True North (Compass series Book 4) (25 page)

“Let me do that.”

“Um, sure.”

A little more on the tender than the methodical side, I unlace her corset, slip off her impossibly high heels, roll down her stockings, and unclip her garter belt, not stopping until she’s naked, telling her how beautiful she is as I do. Then I lie beside her and gather her up, not even minding when her hair tickles my nose.

It’s in the quiet afterward that I have time to turn this over in my mind. Beforehand, I’d been too thrilled that it was happening and concentrating so hard on making it a success that I hadn’t stopped to wonder why. But now…

Curiosity compels me to ask. “Why did you have Rey arrange this?”

She ducks her head farther down my chest and squirms. “I didn’t want to ask. In case you said no. Role-playing is…new for me and it feels kind of frivolous. I wasn’t sure you’d be interested in playing dress-up.”

Hell, I’d put on a gorilla suit if she asked me to. I’m about to say so when she scratches a manicured nail over the hair on my chest as she takes a breath. Not quite done yet then. I can wait, though patience isn’t my strong suit.

“You always seemed so staid, not wanting to do anything that would make people take you lightly. Like being respected was more important than actually enjoying yourself.”

Hearing it described so baldly is painful. And the way she’s figured me out is similarly uncomfortable.

“That’s not inaccurate,” I concede. “But—”

She shakes her head against me, denying my protest, and then looks up. “I’m not registering a complaint, just making an observation. Actually…”

As her sentence trails off, so too does her gaze before she looks me in the eyes again. “In a weird way it made me happy. Not that you were so self-conscious, but whenever I could get you to be a little bit silly, to trust me enough to let your guard down, it made me feel good. Special.”

She had been special. She is. I don’t know if I would’ve had the balls to do this with anyone else.

“Can I ask you something?”

I stroke her back, letting the tenderness I feel for her be manifested by my touch because I can’t quite bear to put it into words. “Anything.”

“Do you actually like any of it?”

“Any of what?”

“The things you claim interest in. Like jazz?”

My chest jumps with a short laugh. “No.”

Truth be told, I preferred the pop songs she used to belt out in the shower. But a grown man can’t confess a love for the Top 40 and expect to be taken seriously. So I learned how to talk about jazz intelligently, despite finding it as pleasant to listen to as feral cats.

“Fashion?”

Ah, yes. My talent for recognizing designers and drawing conclusions based on whether someone was sporting Pucci or Armani. “That I actually enjoy.”

“And the antiques?”

There’s a nervous edge to her voice as she asks, and I think about the gifts she gave me over the years: the Persian rug, the mahogany kneehole pedestal desk, the early Tiffany lamp. Her concern is clear:
did you really find pleasure in them?

“More than anything else. Total old-stuff whore right here.”

She giggles as I meant her to and it feels good. “Okay, good.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You always kept your guilty pleasure cards close to the vest.”

I mean it as teasing because I always thought we were the same in that way, that we preferred to keep our most foolish and puerile indulgences private. But a sad, distant look takes over her face.

“That was more because I didn’t want to embarrass anyone. You. My parents. And it was clear that the things I wanted, the things I genuinely liked, would be an embarrassment. I mean, I know I can’t go through life looking like a Vegas showgirl—especially not in this town, if I want to be successful.” She shrugs, looking more ill at ease than I’ve ever seen her. I didn’t realize she’d been so…affected. That she’d molded her behavior so much because of those concerns. I’m about to apologize, but a smile blooms on her delicate features and I’m paralyzed. “But here I get to wear whatever I want and no one cares if I bust out into song.”

“I’m sorry, Press. That I made you feel that way. You could sing Kesha on the steps of the Washington Monument dressed up so you wouldn’t be out of place at Carnival and I’d never be ashamed of you. Ever.”

She stares at me, her gaze assessing, but it’s true. Every word of it.

“Okay.”

I’m not convinced that my words have penetrated. Slid along the surface, maybe, but I don’t think she believes them in her core. I want to repeat myself. Sometimes hearing a thing over and over is the only way to be satisfied that something is true. Lowering her head back to my chest, she exhales a contented sigh that signals the end of this conversation. Uncomfortable and guilt-inducing, sure, but I’m glad we had it. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be and no one else I’d rather be with.

I’ll do Rey Walter a favor anytime.

‡

I
curb the
impulse to tug at my tie. Can’t look sloppy. Not for this. The car pulls up to the townhouse, and I step out as the valet opens the door, brushing the sleeves of my coat because, dammit, I will not have a piece of lint ruining how suave I look. And I do.

I still wish I had Pressly on my arm walking into this party. She always made me feel like a million dollars, like I belonged in any room. Not to mention how she would whisper sweetly in my ear, informing me of the latest scandal or reminding me of someone’s name before I made a fool of myself. And how her fingers would rest lightly on my forearm until she’d squeeze and smile at me because she’d know I was nervous.

But hopefully, if I can pull this off, I won’t be trying to run into her at stuff like this anymore. I’ll be helping her out of the car in a dress that’s the perfect mix of sexy and respectable because Press is good at stuff like that.

I greet Senator McGinty and his wife when I walk in the door. Even though we butt heads sometimes, he’s a good man and I like to believe the respect I feel for him is a two-way street. He greets me warmly, his papery hand offering a firm shake. Let me be that kind of man when I grow up.

Moving through the house, I take a drink from a tray that floats by, not even caring what’s in the glass because dammit I just really need a drink. By this point, alcohol is more of a placebo than an actual drug, but it does the trick nonetheless. The exuberant bubbles fizzing in the flute manage to dull my nerves some, maybe soaking up whatever’s knotting my stomach into the rising pockets of air. I haven’t even made it halfway through the house when the champagne’s gone, and I discard the empty glass carelessly on another circulating caterer’s tray.

That’s when I see her: blonde hair twisted into a respectable chignon and just enough cleavage peeking out of the sweetheart neckline of her cocktail dress. The rosy pink fabric clings to her down to her knees, and the nude heels she’s wearing make her legs look temptingly long. I want to kiss from her toes all the way to her…
Nope, don’t go there. Cannot get hard at a cocktail party.

She looks so delectable it takes me a minute to notice that she’s got an arm linked through someone else’s, someone masculine. Clay goddamn Hollingsworth. What the hell is she doing here with him?

And not just with him but with those perfectly pink fingernails of hers resting against the dark grey of his Armani suit. So I’ll give him that, the guy knows how to dress. And the more I look at them, the more sense it makes.

He’s got the sandy hair and clean-cut air of a golden boy, a grown-up homecoming king and quarterback. I probably look like a craggy caveman next to him. And I know his politics and family. A good ol’ boy from Alabama. I’m sure Pa Allwyn is salivating over that match. Although Clay’s never seemed all that bright to me. Just woke up with opportunity in his hand and traded on things he was born with instead of worked for. I thought Pressly liked ambition in a man, but maybe now that she’s older and wiser, she’s decided that partnering off with a peer is a better way to go. Or maybe Pa Allwyn asked her to do him a favor. She’s still a bit of a daddy’s girl; she’d do that for her father because she loves him.

I try to convince myself that’s all this is—a favor to her father—but it doesn’t work. All I can see is Press with another man, and just when I thought we might have a real shot. Anger and jealousy stew in my stomach, mixing with the champagne I downed too quickly to make a noxious cocktail. Against my higher reasoning, I stalk toward them, managing to time my arrival so I’m walking up as their conversational partners are walking away.

Pressly’s eyes, made up in that just-more-than-subtle way, widen when she sees me. “Slade.”

It’s not a greeting so much as an utterance of surprise.

“Pressly. Clay.”

Clay holds out a hand for me to shake, and I hate taking it. But not would be worse. I studied manners for situations like this. These good ol’ boys might be able to mock me behind my back for other things, but bad manners isn’t going to be one of them.

“Lewis. I didn’t think we’d see you here tonight. You don’t usually come to these things.”

“They’re not my favorite.” I kick myself for the concession, as if admitting it will alert him to the fact that this stuff makes me feel like a fucking imposter. It brings me back to my first days of law school when I didn’t fit in, when I hadn’t figured out all the tricks to feign being one of them.

I’ve got the trappings, the suit and tie I’ve got on every bit as fine as his, but inside I still feel like a faker, like someone putting on a show. As if any second I’m going to wake up in West Virginia, late for work and worried I’m going to get fired by the foreman, coal darkening my nails and coughing when I sit up because years of poisonous dust have settled in my lungs.
Nice try, Lewis, thinking you could escape
.

But no, I’m solidly here in the present, and when Clay and I have finished our dick-measuring contest of a handshake, I lean over to greet Press with a kiss on the cheek, perhaps lingering too long because I catch the scent of her and she smells like peonies and the bare skin above her elbow is so damn soft beneath my fingertips.

When I pull away, Pressly meets my eyes, the slight blush of her cheeks visible even through the makeup I know she has on. Even though she’s got that peaches-and-cream complexion, she does what her mother taught her to do; those Southern girls always perfectly turned out. It was only after weeks of sleeping together that I managed to wake up early enough to catch Press without her makeup on, and it was months before I convinced her she didn’t need to do up her face for me. I liked her just the way she was. Better maybe. Those blonde, practically translucent lashes without the mascara coating them, and that dusting of tawny freckles that must be from childhood days spent in the sun were meant just for me. I wanted her to give me those secrets, those things no one else got to see.

She turns a more vivid shade of pink when Clay says, “I know what you mean. I can think of at least one thing I’d rather be doing.”

His innuendo isn’t lost on me. I want to shove him into a wall and put an arm against his throat—not carefully the way Cris did to me, either—because I can’t stand the thought of him rutting away at Pressly. And that’s what he’d do too. He’s the kind of guy who’s always felt sure of himself, never questioned his worthiness, so he doesn’t worry about being an attentive lover. I wouldn’t like the thought of him inside her anyway, but if he’s going to be, she should at least enjoy it.

My jaw clenches tight, but it’s slightly assuaged by the way Press mutters, “Clay.” It’s not that sweetly embarrassed, giggly response to some intimate teasing. Her tone definitely implies warning. I don’t want to hear any more of the implication that he’s boning my wife, so I break in before he can say anything else that’s going to embarrass her.

“How are things in Senator McGinty’s office these days?”

“Going well. Getting ready for the election, you know how it is.”

I do. “And did I hear some rumors that you might be looking to set up your own shop next cycle?”

His head swivels toward Pressly with a dark look. “What did you—”

“Not from her. This town’s not a quiet place, and it’s no secret you’ve got an eye on your boss’s seat. But you’ve got some dues to pay first, right? Where are you planning to start out? State senate? I don’t think you could make the governor’s mansion quite yet.”

His aristocratic mouth flexes into a glower. “Probably not.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve got to start somewhere, right?” And some of those starting blocks are a lot farther ahead than others. He’s still a young guy, closer to Pressly’s age than mine. If he doesn’t fuck up too badly—and he’ll have handlers paid to make sure of exactly that—he could be running for governor in five years, ten tops, and he’ll probably get elected too. And what does he need besides a decent political record and the piles of cash that are no doubt already being flung at him? A pretty political wife by his side to clap and introduce him at rallies, to charm donors at fundraisers, and to sweet-talk allies and enemies alike. Press would be perfect for that. It’s what she was bred for.