Billionaire In Hiding: The Complete Series (Alpha Billionaire Romance Western Love Story) (100 page)

I rounded the corner and found myself face
to face with a young couple, both of whom were holding hands and walking
through the park. They looked like they’d been up all night. Their faces were
brimming with such lust for each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes,
speaking only in whispers. I wondered what that love was like, in a small way.
I wondered if I was missing something. As I sped by them, I suddenly lurched to
a stop and peered back, watching their slow and subtle movements through their
morning. It was like, for them, time had stopped; they were unworried about
their careers, about their futures. They were continually wrapped in that non-spinning
world—the one that I had joined for only a second, there in the oval office.

I shuddered and spun back around, back
into the world. I revved forward and allowed myself, only for a moment, to
consider a world in which we were meant to be together—in which we were normal,
beautiful people who were allowed to make our own choices and live our own
lives.

But what kind of life was that, anyway?

Finally, I reached my home once more,
feeling the sweat pulse down my body. I removed my clothes swiftly, tossing
them on my shining wooden floor. I rubbed at my back, at my side. The pangs of
stress lingered on, making me feel older than my years.

The water that gleamed on my body was so
fresh, so vibrant. I rubbed at my scalp, feeling my hair as it oozed down my
back and my muscles. I captured it with shampoo and felt it liven beneath my
fingertips. I thought, gruffly, about what Xavier was doing right then. Was he,
himself, in the shower? Difficult to imagine a president in the shower,
thinking about the strain of the world he controlled—all the lives that were
lost across the great country, every day. Weird to think that the president was
able to take a moment for himself, to allow himself such feeling.

Of course, as I washed my face, I
remembered that he had sought that feeling in me, through that kiss. I was his
escape, I knew, from the reality of his marriage, from the reality of the
terrible power he’d claimed above everyone. I wondered if power was really all
that it should be; I wondered if everything he’d sacrificed was worth it to
him.

The rest of the day, I lived in a sort of
dreamland of emotion, of feeling. I gave myself this day to think about him, I
decided. And then: every other subsequent day would be null, would be rooted in
career prospects and campaigning. I wouldn’t even allow him to think I ever
considered him a prospect. I practiced looking at myself in the mirror with
dead eyes, and I promised myself that I would only look at Xavier this way—with
no inner turmoil, with no feeling.

I propped myself back on the couch with a
movie, with popcorn. It was late in the evening at this point, and I realized
that I hadn’t called anyone or spoken to anyone the entire day. I considered
calling my mother for only a moment—that woman who all-but ruled Philadelphia
with her bake sales and her quilt making (what a different and strange child I
had been for her!). But I imagined something in my voice would give away my
adoration for someone; something in my voice would render me weak. She could
smell the weakness, I knew.

I sighed, taking a small bite of popcorn
and diving into the old, 30s film. I liked living in this world, if only for a
moment. I knew it was silly: the passion that drove each character to fall in
love over the course of two hours.

Suddenly, a heard my phone begin to buzz
in my portfolio—a portfolio I hadn’t opened and a phone I hadn’t checked all
morning. My heart constricted in my chest and I rushed up, nearly spilling the
popcorn all over the floor. I tapped toward the portfolio and knew, suddenly,
that if Xavier was calling—if it truly was him—then I had to answer it.

I had to.

I brought my hand around the vibrating
beast and tugged it up, feeling all the clutter on the inside of my bag hound
around my fingers. I gazed at the number for a moment, with the name: JASON. I
smiled at it and placed it on the table, allowing it to buzz and buzz and buzz
until it exhausted itself. I imagined Jason somewhere in one of those grubby
apartments, yelling into the phone. I hoped it wasn’t for work, of course. But
even if it were work, it could wait. It just could.

I stretched my arms over my head and
yawned, feeling aches and pains coursing throughout my body. I licked my lips
for a moment, reaching back toward the popcorn and targeting my eyes back into
movie world.

But the phone began to buzz once more,
suddenly. I growled, spinning back around, ready to answer it just to tell
Jason if he ever hit on me again, I’d report him. By god, I would.

But the name was different.

This time, the name read: MR PREZ.

I placed it down on the table and allowed
it to buzz once, then twice. I felt aches throughout my entire body. I
shuddered, so worried. Why was he calling? Was he calling me to reprimand me
about the other evening—about running out on him?

Finally, I picked it up. I swallowed and
let out a meek: “Hello?”

“Amanda. Miss Martin. How are you?”

I sputtered for a moment. “I’m fine,” I
forced myself to speak.

“I noticed you didn’t come into the office
today.”

I rubbed my temple, feeling it pulse
beneath my fingers. “I had a lot on my plate, you know.”

“Right,” he said quietly. I could hear him
sitting on that squeaky chair in the oval office. I pictured him putting his
feet on the desk—something he only did when he talked to someone he felt
comfortable with on the phone. “Listen. I was wondering if you had changed your
mind about having dinner with me. Just a business dinner, of course. Something
very professional.”

I thought for a moment, remembering the
dream world I had created in my mind over the previous few hours. I gazed up at
the television screen as it illustrated two 1930s characters speaking wildly,
tossing their arms through the air.

“Just a professional dinner, correct?” I
asked him, then.

He nodded. “Professional. That’s it.”

I bit my lip for a moment. “You know. I
think it could be beneficial to have a dinner together. I have a good deal of
information to go over with you about the campaign.”

“Do you?” The president sounded so
thrilled as he spoke—if a bit amused. He knew he had conned me, in some way,
into saying yes to dinner. He knew his kiss had worked. For this reason, I
mildly hated that I’d allowed this to occur.

But I couldn’t go back on it now.

“You’ll meet me at the White House.” It
wasn’t a question; it was a command. “We’ll dine in the formal dining room.”

My heart nearly stopped beating in my
chest. I knew the White House formal dining room was top-notch, offering the
most beautiful dining experience in the world. I swallowed. I hadn’t even
entered the place before. I had barely looked inside on my many walks past it.
It was, in my mind, simply off-limits.

“What time?” I croaked, feeling the
scratchiness of my throat.

“You’ll meet me at seven-thirty,” the
president said, utilizing his arrogant, orderly tone. “I’ll see you there.”

He hung up the phone, then, leaving me in
a lurch at my dining room table, feeling the pangs of an illicit relationship
take forth before me. I could already see the disastrous consequences of it; I
could already feel the terror of it coursing through my veins.

But to have his lips upon mine just one
more time; perhaps I could do it. I could.

Just once.

Chapter
10

The next evening, I leafed through my
closet, searching for the perfect gown for the evening with the president. I
knew it had to be a professional dress—something that would be appropriate in
the eyes of the Secret Service. Finally, my fingers traced the lace sleeves of
the black dress I’d worn to a previous gala—something that was form-fitting but
not low-cut. Something that left a good deal of my body to the imagination.
This, I knew, was essential.

I called a taxi and walked quietly out
into the darkness. The night had come earlier each day since the middle of
August, and already I felt that summer had passed me by too readily. I’d been
hovered over a desk for too much of it, searching for the perfect solution to
all presidential problems. Searching ever for the right career path for myself,
as well.

The taxi sprung from the road darkness up
toward the sidewalk. I stepped into the back seat.

“Hello, beautiful lady,” the man upfront
spoke to me in a gruff, not unpleasant voice. “Where to?”

“The White House,” I answered primly. I
actually never tired of saying it. The White House had become my home. I’d been
a wayward girl from Philly, but now I was so much more.

The taxi wound its way to Pennsylvania
Avenue, swerving through traffic. I steadied my shaking hand on my leg, trying
to hum something to myself to put my brain at ease. I tried to tell myself that
this was only a business meeting—that nothing was different about this meeting
than the lunches they’d had together through the course of the previous few
weeks.

But something in the back of my mind ebbed
at me, allowing me to understand my lingering, whole-hearted attraction toward
the man at the other end of the taxi route. I shivered once more.

Suddenly, we arrived. The taxi driver
rushed around to my side and opened the door for me, placing his hand out. I
felt like Cinderella at the ball. I thanked him, leafing through my purse for
the money I owed him. He accepted it, bowing to me a bit as he skirted back
into the taxi, leaving me alone on the curb.

I stepped toward the White house, finding
myself face-to-face with Dimitri once again. I smiled at him sheepishly,
realizing he would suspect something was up. “Hello, stranger,” I called to
him. I tried to play it cool.

“Well, well. Don’t you look ravishing,”
Dimitri said, a twinkle in his eye. He reached behind him and grabbed the door,
allowing me entrance. “Don’t play too rough in there, you here?”

“What do you mean?” I asked him seriously.
“I have a campaign meeting—“

“I know. And I know how you work,” Dimitri
chortled. I now understood: he was joking with completely good intentions.

“Right,” I laughed, nodding toward him.

I walked through the halls, remembering
that the president had said the dinner would be in the main, formal dining
room. I felt my dress fly back behind me as I walked, tip-toeing through the
great, echoing place.

Finally, I reached it. The great, double,
floor-to-ceiling doors were wide open for me. I sighed, my mouth open with
wonder. At the very center of the room stood a long table, set with a white
table cloth. At the door, stood a secret service agent. He reached out and took
my hand, shaking it. “Hello, campaign manager,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve
met. I’m Jacob.”

“I’m Amanda,” I said, smiling at him. I
was glad he’d referred to me as that—allowing me to understand that this dinner
was, indeed, a business meeting. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was a business
meeting.

Jacob sauntered with me toward the table,
pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit gracefully, flinging my dress out
before me. I nodded at him as he left, stating, “Mr. President will be with you
in just a moment. He’s taking a call upstairs.”

I sat alone in the echoing dining room,
staring at the empty plate before me. I felt so strange, biting at my lip. A
waiter entered the room and took my wine order—red, of course. He plucked a red
bottle from the cellar and poured a glass for me, allowing the music of it to
emanate through the grand dining hall. “Cheers, my lady,” he said cordially,
retreating back into the ethers.

Finally, I heard the familiar trouncing of
Xavier’s feet. My ears perked up, and I stood as he entered. Our eyes met in an
intimate way—so pensive, so full of emotion. I swallowed as he came closer. His
beard was so dark, making him look jagged, almost warrior-like, even in his
presidential position. I liked feeling like this president could care for me,
could look after me in times of crisis.

He approached me and reached out his hand,
shaking mine formally. His words were cordial. “Thank you for taking the time
out of your Sunday for this meeting.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. President,” I
stated, sitting down. We were so many feet apart. I couldn’t imagine that our
lips would ever come together in such a world as this.

Xavier suddenly sputtered into action,
then, calling the waiter. “Yes. Yvonne will carefully explain the menu we’ve
orchestrated for the evening,” Xavier began.

Yvonne cleared his throat. “We’ll begin
with a divine Mediterranean platter, with a bit of antipasto. Afterwards, we’ll
have a brief bread course, followed by the soup. Then, we’ll have a main
dish—duck—followed, of course, with dessert.” He bowed before me, making me
feel nervous—like I needed to clap. Instead, I just laughed, feeling like a
fool.

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, bringing
my hands together.

“The president and his work associate will
dine momentarily,” Yvonne stated then, skirting back toward the kitchen.