DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (20 page)

Ronan

“I’d like to relieve Oliver
D’Orsay from his post, effective immediately.” I stand before my father in the
private study just off the Oval Office the day after seeing Camille.

He glances up at me from across
his polished wooden desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose.

“I beg your pardon?” His
shoulders square with mine. “Oliver’s been with you for years.”

“I question his loyalty,” I
say.

My father sits up, tossing his
pen across his desk. “Oliver D’Orsay has always been a loyal agent to this
family. I will not relieve him of his duties.”

“Then relieve me of mine.”

My father’s attention moves
past my shoulders, and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway.

“What’s this about?” She smiles
but not with her eyes.

I rise from the guest chair, my
hands calm at my sides and shoulders taut. “I was just asking Father to relieve
me of my duties.”

My mother laughs, her hand
splayed across her chest as she exchanges looks with my father. “What are you
talking about, Ronan?”

“I won’t be working on the
campaign trail.” I refuse to make a spectacle of this or allow any sort of
deliberation, so I leave.

By the time I’m halfway down
the hall, the sound of my mother’s pumps scuffing across the low-pile carpet
tell me we’re not about to go down without a fight.

“Ronan, don’t be ridiculous.”
She struts toward me, then
batts
her hand and laughs
at me. She doesn’t take me seriously, which is going to be a problem.

For her.

“Number one, you
have
to work on the campaign trail. It’s
mandatory. America needs to get to know you better, and this is a prime
opportunity for you to get out there,” she says. “Someday, when you run for
office, you’ll be glad you did this.”

“I won’t be running,” I say.

My mother scoffs.

“I’m glad you find it funny. I
was worried you’d be upset.” I lift my brows. “You understand I’m being
completely serious.”

“Ronan, you don’t have a choice
in the matter. You’re running. Maybe not five years from now, but at some point
in your life,” she says. “It’s your birthright. Your obligation.”

“I couldn’t possibly run for
president with a foundation built on lies and corruption.” My gaze zeroes in on
my mother’s pinched face.

“Son, I’m not following.”

“Please, allow me to fill you
in,” I say. “We can start by discussing the way you used the Secret Service to
do your dirty work.”

“You’re making it up. All of
it.” Her nose wrinkles.

“Deny all you want,” I say. “I
know the truth. And Camille knows the truth.”

“Camille.” She huffs. “You just
had to run off and find yourself a whore, didn’t you? Plenty of nice girls to
pick from, and you aim for the bottom of the barrel.”

“I’d hardly say she’s bottom of
the barrel.” I lift my head high. “Had you done a little more checking around,
you’d have discovered that Camille Buchanan is actually a Darlington.”

The night before I left
Oakdale, I cornered Linda when Camille was in the shower. I stressed to her how
important it was that I was made
made
fully aware of
the identity of Camille’s biological father now. I explained, in not so many
words, that Camille had a few political affiliations as a consequence of
associating with me, and that it may be dangerous for that information to land
in the wrong hands before Camille has a chance to hear it first.

Linda cried and made me swear
not to tell Camille, to let her be the one to tell her first. When she’s ready.
And then she whispered his name.

Rupert
Darlington.

My mother’s jaw falls and her
eyes narrow. “I refuse to believe that preposterous claim.”

“You don’t have to believe it,”
I say. “Just know that I’m keeping that little tidbit safely tucked away in my
back pocket for now.”

Her arms fold across her chest.
“What, is that some kind of threat?”

“Leave Camille alone and I’ll
keep the information between her, her mother, and myself. I’m sure the last
thing you need is any kind of scandal attached to the Montgomery or Darlington
names when you’re launching a new campaign.”

“Fine.” She groans, her eyes
rolling to the back of her head. “Protect her. Get her out of your system.
You’ll come back around once the novelty wears off, and I’ll fully expect you
to be good and ready to get back on track.”

“That will never happen.”

Her hands run down her sleeves
as she sniffs. “Fine. If you’re not going to run after your father’s next term,
then I will. I can do a better job than any of you Montgomery men combined.
You’re pathetic. All of you.”

“I sincerely hope you run for
office someday, Mother.” I smile. “Hand to God. I hope you do. And I wish you
nothing but the best of luck.”

You’re going to need it by the
time I’m through with you . . .

Because I’m not done yet . . .

I turn on my heel, hands
clasped behind my back, and exit my father’s study for the final time. Years
from now, when my mother runs for office, I’ll do everything in my power to
ensure that Busy Montgomery’s pristine persona, as America has come to know it,
is reduced to chum.

There will be a feeding frenzy,
and there won’t be a damn thing her team of highly paid PR consultants can do
to stop it.

I’m burning the Montgomery
legacy to the ground and taking Busy with it. And as for me? I’ll slip quietly
into obscurity, living a quiet, simple life, free of familial obligations and stifling
surveillance. No longer will I live under a microscope. No longer will my life
belong to everyone but me.

I’ll be free to live the life I
was meant to live, and free to love the woman I was meant to love,
whomever
she may be.

If I’m lucky, she’ll be Camille
Buchanan.

Camille

“Would you like some more
coffee, Ronan? I can make a fresh pot if you’d like.” My mother flits around
our tiny kitchen like she’s serving the King of England. “The last one was a
little strong. Did you think it was strong? Let me make another pot.”

“Mom.” I laugh.

Ronan smiles. “I’m fine, Linda.
Thank you.”

“Calm down,” I say. “Come sit
with us. Your food is getting cold.”

Ronan returned from Washington
last night, and Mom gladly allowed him to stay with us.

Her alarm sounded at six AM
this morning, promptly followed by clinking and clamoring in the kitchen as she
prepared a breakfast feast.

Completely unnecessary, but
totally her.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had
Mickey Mouse waffles.” Ronan saws a chunk off of Mickey’s ear and forks it, his
strong jaw flexing as he chews.

He’s so handsome like this,
stripped down, gray sweats and a white t-shirt, his hair a mess for reasons
that bring an immediate blush to my cheeks as we dine with my mother.

“When Camille was nine years
old, I took her to Disney World.” Mom grins, and I brace myself for a story I’m
sure is going to embarrass the hell out of me. “Oh, Ronan, she was the sweetest
little thing. It rained on us the whole time, but my baby never stopped
smiling. And how could she? Gosh, I’d give anything to relive that week all
over again.”

She rests her chin on her hands
and stares across the table.

“I’ve never been there,” Ronan
says. “But I can imagine how magical it might be for a child.”

My mother swats at his hand.
“Get out! You’ve never been?”

“Never had the chance,” he
says.

Last night, Ronan told me about
growing up at boarding school, how homesick he was the first few years, and how
he never really felt close with his family because they were never together. I
suspect the main reason he wanted to follow in his father and grandfather’s
footsteps was to feel closer to them the only way he could.

“My goodness, well you’re just
going to have to tag right along with us when we go next month.” Mom grins.
“We’re still going, right?”

I nod. “We are.”

Ronan glances at me. He doesn’t
smile, but I see a relaxed contentedness in his blue eyes that I’ve never seen
before.

Mom checks her watch, pops up
from the table and dabs her mouth with a paper napkin covered in flowers. “I’m
running late for the library.”

“You don’t have to be there for
another twenty minutes,” I say.

“Ten minutes early is still
late to old Mrs. Edna Roush.” Mom swats her hand. “You know how she is. Hasn’t
changed a lick in fifteen years.”

“Have fun,” I say as she steps
into a pair of quiet-soled shoes and swipes her keys from the counter.

“I’ll see you two just before
supper tonight.” She smiles, pausing by the door leading to the garage. She
likes Ronan, which says a lot, because as sweet as my mom is, she doesn’t warm
up to people that easily and she trusts no one. Mom nods and disappears into
the garage.

I watch Ronan finish his
breakfast, his napkin in his lap and his knife in his left hand. Even the
placement of his orange juice glass is proper.

“What do you want to do today?”
I ask, taking in the view of the exquisite man sitting beside me.

He finishes his bite and leans
back. “Hang out with you. Do normal things.”

I laugh. “What kinds of normal
things?”

“Anything we want. But first .
. .” Ronan pushes his chair from the table, reaching for me and pulling me into
his lap.

My hands hook behind his neck,
and I lean in for a maple syrup-flavored kiss. I grin when his fingers trail
underneath my shirt. The hardness that begins to poke from his low-hanging
sweats is an open invitation I’ll gladly accept.

He closes his fingers around my
ponytail and tugs until my head tilts back and my neck is exposed. Hot kisses
pepper a trail from the underside of my chin down the side of my neck, and then
along my left collarbone.

“You’re so fucking worth it,
Camille,” he breathes between kisses. His hands unfasten my bra before sliding
around to massage my breasts with his strong, soft hands. “You should know
that.”

I pull his scent into my lungs
over and over, my hips circling in his lap as a flood of arousal invades my
sex. This man sends my body reeling like no one else can.

Ronan grips my ass, lifting me
as he rises, and carries me upstairs to my room where my bed is all kinds of
disheveled from last night’s romp. He flew in late last night, and we burned
the midnight oil as if it were all going away the next day.

You don’t know what you have
until someone threatens to take it all away. And then you fight like hell for
it.

That’s exactly what Ronan did.
He fought for me. I’ll never know what he saw in me that night at the
masquerade ball, but I’ll be forever grateful he never stopped searching.

“You’re completely insane, you
know that, right?” I laugh as he tugs his sweats down and I reach for his
swollen cock.

“How so?” He crawls over me,
yanking down my pajama pants and pulling me closer. My legs relax, spreading
wide as my pussy pulses with pure anticipation. Ronan was inside me less than
eight hours ago, and still I crave more of him.

“For leaving Washington.” I cup
his face, pulling it close and kissing his perfect mouth. “For standing up to
your family. For choosing me over everything.”

His lips graze mine before our
tongues merge.

“No, Camille, I’d be insane to
let you go. I’d be insane to walk away from the possibility of a future I might
actually enjoy.”

My belly flutters.

“Are you still moving west?” he
asks, gripping his cock and teasing it against my seam. He runs the tip up and
down as I squirm.

I nod, biting my bottom lip as
my nails dig into his biceps.

“Good. I’m coming with you,” he
says, pushing himself farther inside. His rock hard cock fills me as he moves
deeper. My hands drag along his back, resting at the smooth dip above his tight
ass. “Say the word and we’ll go.”

Camille

{One Year Later}

Today’s the day I sell my soul.

“I believe I speak for an
entire nation, Ms. Buchanan, when I say we’re on pins and needles as we wait
for the release of your memoir. What made you decide to write this tell-all?”
The woman interviewing me cocks her head and offers a look that makes me want
to open up to her, but the concern in her eyes is for the viewers at home.

And she should be concerned.
This book is going to change everything for a lot of people.

I never wanted to write it.

But what choice did I have?

“Well, Denise, I believe it’s
important to know what goes on in our nation’s capital when no one’s looking.”
I keep a light cadence in my words, just like I practiced all afternoon. My PR
team says to keep my interviews spry to counteract the bomb I’m about to drop.
It’s not every day that the carefully crafted images of an American
blue-blooded family are shattered.

This is my big moment. I’m
experiencing a historical moment in real-time. Clips of this interview will
play out on countless documentaries someday, and my name will forever be linked
to
his
. For better or for worse, I’ll
be unforgettable.

Just like I always wanted.

“I’ve had the privilege of
reading a few excerpts from your book, and I must say to the viewers at home,
there are some extremely heavy allegations.” She repositions herself before
resting her chin across the top of her hand. We’re just a couple of girls
having a conversation. Denise Stone makes it easy to forget we’re being filmed
for a nationally televised special, but I suppose that’s why she’s paid the big
bucks. “What would you say to the naysayers who might accuse you of looking for
a big payday?”

“We’re fortunate enough to live
in a free country.” I deliver my lines like I rehearsed and ignore the fact
that I’m melting under these hot lights. “No one has to read anything or
believe anything they don’t want to. The only thing I’d like everyone to know
is that my book, my memoir, is one hundred percent factual. Every word of it is
true.”

I steal a quick glance behind
one of the cameramen where Ronan stands and watches the interview, his arms
folded casually. He gives me a nod that both reassures and empowers me.

This memoir, after all, was
his
idea.

“Now, in your memoir,
Dark Paradise
,” Denise says, “You claim
to have worked as an escort in Washington, DC for five years before meeting the
son of President Montgomery. Is that correct?”

“It is.” I smile, but it’s only
for him.

“And the details of your love
affair with Ronan Montgomery are all going to be discussed in your book?”

“That’s right,” I say. “When
you strip away the scandal, there’s a really beautiful love story there. We
wanted to share our story because we live it every day.”

“Now you two are still
together, is that correct?”

“We are,” I say, holding up my
left hand and wiggling my ring finger. A radiant solitaire dazzles beneath the
bright lights. “Going strong.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,
given the hurdles you two have gone through to get here.” She glances at her
notes for a second. “In your book, you discuss in detail the threat placed on
your life by the Montgomery family when they discovered your relationship.”

I nod, glancing at Ronan again.
I still can’t believe we’re doing this, but a year ago, he asked me to trust
him, and within a week, we were deep into the first draft of my memoir. And
just as he anticipated, his mother refused to retract her claws, sending him
letters and phone calls. They’d always start out sweet and unassuming, and as
soon as she realized she wasn’t making headway, she’d spew venom and threats.

She never respected Ronan, nor
did she take him seriously.

I bet she will now.

“Right,” I say. “There were
bribes and intimidations. It’s all discussed in great length in my book.”

Denise tilts her head, her eyes
squinting. “The release of this memoir during an election year–it seems
as though it might be a strategic move. Would that be a fair assumption?”

I shrug. They say all’s fair in
love and war. Everything about this is love and war.

“It was a decision Ronan and I
made together,” I say. “We felt the American public deserved to know the truth,
and we believe it’s our civic duty to share it.”

“You also have a stunning
revelation to share in regards to the identity of your biological father,” she
says. “From what I understand, his identity has only been shared with you in
the past year?”

“That’s correct,” I say. “I
haven’t met him yet, and I’m not sure that I want to, but I’m very familiar
with his
work
. . .”

I don’t know how he did it, but
Ronan managed to convince my mother to fork over the missing puzzle piece I’d
desperately searched for my entire life. My father, for better or for worse, is
Rupert Darlington, husband of Vice President Nanette Darlington and father of
Lydia, who, it turns out, is adopted–which is a huge relief. She’s the
last person I’d want as a half-sister.

Denise asks a handful of
pointed questions, and I’m ready at the helm with scripted answers generic
enough to not reveal spoilers from my book but still enough to leave the
viewers at home satisfied.

Ronan stands still, watching
from his place, and my strength is grounded in his calmness. For the past year,
he’s been my rock, my protector, my most trusted confidant and my best friend.
He moved to LA with me so I could pursue my dreams, and he’s perfectly content
to stand back and let me shine. The spotlight is all mine, he likes to say. He
never wanted it in the first place.

The producer signals for Denise
to wrap up, and I’m flooded with an unreasonable amount of happiness. I just
want to go home to my apartment with my fiancé, and hole up for a few days
while the impending media firestorm we’re creating begins to brew.

Ronan said that publicly
calling out his mother for her actions would keep her from ever acting on them.
And it would more than likely ruin any chances she’d ever have of running for
office someday.

I believe that’s what they call
karma, even if we did give it a helpful little nudge.

“If I may, I’d like to read an
excerpt from a chapter written by Ronan,” Denise says, pulling out a sheet of printed
paper as we close the interview. “
And I
would do it all over again, changing nothing. A hundred times over, I’d give it
all away for her. My kingdom for her heart
.”

THE END