The Playboy (36 page)

“No argument here.”

Roman started for the elevators leading to the parking garage and Chase joined him. “I’m not surprised Senator Carlisle’s going to run for vice president,” Chase said of the story that brought him to town.

Roman nodded. “Me neither. The man’s political perfection even on a second marriage.”

Fortunately for Chase, Jacqueline Carlisle, the senator’s deceased wife, was born and raised in Yorkshire Falls, giving Chase the link to his home-town that led him to D.C. “I did some research. When Jacqueline died, Carlisle married her college roommate and best friend. Madeline Carlisle raised the senator’s first daughter, Sloane, then later Madeline and the senator had twins, Ashley and Lindsay.” Politica1 perfection, as Roman had said.

“Ever see photos of the senator’s oldest daughter?” Chase shook his head. “Just a glimpse of the twins or a grainy background shot. Why?”

Roman laughed. “I just think you’ll like what you see. Elevator’s this way.” He pointed left.

“From a professional standpoint, I like everything about the Carlisles.” Because barring scandal or stupidity, the high-profile, good-looking senator was on his way to the presidency. And Chase intended to use his local connection to make one helluva journalistic splash.

Roman laughed. “You do realize that when I asked about Carlisle’s daughter, I wasn’t talking about work?” He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. You’re always on top of things, always the professional.” He sobered. “You know, I learned from you.”

The pride in his voice made Chase feel like a fraud. Roman had done and accomplished more in his lifetime than Chase ever had.

“And you’re right,” Roman said, oblivious to Chase’s inner thoughts. “This story gives you the perfect opportunity to break out of small-town coverage. With the right angle, you could get picked up by one of the bigger papers.”

At his brother’s words, Chase’s adrenaline began pumping in a way he couldn’t remember experiencing, not since he’d stood at his father’s funeral and buried his dreams. But patience and family loyalty had paid off. Chase’s time had finally come.

The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. “It just so happens, I have that right angle. The one that’ll put you ahead of the other guys following Carlisle’s scent. Want to know what I didn’t tell you on the phone?” Roman asked.

“Sure.” Chase dropped his duffel bag to the floor and glanced at his brother, his body humming with anticipation.

“Charlotte is friends with Madeline Carlisle. She started as a customer in her lingerie store, but they’ve become friends. Good friends. Madeline doesn’t give many interviews but I can get you an exclusive, one on one with the senator’s wife.”

Roman’s eyes gleamed with excitement and Chase’s anticipation heightened, the thrill of a big story tantalizing him, arousing and heightening all his instincts. “Roman?”

His brother glanced up. “Yeah?”

Chase wasn’t a man comfortable or good at expressing his feelings. His brothers were used to his long silences. They understood him better than anyone. He inclined his head. “Thanks.”

Roman studied him through hooded eyes. “I’d say I owe you this one but you’d probably haul off and deck me. Let’s just say you deserve it and leave it at that.”

Chase nodded. “Fine by me.”

“Last thing,” Roman said as the elevator door reopened and the dark parking garage appeared. “D.C. isn’t just good for political intrigue. It’s got its share of willing women as well.”

Chase frowned. “I thought you were happily married.”

“I am. But you, big brother, aren’t.”

Sloane Carlisle attempted to pair her beloved fuchsia minidress with a staid black jacket, then cringed at the result. A Betsey Johnson original was meant to be seen, not covered. With regret, she relegated the outfit to the back of her closet along with the rest of her retro-wear. She couldn’t possibly put on such an outrageous color, short skirt, or bared back halter, not tomorrow, the day her senator father would announce his decision to accept the presidential candidate’s offer to be his running mate in the next election.

She sighed and pulled out a staid powder-blue Chanel suit and laid it on her bed. Though not her preference, the conservative choice was much more appropriate for Senator Carlisle’s oldest daughter. Although Sloane often felt like the odd sibling out in a political family that enjoyed the spotlight, she understood the necessity for thinking before she dressed, spoke, or acted, just in case the press was sniffing out a story. And Sloane always performed as her family expected.

Twenty minutes later and half an hour early, she stood outside her father’s hotel suite. Her parents planned one last intimate family gathering before the media frenzy began.

She was about to knock when the sound of angry whispers carried toward her.

“I will not stand by and see twenty years of hard work disintegrate before my eyes.” She recognized the voice of Franklin Page, her father’s campaign manager, right-hand man, and long-time friend.

Frank frequently overreacted in order to prevent a crisis and his bellowing didn’t frighten her now. She raised her hand to knock on the door that had been left open a sliver when Frank’s assistant, Robert Stone, spoke, preventing her from intruding.

“You say this Samson man claims to be Sloane’s father?” He snorted, his disbelief evident.

“He more than claims. He has proof.”

Sloane sucked in a startled breath and clenched her fists. His words couldn’t possibly be true. Jacqueline and Michael Carlisle were her biological parents. She had no reason to believe otherwise. But her stomach clenched and nausea threatened.

“What kind of proof?” Robert asked in a voice so low Sloane had to strain to hear and she missed Frank’s reply.

“Michael verified it.” This time Frank spoke loud enough for her to hear. “He just refuses to act in his own best interest and do anything about this Samson person.” A brief pause followed. “Dammit, don’t you know better than to leave the door open? Michael and Madeline will be back from shopping any minute. He can’t hear what we have planned.”

“Which is?”

“Give us some privacy and I’ll explain everything. This threat has to be eliminated.”

Frank bellowed, but he never made idle threats. Sloane swallowed hard just as the door slammed shut in her face, leaving her on the outside of her father’s suite, and if Frank’s words were true, on the outside of her own life.

By the time dinner finally ended, Chase had had more of his brother and sister-in-law’s matrimonial happiness than he could stomach in one sitting. While Roman took a tired Charlotte home, Chase decided to check out the D.C. nightlife. After some asking around, he found the perfect hole-in-the-wall bar around the corner from his hotel where he could kick back and relax.

He ordered a Miller Draft and took in the scenery that consisted of a pool table, a small scarred dance floor, varied beer signs hanging on old paneled walls, and not much else. Until the door opened and
she
walked inside, a vision in a dress so pink, so short, so bare it ought to be illegal.

No matter what his brother thought, Chase wasn’t a monk. He’d just kept his social life discreet in deference to his fatherlike status, and over the years the habit stuck. Most recently, he’d hooked up with Cindy Dixon who lived in Hampshire, the next town over. They were friends who’d begun sleeping together when the whim struck, neither wanting to be indiscriminate in this day and age. The arrangement satisfied Chase physically, but no longer inspired him, so he wasn’t surprised when this sexy siren captured his attention.

Russet-colored hair cascaded past her shoulders in thick waves, making him itch to run his fingers through the unruly strands. Chase tightened his grip around the bottle and let out a slow groan. One glance and he wanted to know her. All of her.

“She’s a hot number, alright.” The bartender swiped the counter down with his rag. “Don’t think I’ve seen her in here before. I’d remember if I had.”

Chase wouldn’t be forgetting her anytime soon. The combination of sultry sexiness in her appearance and the inherent vulnerability in her expression as she settled in beside him made one heck of an impression.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, leaning across the expanse of the bar, too close in Chase’s biased opinion.

“Hmm.” She pursed her lips as she thought. “Scotch straight up.”

Chase cocked an eyebrow, surprised. He’d have voted for a Cosmopolitan or a white wine Spritzer.

“You sure about that?” the bartender asked. “A big drink like that doesn’t mix well with a little thing like you.”

She squared her shoulders, clearly offended. “Last I heard the customer was always right,” she said in a haughty tone more due a blue blood or politician than the sprite she appeared to be.

Chase grinned. Obviously he could add gumption to her list of attributes.

“It’s your choice,” the bartender replied. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when I have to confiscate your car keys.”

“Then it’s a good thing I took the Metro,” she shot back.

“Point to the lady.” Chase laughed.

“Thank you,” she said, without bothering to look his way. She obviously had a lot on her mind.

The bartender placed the glass filled with amber liquid in front of her. “Remember I warned you,” he said and headed for a new round of customers at the end of the bar.

She stared at the contents a moment before lifting the glass for an experimental sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Still smells as vile as the last time I tasted it,” she said to herself.

Chase laughed. Again. Twice in a matter of minutes. A record for him. A testament to the staid life he lived and a tribute to this woman’s effect on him. He was beyond intrigued. “Then why order it?” he asked her.

“Heavy-duty stuff for a heavy-duty night.” She shrugged but didn’t lift her stare from the glass.

Chase wasn’t insulted. Her preoccupation was obvious and from her words, so was her pain.

“Bartender? Give me the same,” Chase said when the other man glanced over.

“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised. “Joining you. It’s unhealthy to drink alone.” She looked his way at last and a burst of raw sexual energy exploded inside him, knocking him off balance.

Apparently he wasn’t alone because gratitude and a helluva lot more flickered in her golden gaze. He thought he’d been prepared, but it had been too damn long since he’d felt anything beyond the ordinary for any woman or any thing. Since stepping off the plane in D.C. a few short hours ago, the world had opened up for him, offering myriad possibilities. He wanted her to be one of them.

“Here you go, buddy.” The bartender slid the glass Chase’s way. “She just became your responsibility,” he said and walked off to help the thickening crowd.

She flicked a long strand of copper hair back off her shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” He raised his glass, waiting while she did the same. “Cheers.”

She inclined her head. “Cheers. Wait. It’s proper to toast before drinking and I always do the proper thing. To . . .” She paused, nibbling on her full lower lip.

His mouth watered since he wanted nothing more than to suck that luscious, full pout into his mouth and taste her. “To?” he prompted.

“Life’s dirty secrets.” She clinked her glass against his.

The sound echoed inside him as did the raw anguish he sensed inside her. “I’m a good listener,” he said, then mentally kicked himself. He wasn’t looking to be her friend when he’d rather be her lover.

Instant attraction, instant lust. He’d never experienced the surge quite so strongly before. He wasn’t about to walk away from it now. Not on the night that represented the beginning of his new life. To hell with his usual sense of caution. It was time to leave the noble Chase Chandler behind and act on his desires.

“Thanks, but . . . I’d rather not talk.” The flickering in her gaze told him she desired something more. Something from him.

Something he was all too willing to give.

Sloane stared into the stranger’s seductive blue eyes. A woman could get lost in that serious, intent gaze. The man had a hidden fire deep inside him, something akin to what burned inside of her. Her stomach churned with possibilities.

She lifted the butterscotch-colored liquid to her lips, taking a sip, never breaking eye contact. Warmth flowed through her veins, due more to his stare than the fiery liquor.

He raised his glass and matched her drink, a sexy smile curving his lips. She’d said she didn’t want to talk. Obviously he respected her wishes. She liked that about him.

His passionate stare held on to hers. She searched the blue depths as if they held the secrets to life. They didn’t, of course. Those were held by the adults who withheld information from their children. She didn’t doubt Michael Carlisle’s motive. It was hard to think of him as her father now. It was just as hard not to.

As any parent, he’d always claimed to act in his girls’ best interest. But he’d screwed up this time because Sloane wasn’t one of
his
girls. And the decision not to tell her about her parentage shouldn’t have been his to make. She wondered what the media would think if they knew the perfect senator lived a lie.

She nearly laughed aloud. Sloane Carlisle lived a lie. Hell, Sloane
was
the lie. As a result, she didn’t know who she was or where she fit in. She’d never known. At least now she understood why.

Why she wanted to run free when her family was content with the restrictive boundaries imposed by the press and, by this time tomorrow, the Secret Service.

Why she hated being forced to conform in dress and personality, while her stepmother, sisters, and her “father” reveled in formal attire and convention.

Sloane was different because she wasn’t one of them. She didn’t know who she was and for tonight she didn’t care. There had always been a wanton woman inside her, and for tonight, she wanted to set the long repressed Sloane free.

“I’ve always thought talking’s overrated,” the stranger said at last.

“Me too.” Tomorrow she wouldn’t agree. Tomorrow, she’d approach her
father
and stepmother and demand answers. But tonight she wanted to forget.