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He looked at Brandt again. “How are the other arrangements going?” he asked. “The special accommodations I requested for tonight? Any trouble?”

The Texan slid him another grin. “Not one, Senator. Everything’ll be ready to roll by six.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Brandt.”

“My pleasure, Sena— Holy
shit
!”

For the first time in the five days he’d known the man, Brandt Howell’s veneer dissolved like the stick of butter it always seemed to be coated in. Mark watched in bemusement as the man’s jaw popped and eyes bugged. A palpable frisson hit everyone else in the room too. Since the building was still standing, Mark ruled out a sudden hurricane.

Turned out it was a bigger force of nature.

His daughter.

Dasha looked every inch the pop goddess she was as she hurried toward him in a sparkle-doused T-shirt, formfitting jeans, and stilt heels that aged him with worry just by looking at them. That increased the pressure of the ferocious hug he gave her, rejoicing in her delighted laugh. After releasing her, he shook hands with the two men who never seemed to leave her side these days: her manager, David Pennington, and her security lead, Kress Moridian. The two dark-haired men gave him respectful greetings and solid handshakes.

Dasha kissed his cheek, still unaware of Brandt standing there in speechless puppy love. “Hi, Daddy! I wanted to surprise you!”

“Well, you succeeded.” He returned his daughter’s grin, letting her effervescence ease away the ache in his chest for a few minutes. The love she always brought up in him, an eternal well of fierce emotion, was interrupted only when humor tapped at him. It was damn near impossible to ignore the way Moridian
and
Pennington turned into snarling gargoyles at poor Brandt, who now dared to inch forward, beholding Dasha like she’d just floated there in a bubble.

He ignored all three of them, keeping his arms around Dasha in a proclamation to them all of who the
first
man was in her life. “Don’t tell me you were just in the neighborhood?” he quipped.

Dasha giggled. “Sort of. Remember the concert dates I had to cancel last year in Miami?”

Mark gave her a tight nod. Of course he remembered. The performances were postponed because of a phony stalker attempt staged by
his
whack-job of a chief aide, who then decided to make them not so fake after all. The incident was one of the biggest reasons he’d said good-bye to active politics.

“We finally had a chance to reschedule the shows,” Dasha went on. “And actually added on a couple more. It was fun, but I’m wiped. We cleared a little break time, and I remembered you mentioning this training here, so…ta-da! I hope you don’t mind?”

“
I
don’t mind.”

The quiet interjection came from Brandt, who’d turned a shade of crimson deserving its own spot in a crayon box. Dasha giggled, taking Mark back to the days when she first learned to do that, getting him to buy her candy and hair bows at the Base Exchange. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Dasha.”

“I know.”

“So are you helping my dad stay in line?”

Brandt grinned slowly. “Miss Moore, I don’t believe in lines.”

“All right, cowboy.” Mark stepped in as he noticed the I’m-gonna-tear-his-head-off look darkening Pennington’s features.
And
Moridian’s. He refused to look at, or translate, either of them any further. There were some things best for a father not to know, especially if his daughter looked deliriously happy about it. “Before everyone starts pissing in each other’s cereal, you’re all dismissed. I have business to conduct here.”

“Excellent point.” David stepped forward, managing to look his normal all-business self despite ditching his beloved business threads for a trendy open-necked shirt and jeans. “I’m sure they have our villa ready for us by now.” He tugged at Dasha’s waist, but she turned back to Mark one last time.

“I think I’m going to get some sleep tonight, Daddy. Want to grab breakfast in the morning? Er…Dad? Dad?”

“Yes. Sure, darling.” He remembered getting the words out. Sort of. They left him just as the awareness of Rose took over again, picking up first on that subtle scent in the air, the smell that was locked into his soul by now. He braced himself for her beauty as the aroma wrapped around his senses, compelling his gaze toward her.

He nearly choked instead, as he finally found her sliding into a desk at the back of the room.

“Daddy? Are you okay?” It took a conscious lock of every muscle in his body, backed by the reminder that forty other people now occupied the room, not to hurl furniture aside and fly to her.

“Fine, darling. See you soon.”

No. I’m far from fine, damn it. Oh Rose…oh my pet…what the hell did that bastard say to you?

He forced himself to take it all in. Every painful inch. She’d scraped her hair back into a severe braid. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying. Her forehead was crumpled as if she were lost, yet she curled a pashmina around her shoulders as if she never wanted to be found. He was a little relieved when a few of the other women noticed her and checked on her, concern on their faces. She gave them all brave smiles, likely making up some excuse about catching a flu bug of some sort and she’d be “back to her old self” by tomorrow.

He drew in a measured breath. Her old self? Not if he had anything to do with it.

A touch of doubt had lingered in his mind after he set the plans in motion for tonight, asking for Brandt’s help with the logistical details. Now, staring again at his submissive in all her torn-down misery, he knew no other path was an option for her. For
them.

Bolstered by that ultimatum, he hardened his stare. “Let’s settle down and get started for the day, people. Open your study manuals to chapter fifteen. We’re going to focus on your role not only as project leaders, but project participants.” He directed his eyes right at Rose as he finished. “Specifically, about knowing when you’re supposed to listen to directions and follow orders.”

He wasn’t surprised when all he saw for the rest of the morning was the top of her head.

He also wasn’t surprised when they returned from the lunch break and Veronica Vernon, clad in her typical New Orleans sparkles, approached him. “Senator Moore? Rose Fabian sends her regrets. She’s not feeling well and went to her room. She wants you to know she’ll be better by Monday.”

“Thank you, Veronica.” He smiled in return. “Tell her I relay wishes for a speedy recovery.”

The young woman blinked thick black lashes. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her, Senator. She says she’d putting everything on Do-Not-Disturb, and she plans on sleeping the weekend away.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best.”

As Veronica took her seat, he looked up at the space Rose had occupied this morning, still remembering her devastated, slumped form. After tonight, she would never look that way again. He vowed it with every Dominant bone in his body, with every protective drop of blood in his veins.

“Go ahead and run, Rose—but you can’t hide.” Though he issued the pledge beneath his breath, it was wound with the steel of his resolve. “I’m coming for you, and we’re going to fix it. We’re going to do it together.” He curved up one side of his mouth as he finished that dark, determined promise. “Go ahead and rest for now. You’re going to need it.”

Chapter Fourteen

It would get better. She needed to just get through the next minute; then it would get better.

Another minute passed.

Why wasn’t it getting better?

Rose lay on the floor in the middle of her room, stomach down. The carpet, rough against her swollen cheek, had become a strange friend. She focused on the abrasion of the fibers, using the little scrape of pain to pull her through to her next breath, then her next.

It would get better. She had to believe that. She was doing everything right so far. Seclusion. Bath. More seclusion. Quart of ice cream. Nap. Okay…attempt at nap. More seclusion. Lying on the floor. Crying into the carpet.

Damn it, it
had
to get better.

The rub was, she’d done this before. More than anyone on the planet, she knew the drill about making a mistake, then dealing with the self-hatred shit storm from it. This time she was even prepared. This time she’d declared herself the disaster before Mark could. Didn’t the universe give credit for that? Didn’t the agony dagger cut you a break for saving someone from yourself, when
you
made the decision? Wasn’t there a cauterization option for taking the high road into heartbreak, making it fast and easy, leaving behind relief of the emptiness?

A choked laugh left her. She knew about emptiness too. That was the next joke. Empty wasn’t relief. Empty was…empty. It was black-and-white, stripped of color. Stripped of Mark. And damn it, it was better this way. It had to be. He’d see that too. He was smart. No, forget that. He was brilliant. Oh God, so brilliant. She’d miss his laughing insights about so many things. His stories about the Iraqi kids and their simple jokes. His magical descriptions of desert sunsets. His mouth-watering accounts about how good goat cheese and dates tasted on a piece of
samoon
. “Shit!”

Emptiness was hell.

She pushed to her knees, shoving back the tendrils of hair that stuck to her soaked cheeks. A glance at the clock showed she was only a few hours into this ordeal. It felt like weeks. And she couldn’t breathe. Even that felt like a function she had to think about and wonder if she was doing the right way.

She jammed her room key into a pocket and wrenched the door open. The afternoon’s session wasn’t due to end for forty-five more minutes, so she had some time before having to dive into her cave again. The day was coming to an idyllic end, a wash of peach already drenching the sky in preparation for a brilliant sunset. She sat on the low stone wall in front of her room and watched some people running along on the sand together. A woman and two men laughed, chased, and yelled at each other. Rose envied them their carefree peace. Envied it, even though she didn’t understand it. That sort of happiness seemed something she just wasn’t destined for. Or maybe didn’t deserve.

She was so absorbed in watching the laughter on the trio’s faces, she didn’t realize they were tossing something around: a little soft basketball emblazoned with the Bulls logo. She knew that part of it now because the ball suddenly bonked her on the head.

“Ohmygosh!” The woman, a stunning blonde, ran over. “We are so, so sorry!”

“It’s his fault,” shouted one of the men, a real cutie in a Miami Dolphins T-shirt.

“Suck my banana, fruit face,” the second retorted.

“Sirs?” the woman called back. “A dull roar on that, please?” She flashed a grin at Rose that belonged on a movie star. “I’m really sorry. They’re usually very nice, when they haven’t spent the majority of the morning cooped up on a plane.”

Rose extended the ball back to her with a forced smile—which suddenly dropped. “You’re Dasha Moore.”

The pop star’s face softened with recognition too. “And you’re the one who made my dad turn to mush this morning.”

Grief stabbed all over again. She turned away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
I never meant to hurt him. I just want him to be happy.

“Bummer,” Dasha muttered. “Because my dad hasn’t been mushy in a really long time.” She chuckled. “Did you know I tried fixing him up with Sheryl Crow? Even she wasn’t mush-worthy. My dad’s a damn finicky mush-giver.”

“He’s a good person.” She looked Dasha in the eyes as she stated it. It succeeded in relaying her sincerity but invited in a fresh wave of heartache. The woman shared her father’s gaze, down to that dark gold, yes-I’m-reading-your-mind intensity.

After a contemplative moment, Dasha sat on the wall too. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.

“Rose. Well, Rosalind. I’m in your dad’s class. I guess you figured that out.” Funny. She hadn’t been nervous with the gorgeous pop star until now. She wished they could just talk about Sheryl Crow again. “He’s a good teacher. A good man. A really good man. He deserves—”

Everything. So much more than me.

“D!” The man with the tousled dark hair and the long, lean build shouted up the sand. “Come on, sweetheart!”

“Or do we need to…come for you?” yelled the other.

Rose couldn’t help but join her giggle to Dasha’s. The woman swept her luxurious gold mane from her eyes and smiled back at them. “Give me two more secs? Please?” She hurled the ball back toward them, and they both dived for it, wrestling on the sand in a tangle of limbs and grunts. “There,” she muttered. “That ought to keep the puppies occupied for a bit.”

Despite her teasing tone, Dasha gazed at the men like they were a pair of half-god gladiators. Rose couldn’t help but stare at the open adoration on her face. When the young woman caught her gaping and laughed again, Rose stuttered, “S-sorry. Why don’t you go back to your…uh…friends. I was just—”

“Trying to figure out a little mush of your own?”

She took in a sharp breath and bowed her head. Crap, what else would Dasha see on her features?

It seemed the woman inherited her father’s stubborn conviction too.

“Rose.” She closed their fingers together. “It’s not my place to pry, but I can tell you this. I almost let doubt and fear rope me back from having the greatest joy of my life. It took me nearly getting killed to realize it.” She coiled her grip tighter, compelling Rose to look at her again. “I’m serious. It took a gun barrel at my forehead for me to get the point.”

Dasha tilted her face out toward the water, where a number of boats floated by on the sparkling azure expanse.

“Life doesn’t give you a lot of chances to grab happiness, you know? When the anchor’s pulled up, then you’d better sail that ship for everything you’re worth.”

She drew in another deep breath. She knew Dasha meant every word, and she yearned to absorb it all into her heart and make it her truth too—but one unalterable truth would never make it her own reality. As that truth roped its way around her heart again, she pulled free from Dasha and stood.