A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2) (10 page)

I pull her back from me by the shoulders, my fingers gripping her hard enough to make her yelp. “Don’t you ever say that!” I hiss, the explosive emotion in me set off like an IED. “Never. I never, ever want you to feel shame for anything those bastards did to you. How you felt about me is understandable. They planted that feeling in you. They orchestrated the betrayal by your friends. They set us
both
up. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

I’m shaking her. I can’t stop. Some deep part of me thinks I can shake the shame out of her.

She rips herself away from me and stands a yard away, mouth twisted in fury. “I know that! I know it up here!” She taps her temple. Then her hand moves over her deliciously creamy skin, settling just above a naked breast, right over her heart. “But I don’t know it
here
.”

I cross the space and press my palm flat over hers.

“I do,” I whisper. “I know.”

Her eyes fill with tears.

And I almost tell her.

In Afghanistan, there was an incident. IED, ambush on a high mountain road, and in the middle of the attack one of our jeeps went down a three-hundred-foot cliff. The driver managed to jump out, but the guys in back were lost. As it tipped before my eyes, the passenger door had a hand.

Yeah, a hand. The hand shot out through the open window and I grabbed it as the soldier jumped out, bracing his legs on something inside to get some force. Our eyes met.

It could have gone either way. Life or death. Success or failure.

His body smashed against the edge of the window, ribs squished like thick toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He later had massive internal bleeding but my grip on his forearm – hard enough to dislocate his shoulder – kept him from tipping over that edge.

The jeep nearly dragged him down.

Impulse and training and sheer will kept him alive. The jeep almost took me down, too.

And right now, Lindsay looks an awful lot like a random hand poking out of an open window on a bombed jeep that is about to go over a cliff.

We are naked, standing before each other, hands on her heart. The look on her face says so much.

Rescue me.

Love me.

Don’t leave.

I’m damaged.

Don’t shame me.

I’m sorry.

“How do you know?” she asks. “How do you know what I should or shouldn’t feel?” Her voice is so soft. There’s no challenge. No anger. Just a gentle request that I answer the mystery of the universe.

No pressure, right?

“I don’t claim to know you better than you know yourself, Lindsay.” I look down at our hands, together against her fine skin. “But I know that if you harbor shame inside you for how you’ve treated me, let it go. Let every fucking drop of it go. That’s not a burden you need to carry. All the shame is on John, Stellan and Blaine.”

She flinches at their names.

I reach to her chin and tip it up, so her eyes meet mine. “You are my world. My soul can release when I’m with you. My blood runs free and wild when you’re near. We’re meant for each other, my love.” Emotion chokes my throat, my heart slamming against my chest, trying to get out and hold hers.

She does not look away. Her fingers lace through mine, her tips digging into the sweet spot above her heart, her shaky inhale seemingly endless.

“I love you, Drew. I never stopped. It was just the pain of what I thought had happened that held me back. It consumed me. It blocked out everything else in the world. Now that I know the truth, I feel like I can see the sun again. I can breathe again. I can live.” She closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “I can love.”

Her eyes fly open and lock on mine. “I can love
you
.”

Four years.

A bolt of pain shoots through me, paralyzing my heart. She finally trusts me. After all this time, all this heartache, so many years of struggle and hard work, I’m getting what I want.

Her.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

I need to tell her the truth.
My
truth.

But it sticks in my throat, choking me.

“I love you,” I rasp, the words pushed out of me so hard the air lifts tendrils of her hair, making them float. She gives me a kiss, her hands tightening around my shoulders, and I hug her back. She loves me. She trusts me.

Those bastards didn’t win.

Bzzz.

“Fucking phone,” I mutter, actually grateful for a break from Lindsay. the dissonance between our professions of love and my inner turmoil too much. I check the screen. Gentian.

Your suit is out here. The bathroom’s clear if you need to shower
, he texts.

I make a sound close to a grunt. He’s ready to run a presidential campaign single-handed.

Tks
, I type back.

And then I’m on top of Lindsay, my hands on her neck, my thighs on either side of her hips, my chest rubbing against her breasts, the friction of skin against skin generating an impulsive energy that fuels me.

“I am dangerously close to having your father not only fire me from managing security for you, but if he finds me in your bedroom, my ass will be kicked thoroughly.”

She pinches the ass in question. “You could totally beat my daddy in a cage fight.”

I kiss her and laugh at the same time.

“Not something I really want to test out, Lindsay,” I say, pulling myself off her, grateful to have a distraction. Sliding into my shorts and sweaty t-shirt, I watch as she crawls under the covers, her gorgeous shoulders peeking out over the top of the sheet.

I sigh.

I plant my hands on my hips and think for a few seconds. My phone says it’s 5:21 a.m. To be safe, I should get out of her bedroom by six. Meeting’s at seven, here at The Grove in the senator’s office, so it’s a fifty-fifty chance whether he’ll be here in person.

I need ten minutes to shower. Ten to shave.

Fuck it.

I grab my shorts and pull them down. The waistband snags on something hard.

I’m naked in three seconds, slithering under the sheets as Lindsay squeals.

I silence her with a kiss.

“I have time for one more.”

“One more what?” she asks, batting her eyelashes with mock innocence.

“Oh, you need instructions? Let me show you,” I murmur as I split her legs open with my hands, burying myself in a place where the past doesn’t exist.

And where her pleasure
is
my present.

“
D
on’t try
to bullshit me, Drew. I know exactly what you were doing yesterday when you cornered Blaine Maisri and punched him. Convenient there’s no video.” Harry’s voice drops to a deadly whisper. We’re in his home office, Anya quietly leaving us alone with a reminder that Harry has a call with the party chairman in ten minutes.

It’s 7:02 a.m.

“If that’s all you’d done, we wouldn’t be in this meeting. But you dragged my innocent daughter into it, damn it. Made her faint from the stress. Just when we had our first success with reputation rehabilitation.”

I can taste his innocent daughter on my tonsils.

“Now there’s a video clip of her pointing through an open Exit door, eyes wide and fearful like Bambi after his mother was shot, complete with a fainting spell. If we don’t spin this carefully, the media’s going to resurrect her scandal.”

I bite my tongue. And inner lip. And curl my fingers into fists.

“We’re covered,” I assure him.

“I didn’t ask whether we were covered.” His look is designed to make me cower. It fails. “I am telling you that you fucked up.”

I just look at him.

“I know why you punched him, Drew.”

Wasn’t expecting that.

“You acknowledge what he’s done? You know he’s one of Lindsay’s rapists?” I can’t keep the shock out of my response.

Harry ages ten years in two seconds.

“Jesus, Drew. You’re sure?” He looks away. His shoulders sag.

This isn’t the first time he’s been told this bit of information. I can tell.

“Absolutely sure. I was there,” I say through gritted teeth.

“They told me...” He weakens, grabbing the edge of his desk for support. “They said it was
possible
. Not a certainty.”

“‘They’ who?”

“The video analysts. Other advisors.” Like who, I wonder. Marshall? Victoria? Those “LB Incident” people from the meeting with Lindsay?

He gives me a bleak-eyed look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you
ask
?”

“Ask
you
?”

“Ask Lindsay, for starters. And yes, me. We’re the victims.” I hate that word. A flash of the psychologist who helped me after the attacks hits my brain like a missile strike. I shove the image away.

Victims.

“We got reports from her doctors on the Island, but they said her information wasn’t reliable. It came through a drug fog.”

“Then let me make the truth abundantly clear to you,
sir
. Blaine Maisri was, without doubt, one of the people who raped and tortured your daughter.”

He bares his teeth at me, like an angry stray dog.

“I’m supporting his bid for my old House seat. I’ve endorsed his campaign. You tell me this
now
?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.”

He’s pale, his shoulders rising with each breath, chest moving fast. “Fuck you.”

My eyes narrow instinctively, examining him. He’s not lying.

But he’s not telling the truth, either.

“Do you,” he says tightly, “have any idea how thin the ice you’re skating on really is, Drew? Blaine Maisri has connections you cannot fathom.” His eyes bore into me. I don’t flinch. I don’t move.

I stare back. “Like Nolan Corning?”

No reaction.

“And those connections are more important than your daughter,” I challenge.

It’s not a question.

“No.” I expect more anger in his answer. “But pissing off Blaine and the people behind him does nothing but put Lindsay in more danger.”

More
danger.

“He’s been texting her.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “More texts?”

“Yes. Threats. Pictures.”

“You traced them directly to him?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve proven nothing, which means we can
do
nothing.”

“Not true.”

“You have to act within the law, Drew. This is my presidency at stake. The election year is a weird one. Once I’m nominated as the party’s candidate in the general election, it’s smooth sailing.”

“How do you know?”

He shoots me a dry look.

“I know.”

“But that assurance isn’t there through these early stages?”

“No.”

“Then this may very well involve Nolan Corning. He has a reputation for being cut-throat, Harry.”

“So do I, Drew.”

“What if he’s behind what happened to Lindsay?”

“You think Nolan Corning convinced three college frat boys in your circle to do what they did to Lindsay out of a sense of...competition? Are you insane, Drew?”

“I am considering all possibilities.”

“You sound like one of those ‘9/11 was an inside job’ nutters.”

“Why won’t you even consider the idea?”

Silence.

He’s a cipher. I won’t get more out of him. Time to cut off the chit chat.

“Blaine and whoever’s behind him are using Lindsay against you. Always have.”

An imperceptible shiver runs through him. “You mean they’re using her reputation against me.”

I almost say it.

Almost.

“No, Harry.” I drop my voice. “They’re using
her
. You know what happened with the brake lines. They’re trying to paint her as a crazy. It’s all a lie. But once they do that, they’ll try to taint you by association. We need to cut this off now. The fish rots from the head.”

“I know you’re not referring to me.”

“Of course not. I’m talking about whoever is pulling Blaine Maisri’s puppet strings. Whoever’s been pulling them for four years. It can’t have escaped your attention that Blaine’s rise has been meteoric. He’s my age and he’s a state senator. He’s barely old enough to even
be
a U.S. Representative, constitutionally.”

Tap tap tap.

It’s Marshall, one of the PR handlers for Lindsay that Harry hired last week.
Last week
.

She’s been home barely a week.

He doesn’t make eye contact with me.

My hackles go up.

“Senator? A word?”

Harry frowns at me, then turns, giving Marshall his full attention. The guy’s eyes dart to me, then down to a newspaper in his hand.

I can’t see the picture on it, but I immediately know it’s bad. Whatever’s on that cover, a shitstorm’s about to be unleashed.

Harry pivots and tosses the newspaper on the table between us.

I’m on the cover.

I
am the shitstorm.

My sharp inhale feels like someone’s shoved an icicle down my throat.

He’s going to ask me to explain. Explain why that photo shows me punching Blaine. Explain why that photo captures the moment I unleashed on the guy.

And explain why it’s clear I was aiming for him.

No other man is in the frame.

I compose my thoughts even as they race at breakneck speed.

And then he beats me to it.

“You’re fired.”

I
nod
, blinking, like this is unexpected.

It’s not.

“You understand, of course,” he says in a tone that makes it clear I’d damn well better not argue. “We can still spin this so we save Lindsay’s reputation. The ‘attacker’ slipped out a second before. You were shoved by the perpetrator and off-balance. Whatever we say, the focus will be on Lindsay. Not you. I won’t have my daughter’s barely salvageable reputation affected in any way by you, Drew. Not any more.”

“I’ll take myself off the case.” My mouth is numb. I am speaking through nine layers of glue.

“No.”

I look at him. He’s imposing as fuck, but I’m strangely detached. Not intimidated a bit. This is about reality and facts. I moved from the asset to the liability column with one newspaper photo. I get it. I do.

“You’re
fired
. Officially. We’re about to make a very public announcement declaring as much. I’m sure you understand it’s nothing personal. This is about damage control. Read the headline.”

I look down.

Deranged Ex-boyfriend Stalks Presidential Candidate’s Daughter.

“Those
assholes
.”

“They may be assholes, but they outsmarted you, Drew. I can’t have them contaminate Lindsay. Thank God, nothing in that article implicates her, but -- ”

Contaminate?

“Don’t you see what they’re doing, Harry? Are you kidding me? They’re isolating you. Making you fire me. You’re handing them exactly what they want!”

“I don’t care about their agenda. Only my own. And you know I have to do this.”

“Keep Gentian. He’s my best guy. And if you’re going to hire someone -- ”

“I’ve already called Mark Paulson. Left a message.”

A tiny tendril of hope shoots through me.

“Good. Mark’s great.”

“Stay away from him. I don’t want anyone to know you two are associated.”

“He works for me.”

“Not any more. He’s spinning off his own company as we speak. On the record – he’s officially disgusted and shocked by your behavior.”

I grind my teeth. Damn it.

“He’s James Thornberg’s grandson. That legacy will rub off on him. Give him legitimacy. Might even help me with polling. A loose mental association between Thornberg and me could help with this mess.”

This mess.

I
am this mess.

“And Lindsay?”

“What about her?”

“You know how hard this is for her, Harry. I’ve been able to help her with -- ”

“You mean how you’re helping her in her bedroom?”

If he said anything else –
anything
else – about Lindsay, I wouldn’t look away. But even I can’t maintain eye contact with the father of the woman I’m sleeping with as he calls me out for it.

I have limits, too.

“Damn it, Drew. Every worst-case scenario is coming true. Marshall warned me this was a possibility.”

I jolt. “Marshall?” Marshall won’t make eye contact, but he’s also not cowering. The guy won’t even look at me.

“He said you weren’t ready. And he was right.”

“Who in the hell are you to decide whether I can do a security job or not?” I make it clear with the way my eyes check him out that this pasty, overweight, pompous overachiever is the last person qualified to judge me.

“He called it, Drew.”

“I want to hear it from him.”

Beady eyes, narrow and angry, meet mine. “This isn’t personal,” Marshall says in a monotone. “The fact that you can’t understand that confirms that firing you is the right choice, Foster. That’s how the game works.”

“Protecting Lindsay isn’t a game.”

“I never said that. But the presidential race
is
a game – a game of strategy. You don’t fit in. Not with your personal vendetta against one of the key players.”

“Key players? Blaine’s a
key player
?”

“He’s more important as a strategic piece than you are. Consider yourself lucky Harry’s found a way to still use Paulson.”

“I don’t give a shit about that, Marshall. This isn’t about billable security hours or money or friendship. The stakes are higher!”

“That’s right. They are. A presidency is at stake here, and we’re not going to let you compromise that because you had some kind of argument years ago with Blaine Maisri over a woman,” Marshall snaps back, going for the jugular. A bitter smile makes his lips twitch.

The fucker is
enjoying
this.

I am thunderstruck.

I’ve seriously underestimated him.

“A
what
?”

“Blaine told me all about it. He dated Lindsay. So did you. You’ve become unhinged since she came back. You aren’t thinking straight.”

Harry’s watching us carefully, though I can tell his attention is split. He knows this is bullshit. I calculate quickly.

One of two pieces of information is true:

1
) Marshall is
on Blaine’s side and somehow Harry doesn’t realize it

2) Marshall has been kept out of the loop on all the details from four years ago.

B
oth can’t be true
.

And both are dangerous as hell.

If I have to pick one, though, number two is easier to deal with.

Number one is the choice I’m most worried about.

I ignore Marshall and turn to Harry. “You know the truth about Blaine Maisri, Harry. Is this really your final decision?”

His look doesn’t waver. Unlike Marshall, he doesn’t avoid my eyes. “Already been made. Mark Paulson will call you shortly. Hand over all your codes, passwords,
everything
, to be changed over to new. Stay away, Drew. Stay far away. It’s about press coverage and appearance.” Harry grabs my arm and pulls me aside. He’s not rough. In fact, the move is smooth, like he knows he can touch me this way.

I yank my arm out of his grasp.

He needs to know he
can’t
.

Harry gives Marshall a look. The guy leaves the room, shaking his head, on his phone before the doorknob clicks with a finality that feels like a guillotine blade.

“I mean it, Drew. Don’t come near her. No covert mission. No unauthorized security on her. I’ll consider that stalking and have you prosecuted,” Harry insists.

“How well do you know Marshall?”

The question catches him off guard. “What?”

“How well do you know him?” I stare at the back of the door.

“Since college days. We were in the same fraternity.” His eyes narrow. “Why? Do you know something about him
I
need to know?”

This is why Harry has gotten as far as he has. A lesser man would become angry and defensive with my question. Not Harry.

He’s all matter-of-fact

“No, but this doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re clearly upset, and I understand -- ”

“No. Harry. This. Doesn’t. Make. Sense. My guys cleared the security angle. No one had a reason to take that picture in that exact moment.”

He rolls his eyes. “So you
did
plan this.”

“Yes.” Might as well admit it. What do I have to lose? “And that makes the picture in the newspaper more troubling. Marshall’s the one who came to you with it?”

“He’s my reputation management specialist. He’s the one who
would
.”

“Fine. But how close is he to Blaine’s camp? For God’s sake, Harry, you know that story about Blaine dating Lindsay is bullshit.”

“He took her to a dance when they were in high school, Drew. We have photos somewhere in an album at home. So does Blaine.”

I trawl my memory. I was a senior the year Lindsay was a freshman. We weren’t dating yet. “You’re basing my alleged stalker status on that pretense? That bullshit?”

“It doesn’t take much, Drew,” he says sadly, surprising me. The guy is cool as can be, always in a logical frame of mind, ever calculating. “It’s all about appearance.”

“You appear to be easy to manipulate, Harry. Marshall’s playing you.”

“You think he’s a plant?” I expect him to be angry, but he gets to the point.

“Don’t know. Getting rid of me makes sense on the surface,” I say, conceding the point. “Now that it’s all public and you’re worried about
appearances
. Your team can spin this.”

“Already has. It was an accident.”

“But if Blaine’s lying and claiming this is a grudge match over Lindsay, it just thrusts her into the limelight more.”

“Shit,” he grumbles.

“Right. Look. I’ll stay away – publicly.”

“Drew.” My name is a stretched-out growl.

“But there’s no fucking way I’m leaving her alone.”

“You don’t trust Paulson and Gentian? Your own guys?” His eyebrow quirks, as if to say,
And you let them protect my daughter?

“I’d trust them with the president.”

His eyebrows raise. “Good to know.”

“But I don’t trust anyone but me with Lindsay.”

Any other man would roll his eyes. Harry just blinks. “You sound like a lovesick puppy.”

I say nothing.

“You can’t tail her. You can’t be caught on camera.”

“Not a problem.”

“If Blaine’s somehow part of all this – and I still have my doubts – then whoever schemed to get that punch on camera is a step ahead of you.”

“Parallel to.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not a step ahead – they’re running parallel to me.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“I’m being precise.”

“I don’t authorize any of this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And what about Lindsay?” he asks.

“What about me?”

We both pivot to find her in the doorway, dressed for a run, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face freshly scrubbed.

She’s glaring at Marshall, who looks at her like she’s an annoying little girl interrupting Daddy’s work as they both walk into the room, Lindsay edging him aside.

Before anyone can answer, she looks at the newspaper. Her eyes go wide and she whispers a curse word.

“What is going on, Daddy?”

Interesting
who
she chooses to ask.

“Your security detail was caught on camera punching a state rep,” Marshall answers.

“Are you my daddy?” she asks, her voice full of sugar but her eyes bleeding poison all over him. “If so, my mom has a lot to answer for.”

“Lindsay,” Harry barks. I can tell he’s horrified – and trying not to laugh. So am I.

“I’d like an answer from the man in charge,” she says, pandering to Harry, who knows it.

And smiles.

“Drew was caught on camera punching Blaine Maisri. We’re taking him off your security detail.”

“No!” she gasps. I can’t tell if she’s more upset that I was caught on camera or that I’m being removed.

“Paulson and Gentian can do a capable job of managing you. Their techniques will be
different
,” he says, casting a pointed look my way.

Lindsay blushes.

Huh. Didn’t know she could be embarrassed like that.

It’s cute. And if I weren’t consumed by being fired from the most important security detail of my life, I’d find it a little hot, too.

“I never liked Drew being in charge anyhow, Daddy,” she announces, eyes suddenly hooded. Contempt shoots out of her eyeballs as she gives me a look her old friend Mandy could have easily extended. It’s condescending, haughty, and designed to convince Marshall that she doesn’t want me.

It’s a ruse.

“I told you that from day one.”

Day one. Lindsay’s been home for a handful of days. So much has happened.

Too
much has happened.

And I know it’s only the beginning.