DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (5 page)

“John”

“I don’t know why you torture
yourself like this.” Oliver slicks a palm across the leather-wrapped steering
wheel of my Town Car as I peer out a tinted window. We’re parked in front of
the Melrose. Waiting.

“I want to make sure she makes
it out.” And that no one hassles her.

“Yeah, because she might get
lost on her way down in the elevator.”

I ignore him, remaining still
and studying the front doors as rain collects on the window and disturbs my
line of sight.

A man in a charcoal suit ambles
down the sidewalk, stopping next to my car. He glances at the Melrose and tilts
his umbrella just enough for me to catch his profile before he heads in.

“No fucking way.” Oliver says
exactly what I was thinking. “Tell me that isn’t Trey Bancroft.”

My veins heat as I watch him
fold his umbrella and nod at the doorman, walking in like he owns the place. The
asshole checked his watch a second ago, which tells me he’s likely meeting
someone.

I pull the door handle and step
out into the rain.

“Bad idea,” Oliver says.

I straighten my tie and head
toward the entrance. If Camille is still fucking Trey after everything that
happened this year, I’ll lose it. I’ll fucking lose it.

I bought her exclusivity, and I
saved her from that piece of shit narcissist.

Oliver follows after me,
keeping two steps back and scanning our perimeter. I stop before we head
inside.

“You need to stay in the car,”
I say.

His blond brows scrunch, and he
reminds me of a dog who doesn’t understand his master’s command.

“In case Camille comes through
the lobby,” I explain. “If she sees you with me, she’ll know I’m . . .
John
.”

Oliver retreats to the car, and
I head inside where Trey waits in line at the front desk.

“Trey.” I grip his shoulders.
We’ve met a few times before, but only ever casually.

He startles slightly before turning
to face me, and within seconds his face lights as if he’s posing for a picture
on his campaign trail. His hand extends to mine.

“Mr. Montgomery,” he says. “Pleasure
running into you here. Didn’t expect to run into you at the Melrose. White
House all booked up?”

Why anyone would think a
twenty-nine-year-old man would live with his parents for any reason is beyond
me.

“Something like that,” I say.
“What brings you here?”

I know for a fact the Melrose
has no conference center, restaurant, or rental facilities. If you’re not
checking in, you’re passing through the cozy bar for a drink.

“Raining like cats and dogs out
there,” he says. “Thought I’d come in to get out of that mess.”

I don’t believe him. The man’s
reputation for lying didn’t evolve by accident.

“Well, good seeing you, Trey,”
I lie. “Just wanted to say hello.”

Trey nods.

“Oh, and I think the line for
the bar is that way.” I point him away from the front desk, a subtle yet polite
way of telling him I don’t buy his bullshit.

His smile fades. “Thank you.”

I take a seat in the waiting
area, grabbing a newspaper and staying within earshot of the front desk area.
Trey is next in line. He hasn’t so much as glanced toward the bar. When it’s
his turn, I observe as he tells the clerk he’s meeting a friend but he doesn’t
know her room number.

“The name, sir?” the clerk
asks.

The elevator dings before Trey
answers, and our gazes shoot in that direction. Camille steps off, her wool
coat buttoned and black leather gloves covering her hands. Her hips swing as
she struts past us both, and her tasteful kitten heels click against the marble
tile with each stride.

She doesn’t look at anyone, but
everyone within a fifty-foot radius looks at her.

My heart hammers.

Never mind that an hour ago I
was plunged deep inside her; seeing her here and now, knowing I can’t talk to
her or touch her, makes me want her all over again.

She tucks a sleek, dark lock behind
her ear, and I catch a hint of the pearl earrings. I saw them in a window
display this morning and thought they were only fitting. Diamonds are cliché,
and not nearly as rare as most people think. Pearls, on the other hand, are different.
You don’t find a pearl in every oyster you crack, only the special ones.

“Complimentary umbrella, miss?”
The doorman hands her an open umbrella the color of midnight.

With that, she thanks him and
disappears into the night air.

Camille

“Aw, you didn’t have to wait
up.” I drop my keys in the dish by the front door as
Araminta
stretches on the sofa in front of a glowing TV.

“It’s okay,” she says with a
yawn. “I don’t mind.”

She reaches for the side lamp
and clicks it on.

“You look very Jackie O
tonight,” she says. “Did he like?”

I shrug and take a seat next to
her, kicking off my heels. I want to change and shower, but my body aches.
Tonight he fucked me in positions I never knew existed, another sign that he’s
very much on the younger side. I never knew flexibility could be such a turn-on
for me.

“Couldn’t tell you,” I say. “How
was your night? Did you see what’s his name?”

I snap my fingers as his name
escapes me.
Araminta
doesn’t do exclusivity unless
they’re willing to pay out the ass. Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.
Most of the time, I think the men who fuck her get off on the fact that’s she’s
the great-great-great-great granddaughter of Hollis Randall, one of the
country’s first millionaires who made a fortune off his railroad monopoly
during the Industrial Revolution.

Minty’s
father
would have a heart attack if he knew she was selling her body. In a way, I
think she does this to retaliate for being financially cut off.

“Chip Dumont,” she says. “That
soft drink chairman who gives millions to the candidate least likely to win every
election . . . just because he can.”

“How was it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He was just
passing through town. Wanted a quickie before heading home to his wife in
Georgia.”

Araminta’s
moral
compass points in a different direction than mine. Most men who want to buy my
time are shocked when they learn I have morals.

And it is shocking. An escort with
morals. It certainly narrows my pool of client candidates, but I don’t care.

I
will not
sleep with a married man.

“John gave me something
tonight.” I pull my hair back and point at my pearl earrings.

“Nice.” She leans closer to
examine them. “Classy. Good call with the Jackie O look tonight. I bet that’s
what he’s into.”

“Minty, can I ask you
something?”

“Um, of course.”

I slouch against the back of
the sofa, tugging on a loose thread with a sigh. We paid way too much for this
sofa to have pilling issues this soon.

“This has been bothering me the
last few days, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I say.

She shifts away from the TV,
her brows furrowing as she gives me her full attention.

“I know you would never put me
in danger,” I say. “Not knowingly, anyway.”

“Never.”

This question has lingered on
the tip of my tongue for days, only I was never quite sure how to frame it
without offending her. I love my best friend more than anyone, but sometimes
the littlest things set her off.

“This guy, this . . . John,” I
begin. “He said he’s seen me before. He said he
chose
me.”

Her blue eyes roll and she
laughs. “Oh, God. You had me so worried for a second. I thought you had, like,
a legitimate issue you needed to talk to me about.”

I don’t laugh. “It
is
a legitimate issue.”

“I’m not following,” she says.

“If he knows who I am and what
I do, and he went through your friend to get to you . . . to get to me . . .” I
say. “Then who
is
this guy? I mean,
that’s a pretty strategic move, don’t you think?”

“Are you
weirded
out by that?” she asks. “Because I think you should be flattered. This is a
word of mouth business. We don’t have billboards. We have horny male clients
who like to discuss their latest conquests over expensive shots of bourbon
after a long day in the senate chamber.”

“Then why won’t you tell me the
name of your friend who set this up?” I ask. “You’ve always told me
everything.”

“I’m following strict orders.”
Her palm lifts in protest. “They want the least amount of information exchanged
as possible. It’s a precautionary measure. You’re thinking into it too much,
and let me also remind you, um . . .
one
million dollars
.”

“You don’t think any of this is
worrisome?” I nibble my nail.

“I think this is Washington,
and people are crazy and paranoid and rich and powerful. But mostly paranoid.”

“Right. Which is exactly what
I’m afraid of.”

Araminta
reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV before rising. She stretches on
her toes and lifts her arms to the ceiling as she yawns. “
Dahhhling
, don’t you know by now?
We’re not allowed to be afraid of anything. We survive on bravery and beauty.
The rest is completely beyond our control.”

“John”

“How well do you know Trey
Bancroft?” I ask Camille a question to which I already know the answer. The
pale glow of her pearl earrings in the dark draws my gaze.

Her fingers freeze along the
back of her blindfold. “Pardon?”

“Trey Bancroft,” I say.

Her full lips button for a
second. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. If he is or isn’t a former
client of mine, I’m not able to disclose that.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “But I
think you should know he was here the other night. At the hotel. I saw him on
my way out.”

Her arms reach for something
solid, the wall perhaps, but she grasps at nothing.

“You need to sit down?” I lead
her by the arm to a nearby chair.

Camille’s chest rises and falls
in quick succession. “He . . . he’s not supposed to bother me.”

Her voice is low, shaky now.
She reaches for the blindfold, adjusting it before fanning her face. I’ve never
seen a woman as put together as Camille fall apart so easily.

There’s no way I can fuck her
when she’s in a state of distress.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I
just need a moment.”

I give her space, walking
backward to the mini bar. “You want a drink?”

“Yes, please,” she says, swallowing
gulps of air. “Vodka soda.”

A minute later, she nurses her cocktail
with trembling hands, and I’m left more perplexed than ever. Unbeknownst to
Camille, I singlehandedly brought down their little affair, but as far as I
knew, they’d gone their separate ways months ago.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she says.
“I’ve ruined your evening.”

“Impossible.”

Her head turns toward my voice.
“There’s nothing sexy about a woman having some kind of psychological
breakdown.”

“Has Bancroft been bothering
you?”

Her chin tucks. “I can’t tell
you anything. I’m sorry. I want to, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know what
you’d do with the information. I hope you understand.”

“I want to keep you safe,
Camille. That’s my intention. My
only
intention.” I move toward her, taking her arm and pulling her into me. “Does he
follow you?”

“Let me take off the blindfold,
and I’ll tell you everything.” Her lips lift, holding inches from mine. “I need
to know who you are first,
John
.”

“Nice try.” I push my lips
closer, until they almost touch hers. “I suppose if you’re not going to help
me
help
you
. . . I’ll have to take other measures to ensure your safety.”

“Such as . . .”

“There’s a corporate apartment
in Columbia Heights,” I say. “I have access and no one’s living there now.”

“You want to meet there from
now on?”

“It’s secure. There’s a
doorman. No one gets in without a key.” I inhale her floral scent into my
lungs. My fingers tangle in her soft hair, and I sigh, prematurely missing all
the things I won’t be doing to her tonight. “He won’t be able to come inside. We’ll
meet there next time.”

“All right.”

“I’m not going to fuck you
tonight, Camille.”

Her jaw falls, offering a
silent protest.

“It wouldn’t be right. Not with
you in this state.” I kiss her forehead and step aside. Grabbing a pen and
notepad from a nearby desk, I scribble an address and place the paper in her
hand. “Oliver, the man outside this door, will pick you up tomorrow night around
eight. He’ll drive you there and give you a spare key. If you ever find
yourself in trouble, or if you need a place to go where Bancroft can’t get to
you, I want you to go there. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Her spine zips
as she clears her throat. I’m sure she’s embarrassed, though she has no need to
be. “I’ll make this up to you next time.”

“Camille.” I stop by the door.
“Not necessary. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I’ll ensure
that a cab is waiting for you downstairs to take you home.”

***

 
“Well that was fast.” Oliver shuts off
his phone and slips it into his pocket the second I emerge from the room.

“We need to dig a little deeper
on Bancroft,” I say as we stride toward the elevator.

An on-duty cab parks beneath
the hotel overhang when we hit the sidewalk. I rap on the window, and the
driver rolls it down. I hand him a fifty.

“A woman in a white jacket will
be coming down in just a moment. Her name is Camille. This should cover her
ride home.”

I climb into the backseat of my
Lincoln and tell Oliver to wait. Ten minutes pass before Camille makes her
debut under the portico of the Melrose. She steps into the cab a second later
and they veer off in the direction of Logan Circle.

No sign of Bancroft. It’s a
start.