Bishop (Political Royalty Book 3) (13 page)

By the time the driver got the door open, Matt was there, offering her his hand. She took it, allowing herself a moment’s pleasure at the feeling of his warm, strong fingers and the appreciative look in his eyes. She glanced down at her hand in his—
it really was an awful watch
—and then stood, hitting him with a full-blown smile. His answering smile held enough heat to melt some of the ice around her heart and to remind her to be careful not to play with fire. A bit of flirting, even letting him think something could happen between them to help keep him motivated was fine as long as it served her purpose. Crossing a line she couldn’t uncross wasn’t. She had goals and she wasn’t about to let any man—not her husband or the charming young reporter—fuck things up for her.

As soon as she stood, she let go of his hand, but she held back enough to give him the illusion he was guiding her to the front door of the restaurant. At their approach, one of the young hostesses held the door for them, smiling and bowing them into the restaurant.

“Mrs. Walker, how lovely to see you,” said the beautiful young Asian woman, standing behind the black lacquered podium. With her perfectly smooth porcelain skin, she’d be eighty years old before she’d have to worry about her laugh lines becoming permanent. Parts of life were truly unfair. “Two for lunch?”

“Yes, please. One of the private booths upstairs, if possible.”

“Of course.” The woman tapped the screen in front of her and then motioned for them to follow her through the dining room.

Sushi, or rather sashimi, was one of the few indulgences Sandra allowed herself. She’d spent enough time at Ensho for the staff to remember her. The fact that she was married to the man running for president didn’t hurt either.

Matt didn’t hesitate over the menu, waiting for her to order the chef’s choice sashimi sampler before ordering a sushi sashimi plate for himself, along with a black dragon roll.

“You’ll help me with it, won’t you?” he asked, smiling at her across the crisp white tablecloth-covered table.

She started to tell him it had been over a decade since she’d eaten white rice, but instead, she nodded, wondering for a moment how he made it so easy to say yes.

“Now,” he said once they were alone. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

She took a sip of her water, looking for the best angle of approach. “I know you were confused when Becca told me what happened to her.” She held up her hand, staving off any potential protest. This would go faster if they didn’t have to smooth things out after every step. He’d been angry when he thought she was using his sister’s experience for her pet cause. Pretending he wasn’t was a waste of both of their time. “And I know you have reservations about her involvement in the project.”

It wasn’t a project yet. It was still in the nebulous idea stage, but it would become a project and then a movement and then if she played the board exactly right—a legacy.

“I do,” he said. “I’m glad she felt comfortable enough to talk to you and again, I’m grateful for the help you gave her. But I’ve seen what happens to people who end up thrust into the spotlight. I’ve covered it, and it rarely ends well. I don’t want my sister to be hurt any more than she’s already been.”

He really was a nice guy. She had no doubt he was a player. His natural charm made that inevitable, but his impulse to protect his sister was admirable.

“I understand the often unfair scrutiny the media gives. Especially toward women.” She’d spent the tail end of her childhood and all of her adult life considering the ramifications of her actions—first on her father and later her husband—and how they would be portrayed by the press. She more than understood media bias; she lived it. “That’s exactly why I want to control the message. Roll it out in a way that sets the tone for everything that follows. I want you to help me craft the message and orchestrate the launch.”

She took another sip of her water, watching to see which angle he’d come from. She could tell he was interested, but unlike his sister, there wasn’t a naïve thing about Matt. He wouldn’t jump simply because she made a convincing argument. He’d have to dissect the whole damn thing and put it back together again before he’d be willing to get on board.

The server interrupted them to bring their lunch. Sandra glanced at the artfully plated jewel-colored bits of fish and smiled to herself. She loved beautiful things and she loved food she didn’t have to feel guilty about. The sashimi at Ensho hit both notes brilliantly. When she looked back up, she found Matt watching her, chopsticks held expertly in his right hand and his lips curved in pleasure.

“What?” she asked, momentarily taken aback at his expression.

“Nothing.” He shook his head as if to clear it and then met her gaze. “I’m just not sure I’ve ever seen you smile like that. I take that back. Maybe at the photoshoot with the girls.”

She stopped, a thin sliver of salmon dangling from the end of her chopsticks. She didn’t mind flirting. Actually, she liked it, but she didn’t like the idea of the reporter looking too closely at her. Seeing too much. Rethinking her original boundaries, she opened her mouth to try to walk things back, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said, reaching for a piece of the dragon roll. “I didn’t mean to cross a line. Honest. I shouldn’t have said anything, but you’re a beautiful woman and when you smile, it’s extraordinary. Don’t worry; I won’t let it happen again.” He popped the bite of soft shell crab wrapped in seaweed and rice into his mouth and chewed, looking completely nonplussed.

She followed his lead and bit into the buttery salmon, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed that he’d given up so easily, which was stupid because this thing was only going to work if they were both on the same page. Or at least thought they were.

“Doesn’t something like this have to go through the campaign?” He took a bite of dark-red tuna and then popped another piece of the roll into his mouth. At the rate he was going, he’d finish before she really got started. She wondered if that applied to other areas of his life, but she stopped herself before her thoughts went spiraling down that particular rabbit hole.

“My husband and his staff are too busy working to secure the nomination and to win the presidency to divert energy to this cause.” She’d expected that objection and she’d put some thought into how to counteract it. “I would never do anything to contradict the campaign. My husband’s goals and mine are the same, but I do believe in taking care of things myself when possible and not pulling resources away from where they’re needed the most.” At least she thought their goals were the same. Sometimes, like when he did stupid shit like fondle his campaign manager, she had to wonder.

He tipped his head to the side, considering. Thinking didn’t slow down his consumption. He’d cleared over half of his plate and made a significant dent in the dragon roll. She turned her attention to her fish while he worked through his objections.

“I’m still not sure exactly what you want me to do. The paper isn’t my own personal megaphone. My editor won’t print something just because I ask her to. She’s lousy at taking direction.” He gave her a cocky grin as he picked up a perfect bite of the dragon roll. Before she could protest, he deposited the delicious looking morsel onto her plate. “Here, you have to try this. It’s fantastic and if you don’t get it now, I’m going to eat it all before you have a chance.”

She fixed her gaze on the round disc of rice with its dark band of nori seaweed and center of crispy fried crab. She felt a bit like an addict, looking for her next fix.

“It’s fried,” she said, stating the obvious. The promise of rice had obviously addled her brain. That was the danger of refined carbs.

He laughed. “Just try it. It’s worth it. I promise.”

Easy for him to say.
He was a man. He could eat his lunch and hers and wash the whole thing down with a bowl of sticky white rice and the size of his ass wouldn’t change a bit. Her chopsticks were already in her hand. Driven entirely by how much she wanted it and its proximity, she picked up the piece of roll and raised it to her lips. She debated taking a bite from the edge without getting into the soft shell crab, but there was no way to do that that didn’t end up with rice in her Michael Kors-clad lap. It was all or nothing.

Pausing with the rice-covered disc in front of her mouth, she glanced across the table at Matt. He watched her, one eyebrow arched in a dare.
What the hell; what did she have to lose? Except maybe a half hour as she put in more time on the treadmill.
Trying not to show how much she wanted it, she popped the bite into her mouth and bit back her groan of pleasure as the sweet crispy crab hit her tongue.
Holy fuck
. That was why she never ate fried foods or carbs. Nothing else would ever taste as good again.
How was a grapefruit juice cleanse supposed to compete with that kind of crispy, salty goodness?
She was doomed, lost to the wanton excesses of her overstimulated taste buds.

“I’m not even going to ask.” He sat back, looking smug and way too pleased with himself.

Not bothering to comment, because she didn’t think she could without making a fool of herself and she wasn’t willing to risk that on top of the diet suicide she’d already committed, she reached for her glass. She couldn’t decide whether to be grateful or sad as the swallow of water washed away the taste of the dragon roll.
Let it go already.
She needed to get this meeting back on track and get on with her day. She’d already committed herself to extra time on the treadmill.

“I’m not expecting you to use the paper as a megaphone,” she said, returning to the job at hand. “And I certainly understand that your editor decides what will be printed, but you have to admit, an exclusive with the future first lady has value.”

“Of course,” he said.

She liked that he didn’t challenge her on the first lady part. She’d learned years ago that part of making something happen was talking about it as if it already had.

“The exposure would be good for you too.” She ate a few more bites of sashimi while she waited for him to come to the conclusion she wanted.

Matt had real potential, but the
Tribune
wasn’t much of a paper. They were going to need something bigger. If she remembered right, her sorority sister Misty married a publishing magnate. She’d make a call when she got back from shopping later that afternoon.
No reason to waste a perfectly good trip into the city.

When the server came to check on them, she signaled for her to clear the half-eaten plate. Matt had already finished both his lunch and the remnants of the dragon roll. The server whisked away the dishes and bits and pieces, leaving the clean white tablecloth behind.

“I’ll be happy to write a piece profiling you and covering your idea. I won’t have any trouble getting the paper to print it. And I guess if you need someone to bounce your message off, I could do that too, although I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

The server set the check on the table and Sandra reached for it, but Matt nudged her hand away, his expression clearly indicating there was no point in protesting. The hundred-dollar lunch was nothing for her. She had a feeling the same wasn’t true for him, but she wasn’t about to step on his pride over money.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him as he slipped his credit card into the sleeve.

“My pleasure.” He gave her a looked that said he meant it, and she wondered for a moment what was more dangerous to her plans: the man or the fried crab.

“P
LEASE, DEAR GOD, TELL ME she said what I think she did.” Haven muttered the words under her breath.

For a rare and probably far too brief moment, she had the conference room to herself. The outer office was filled with volunteers, but none who would dare interrupt her—not unless something caught fire. It didn’t hurt that the newer ones were a little afraid of her. The huge table in the center of the room gave her space to spread out her printed polling data—the paper sometimes made it easier for her to pick out patterns—and the television provided white noise for her to work by. At least it had until the anchor cut in with breaking news.

She looked up from the poll projections for New York and Connecticut in time to see
Estevan and suspected high-priced call girl caught in weekend love nest
scroll across the bottom of the screen. Setting her notes aside, she reached for the remote and cranked the volume. A reporter stood on the sidewalk in front of one of the swankier Dallas hotels and motioned behind her to the supposed
love nest
.

“Seriously.” Haven breathed the word under her breath as a succession of images played across the screen.

The photos started with Estevan wearing his signature purple tie, with his arm around a beautiful woman young enough to be his daughter, and then moments later with his hand clearly cupping her ass as he ushered her into a hotel elevator. The time stamp on the third photo showed the young woman exiting the elevator a few hours later, her smooth up-do in a messy tumble around her shoulders and wearing a lot less lipstick than she’d started with. In and of itself, it might not be a smoking gun. She actually laughed like a thirteen-year-old boy at the double entendre. But the reporter was busy detailing the young woman’s arrest record. Apparently, she’d been picked up on more than one occasion for solicitation and she had a profile page with her picture plastered all over it on a site called
Happy Ending Escorts.