DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (18 page)

Ronan

“That went well, didn’t it?” My
mother takes a spot next to my father on the flight back to DC.

“
Hm
?”
He looks up from his tablet, smiling like a clueless space cadet. Sometimes I
think that’s what draws people to him. He seems so benign and genial.

“The weekend in Iowa,” she
says. “It went well.”

Father turns back to his screen
and smiles. “We’ll see.”

She turns to me next, tilting
her head as she studies me. I’d give anything not to know what she’s thinking,
but I’m sure it has something to do with Lydia.

“Did you see the article?” she
asks.

“I’d rather not.” I cross my
legs as the plane taxies to the runway.

She swats her hand. “I didn’t
raise you to be so stubborn, Ronan. I’m not understanding this resistance you
have to the inevitable.”

My father’s index finger drags
down the screen of his tablet before clicking on something. He turns the screen
toward me, handing it over.

“Engaged to be engaged?” I
scoff. “Is that even a thing?”

“This will generate a bit of
interest in our families,” Mother says. “You still have plenty of time to work
things out, and in the meantime, we’ve just placed your names back in the mouth
of the media.”

My blood boils as I scan the
article. It’s all bullshit and lies, a manipulative tactic with my mother’s prints
all over it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote the damn thing.

I read an excerpt out loud, “
When asked about the future of her
relationship with the firstborn son of
President
Montgomery, Lydia Darlington says
, ‘
He
was my first love, and I was his. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone
else but Ronan Montgomery. We’ve been spending more time together lately, and
it’s clear that our feelings haven’t disappeared. Ronan and I have done a lot
of growing up the last couple of years, and I’m confident that there are
wedding bells in our future
.’”

My mother grins from ear to
ear, glancing out the window next to her. That woman would sell her soul to be
able to plan a Montgomery-Darlington wedding.

“Funny,” I say. “Lydia doesn’t
speak this way. She sounds coached.”

I hand the tablet back to my
father and sit back, glancing at my brother texting on his phone several seats
back.

“She and I may have convened a
little before the interview.” Mother plays with the pearls around her neck,
twisting them between two fingers.

I know.

“And why wasn’t I in on this
interview?” I ask. “You don’t think it looks odd?”

She shakes her head. “Men don’t
discuss weddings and engagements. It’s not proper etiquette. It has more weight
coming from Lydia, and the public just adores her.”

“Then they don’t know her like
I do.”

Her jaw falls, and my father
glances up from his reading, his eyes narrowing through his wire-rimmed
glasses.

“What is your problem, Ronan?”
His voice booms, a rare moment for a man who built his reputation by staying
even-keeled.

My mother places her hand on
his arm, squeezing ever so lightly. “It’s all right. He’s been a little
preoccupied
lately. I’m confident he’ll
be singing an entirely different tune in the very near future.”

***

I open the door to my apartment
and stop when the sole of my left shoe catches on something.

A piece of paper rests on my
foyer rug. Someone had to have slipped it under my door while I was gone this
weekend.

Upon closer examination, I
realize it’s a postcard, only there’s nothing on the white side. No message of
any kind. I flip it over to see the front, and my stomach drops.

It’s a black and white photo of
the Melrose Hotel.

I set it on a nearby console
table and wheel my bag to my room. A large, yellow envelope rests on the middle
of my bed. Glancing around the room, nothing looks out of place.

I tear into the envelope,
pulling out a small stack of photocopied, handwritten pages. I don’t recognize
the handwriting, but my eyes zero in on the dates. They’re all recent. At first
glance, this appears to be some kind of diary. I scan the words, my mind
working overtime to make sense of everything as quickly as possible.

“He
won’t show me his face, which concerns me. But when he touches me, I forget. I
relax. How a faceless stranger can wield that much power over me, I’ll never
know . . .”

“I
didn’t think I’d like the blindfold at first, and then I found comfort in the
dark. Every graze and taste and tease was magnified, every impalement that much
more intense . . .”

“His
voice is handsome, and tonight I traced his face with my fingers. My mystery
John has dimples!”

“John
told me I was his dark paradise tonight. Little does he know, he’s mine too. He
doesn’t touch me like the other men did. He’s gentle and sensual. He makes me
forget why I’m really there: to be his whore. It’s been a long time since
anyone touched me like that . . .”

I’ve read enough. Letting the
papers fall to my bed, I grab my phone and call Camille. She needs to be
warned, and until I figure out what this means and who would be tailing us, I
want her on lockdown.

Paging through the photocopies
one last time, I shove them in the envelope and flip it over. A typed note is
taped to the underside.

IF YOU
CARE ABOUT HER, YOU’LL WALK AWAY.

That warning could mean
anything, and it could’ve come from anyone. Political rivals. Someone with a
vendetta against my family. Anyone looking to ruin my father’s campaign before
it even gets off the ground.

And just as I anticipated,
they’re using Camille as a pawn.

She doesn’t answer her phone,
and I check the time. She should’ve landed hours ago.

I fire off a text,
WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.

And then I call Oliver to come
back for me.

***

“Oh . . . hello.” A blue-eyed
blonde with hourglass curves answers Camille’s apartment door in a designer
tracksuit. This must be
Araminta
. “Um . . .”

I’ve known their address since
the day I discovered Camille’s identity.

“I’m looking for Camille.” I
peer over her shoulder toward an apartment fit for two modern-day princesses.
“Is she home?”

Araminta
stares
at me, her fingers fidgeting as she struggles to speak.

“You’re . . . you’re Ronan
Montgomery,” she says.

“Yes.” I glance at Oliver to my
left, who stands out of the way. His eyes roll. “May I come in and speak with
Camille?”

She steps backward, swinging
the door open and ushering me in.

“She’s not here,” she says.
“How do you know her?”

“We’re acquaintances. You must
be
Araminta
?”

She nods, extending her hand. “Yes.
Araminta
Randall.”

Two hallways jut out at
opposite angles from the living room. “Which way to her room?”

Araminta
points
to her right. “But she’s not here. She’s . . . not coming back.”

I scoff, pushing past her and
heading toward Camille’s side of the apartment. “What do you mean, she’s not
coming back?”

“She called me earlier,” she
says, gingerly ambling behind me. “She said she was done with Washington. She needed
a fresh start.”

“You don’t think that’s odd?” I
twist the knob and open the door. Her room is impeccably clean, her bed made
and all her belongings in their rightful places, including her laptop.

 
“I mean, I knew it was coming, I just
thought she was waiting until our lease was up. She’s been talking about moving
to LA for years.”

“She’s in LA?” I ask.

Araminta
shrugs, lifting a bottle of Camille’s perfume and bringing it to her nose. “I
didn’t ask. I was kind of upset with her at the moment. I was more concerned
with her half of the rent, to be honest. I think she said she was going home
first, to Tennessee.”

“Did she sound upset? Nervous?
Scared?”

She laughs. “No, she sounded
normal, I guess. I was sort of in the middle of something when she called, so I
had her on speaker. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

My hands rest on my hips as I
exhale.

“Have you tried calling her?”
Araminta
asks.

“Yes,” I say. Both numbers. She
hasn’t answered either. My last call was placed from my personal cell, the
number left unblocked so she would have it if she needed to reach me. That was
an hour ago.

“You’re ‘John’ aren’t you?” She
studies my face, her lips pulled up at one side.

“Can you call her? Maybe she’ll
answer for you.”

She slides her phone from her
pocket and dials Camille before handing it to me. If she answers for Camille
and not me, I’ll know I’m the reason. If she doesn’t answer at all, I’ll have
to pay her a visit in person.

“Did something happen between
you two?”
Araminta
asks.

“Nothing that would warrant her
running off without so much as a goodbye.”

She chews on her lower lip.
“Okay, then that is weird.”

“Are you positive she went to
Tennessee?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

I hand her phone back and
stride to the door.

“What do you want me to say if
she calls back?”
Araminta
calls after me.

Lingering by the door, I
inhale, my stare fixed on a pair of crystal-encrusted heels I recognize from
our first night together.

“Tell her to stop running,” I
say. “Tell her whatever it is, whatever she’s afraid of, I’ll fix it. Tell her
she’s still my dark paradise.”

Camille

“Wasn’t expecting to see you
again so soon, but I’ll sure take what I can get.” Mom throws her arms around
my neck and hugs me close. “I hope you’re still coming home for Christmas.”

I breathe her in.

“What’s wrong? Something’s
wrong. I can tell,” she says. “Is this about a boy?”

I squeeze her tight, refusing
to let go if only for the fact that I don’t want her to see the tears in my
eyes. I’m humiliated.
Busy’s
words replayed in my
mind the entire flight home and then followed me during the drive here. They
played on a loop. Stuck in repeat. Reducing me to tears and wearing my
self-esteem down until there was nothing left.

“Just feeling homesick lately,”
I say. “And I think it’s time for me to head west, finally pursue my dreams.”

She rubs my back. “Oh,
sweetheart. I know it’s scary to chase your ambitions, but you only fail if you
never try. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

I blink away tears and breathe
in her soft scent before letting go.

“What made you decide to make
the jump?” she asks, brushing hair from my face. “Did something happen?”

“I just realized I was wasting
precious time. If I stay in DC, I’ll never be more than Camille Buchanan . . .
waitress
.” I force a smile to thwart her
from worrying too much. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit. Mind if I borrow
your laptop?”

“Go right ahead, sweetie. I’ll
make us some supper. You’re probably famished. I hear they don’t feed you on
airplanes anymore.”

She strides off, waving in the
air and cursing the airlines under her breath.

I grab her computer from the
coffee table and lug my bag up to my room. My head pounds, the pain pulsing
behind my eyes. I’m dehydrated and exhausted. After boarding the flight to
Nashville, we were forced to wait another hour while they investigated some
burning smell coming from the cabin. When we finally left and landed in
Tennessee, I waited in line for two hours for a rental car because apparently
every flight heading to the Northeast was canceled thanks to Winter Storm Knox.

With the laptop in hand, I
collapse on the familiar worn comforter, sprawling across my bed. Cracking the
lid, I check my email before composing a quick note to an old friend from
Georgetown currently residing in West Hollywood.

Hi,
Nina!

Guess
what? I’m finally moving west! Were you still looking for a roommate? I’m
leaving DC sooner than anticipated. Let me know. I can be on the next flight
out.

 
XOXO,

Camille

PS
– Are you still working at that casting agency off Ocean Ave?

PPS
– Miss you!

I grin, recalling the fun and
mischief Nina and I used to get into back when I was some innocent freshman
exploring newfound freedom in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

In a way, maybe what happened
today is for the best. It’s forcing me to act on my dreams, taking away any
choice I may have had to prolong it. And who knows what would’ve happened two
months from now? Ronan may have wanted to keep me around longer and longer, and
who knows if stupid me would’ve agreed. I’ve known women who’ve gone years as
nothing more than glorified fuck buddies, kept under wraps by men who fill
their heads with just enough hope to keep stringing them along.

Pulling my phone from my bag, I
see a handful of missed calls; all with 202 area codes. One after another. Each
call separated by a minute or so. I don’t have to second guess what I already
know: they’re all from Ronan.

The bar across the top of my
screen tells me my battery’s at one percent, and it may as well be because I’m
not calling him. It’s pointless. He’s not my boyfriend. We weren’t romantically
involved. And I don’t need another surprise visit from the FLOTUS when she
finds out we’re still communicating.

Besides, I know what he’ll say.
He’ll convince me to see him again, and he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And
I’ll cave in because, well, he’s Ronan Montgomery, and my ability to resist a
handsome man who makes me feel light on my feet and dizzy with sweet reveries
only goes so far.

I exhale, allowing myself to
experience one last, vivid memory of his lips on mine, his hands in my hair,
and his weight on my body before I release it for good. He was never mine to
keep—none of them were. Our passionate nights were on borrowed time, and
the meter just happened to expire earlier than expected.

An irrational, sharp pain fills
my chest when I think about him moving on, if only because I selfishly wanted
to keep him to myself just a little while longer. He’ll get over me eventually,
and he’ll probably wind up married to Lydia Darlington. Everything will work
out the way it’s supposed to, even if it pains me to think about it.

I let myself dwell just a
little while longer before I plug my phone into the wall and head downstairs to
spend more time with my sweet mother.

***

A blanket of snow coats our
front yard. It’ll be gone by noon, but it makes for a beautiful view as I sit
in the kitchen and lick a spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal. Mom left an hour ago to
put in a few hours. Since retiring last year, she’s taken to volunteering at
the library fifteen hours a week.

I’ve got the whole house to
myself for the next couple of hours. Nowhere to go. No one to see.

I pull the familiar scent of my
childhood home into my lungs. It’s like a fuzzy blanket, a hot cup of cocoa,
and a big hug wrapped up in one. I’m not used to this much quiet, but I imagine
it could be therapeutic.

A wooden birdfeeder attached to
the kitchen window with plastic suction cups catches my eye. Inside, a tiny
little brown bird perches on the edge, nibbling at the seed.

“What are you doing here? You
should’ve flown south by now.” I smile and rinse my bowl in the sink, and the
bird flies away.

Lucky little thing.

I skip down the steps to the
lower level family room, fully content to veg out with the remote and a stack
of my mom’s celebrity gossip magazines. She’s partially to blame with my
obsession with all things glamour. Mom’s style is the epitome of understated,
but she always appreciated a good red carpet gown.

Mindlessly turning pages and
simultaneously flipping channels, I mute the TV when I hear knocking. It’s
possible that it’s my imagination, but I cock my heard toward the stairs,
waiting to see if I hear it again.

A few seconds pass, and the
sound of three hard
knocks
echoes through the house.
It’s the middle of the morning on a Monday. Unless it’s one of my mom’s crazy
neighbors or a FedEx delivery, I’m not sure who else it would be.

I sit the magazine and remote
aside and head upstairs, my heart pounding at the intense recollection of my
surprise visitor at the hotel yesterday.

A break in the curtains on the
front picture window shows a shiny black SUV in the driveway, and the pounding
of my heart radiates through every extremity before traveling up my throat and
pulsing in my ears.

Mustering all the courage I have
left, I count to five and open the door.