The Kingmaker (Powerplay #1)

by Selena Laurence

  Ten days after Joanna gave London the most important gift of her life, London sat down at the desk in her kitchen, opened up the Internet browser on her chic Apple desktop, and finally made a plan.

  Chapter 17

  Derek was surprised that a Powerplay meeting had been called. Usually he or Kamal called the meetings, but it was Teague who had sent him the text that afternoon, instructing him to be at the club condo by eight p.m. sharp. Derek picked up a large pizza on his way and arrived five minutes early.

  “There he is, the man of the hour,” Teague joked as Derek walked in.

  “I know I’m special, but why tonight in particular?”

  Teague and Kamal exchanged glances and Derek’s eyes narrowed.

  “What’s going on?” he said, suspicions raised.

  “Nothing except you’ve got the pizza,” Scott interjected, walking over and offering Derek a beer while he snatched the pizza box away at the same time.

  As everyone tore into the pie and found seats in front of the big screen TV, Derek asked, “So what’s the occasion really?”

  “There’s a show we’re going to watch,” Kamal answered, around a mouthful of sausage and peppers.

  “Is there a fight on that I didn’t know about?” Derek squinted at the TV as the picture focused.

  “Not exactly,” Jeff mumbled.

  Teague turned up the volume as the WNN logo flashed and the announcer’s baritone vibrated through the stereo speakers. “Tonight, live from Washington, D.C., a WNN special edition of Politics in America.”

  Derek looked at Kamal who merely shrugged in return.

  A perky blonde who normally anchored the morning news, came on the screen.

  “Good evening, and welcome to this special edition of Politics in America,” she said. “Tonight’s guest and the topic of discussion rocked the nation and the bid for the White House.” She turned in her chair to face a different camera, and there, sitting to her left was London.

  Derek’s heart flew into his throat and he struggled to swallow it back down. “What the hell…” he whispered.

  As the blonde went on to introduce London and give the background of Melville’s failed campaign, Derek’s eyes were glued to the screen, his ears tuned only to her voice. His entire body swayed toward the television. His instinct to go to her was that strong.

  “Ms. Sharpe,” the reporter began. “Tell us why, months after this story first broke, you’ve agreed to do an interview?”

  London’s cheeks were pink, but she faced the camera and spoke clearly, her voice and her eyes strong and confident. God, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “Because I made a terrible mistake, and I have to try to correct it,” she answered.

  “Working as a prostitute?” the blonde asked. Derek felt nauseous. He might never get used to hearing people describe her that way. It conjured images of Melville and men who didn’t realize how amazing she was, men who didn’t respect her inside, and only used her outside.

  London gave the reporter a sad smile. “Prostitution was a mistake, but not the mistake I’m referring to. You see…” She looked at the camera, and Derek knew that she was looking at him. Across the airwaves, across the miles, across town, she was looking at him, this was all for him.

  “One day, several months ago, I met a man, and he was unlike any man I’d ever known. Derek Ambrose was…is…one of the hardest-working, brightest, most committed men that I’ve ever met. He also has more heart than anyone I’ve ever known. Derek gave me the benefit of the doubt. He was willing to have his name and his reputation tied to mine even knowing how I’d been supporting myself for the last eight years. He was willing to defend me, to protect me, and to help me find myself again, after a very long time of being lost.”

  Derek swallowed around his dry throat, and onscreen London reached for her glass of water, as if they could feel each other’s need.

  “I’m ashamed to say that I repaid Derek for his devotion by keeping the identity of my father from him.”

  “I see,” said the blonde somberly. “And what do you want to say about that now?”

  “I want the American people to know that Derek Ambrose loves this country. He loves its government and its people, and he’s devoted his entire career to electing the kinds of leaders who can facilitate all of its promise. Derek had no idea who my father was. I didn’t even know who my father was until I was seventeen years old. To the best of my knowledge my father has only seen me one time, and that was for a very brief few minutes. My mother had hidden my existence from him because of who he was. When he discovered me two years later, he tried to take me from her, which in Iran, he could do legally. That’s when my mother escaped the country and immigrated here.”

  London paused, and the camera stayed on her beautiful face as she struggled to maintain her composure.

  “My mother was a rebel in Iran,” she continued. “And her involvement with my father was conducted to get information about the fundamentalist regime that took over the country in the 1980s. So you see, everyone has focused on my father, who I’ve only seen once in my life, but they’ve ignored my mother, who raised me. She fought for a democratic government in Iran, for laws free of the subjugating influence of religion. She gave up everything for a cause that aligns with and has been supported by the United States for decades.”

  The reporter nodded, shifting subtly in her seat. Derek realized that he’d stopped breathing and inhaled deeply, a twinge wriggling its way through his heart.

  “And when she had me, she had to give up her cause. She had to hide, and live a secret life in order to protect me. When she was discovered she had to rely on underground connections to flee the country and gain asylum here. Everyone focuses on the man whose DNA I share, but no one focuses on the woman whose convictions I share.”

  “Ms. Sharpe,” the reporter said, her face serious and if Derek wasn’t mistaken, on the verge of tears as well, “the public wants to know, with a mother who was seemingly so devoted, how did you end up as a prostitute servicing prominent D.C. politicians like Senator Melville?”

  London smiled sadly. “My mother loved me too much I guess. She tried to protect me from the knowledge of who my father was, just as I tried to protect Derek Ambrose from that same knowledge. When I found out the truth about my father, I was seventeen, and stubborn, and dramatic. I was horrified, I felt like I didn’t know who I was anymore, as though my entire existence had been a lie. So I ran away from home, and I ended up doing what so many desperate young women do, I entered the sex industry.”

  “And what are you hoping to accomplish here today?”

  “Derek found out about my father the same time that the rest of the country did. I just want people to understand that he would have never kept something like that hidden. He probably would have never dated me in the first place. It was entirely my fault, and I accept full responsibility for any deception that occurred.”

  The reporter smiled encouragingly at London. “Why are you coming forth now, Ms. Sharpe?”

  London took a deep breath and looked deep into the camera again, so deep that Derek felt her gaze touch his soul.

  “Because I love him, and I never got the chance to say it.”

  It was a chilly night, but Derek could feel spring coming. In another month the cherry trees would blossom and D.C. would be overrun with tourists snapping pictures and visiting monuments. It used to be his least favorite time of year, but he thought that maybe this year he would take some time off of work and see the Smithsonian with everyone else. Take a ride out to Mt. Vernon, maybe get a tour of Monticello. It had been a long time since he’d visited the places that reminded him what it meant to be an American, how the nation started, what the vision of those first prescient men had been.

  He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, breathing in the crisp night air as he waited. When he saw her coming up the walk his heart stopped, and so did she.

  “You came,” she said so
ftly.

  “I did.” He stood, stepping off her porch. She walked closer, and when they were within touching distance they both stood and stared, almost too in awe to speak or move.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he breathed, reaching up to brush a finger across her cheek.

  “You saw the interview,” she stated, her breath quickening at his touch.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  He gazed at her, his eyes hungry to see her silken skin, her glossy hair, the way her bones curved beneath her cheeks, and the tiny notch in the center of her upper lip. He was a man starved, and he knew that if he looked at this woman every day for the rest of his life it wouldn’t satisfy his appetite. If he listened to her voice, touched her skin, knew her thoughts—for decades—it would only touch the tip of his need for her. He was going to have to spend the rest of his life drinking her up in order to survive.

  “Will you marry me?” he asked suddenly.

  She stared.

  “What?”

  “Marry me,” he said, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and drawing her closer. “It’s just come to me, I’m not sure why I thought it could be any different. I can’t live without you. I can survive, but I can’t truly live. I’m so in love with you that all I can think about, dream about, wish for, is you. To see you, hear you, touch you, feel you. You. Are. Essential.”

  She made a small choking sound, and she blinked rapidly before her lips curved up and her face glowed.

  “You mean it? Even after everything? After I betrayed you, and you lost so much?”

  He tilted his head and leaned his forehead against hers. “I know you. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me. I needed some time, and I needed your words tonight. You had the perfect words.”

  “Which words?” she asked. “I said a lot of them.”

  He chuckled as he gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. “I love you.”

  “Oh. Those words.”

  “Yeah, those words.”

  She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist beneath his jacket. “I do. Love you. Beyond reason, beyond measure, beyond this life. I love you.”

  He swept her up then, relishing the weight of her in his arms, the flesh and muscle and the sweet curves that made her real and made her his. He knew every inch of that body, and he was going to remind every inch of how much he worshipped it.

  “You never answered me,” he told her as they fumbled with the key in the front door.

  But before she could respond, a yapping ball of white fluff landed on his foot. He stopped, midway through the foyer, and looked down as Kingmaker yipped and jumped in a futile effort to reach his mistress.

  “What…is that?” Derek laughed as he looked at London, one eyebrow raised.

  “Kingmaker,” she said, grinning.

  The little dog yipped again and pawed at Derek’s leg.

  “You named it Kingmaker?”

  London shrugged, her cheeks turning pink. “I missed you too.”

  Derek felt his heart thump against the cage of his ribs, and he kissed her softly on her full lips before he continued up the stairs to her bedroom, Kingmaker scrambling to follow them. “That’s good to know. Now will you please answer my question?”

  “What was the question?” She giggled when he used her ass to press the lever that opened the bedroom door.

  “Will you marry me, dammit,” he growled before nipping her in the curve that joined her neck to her shoulder.

  “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?” He slammed the door shut, closing Kingmaker in with them, and went straight to the bed where he tossed her down and began yanking off his tie.

  “You get more of the whipped cream. I really liked it.”

  “Gorgeous, you’ll be my dessert every night for the rest of our lives.”

  Epilogue

  The scent from the White House rose garden carried across the small lawn on the humid late summer air. London had on the lightest dress she could find and still be decent, but even then the humidity and heat threatened to melt her like an ice sculpture.

  “Do you think if I stuck my head in that fountain over there anyone would notice?” Derek whispered in her ear.

  “I don’t know, but if you get to I do as well.”

  “Not a chance,” he reprimanded. “After you’ve given your speech you can do whatever you want, but until then you have to look camera ready.”

  She smirked as she glanced at him over the rim of her champagne flute. “You sound like you’re coaching one of your candidates.”

  “Well, in all fairness, my candidates need a little more coaching these days. Being the consultant to the underdogs has changed the way I do business. When you’re in the business of helping women, minorities, immigrants, and any other assortment of non-traditional candidates you modify how you train them up.”

  “But it’s worth it, isn’t it?” she asked, pressing her palm against his cheek and staring at him with pure love in her eyes.

  “Absolutely. I’d have never known how good it can feel to put someone in office who is there for purely altruistic reasons, someone who wants to be the standard-bearer for an entire constituency, and can use their own experiences being doubted and challenged to make them better leaders, more compassionate, more cautious.”

  She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so proud of the direction you’ve taken your firm. You have the best candidates in the country.”

  “Hey, as popular as you’ve become with your foundation for victims of sex trafficking, you might be a great choice for a congressional seat.”

  She pinched his elbow, one of the few places she could get any loose skin on him. Spar kept the man so taut that he was one big slab of muscle.

  “Bite your tongue, Derek Ambrose. I can’t imagine a worse idea than me as a congresswoman.”

  “Why is that?” He snaked an arm around her waist and drew her closer, his voice gravelly.

  She melted into him. “Because I have needs, and I have to have time for my husband to take care of them. If I’m always on the Hill fighting battles over legislation, I might not be able to visit him at lunch for a quickie.” She winked at him, remembering their rendezvous on Derek’s desk the week before.

  “That was very nice,” he whispered, nibbling behind her ear.

  “Stop,” she giggled. “We’re at the White House.”

  “Yes, and we’re not the only ones who are breaking protocol. Look at that pair in the window.”

  London turned to where Derek gestured, and saw a set of French doors leading into the Oval Office. The sheer curtains that covered the glass doors had slipped to one side, and she could see the legs of a man and woman. He had her pressed against the smooth glass, his suit clad knee wedged between her legs, hitching up her pale blue silk skirt. Pale. Blue. Silk.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Derek asked.

  “That’s the President,” London gasped.

  Derek squinted and swore.

  “And Kamal,” he gritted out. “That’s the president and Kamal.”

  London stared at him for a moment, until the crease in his brow relaxed, and before they knew it they were both laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

  When she’d regained control, she pulled on his hand. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time for my speech. We need to distract everyone so they don’t see the President of the United States making out with the Ambassador from Egypt.”

  “The fact that you can say that with a straight face, much less devise a way to facilitate it proves that you’re the perfect woman for me.” Derek grinned.

  “Oh I am, the absolute perfect woman for you.”

  And they were perfect together.

  The End.

  Want to read about Derek’s brother Marcus and Renee? You can get Prince of the Press here.

  Then turn the page for a sample of Selena’s bestselling rock star series: Lush!
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  Have you read Selena’s Rock Star romance series Lush?

  Read on for a sample…

  A Lush Betrayal (Lush 1)

  "Delicious and Intriguing"--NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Lauren Blakely

  Joss Jamison is the sexy, brooding lead singer of the nation's hottest rock sensation, Lush. He prides himself on his control--of the music, the business, and himself. But, when emotions overtake him and he loses control for one fateful night, he jeopardizes everything he loves.

  Mel DiLorenzo has waited her whole life for the chance to prove her talents in photojournalism. When her older sister invites her to document the world tour for Lush, Mel jumps at the chance. But she quickly finds herself in the middle of a band on the edge, and an incredibly hot lead singer on her case.

  With sparks flying on tour buses, hotels, and auditoriums, Mel and Joss are about to find out that rock and roll can be a very wild ride.

  Joss

  I’m standing in the middle of my condo in downtown Portland, sweating. Not a nice, glowing, “you look healthy and vibrant” kind of sweat, but a serious, “I’ve just powerlifted for an hour in an unairconditioned gym” sweat. My hair is damp, I itch all over, and the Nirvana t-shirt I donned thirty minutes ago is soaked.

  “Dave,” I growl into the phone when my manager picks up on the other end. “There is no fucking A/C in my apartment. None. It’s got to be a hundred degrees in here, and the place smells like a goddamn locker room.”

  “Look, Joss,” —he’s got the placating tone in his voice, he’ll turn downright patronizing in about three minutes— “I’ve called your co-op board five times. I’m really sorry, but they can’t get anyone out there sooner than Friday. Just open the windows. You’ll get used to the noise after a day, and you’re three floors up. They can’t hurt you.”