“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he finally asked.
She cleared her throat. “That’s hard,” she whispered.
“The important things always are.”
She fiddled with the cuff of his robe, and he let her, holding his arm still while she picked at the threads.
“I panicked.”
“Yes, that part I got.” He gave her arm a little squeeze to indicate he was teasing.
“I never…” She swallowed audibly. “I mean I don’t…” Her voice trailed off again.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” And he meant it. Whatever waited out there beyond her front door could continue to wait. It was nearing dawn, his candidate was in the hospital, the press had outed Melville’s sexcapades, and his friends were going to be looking for him to run damage control very soon, but none of that mattered as long as this one woman was coiled around him, her heart in so much pain that he could feel it through her skin. He’d sit here as long as it took to slay that dragon for her.
“Since I started my—job—” For the first time ever he heard disdain in her voice as she talked about her profession. “I haven’t…been with anyone. Well, obviously the clients. But I haven’t been with anyone other than the clients.”
He nodded. “So no boyfriends, no relationships.” It was twisted, but that information made something inside of him leap up and start high fiving the rest of him.
Her voice sounded like sandpaper as she responded. “Right.” She paused again. “When I’m working, I do something, something I learned early on. I sort of turn off. I keep talking, keep doing the things I have to, but inside? Inside I turn something off, like a little switch, and that way I don’t feel anything I don’t want to. It’s like part of me—the real me—isn’t actually there, doing those things.”
He sat silently for a moment, and every fiber of his being burned in agony. He’d never thought about it, not for one single moment. He’d seen this tough, sophisticated shell, and simply taken for granted that her inside was the same. The control, the steel under satin, he’d thought that was her. But in a blinding flash, he realized that it was all a façade, and that this real, soft, sensitive soul lay underneath the cold, hard outside. No woman could do what she’d done and not have it mark her. No human could be used by others that way and not suffer for it.
“God,” he gritted out. “I hate that you’ve had to live like that.”
She sniffed. “It’s okay. It’s been okay. Until now.”
“Until I did something that reminded you of them… of the clients?” he asked, sickened at the mere thought he’d be anything like those men.
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “You don’t understand. The switch I turn off when I’m working—it’s not just that I don’t think about what I’m doing or I don’t feel anything for those men. It’s that I don’t feel anything. Anything physical. It’s all fake. Everything I do and say to them. All of it. I haven’t felt anything with a man in years, Derek.”
His mind raced trying to catch up. This beautiful, lush creature, who spent her working hours selling a world of sensuality to men was in fact devoid of any sensuality in her own life?
“Are you saying you haven’t been aroused or had an orgasm in all that time?” he asked, astonishment saturating his words.
She nodded her head briskly, keeping her gaze down so he couldn’t see her face.
He sat with that for a moment, listening to the sound of her breath, the big grandfather clock ticking across the room from them, his own heart pounding a touch too fast inside his chest.
“There hasn’t been anyone? Anyone who made you…feel things?”
“No, and I’ve wanted it that way. It’s how I survive. How I keep control.”
His next question had them both holding their breath for a brief second. “And with me?” The rush of hope that washed through him was so intense he struggled not to shout it out.
“I feel too much,” she whispered. “And I’m so scared.”
There. She’d said it. She’d told him something she’d never told another human being in eight long years. Oh sure, there were a few girls at the escort service who she’d talked about work to, but she’d never admitted exactly how she got through doing it all. How she’d taught herself to deal with the realities of what she did to earn money. And she’d sure as hell never admitted to another soul that she was no longer able to have orgasms. Not if there was another person involved anyway.
The fact was, the few dates she’d been on over the years had never progressed beyond a good night kiss at the front door. She’d been fixed up with some very nice men, who had treated her well, been respectful and kind, but she’d never felt anything with them either, and she sure as hell had never wanted to be touched by them. After being pawed by her clients, the last thing London wanted was the touch of a horny man in her off-hours.
But with Derek, want had returned. And it was a fierce, uncontrollable want that scared her so badly she’d broken down in front of him. And now he knew it. The sordid, humiliating truth of just how broken she was. And so far he hadn’t moved or spoken a word in response. In fact, she thought maybe he’d forgotten to breathe he was so shocked.
“I’m sorry.” She struggled to stand from his lap. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop,” he commanded, pulling her close again. “Don’t run from this again. From what’s happening between us.”
She stayed put, stiff in his arms, waiting in agony for what he’d say next.
He kissed her temple and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I am so…” he paused, and she knew that if he said the word sorry, she’d never be able to move on, “thankful that you feel even a portion of what I feel when I’m with you.”
Her breath rushed out in a whoosh, and the backs of her eyes pricked with unshed tears.
“I want to help you,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes. “You deserve to feel everything that someone who cares for you can offer. You’re a vibrant, beautiful woman, London. You deserve it all.”
She shook her head, knowing that he was asking too much, asking for things she couldn’t give. She hadn’t survived all these years by letting the feelings in, and she wouldn’t continue to survive if she did. This was temporary. Derek was temporary, only until the world told him who she was, and when he was gone, she’d be back to work, back to a place where feelings could break you and she was alone with no one to pick up the pieces.
“Shh.” He put a finger to her lips, then slid it slowly back and forth, his eyes locked on her mouth. “Don’t. Run.” He cupped her cheek in his warm palm. “We’ll go slow, focus on one thing at a time. One feeling at a time. I’m a patient man, London. And a determined one. I can do whatever it takes to help you feel the beautiful things you’ve given up. Let me show you. Give me a chance.”
As she gazed into his crystalline eyes, she wondered how she’d ever thought they were icy. No, his eyes were clear, and deep, and you could practically see into his soul through them. They were full of passion and fire and they were anything but icy. He was anything but cold. They were the eyes of a wolf—a fierce hunter out in the world, but a devoted protector at home. He would protect her, she knew he would, except from the one thing he couldn’t protect her from—himself. But in that moment, with his touch on her skin, and his voice in her head, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him no again. The press, her past, her future, the thousand ways he could end up hating her—she wanted so very much to let it all go.
“I’ll try,” she answered. “It’s so hard, but I want to feel. I want to feel it all—with you.”
Chapter 9
Since Derek had left her at daybreak, both of them exhausted from the turmoil of the previous day and the confessions throughout the night, London hadn’t left the house. She knew she should, that eventually she’d have to, but she couldn’t manage to do it yet. The constant loop that played through her head was a jumble of questi
ons—how had she ended up here? She’d sworn she’d never be exposed, she’d sworn she’d never let a man under the careful shell she’d constructed, she’d sworn that only she would control her life after she left her mother’s house that day. And now here she was, violating every bit of it.
Everyone knew she was a prostitute, Derek had carved his way through that hard shell—she couldn’t even leave her house because of the press, and the campaign, and the fear that the last dirty little secret she had buried would explode what few bits of her life were left intact. So, how had she gotten here? As much as she’d like to blame circumstances—Melville’s bad sense, Derek’s bad timing, the press’s bad intentions—she knew that none of that was what had done it.
She was here because she had feelings for Derek Ambrose. Plain and simple. She couldn’t resist him, and she was about to do something really stupid—get even further involved with him. Let him in deeper, entwine their fates more tightly. It would only end badly, of that she was certain. Either he’d break her heart by tiring of the novelty of dating a hooker, or she’d break his when he found out the truth about her father. Yet, even with that certainty, she couldn’t make herself go away and stay away. She had money, she could leave town, go on a vacation and not come back until this had all blown over.
But she couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine leaving Derek to deal with the mess that she was a crucial part of. She wanted him to come out of this intact—his career, his campaign, and his regard for her. She was fighting a hopeless battle, yet she was unable to leave it.
The phone vibrated in London’s hand and she hit ignore before returning to staring out the window at her small backyard. It was the fifth time Joanna had called, in addition to the seven times she’d texted.
The phone chimed. Another text.
Please call me. I’m here for you.
London couldn’t help but wonder if Jo was wrapped in some sort of denial that allowed her to send messages of support. In all the years she’d imagined what would happen if her separate life became public, she hadn’t been able to fathom one half of the pain that she felt. What hurt the most, what really stung and kept her from answering that phone was the idea of the disappointment. The look on Joanna’s face when she had to admit that she’d lied to her yet again.
Because for London, her friend wasn’t only who she lunched with and gossiped with, and used for companionship. For London, Joanna was the closest thing to a family that she had. And no one knew better than she did how it felt to have your family disappoint you. She’d never once realized that by keeping so much of her life hidden, she was doing the same thing to Joanna and the other people she was closest to that her mother had done to her. The irony was almost too much to bear.
She stared down at the screen of her phone, the messages waiting icon blinking over and over. How had it happened? How had she managed to go and do the one thing that she’d sworn was a deal-breaker in a relationship—hiding who you were? Her mother had hidden such a crucial part of their shared past from London all those years. Gone so far as to create a false history to placate her impressionable daughter’s need to have a father. And London had been devastated when she discovered the lie. Now she sat on the other end of the equation and she couldn’t fathom that the people she loved, the friends who had taken her in, supported her and been her foundation all these years, could ever forgive her.
She wasn’t Farrah Amid’s daughter anymore, and there was no point in answering the phone, because eventually Joanna wasn’t going to be her friend anymore either.
The remainder of Derek’s day was spent on the phone, first with one media outlet then another. After the culmination of one disaster after another, he’d only known one thing to do, find the friendliest media outlets he could and deal with them. He’d stayed on message all day—the Senator’s shooter must be found, and the campaign had no response to the further accusations of Melville consorting with hookers.
He’d taken that message, however uninformative it was, and he’d put out press releases, given interviews, appeared on WNN Mid-Day, given a European exclusive to the principal British news network, and finally, ended the circus on the Lexi Cornice show defending the campaign’s handling of the situation, and explaining that sex scandals weren’t of importance when a United States Senator had been gunned down next to his lovely wife in broad daylight. None of his spin had overcome the lack of family values grilling that he was enduring in a lot of the outlets, but at least he was able to spend the day with legitimate news sources who didn’t have an ulterior agenda of skewering him in public.
Amidst the media storm he’d managed to keep in touch with Melville’s wife, and get the news that the Senator was improving rapidly. The bullet had missed Melville’s heart, tearing through one lung and shattering his shoulder blade on the way out. Luckily reconstruction had gone well, and the lung had been repaired.
He pressed send on the last press release of the day, updating the press corps on Melville’s health, then sat back in his desk chair, rubbing a hand over the substantial shadow that had grown on his face since six a.m. when he’d left London’s house with the promise that he’d return in the evening.
“Renee!” he yelled through his closed door.
He heard light footsteps approaching and swiveled toward the door as she popped her head in.
“You bellowed?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Sorry, I’m too tired to press the intercom button.”
Her brows furrowed and he could have sworn she looked guilty for a moment. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of this. Do you think this was the worst of it?”
He swiveled his chair side to side, keeping his eyes on the desktop in front of him while his mind tried to sort through the morass of information and feelings that had collected during the day.
“I can’t imagine how it can get much worse, but I feel like I’m inviting that bitch fate in if I’m too sure of it.”
Renee grimaced and walked further into the room, standing in front of his desk, arms crossed.
“Well, either way, you need food and a bed right now. How can I get you to go home?”
He gave her a wan smile. “Do the same for yourself? I’m going in just a few minutes, so I want you to go home too. Have the security guy walk you to your car. I’ll be fine here for ten minutes alone. The building’s locked down tight. Get a good night’s sleep and don’t be here before eight a.m. tomorrow. Anything happening before then can wait until a civilized hour for your attention.”
“Promise you’ll leave too?”
“Scout’s honor,” he answered, holding up a strange V with his fingers.
“That’s Live Long and Prosper.” She chuckled.
He looked at his fingers in confusion. “What?”
Renee rolled her eyes. “You’re too cool to even know. It’s from Star Trek. Never mind, I get the idea. I’ll see you in the morning, and I’ll know if you didn’t get enough sleep so don’t go taking any work home.”
“Aye, Aye, ma’am.” This time he saluted her and got it right.
Forty minutes later Derek got out of the car driven by his security detail on the street in front of London’s townhouse, and slouched to the front stoop where a security guard stood inconspicuously in the shadows. He’d been quietly thankful when she’d agreed to let him come back this evening after the dark discussion they’d had. In spite of the fact that most of the hell he’d endured during the day could be directly linked to London, she was still the only person he wanted to see.
He didn’t have a clear plan for what he was doing with her, or where they were going to end up, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wanted to be around her, wanted to protect her, and even cosset her a bit if she’d let him. He was spending hours each day fighting the compulsion to get in his car and go to London, wherever she might be. Just so he could stare at her face, hear her voice, smell her skin.
He hadn’t even had sex with the woman and he was u
tterly obsessed.
“Good evening Mr. Ambrose,” the big bruiser at her door said politely.
“Hi. Owen, is it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Any problems today? Press find her?”
“No sir. Looks like we got lucky. Apparently the house here is listed under a different name in the property tax records so they can’t find her address. Since she hasn’t left the house and your driver is careful about being tailed, we might get another day or two of peace.”
Derek gave a sharp nod. “Well, I guess we’ll enjoy it while we can, and at least she gets a breather before it gets worse.” He paused, looking out to the car he’d arrived in, now parked at the curb across the street. “I’ll be here all night, so only one of you needs to stay, then I’ll need a driver first thing tomorrow morning.”
Owen nodded, clicking on the earpiece he wore to issue instructions to his colleague in the car. “We’ve got it covered, Mr. Ambrose,” he said as he knocked once on the door then swung it open to admit Derek.
Derek walked into London’s foyer and set his duffle bag down, letting his eyes adjust to the low lighting.
He squelched the urge to shout out, “Honey, I’m home” and opted for her name instead. “London?” He walked further into the house, turning the corner through the living area to find the small dining table set up for two, candles glowing, crystal sparkling.
“Hi,” London said as she walked out of the kitchen, a large platter in hand. She gave him a small smile and set the dish down. “I thought you might be hungry after such a long day.”
A rush of warmth and belonging washed through him at the sight. She was dressed casually in skinny jeans and a loose, cropped sweater, her long hair flowing down around her shoulders. Her dark eyes were warm like the flames in the candles, and somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that he could come home to those eyes, that smile, this very scene, every night for the rest of his life and not tire of it.
The Kingmaker (Powerplay #1) Page 12