The Boss and His Cowgirl (2 page)

Clay backed away. “I'll get out of here so you have some privacy.”

She nodded but didn't speak so he gave her arm a little pat and steadied her as she slipped off the counter to stand on the marble floor. Once she had her balance, he backed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He almost ran over Hunter, who'd been hovering just outside.

“Dammit, Hunt. How did this happen? How did the protesters get inside?” Clay was as angry at himself as he was his security chief. Security should have watched out for her. Hell,
he
should have watched out for her. She was, ultimately, his responsibility.

Hunt made a noise that resembled a growl. “A group came through a secondary entrance in the basement and got to the main control board. Building security thinks it might have been an inside job. They're investigating.”

Lightning flashed beyond the sheer curtains covering the bedroom window, followed shortly by thunder. Frowning, Hunt pulled out his cell phone, swiped the screen then punched an app icon. “I didn't know we had weather moving in tonight.” He checked the forecast and radar then shrugged. “Nothing but boomers and some rain. Now, about Georgie. It won't happen again, Clay. I promise. I'll put a man on her personally.”

Clay tunneled his fingers through his hair. “As soon as she's—” A massive boom rattled the window glass and seconds later, all the lights in the suite went out. A scream from inside the bathroom had both men scrambling—Hunt for light, Clay for the door handle.

Jerking the door open, Clay found Georgie kneeling on the floor, her head down, shoulders hunched. Was she gagging? Jeez, but he hated that sound. Had ever since college and drunken frat parties. He kicked the door shut in Hunter's face and bent down. Using the flashlight app on his cell, he checked her over. Clay lifted her long brown hair back from her face, though she tried to turn away. Georgie's throat worked as she swallowed hard, coughing with the effort.

To combat his very visceral reaction to what was happening, Clay recited the Gettysburg Address. Then the Preamble to the US Constitution. He figured he'd have to start on the Declaration of Independence next but Georgie finally inhaled and turned an apologetic gaze on him. He stood to retrieve another washcloth.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, not looking at him as he crouched beside her.

He wondered if her heightened color was a result of exertion or embarrassment. “It's okay—” He bit off the next word, an endearment that slipped too easily into his head. To cover, he brushed her hair back over her shoulders. Pet names didn't come as easy to him as they did Boone. The fact that one had formed on his tongue should have concerned him, but he couldn't work up the energy to worry about it at the moment. He handed her the washcloth and she wiped her mouth and face but still wouldn't look at him. It was then he realized she'd stripped down to a bra and panties—red ones. He refused to process that visual, focusing instead on the situation. “What happened? You seemed okay when I walked out.”

Georgie swallowed a dry heave and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I...panicked. The dark. And the storm. I'm a tad...claustrophobic. Or something.”

Clay swallowed the insane urge to laugh as his adrenaline rush faded. He bit the insides of his cheeks and when that didn't help, he bit his tongue in an aborted effort to stop the sputtering laugh that finally escaped. He immediately apologized. “It's not funny. I know. I'm sorry.”

A choking sound spurted from her. She'd hidden her face in her hands so he snagged the robe from the back of the door and draped it across her shoulders and back. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and twisted her body so she could see him. Clay was surprised to see her biting her lips as if she, too, was trying to hold back her laughter. Then the robe gapped and he glimpsed the bruise on her ribs. He curled his hands into fists to keep from ripping the robe off to examine her. Those bastards had marked her with their idiotic stunt. That quelled his urge to laugh.

“You're bruised, Georgie. And you have that bump on your head. I'd like a doctor to look at you, okay?”

Her forehead furrowed in confusion before she glanced down and saw what he was talking about. “Oh. I am. Huh.” Her gaze caught on his. “I was too busy being scared witless to notice, and it was dark so I couldn't see...”

She rubbed absently at her pale skin, and Clay reminded himself Georgie was in his employ and traumatized. He was not as big a jerk as his father or brothers when it came to women. He refused to be, but damn if he wasn't suddenly aware that Georgie had been hiding some very interesting attributes behind her boxy suits and thick glasses—said attributes all but staring him in the face, despite the modest cut of that red lingerie and the robe.

“I'll have the house doctor check you once the electricity—” The lights flickered, steadied and remained on. “Speaking of. Ready to get into the shower now?”

Clay stood and extended his hand to help her up. Just as she clasped his fingers, another clap of thunder shook the building and the lights extinguished. He felt her tremble and hunkered down beside her once more. “It's okay, Georgie.”

He swiped his phone and when the screen lit up, he tapped the flashlight app once more. “See? We have light.”

Georgie was panting again and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her face. “I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know it's stupid and irrational.”

“Fear is—” The light on his phone dimmed and he glanced at the battery indicator. He flicked off the flashlight app, but the home-screen light cast a soft glow over Georgie's face. “Sorry. I'm down to the dregs of battery life. We can go outside, into the bedroom.”

“No. There might be monsters under the bed.”

Clay studied her face in the ghostly glow of his cell. A hint of a smile tweaked her lips. Good. This was the Georgie he knew and...liked. Yes, definitely liked. He liked Georgie. She was his employee. He was only keeping her company in his bathroom because she'd had a traumatic day.

“I promise to slay the monsters.”

“Or legislate them out of existence?”

“I can do that. I'll introduce a bill in the Senate. And then I'll take you dancing in the dark.”

“Isn't that a song?”

“Springsteen.”

She blinked at him, her eyes owlish behind the lenses of her glasses. “You're a fan of the Boss?”

“Hey, just because I grew up on Waylon, Willie and the boys, doesn't mean I don't have refined tastes in music.”

That elicited a giggle. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

“Sort of.”

“Then yes.” He eased down to the floor, stretching his legs out. “I'm going to take a shot in the dark here—”

“Peter Sellers!”

“I'm sorry. You didn't phrase that in the form of question.” He winked at her.

“Oh, getting technical, are we? Fine. I'll take Dark for three hundred, Alex.”

“Hmm. Okay.” The light from his phone blinked out. Clay didn't like Georgie's quick inhalation. He tapped the phone, thinking it had just gone into sleep mode. Nothing happened. “Sorry, Georgie. I think the battery died.”

“O-okay. Um...can we keep playing?”

“Sure. Dark for three hundred, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! Got one. Michelle Pfeiffer plays the family matriarch in this—”

“What is
Dark Shadows
?”

Georgie laughed as he huffed in pretended frustration. “How did you know that?”

“Clay, your crush on Michelle Pfeiffer is not exactly a secret around the office.”

“It isn't?” He did his best to sound both shocked and innocent, but damn if he didn't like the sound of his name coming from between her lips. He couldn't remember if she'd ever called him by his first name—at least not up close and personal like this.

“I'll take Dark for a thousand, Alex.”

He racked his brain for an answer and when it came to him, he grinned. “Come to the dark side. We have cookies.”

A sound that was a cross between a giggle and snort erupted from Georgie. “How do you even know that?”

The next thing Clay knew, Georgie was laughing—a deep belly laugh that almost lit up the dark with its happy sound. And just like that, the lights blazed, chasing the shadows away. As she dissolved into more laughter, relieved this time, he joined her. This was a side of Georgie he appreciated—her irreverent sense of humor. Working, she was reserved, thoughtful, erudite. She had a way of boiling down an issue into sound bites. She was knowledgeable and intelligent and he thought of her as his personal... His thoughts trailed off as he stared into her eyes—eyes a shade of green he was currently trying, and failing, to describe.

With a start, he realized Georgie was no longer laughing. She'd devolved into hiccuping sobs. He hated tears. The women his father married too often resorted to them, but Georgie's were real and earned. He gathered her close, stroking his palm down her back in long caresses.

“You're okay, Georgie. You're safe.”

She nodded, fighting for control. “I know. I'm...” She sniffed, looked around for a tissue, then gave up and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe. “Sorry, boss. I'm okay. Just...nerves. I hate the dark. Hate small spaces, especially in the dark.”

“Want to tell me?”

She shook her head but words tumbled out. “I was a kid. Got trapped in our old storm cellar. In the dark. Took my folks a couple of hours to find me.”

He tightened his arm around her and fought the urge to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah, that would not be fun.”

Georgie snuffled again so Clay reached for the roll of toilet paper and ripped off a strip. She took it and tried to discreetly wipe, then blow, her nose. Once she appeared composed, he disengaged and stood. “Why don't you stay in tonight, Georgie? You deserve a night off.” When she nodded, he opened the door and edged toward it. “I'll get out so you can shower.”

She nodded so he helped her up, made sure she was steady and once again retreated. He listened at the door until he heard the shower and then met Boone and Hunt in the living area of the suite. He gave his orders, grabbed clean clothes from his room and ducked into Boone's room to clean up.

Georgie was still in his bathroom when he was ready to leave for the donor dinner. Part of him wanted to stay, but the practical part, the politician he'd been born, bred and raised to be, marched out of the suite led by his chief of security and trailed by his chief of staff. Georgie would be fine. She had to be. He didn't stop to contemplate why that mattered so much.

Two

G
eorgie waited in the master bath huddled in her borrowed robe until all sounds diminished outside. She didn't know what to do about her ruined clothes. Wrinkling her nose didn't help dissipate the smell of smoke. She blamed her reaction on the Phobia Twins—Nycto and Claustro. When the lights had gone out in the already shadowy backstage area, she'd panicked. Like an idiot.

When the security guard found her, she'd screamed like the blonde cheerleader in a teen horror movie. She'd lost count of the times she'd fallen and scraped herself up before he arrived. Then there was that whole thing on the loading dock, in the SUV and at the hotel entrance when— She cut that thought off.

She wanted to bang her head on the nearest hard surface. Her nerves and emotions were caused by fear. Not Clay Barron holding her hand. Or carrying her. Or...nope. Clothes. She had to deal with her clothes because they reeked of smoke and stink bombs.

Checking the trash can, she found an extra folded plastic sack. She mashed the clothes into a ball and stuffed them into the bag, spinning it and tying it off. She shoved the whole thing into the trash. Georgie briefly considered digging out her bottle of spray cologne and using it to drown the odor still lingering. Considering this was Clay's bathroom, that probably wasn't a good idea. Then she thought about using his cologne—the signature scent of almond, cedar, bergamot and lemon that never failed to weaken her knees. Nope. That would not be a smart move, either.

She slipped out of the bathroom, pausing at the master bedroom door to listen. A sports program droned on the big screen TV in the living area and she saw shoulders and a head silhouetted over the back of the couch. Her embarrassment sent her scurrying, but she stopped when the guy spoke.

“You all right, Miss Dreyfus?”

“Y-yes.” She didn't recognize the voice and the man didn't turn around, for which she was grateful.

“The senator and his party went to the fund-raiser. Their return ETA is midnight. Mr. Tate moved your things into the guest room next to his on the far side of the suite.” He lifted his hand and gestured before continuing. “If you're hungry, I'll order room service. If there's anything else you need, just let me know. I'm Glen.”

She clutched the lapels of her robe closer to her chest. Food was the last thing she wanted but she desperately wanted a Diet Coke. “Hi, Glen. Is there... I saw a kitchen. A Diet Coke, maybe?”

“I'll have one sent up, miss.”

“Thanks. I'll just be in my...room.”

She dashed across the open space and ducked into the bedroom the guard had pointed out. A lamp glowed next to the bed, on which the linens had been turned down. Her suitcase occupied a low bench. Checking the closet, she found her hang-up bag with her clothing inside. The case holding her personal care items had been tucked into the adjoining bath. While not nearly as opulent as the one in the master suite, it was far fancier than the bath in her previous room and was
Architectural Digest
-worthy compared to the one in her apartment back in DC. The room itself, even though it was probably the smallest bedroom in the suite, was magnificent. She needed to focus on something normal—as if brocade coverlets, silken accent rugs and needlepoint chair upholstery was normal. A hysterical giggle erupted from the back of her throat before she could stop it.

Digging through her suitcase, Georgie found her comfort jammies—worn sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Ways to win my heart...1. Buy me coffee 2. Make me coffee 3. Be coffee.” Not that she was a caffeine addict. Much. She wondered if there was a coffeemaker in the kitchen. If she couldn't sleep—and she suspected it would be hard—she'd go look. Coffee would be a godsend.

A light tap on the bedroom door had her scrambling back into the robe. “Yes?”

“I've got your Coke, and the hotel doctor is here to see you.”

“Doctor?” She'd forgotten, in the midst of her mortification, that Clay had offered to send a doctor. Georgie opened the door a crack and a kindly face with wild black eyebrows peered at her over Glen's shoulder. “Miss Dreyfus, I'm Dr. Bruce. The senator asked me to look in on you.”

“Um...sure. Come in.” Glen handed her a bottle of Diet Coke so cold it still had little bits of ice clinging to it.

“I'll be right out here, ma'am.”

Ma'am? Ouch. She was only thirty. She pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and nodded, suddenly reminded of her dowdy looks. Stepping back, she opened the door wide enough for the doctor to enter.

He waved her toward the edge of the bed. “Do you mind sitting here, Ms. Dreyfus? I fear I'll need to do some prodding and poking. I hear you've had quite a day.”

The snort escaped before she could stop it. “You could say that.”

“Are you wearing anything under the T-shirt? Perhaps a tank or bra?”

Georgie blushed. “Oh, yeah. That would probably keep both of us from being embarrassed. Just a sec.” She grabbed a spaghetti-strapped tank and dashed into the bathroom. She whipped off her sweatshirt and pulled the tank on before returning and settling on the bed once again.

She had to lift the tank so he could see her torso. Dr. Bruce
tsked
at the bruises staining the ribs on her right side and her cheek. He
hmmed
at the knot on the back of her head. “You've got quite a collection of injuries, young lady. Are you in discomfort?”

“Only when I laugh?” She waggled her brows and the man smiled.

“Good to have a sense of humor, Ms. Dreyfus.” He made sure her eyes were equal and reactive then checked her blood pressure, temperature and other vital signs before continuing. “You were lucky. You'll be sore for a few days, but the bruises will fade in a week or so.” He coiled his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag before digging around in a side pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and wrote on it before retrieving a bottle of pills. He emptied six into the envelope and handed it to her. “I don't see signs of a concussion so I'm prescribing a light sleep aid. I suggest you take two tonight and then use the others as needed. Take one at bedtime over the next few nights. I'll also leave you some cold packs to help with the bruising and the bump. Once you get back to Washington, I want you to see your regular physician if you continue having trouble. Any questions?”

“No, sir. I'm good.”

He patted her on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Ms. Dreyfus. That's the best thing for you.”

The doctor opened the door and Glen almost fell through. Her guard was taking his duties seriously. He ushered Dr. Bruce out, shutting the door behind him. Georgie looked at the envelope and debated the pros and cons. She hated taking medicine but suspected the doctor was right. She'd replay the day's events—especially Clay's actions—on an endless loop guaranteed to keep her tossing and turning all night. Clay. She had to stop thinking of him by his first name. The senator. Her boss. The unattainable symbol of every feminine fantasy she'd had since the day she'd first walked into his campaign headquarters ten years before.

“Argh!” If her head wasn't already pounding, she might beat it against the wall. “Georgeanne Ruth Dreyfus, you are a complete and utter idiot.” In self-defense, she shook two pills into her palm, twisted the top off the Diet Coke and took her medicine. Settling in bed, she snuggled into a world-class pillow.

* * *

The song “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” invaded her dream. Over and over. Georgie fumbled for her cell phone but it wasn't on the bedside table. The song stopped and she snuggled back under the covers, her brain as foggy as San Francisco Bay. She'd barely closed her eyes when the song played again. This time she threw off the covers and went hunting. She found the blasted phone in the side pocket of her messenger bag—the bag with the strap that broke yesterday when she tumbled off the loading dock, but was now perfect.

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She didn't remember bringing it from the car last night and there was no way it could have been repaired. The phone stopped ringing, again, and she noticed the price tag still attached to the intact shoulder strap. This wasn't her bag, even though it was full of her stuff. Hers was a cheap knockoff. This one was the real deal, according to the amount listed on the tag.

Before her brain could cycle through the implications, the phone sang a third time. She answered with a snarled, “What!”

“OMG, Georgie! Are you okay? I've been so worried and then you didn't answer and where are you and are you all right, what happened—” Jennifer Antonelli, her best friend, paused to inhale.

“Slow down, Jen. How did you know something happened?”

“How did I know?” Jen's voice rose in pitch. “How did I know? Georgeanne, you're all over the morning news!”

Her stomach dropped. She found the remote control for the television and thumbed it to life. Scrolling through, she found an all-news channel. And sank to the edge of the bed, her legs no longer steady. “Oh, no. The cameras. I'm screwed.”

“Georgie! What the heck happened yesterday? And were you really rescued by the senator?”

She had to put her head between her knees and breathe to keep from hyperventilating and passing out. “Dang, dang, dang,” was all she could manage.

Jennifer had no such handicap. “What did it feel like? Is he as strong as he looks? I mean, gracious! He scooped you up and carried you away like...like...I don't know who! Holy cannoli, girl. Clay Barron was like Kevin Costner in that movie where he rescued Whitney Houston. Georgie? Georgie, are you listening to me?”

“Shush, Jen. I'm trying to hear the commentary on TV.”

Voices droned in the background as footage played of the Tate brothers hustling her—clothes torn, knees bloody—into the rear seat of the senator's SUV. Clay looked shocked and angry as he ducked back inside to make room for her. The scene changed to their arrival at the hotel. The guards jogged up and opened the back door. Clay emerged holding her hand. Holding her hand? Georgie couldn't breathe for a minute and then, moments later when she stumbled and he swept her into his arms, she choked.

“Oh, God.” Panting, she resumed her head-between-knees position.

“Georgie? Georgeanne! Speak to me. Are you okay?”

“No. I need to die. Like right now. No. I would have been better off dying last night. Oh, Mother Goose, Jen. I am
so
screwed.”

“You keep saying that! What happened? Have you been holding out on me?”

“No. Oh, dang it, dang it, dang it.” Georgie needed coffee. Stat. There was still liquid left in her Diet Coke bottle. She gulped it down and glanced at the clock. Five-fifteen. Arizona didn't do Daylight Savings Time so it was just after 7:00 a.m. in Washington. She rubbed her face and eyes. This was bad.
Really
bad. How many times had she dreamed of a romantic interlude with the senator? Way too often, but never played out in front of cameras. And reporters. On the national news.

Memories crowded in and she swayed. “He saw me, Jen,” she whispered into the phone.

“Saw you? What do you mean?”

“In my bra and panties. I...I panicked. He... I think he held me in his lap.” In full panic mode, she fled her bedroom, praying there would be a coffeemaker in the kitchen. And stationery. So she could write out her resignation letter. How in the world was she going to face Clay this morning? Sprinting through the living area, she barely noticed the bodyguard jumping to his feet. She sort of waved him back to his chair with a vague motion of her hand.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she murmured when she spotted a Keurig machine and a display of K-Cups. “Coffee, Jen. Coffee first.”

“You okay, Miss Dreyfus?” The guard watched her warily from just beyond the granite bar separating the kitchen from the dining area.

“Yeah. Yes. Coffee. I just need coffee. Sorry to have disturbed you. Um...carry on.” She wanted to head-slap herself. Carry on? Seriously? Her foot tapped a jittery rhythm as the machine performed its magic. Once she had a fresh-brewed latte in her hands she could breathe again. Almost. She drained the cup in a few gulps and brewed another.

“Who are you talking to and I'm still waiting for an explanation, missy,” Jen hissed through her phone.

“Shhh. I have to get back to my room.”

“Back to your room? Where are you?”

“I'm in the senator's suite.”

Ducking her head, she dashed back to her room and shut the door, ignoring the guard's grin as she ran past him. “Okay. I can think now. Maybe.”

“How in blue blazes did the senator see you in your underwear and please tell me it was the nice stuff and not the ratty granny panties you normally wear!”

“The protesters yesterday. There were smoke bombs. And...they cut the lights, Jen. I was backstage. I fell and banged my head. Tripped on the darn stairs and fell again.”

“Jiminy, girl! Are you okay?”

“I have some wicked bruises.” She touched the back of her head. The lump remained but wasn't as tender. “And thank goodness, I have a hard head.”

Jen's voice turned sly. “Did the senator kiss all your owies to make them better?”

“Jennifer Marie Antonelli, he did not!” Casting a worried glance at her closed door, Georgie lowered her voice. “It wasn't like that. He was holding my hand because he was being nice. And then I tripped getting out of the car because all the camera flashes blinded me. My glasses were smeary and you know how blind I am so—”

“And the man picked you up like you were a fairy-tale princess and carried you off to his castle.”

“Well...sort of. They're worried about security because of the protesters so I was moved into his suite. There's lots of room. I mean serious room. Four bedrooms, five baths, all the amenities.”

“You're stalling, Georgie. I don't want a travelogue. I want the down and dirty.”