True North (Compass series Book 4) (26 page)

“Indeed.” He looks over my shoulder, spotting someone who makes his eyes go hawkish. Probably some political target he wants to schmooze with instead of facing off with me. “Speaking of…”

Right. A quick glance reveals an older man, overstuffed into a navy suit and a bowtie only a particular kind of man can pull off. He does it with aplomb. I can’t pull the name from the recesses of my brain, but I recognize him as being a player in Georgia’s political machine.

“Pressly? Shall we?”

She smiles at him, her face a veneer of fondness. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He opens his mouth to protest but perhaps thinks better of looking like a spoiled child who won’t share his toy. The look he gives me as he walks away implies that he’s willing to give her up for a few moments, if only because she won’t be leaving on my arm at the end of the night. And god does that set my temples to throbbing. He ducks his chin in a brief, smug acknowledgement as he walks off before raising a hand to his target.

The interloper gone, I turn on Pressly. “What are you doing here with him?”

“Jealous?”

“You know I am.”

She shrugs, her shoulder rising out of the cut of her dress, showing off more of that flawless skin. “I know you used to be. Besides, I always thought of it more as possessive.”

“I can’t be possessive of you anymore.”
Because I don’t possess you.
And ain’t that a kick in the balls?

“No, you can’t.” She lifts her chin with a hint of tease. Maybe she feels like that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world? A man can dream.

“But seriously, what are you doing with Clay Hollingsworth? Did your daddy set you two up?”

The color rising high in her cheeks says yes and that I’ve hit a nerve. After everything she’s said about not wanting to be valued only for her connections, how could she end up here with this guy who’s clearly using her?

“As a matter of fact, he did introduce us. And…” I don’t like that uncertain pause, the way her mouth purses slightly. I’ve known her long enough to recognize reluctance when no one else would. “Clay and I have been seeing each other.”

She dares me with imperious eyes to respond. But I can’t because my brain’s gone fuzzy, like it’s blanketed by a mid-Atlantic fog. “Seeing each other?”

“Yes, we’re dating.”

“For how long?”

“About six months.”

Six months
?

“And you were going to tell me when? Dammit, Pressly, we’ve been—”

Her eyes have gone frozen and sharp, stabbing into me like a shiv fashioned from an icicle. I don’t dare finish my thought:
fucking like rabbits
.

“Clay and I are not exclusive. It’s…casual.”

“It doesn’t look all that casual to me.” Not from the hungry way he’s eyeing her from across the room. But it’s not the desperation of a starving mongrel like me. No, it’s with the confident certainty that he knows he’ll be sinking his teeth into her later. And the idea of his teeth getting anywhere near her throat…

“We only see each other about once a week.” Huh. When Press and I were dating, we’d spent as much time together as humanly possible. Which, granted, hadn’t been all that much given she’d been finishing classes and I’d been putting in serious time at the firm, but it had been every second we could find to spare.

“And do you fuck?”

“Really, Slade? Are you really asking me that?”

“I really am.”

I can practically feel Rey standing next to me, slapping a disappointed hand to his forehead, covering his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch this trainwreck I’m driving straight toward.

She sniffs and crosses her arms, the motion making her cleavage deeper. “What do you think? We’ve been dating for six months and we’re not in high school anymore.”

The pressure starts to build behind my eye sockets, and it’s all I can do not to run frustrated hands through my hair. Yeah, we’re all grown-ups here, and the second she signed the divorce papers she was free to fuck whomever and however she liked. It’s none of my business, but I can’t help my stupid face from asking about the how.

“So you have sex, but do you…you know…”

I’m glad Pressly doesn’t have a drink in her hand, because if she did, she’d likely throw it in my face and rightly so. She answers me nonetheless. “No, we don’t.”

“Does he know?”

“All he knows is I need something he can’t give to me, but I know how to get it discreetly. I’ve made it clear other questions are not acceptable. He doesn’t seem to care as long as I show up looking like I do. You know as well as I do what political marriages are like, anyway.”

Yes, what her parents groomed her for. To attend all the right events, look and talk pretty, be an asset and provide connections, have a few beautiful children who will be poured into the same mold. Never did they teach her to expect or demand love, passion, joy. Yet we’d stumbled into it anyway. Before it all went to hell. But now we’ve got a chance to get that back, better than before, and she’s inclined to give it up? Is that what I did to her? Made her believe it was all a fiction, a fantasy, not worth going after? That meeting expectations and fulfilling her destiny was a better idea than bliss? For fuck’s sake.

She smiles at me, tight-lipped, and looks like she’s dying inside. Brittle when I’ve always assumed she was strong. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem.”

“I—”

“Not. Your. Problem.” That perfect enunciation in that killing-with-kindness saccharine voice makes me queasy. I want her to be my problem. I want her to have everything instead of a sham, for her to cry out in passion and be cherished instead of being a pretty paper doll for some dickwad who doesn’t know what she’s good for. She tips her perfectly coiffed head in Clay’s direction. “I should go. Duty calls.”

“Will I see you Wednesday?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it? Bye, Slade.”

‡

I
t’s early the
next morning that I have to haul myself out of bed, into the shower, and out the door to where a car is waiting to take me to the airport. As I wander through the all-too-familiar hallways, I think about calculating all the hours I’ve spent in transit, but that might depress me. So when I’ve made it to the gate, I shuffle through some papers while I wait to board instead.

It’s all review documents for the LAHA receivership. Though I’ve been trying to ignore exactly what that means, the idea slams to the forefront of my brain. India. I haven’t seen her for months. Talked to her on conference calls and exchanged emails with her and Jack and Evans, yes, but not face-to-face. Which is probably better. But now…

It’s not like I’d ask for a repeat of that one night—she pretty clearly adores her husband and isn’t in the poly business—but I’d like to talk to her. Like, actually talk, because we have this thing in common and it feels like a secret club. One she gave me the key to and I want to thank her. With true words, not circumspect, nebulous appreciation. For once, I’d like to be very specific about exactly what she’s done for me. Without her…

Well, without her I probably would’ve had another assistant or two quit, have some other underlings ask to be transferred, and maybe even Cooper would’ve had enough of me. It’s not always easy to contain my temper, but though it might be exhausting, I do feel like a better man for it at the end of the day.

She should know that. I want her to know. I want to make her soften the way she does when she talks about Cris. And how I suspect she does when she talks about Rey. I’d like to put that theory to the test, but first I’ve got to wing my way across the country and listen to presentations on how successful LAHA’s become. Honestly, if everything in the reports is true—and India wouldn’t lie, even if she’d totally massage the data—I’m very impressed. LAHA should be the poster child for a successful receivership, and JVA should put a stamp on their shingle. Plus, I’d gladly work with them on anything else. Professional hardasses. Except that Evans guy. He seems smart enough, but stutters too much for my liking. Working for India should toughen him up some.

This report, though—it’s really something. Makes me wonder if they might have me after I leave HUD. There’s a chance the election will go our way and I’ll get to stay on—maybe even get promoted because Secretary Vazquez might be done after eight years in the hot seat—but if not? I haven’t quite figured out what to do after I leave this job. Maybe that’s something I should hint to Jack about next time I see him. If he doesn’t think I’m a complete and utter sack of shit for making India cry. Which he should because I was.

But if India were to vouch for me—and she might now—maybe I’d have a shot. Something to think about, keep in mind over the next couple of days. I’m not the only one who needs to be impressed anymore.

*

There she is,
looking sexy as fuck. I don’t know a whole lot of women who can rock a skirt suit like India Burke. No one has a right to look so fuckable in business attire. But in her black Armani that clings in all the right places—holy shit, that ass—and that crimson silk shell underneath, she looks like a goddamn Black Widow spider waiting to devour any clod lucky enough to fuck her. How does that hippie-ass husband of hers handle her?

She struts up to the podium, and I don’t fail to notice the red underside of her heels, which are slightly on the too-high-to-be-professional side. But who’s going to call her on it? Sure as fuck isn’t going to be me. I like the way she’s so confident in her abilities she’s not afraid to be sexy at the same time. Who says you have to be a staid schoolmarm to be successful? Nope, I like her way better. Far better.

India goes through the presentation, her voice clear, her posture confident, and I let myself be drawn in by her. Every guy here is on the edge of their seats. It’s hard to tell if they want to fuck her or hire her, though both would be a totally fair assessment. The only ones who aren’t are Jack and Evans, sitting in the front row. Jack looks like a proud Papa Bear, and Evans looks a bit starstruck. Well, he should. India’s one of the best in the business and just how good becomes rapidly apparent, because not only have they dragged LAHA out of the gutter they were languishing in, they’ve also managed to catapult them into one of the most functional agencies we’ve got.

At the end of her presentation, I join everyone else in standing and giving a round of applause because they deserve it. I even allow myself a little smile when she meets my eyes, and of course the self-satisfied woman grins back like the Cheshire Cat.
Yeah, yeah, you know you’re fantastic, we get it.
But honestly? I can’t begrudge her that. She should take a bow, and I admire her for not.

On her way down the aisle, she stops and chats with various people, and I content myself with pulling out my phone and scrolling through messages that have arrived while I’ve been captivated by her. I’ll catch her later.

Except while I’m thumbing through page after page of emails, a folded piece of paper drops onto my screen. My head snaps up, because what the hell is this, middle school? But the only thing I catch is retreating red soles, side-by-side with the conservative navy pumps Cynthia Quaid’s got on.

Opening the juvenile missive, my heart speeds up, and when I see the handwriting—perfectly legible but aggressively slanted, like she has so much to say and you’d best listen to it because she wants to say it now—it positively races.

Dinner tonight?

Yes. Oh, hell yes.

*