sharing your bed with the last several weeks is engaged to be
engaged.” The sick satisfaction in her voice nauseates me.

“I don’t believe it,” I lie.
Half of me fully
believes
it. Half of me
is
well aware that the vast majority of men will lie and
manipulate if it gets them what they want.

“Would the Des Moines Register
print a tabloid gossip story?” she asks.

I wouldn’t think so . . .

I hand the article back to the
agent and fold my arms. “I’m not sure what this has to do with me anyway. I’m
not dating your son. He’s free to do whatever he pleases.”

Busy sighs, clucking her
tongue. “Listen, Camille.”

My heart stops when she says my
name. The fact that the First Lady knows it doesn’t bode well for what she’s
about to say.

“We’re on the verge of
launching the President’s re-election campaign. I’m sure you understand it’s
not the greatest time for his firstborn son to be shacking up with a common
prostitute.” Her eyes drag up and down my body as disgust flavors her words. “I
raised him better than this. If some cable news political pundits were to catch
wind of this, do you know what that says about
me
? As his
mother
? And
about our ability to raise a son capable of walking a straight line? I can just
hear the yammering now. They’ll say if we can’t control our son, how can we
possibly run a nation of three hundred and eighteen million citizens?”

I don’t respond. The crazy look
in her eyes is enough to tell me to keep my mouth shut and let her finish.

“And don’t get me started on
how damaging this will be to the Montgomery name. Ronan is expected to run for
office someday, and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that our party will
vote for a man with this kind of mark on his past.” Her eyes roll. “Now,
Camille. I know you’re a very smart woman, and that’s exactly why you’re going
to do exactly as I say.”

My gaze narrows.

She reaches into her bag and pulls
out a white envelope filled with cash. The agent hands it off to me, and a
quick glance tells me there are thousands of dollars in there.

“I’m going to pay you three
million dollars never to speak to my son again,” she says. “I realize three
million dollars isn’t a lot of money these days, but I’m sure it is to someone
like you. Anyway, there’s ten thousand dollars in that envelope. The rest will
be deposited into your bank account in increments over the coming year. Consider
this my earnest money. A little good faith deposit.”

“I don’t want your money. And I
don’t take bribes.”

She scoffs. “You don’t have a
choice, dear. I’ve taken precautions to ensure my son is dissuaded from
associating with you from here on out. And I’ve also taken liberties to have
your plane ticket to DC rerouted to Nashville. You’re never to step foot inside
the city again.”

My jaw slacks. “I have an
apartment there. A roommate. I can’t just . . . never go back.”

“Oh, but you can. You’ll have
enough money to cover your rent and to replace all your belongings, and trust
me, once you see those seven figures in your bank account, it’ll be even easier
to walk away from this life.”

I shove the envelope toward
her. “I don’t want this. I won’t want to be associated with your dirty money.”

She waves both hands, refusing
to take it back. “Camille, I know everything. I’ve had tabs on your little
torrid affair from the very beginning. I know about the Melrose and the
Hightower. And I have your little journal, which I have to admit wasn’t exactly
the kinds of things a mother wanted to read about her son. But my dear, I know
everything. And I’ll know the moment you set foot in the city again, and
believe me, you won’t want to do that.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” I
huff. “What are you going to do, have me killed?”

She doesn’t confirm nor deny.

“I
strongly
recommend that you
not
test me,
Camille Bronwyn Buchanan
.”
Busy reaches into her bag and whips out a pair of black sunglasses. “Now, your
flight leaves in two hours. I’ll have a cab waiting for you downstairs. I
suggest you get moving.”

One of the agents leans into
her ear and whispers.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She
smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’m going to need that prepaid phone
before I go.”

This woman is pure evil.

Busy peers around the room, her
hand outstretched as she waits.

I fish it from my bag, place it
in her impeccably manicured hand, and watch as she drops it in her bag.

“I knew you’d see things my way,”
she says, grinning. “Have a lovely flight, dear.”

With that, Busy strides out of
my room, sandwiched between her two agents. And I have absolutely no way of
contacting Ronan.