Knight (Political Royalty Book 1) (8 page)

His phone buzzed on the counter beside his half-empty mug and Haven’s name appeared on the screen. They’d spent almost every day together, but aside from the car ride to the announcement, they hadn’t been alone since she gave him her
come to Jesus skeletons in the closet
grilling. He could tell she still didn’t believe him about the affairs—or lack of them—but at least she seemed to have let it go. He didn’t blame her. Given the state of most politicians’ fidelity and what she knew about his father, it was no wonder she’d assumed the worst about him. But just because he understood it, didn’t mean he accepted it. He’d made his bed so he was damn well going to have to lie in it, but there was no way he’d let Haven or anyone else believe he was having more fun than he actually was.

YOU HAD THE WHOLE HOUR

Her text didn’t ask if he’d seen the shows. She knew he’d be watching.

NOT TOO SHABBY & NO MENTION OF THE GOV
.

He thought of her sitting at her own breakfast bar with a cup of tea in front of her, watching the morning shows. He’d learned from watching her in meetings that she drank tea the way most people drank coffee and with so much sugar it should be considered a dessert. He got a flash of her sipping from the UPenn travel cup that seemed to be permanently attached to her hand, wearing nothing but an oversized white T-shirt. The kind that would make it easy to see the tight peaks of her nipples through the thin cotton worn soft from years of use. Her long, toned legs stretching out in front of her while she watched the talking heads play the clip of his announcement over and over again.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Thinking about his campaign manager’s tits wasn’t going to get him anywhere he wanted to be except checked off as some kind of cliché.

GREAT IDEA,
he typed and then added,
YOU WERE BRILLIANT
because she shouldn’t suffer because he couldn’t get his head out of his ass.

YOU WEREN’T TOO BAD YOURSELF

THANKS

He waited, but the phone didn’t vibrate again. Just as well, considering the dangerous territory his mind had wandered into. For all he knew, she might not even be alone. He didn’t think there was anything going on between her and Justin. He was pretty sure her assistant was gay, but that didn’t mean she’d slept alone on a Saturday night. That thought brought on such conflicted feelings; he dumped the last of his coffee into the kitchen sink and went to get ready for church and to wait for his wife and children.

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W
ITH HIS HAND hovering over the small of his wife’s back, Shep ushered Sandra and the girls past the pastor, taking a moment to shake his hand, clap him on the back and congratulate him on his sermon on the wages of sin. He was pretty sure the pastor’s sermon wouldn’t have an impact on anyone’s behavior. He’d struggled to stay awake himself, but spiritual growth wasn’t the reason he went to church. He went for his girls and to maintain the ruse of the picture-perfect
Good Housekeeping
family. No one mentioned it when he went, but he knew without a doubt he’d hear from his constituents if he didn’t.

And mind-numbing sermons aside, he kind of liked it. There was a peace in singing the same hymns he’d sung as a child, sitting between his mother and brother. His father put in an appearance, but it was his mother’s clear soprano that stayed with him over the years. That and the smell of the Starburst she’d kept in her purse to use to bribe him and his brother. His sister didn’t need the promise of candy to behave.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am you’ve decided to run,” said the pastor, holding onto Shep’s hand for a second too long. “It has got to be a challenging time for you, and the difficulties and mudslinging of a national campaign have got to be hard for a godly man to endure. You promise you’ll let me know if you find yourself in need of counsel.”

“I will, Pastor. Thank you.” Apparently the reverend fancied himself a kind of Billy Graham. It was almost funny considering how hard the church had fought him on his refusal to support the transgender bathroom bill. In the middle of last term, Shep sat in church, listening to the old goat go on about the pride of man and the evils of worldliness as it related to who was permitted to use which stall. Apparently he took that redemption thing seriously. All seemed forgiven. Either that or he wanted to make sure if Shep won he had a direct line to the White House.

He held the door open for Sandra and the children, smiling at his daughters as they scrambled into the backseat. They were pretty as a picture, but so much more. His girls were fierce and determined and he had no doubt they’d be able to do whatever they set their minds to in years to come. Sandra’s obsession with appearances had the unexpected benefit of making her a very good mother. Clothes might matter too much where the girls were concerned, but his wife also made sure they had piano lessons and help with their homework when they needed it and only a limited access to the television. Under Sandra’s wings, they were growing up to be exceptional people and that alone was more than enough reason to cut her some slack.

He drove the family to the Harbor Inn. Sandra would prefer they take a town car instead of Shep driving, but that smacked of privilege—which was the one thing, considering his family, that his campaign couldn’t afford. So he drove and she kept her mouth shut for the most part. When they got to the restaurant, he parked and helped her from the car, both of them slipping back into the role of perfect family like they were donning winter coats.

He loved the fried oysters at the Inn. It’s the reason he insisted they go there, and the kids loved the fried shrimp. Not willing to go anywhere near something that came out of a deep fryer, Sandra contented herself with moving the food around her plate so it looked like she ate without risking a millimeter of fat on her already freakishly thin hips.

There were so many people who wanted to shake his hand, he’d started to suspect from the time they were seated that he wouldn’t be able to eat and the situation played out exactly the way he predicted. His oysters got cold as he took selfies with patrons and asked them for their votes. By the time there was a lull in the crowd, his dinner was cold and beyond saving, but he had a hard time getting angry at people who wanted him to win. There’d be plenty of naysayers as the campaign went on. He couldn’t help but enjoy a brief moment when it felt like everyone was pulling for him, even if he was still hungry when he paid the bill.

He shook hands on the way out, with Sandra and his children walking beside him. While they were in public, she was the perfect politician’s wife, nodding demurely and pretending to hang on his every word. As soon as they were out of camera sight, however, her demeanor changed and she put up a wall, riding the rest of the way home without saying a word. When he pulled the car into the carriage house at the back of their house, she got out without waiting for him to come around to open her door.

“I’ll be on the treadmill,” she called over her shoulder, the incrimination clear in her voice. She’d make him pay at least until Wednesday for taking her to a place that served fried seafood, and by then she’d have found a new way to blame him for her unhappiness, at least until the next campaign event, when she’d push it all to the side for her time in the spotlight.

“Who wants ice cream?” he asked his daughters.

They jumped and giggled and twirled their way up the walkway to the back door, chanting flavors as they went. Sandra shot him a look over her shoulder and he knew the subtext by heart. Next she’d be accusing him of making their kids fat because he shared ice cream with them once a week. It wasn’t a big enough potential sign to warrant discussion, however, and by the time he and the children reached the house, she’d disappeared from view. Shrugging aside what he couldn’t fix, he went inside to see if the housekeeper had left anything he could have for lunch before he hit the ice cream too.

M
ATT NEWMAN CRAWLED OUT OF the strange bed, glancing back over his shoulder as he slipped on his jeans. A perfect ass and long, shapely legs peeked out from under the tangle of sheets. He knew from intimate and repeated experience how fucking fantastic those legs felt wrapped around his waist, first up against the wall and then later in the bed as he moved inside their owner. He’d met her at the bar the previous night. He’d stopped in for an obligatory drink with his editor and ended up doing lemon drop shooters with...Emma? Emily? Emmaline. That was it. Emmaline. Old-fashioned name, but there wasn’t a thing old-fashioned about the woman. She’d given every bit as good as she got and did things with her mouth he’d honestly only ever read about.

A quick glance at his watch showed he had an hour to get uptown for his meeting, but his morning wood hit steel-hard thinking about the curvy brunette a few feet away. He reached for his shirt, but before he slipped it over his head, he heard rustling coming from the bed behind him. When he turned around, Emmaline—he was almost positive that was her name—was sitting up propped against the pillows, her knees in front of her and the sheet a tangled mess on the floor. Her sexy, sleep-tousled hair cascaded over her shoulders and she watched him with eyes more hazel than the green he’d imagined them over the shots.

“Running off so soon?” Her voice held no recrimination. That he could have dealt with. Nothing killed a boner faster than guilt in the morning. Her tone sounded light and the look in her eyes was playful and maybe a little bit hungry.

“I’ve got a work thing,” he said, still holding his shirt in front of him. “I’ve got to be at the Carmichael in an hour.”

“Fancy,” she said, her gaze wandering down his chest to his cock straining against the confines of his jeans.

Her eyes trailed over him like a caress and his body responded as if she’d touched him. She licked her lips and all the deliciously debauched things she’d done with her mouth crowded his memory, sending the last of his blood to places far south of his brain.

“You know, it only takes a half hour to get uptown in traffic. There won’t be traffic today.” Keeping her gaze pinned on his, she uncrossed her legs and let her knees fall apart, exposing her naked sex.

God, he fucking loved it when women waxed. And he loved it even more when they seemed to have no more emotional attachment than he did. Pressing her palms to the bed, she arched her back, thrusting her tits toward him and reordering his priorities.

“You know,” he said, reaching for the button of his fly. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve got time.” He pushed his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. He knelt on the bed between her spread legs and reached down to palm her ass. If he remembered correctly, she liked it when he grabbed her cheeks, digging his fingers into her soft flesh. He hauled her closer until she was wedged against him, his body covering hers, and then he set about wasting time the best way he knew how.

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H
IS HAIR WAS still wet when he walked into the bar at the Carmichael, but he’d had to take the time to shower or he’d show up for the meeting with Walker’s campaign aide smelling like sex. Considering he hoped to hitch a ride on Walker’s bus, he needed a good reference from the senator’s aide.

He’d gotten the job with the
Tribune
right out of grad school, but after five years at the paper, he’d built a reputation he was proud of. He wanted to take the next step, from where he was to senior correspondent. Landing a seat on the campaign bus of the hottest new ticket in town could be the thing that put him over the top. A favorable meeting today meant he had something to take back to his editor and a much better chance of getting access to the senator. He only had to convince the Justin guy that he was the real deal and he’d be in.

Scanning the bar, he looked for someone matching the senator’s campaign aide, but there was no one who fit his description. The traveling salesmen were still hungover from the night before and the high-class call girls wouldn’t make an appearance until after six. That left the sixty-plus Sunday brunch crowd pounding back their mimosas and bloody Marys. Matt glanced at the text on his phone again, double-checking the time and place. He jumped when someone came up behind him and touched his arm.

“Sorry,” said a medium height guy with a good head of hair and jeans so carelessly slouched they probably cost more than Matt’s entire wardrobe. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re Matt Newman, right?”

“And you’re Justin Mansfield,” said Matt, nodding. “It’s great to meet you. Thanks for taking time out of your weekend to talk with me.”

“No problem,” said Justin, motioning to one of the few empty tables. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.”

“Sure.” At the mention of food, his stomach woke up with a vengeance. Man couldn’t live by fucking alone.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Newman?” asked Justin after they’d placed their order.

He could beat around the bush and pretend it was something else, but honestly he probably stood a better chance of getting what he wanted if he stood up and told the truth.