DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (16 page)

Ronan

“Can we get some shots of the
Montgomery boys with Vice President Darlington’s daughter?” A photographer with
the Des Moines Register lifts the camera attached to a strap around her neck and
smiles. “Just a few photos to go with the interview.”

“What interview?” I glance at
Lydia.

My mother and father stand
across the small reception room in the state capitol building, shaking hands
and grinning. My father places a palm on the shoulders attached to every hand
he shakes, smiling more with his eyes than anything else. When he speaks, he
emphasizes with a relaxed fist, a move perfected in the Clinton-era when my
father was a mere New York governor.

“The one your mother set up,”
Lydia leans into me, keeping her voice low and smiling at the photographer.

“Okay, I’d like Lydia to be
front and center.” The woman with the camera points. “
Keir
and Ronan, if you could flank her sides, and then we’ll get one of just Ronan
and Lydia.”

My body burns. “I don’t believe
that will be necessary.”

Keir
chuckles, his brows lifting as he refuses to meet my gaze. If this is some kind
of joke, I’m certainly not in on it.

“Everyone’s rooting for you
two.” The lady flashes a controlled smile and a wink, as if she’s referring to
some secret she heard. “Don’t worry, we won’t say it’s official until it’s
official.”

“Excuse me.” I clear my throat,
tugging at the knot in my tie, which has suddenly grown several centimeters too
tight. Pushing past, the three of them, I make a bee line for my mother, only
I’m stopped by one of my father’s Secret Service agents.

“Sorry. Can’t interrupt.
They’re finishing an interview,” he says.

“This will only take a minute.”

His palm on my shoulder prevents
me from stepping past him, and my good manners prevent me from causing a scene.

“Ronan, what are you doing?”
Lydia taps my back, and I can hear the faux smile in her voice. She’s putting
on a good face around all these reporters and local political heavyweights.
“Come, let’s finish our pictures. It’ll only take a second.”

“What exactly did you say in
the interview that made them want a picture of the two of us?” My jaw tightens
and my lips pull into a straight line.

Lydia slinks a hand on her
narrow hip and leans closer. “I only said what your mother told me to say.”

I release a heavy breath,
massaging my temples.

“She said to give them hope.”
Lydia shrugs. “So that’s what I did. I may have implied that you and me are
trying our best to work things out and that the future’s unwritten, but we’re
optimistic that love will find a way.”

“That’s a goddamn joke.”

She drags her hands along my
lapels, the way my mother often does, and straightens my tie.

“You’re my JFK, and I’m your
Jackie O.” She sighs. “I see us having a beautiful life together, Ronan. Two
perfect kids. Eight years in the White House. And at the end of the day, what
we choose to do behind closed doors will be our own business.”

“What are you saying?”

She shrugs, glancing around the
room before returning her attention to me. “I want your name, Ronan. I want
your children. I want everything that goes along with that. But I’m not meant
to be monogamous. I don’t think anyone is.”

“First and foremost, Lydia, I
will
not
ever
marry you. And secondly, what little respect I have for you
completely disintegrated the second you admitted you’re more than happy to let
your future husband cheat on you.” I smirk. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She sniffs. “You think your
parents have a perfect, happy marriage? You think your father doesn’t have his
fingers three knuckles deep inside every perky-assed college intern that so
much as smiles at him?”

“The inside of my parents’
marriage has nothing to do with me, and I will not sit here and discuss those
things with you, of all people.”

“Your parents’ marriage has
everything to do with you. You’re a Montgomery. You’ve been raised to project a
very specific image your entire life.” She points to my parents, who stand side
by side, their body language synchronized and loving gazes on their modestly
Botoxed
faces. “And look at them. You’ve had thirty years
to study under the best.”

“Not interested, Lydia.” I pull
in a tight breath. “Now, who do I talk to
to
make
sure that interview goes away?”

“Good luck.” She scoffs and
struts off, cornering my brother because God forbid that Lydia Darlington goes
five minutes without attention from a man.

***

I’m buried deep inside Camille,
my outstretched hand skimming her taut belly as it caves under my touch. Her back
is arched as she straddles my cock, her lips parted just so as her hips buck
and coax every last pulse from her delicious climax.

She leans forward, keeping me sheathed
inside her clenched pussy, and rests her cheek against my rising and falling
chest. A satisfied sigh escapes her mouth, and the lift of her cheeks tells me
she’s smiling.

“I’ve waited all day for that.”
Camille tucks a loose, dark wave behind her ear and closes her eyes.

We linger a moment longer, both
of us catching our breaths, before she carefully climbs off me and slides to
her belly. With her chin resting on top of one hand, she trails her fingertips
down the center of my smooth chest and back.

“I thought we’d see a movie
tonight.” My arm uncurls and she rolls to her side, scooting into it. I’ve
never been one for post-coital cuddling, but it’s different with her. There’s
less pressure, less wondering how long that warm burst of euphoria will last.

“Like a date?” she asks.

“Something like that,” I say.
“Just thought it’d be nice to get out of the hotel for a little bit. Do the
things we don’t get to do back home.”

“Yeah, sure. What movie do you
want to see?”

“I don’t even know what’s out.”
I laugh at the fact that I’m completely out of touch with something so
quintessentially American. “We can sneak in after the lights are down, sneak
out before the end-credits.”

“Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.” She
sits up, her sex hair falling in her face until she brushes it away. Camille
bites her full lips and slowly slides off the bed. The sway of her ass as she
walks to the bathroom is intentional, meant for my enjoyment. Before she closes
the bathroom door, she turns to me and flashes a half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

Once the door shuts, I stretch
my arms above my head and roll to my side, running my hand along the imprint in
her spot. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking. I
can’t imagine I’ll ever find another who can take her rightful title.

I’ll admit my original
intentions with Camille were superficial, driven purely by selfish reasons.
Another man had her. I wanted her for myself. The harder I worked to find her,
the more I wanted her. It was basic human nature at first. But the more time I
spend with her, the more I resent the fact that she can only ever be mine
behind closed doors.

The door pulls open and Camille
steps out fully clothed, her hair combed into place and a slick of crimson on
her bee-stung pout.

“I’m ready.” She smiles and waves
her hands in the air as if she’s embarrassed to have gotten dolled up.

I move from the bed to her,
taking her hands and placing them on my hips as I kiss her forehead.

“You look beautiful, Camille.
It’s a shame we’ll be sitting in the dark the rest of the night.” I sigh. “I’d
love nothing more than to show you off, let every other man know that
this
is what I get to spend my cold
winter nights with.”

She lifts on her toes, kissing
my lips.

“It’s all the same just to hear
you say that,” she says. “Every woman deserves to be shown off by a man who
adores her. I know you can’t, but knowing you want to means just as much.”

She slinks away, her hands
dragging across my bare skin.

***

It feels good to be “normal.”
To do “normal” things like “normal” people. Driving a car. Going to the movies.
Fucking a beautiful woman who doesn’t have a pedigree attached to her last
name.

Camille buckles her seatbelt
and pulls the visor down to check her lipstick. Running the pads of her
fingertips down her loose waves, she twists them into place and turns to me.

“Ready?” I start the car. We
pull out of a parking garage and head south to a little movie house known for
more artistic, independent selections.

We wait in the heat-blasting
warmth of the car when we get there, watching the clock until it reads ten
minutes past our show time. I keep a fedora low on my head and hand her a fifty
for some tickets and concessions, and we sneak into the theater just in time
for the opening credits.

Finding a spot in the very back
row, we settle in, blending with the rest of the world for two full hours.

By the time the movie finishes,
we practically run out of a side exit, laughing as if we’re being chased. Cold
turns our breath into clouds as I dig for my keys, staring into her eyes as she
waits patiently by the passenger door.

For the first time all week, I
allow myself to think about Camille.

Really think about her.

“Come on, it’s cold!” She
bounces up and down, her crimson lips spread wide as puffs of fog evaporate
into the frigid night air.

A thin layer of ice covers the
windshield, deposited by Mother Nature while we sat snugly inside a heated
movie theater. Unlocking the car, she climbs inside and rubs her hands
together, cupping them around her mouth and blowing into them.

I start the car, crank the
heat, and turn on the defrost, turning to search the back seat.

“You’d think a rental car in
Iowa would come standard with an ice scraper.” I pop the trunk, climb out and
check there.

Nothing.

Hopping back inside, the heat
coming from the top of the dash is barely putting a dent in the layer of ice
outside.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait
until it all melts.” Camille shrugs, leaning back into her seat and making
herself comfortable.

“Did you enjoy the movie?” I
ask.

She nods. “I don’t think I’ve
laughed so much in a long time. You?”

I slick my hands together and
bring them to my mouth. “Yes.”

The plot of the movie escapes
me. After a while, I tuned it out. For whatever reason, my mind preferred to
focus on her tonight. I spent a solid fifteen minutes debating on whether or
not to put my arm around her and another twenty trying to decide if holding her
hand would send the wrong message. By the time I decided to play it safe and
keep my hands to myself, I’d missed the first plot twist and subsequently found
myself lost.

So I opted to watch her from
the corner of my eye the rest of the time. She’d take a single kernel of
popcorn at a time, devour it slowly, and drag her fingers across a napkin
before taking another. Her legs were crossed as she leaned toward me, and when
the screen would light up at times and the rest of the audience would laugh,
I’d watch for her smile.

A thin streak of melted ice
lines the bottom of the windshield. It’s going to be a while. I turn the dial
on the radio, searching for something in the middle of the music spectrum
because I’ve absolutely no idea what kind of music Camille likes.

“Oh, I love that song.” She
places her hand on mine to stop me from changing the station. I pull away and
catch the light in her eyes as she smiles. “Do you remember this song? It came
out maybe ten years ago? They played it all summer one year. I swear it was on
every channel all day long.”

I shake my head.

“Seriously? It was in that
football commercial all fall, too . . .”

I shrug. “I’ve never heard this
song in my life.”

Her jaw falls. “What did you
listen to in college?”

“NPR.” I slick my hand against
the leather steering wheel. “At least when I had time. I spent a lot of
semesters overseas. Most of the music I listened to isn’t played in the US.”

“Ah, a cultured man,” she
teases. “Please tell me you’ve at least heard of
Where’s Waldo
.”

I laugh. “That’s random, but
yes, I have.”

“Oh, thank God.” Her arm lands
on my shoulder. “My roommate,
Araminta
, still to this
day has never seen a
Where’s Waldo
book.”

“My parents used to give those
to my brother when they needed him to sit still for a solid twenty minutes,” I
say. “It was a good way to keep an eight-year-old out of trouble in a pinch.”

Another inch-long strip of the
ice melts, and the layer above is starting to crack like paper thin icebergs,
sliding down the glass in clumps.