Bedroom Diplomacy

by Michelle Celmer

  “So it’s as much your project as his?”

  Uh oh. She shook her head, laughed nervously. “No, no, not at all, it’s definitely his project. Although I did have fun helping with the plans, then watching it all come together. I toured day-care centers all over the city and scoured the internet for ideas.”

  Looking puzzled, he said, “So how then is it not your project?”

  She really needed to stop talking. “It’s not my name on the checks.”

  “Writing the checks is the easy part,” he said, as though he knew that from experience. “It sounds as if you did the hard part. All the real work.”

  If it got back to the senator that she was taking credit for the day care, he would come unhinged.

  “My part of it was nothing, really.”

  “For nothing, you seem quite proud of what you’ve done. And it sounds as if you should be.”

  But it wasn’t worth the hassle if it meant stepping on her father’s very large toes. Why had she even brought this up in the first place?

  “You look nervous,” he said.

  “Sometimes my mouth works independently from my brain, and I say things I shouldn’t.”

  “Would it help to say that what you and I discuss in private will never reach the senator’s ears?”

  She blew out a relieved breath. “I would really appreciate that.”

  “Though it’s a shame you feel the need to hide your accomplishments.”

  It was a survival instinct. “My father and I, our relationship is…complicated. It’s easier for everyone if I don’t rock the boat.”

  “I think I understand.”

  Did he? Really?

  She looked at the clock. “Wow, I didn’t realize how late it is. I really have to get inside or Betty is going to think I drowned.”

  “Betty, the housekeeper?”

  She nodded. “She sits with Dylan while I do my laps. I’m usually only gone forty minutes….” She paused, working the time out in her head. “Did you say that you woke up when I dove into the water?”

  “The splash roused me.”

  Yet he didn’t say anything to her until after she swam her laps. So what was he doing all that time?

  “Yes,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “I was watching you swim, which I know was a violation of your privacy. My only excuse, flimsy as it is, is that I was mesmerized.” He reached for her hand, drawing it between his, and…talk about tingles. His hands were big and strong and a little rough. “I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  Damn, this guy was good. She made the mistake of looking up into his eyes, and felt herself being sucked into their unearthly blue depths. A woman could drown in eyes like that.

  His eyes never leaving hers, he said, “Why is it that when something is forbidden, it makes you want it that much more?”

  Come and get me, she wanted to say. Then she reminded herself that he was a politician, and no matter how sincere he may have looked or sounded, he possessed the ability to lie through his royal teeth. And very convincingly.

  But a little innocent flirting never hurt anyone. Right?

  His eyes searched hers, then dipped lower, settling on her mouth, which of course made her look at his mouth, and all she could think was how kissable his lips looked, and how much she wanted to be the one kissing them.

  He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across the back, and the earth pitched under her feet. It had been a long time since a man’s lips had touched any part of her body.

  “It was a pleasure talking with you,” he said.

  Yes it was. “Maybe we could do it again.”

  “Maybe,” he said, letting go of her hand. But he did it slowly, his fingers sliding across hers, pausing as they reached the very tips.

  Don’t go, she thought. Only because she didn’t have the guts to say it out loud. But apparently he wasn’t a mind reader after all, because he turned, grabbed his shoes and sweater and walked away.

  She watched in silence as he disappeared into the dark, wishing they really could do it again, but knowing that it was better if they didn’t. Not that it hadn’t been fun flirting with him. But it could never be more than that.

  *

  When Rowena got to her suite, Betty, their live-in maid, was stretched out on the sofa watching Dynasty reruns on cable.

  “That must have been some swim,” she said, sitting up and switching off the television, her tight gray curls pressed flat against the back of her head.

  “Betty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

  “As if I have somewhere more exciting to be,” Betty said. She didn’t ask Rowena what had taken so long, and Rowena didn’t indulge.

  Betty slowly rose from the couch, stretching her arthritic back. She had been with the family since Rowena was a baby. She taught Rowena to bake cookies, told her about the birds and the bees and took her for her first bra, since her mother couldn’t be bothered. And when Rowena was battling her addictions, Betty was the only person who never lost faith in her. But she was getting older, slowing down physically, and eventually it would be time for her to retire.

  “Did Dylan wake up?”

  “He didn’t make a peep.”

  “Thanks for watching him,” she said, giving Betty a hug.

  “No problem, sweetie. Tomorrow night, same time?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  As she walked her to the door, Rowena casually asked, “So, what do you think of my father’s guest?”

  “Mr. Middlebury? He seems friendly and very polite. A bit of a flirt, I suppose, and boy is he a hottie.” She looked back at Rowena. “Do they still call attractive men hotties?”

  “Hottie works.”

  “Well, then, he definitely is one. Maybe, if I were thirty years younger…” she said with a grin. “Why do you ask?”

  Rowena shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Are you interested?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. You know I don’t date politicians.”

  “Oh, he’s not a politician. He’s just here as a favor to his family. They seemed to think that because he’s a war hero, he would have more of an influence in Washington.”

  Not a politician? Interesting.

  “You seem to know an awful lot about him,” Rowena said.

  “We’ve chatted a time or two. You should talk to him.”

  She didn’t mention that she already had. “I’ll think about it.”

  After Betty left, Rowena checked on Dylan, who was sound asleep in his crib, and then she showered, changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed with her computer to check her email, which, as usual, was mostly junk.

  She was about to close her laptop, but on a whim, opened her browser instead and typed in Colin’s name.

  A page of results popped up on the screen, but instead of social columns about a womanizing earl and his exploits, what she found was news stories about Colin Middlebury the war hero.

  An honor he had clearly earned.

  During his last tour in the Middle East, a helicopter he was a passenger in crashed. He was thrown from the craft and, with a shattered leg, had crawled back, dragging the pilot, who had been knocked unconscious, away from the wreckage. But before they could reach a safe distance the helicopter burst into flames. Both men suffered severe burns, and Colin spent first a month in the hospital, then another eight weeks in a rehab center.

  It sounded as if Colin had been incredibly lucky. Other than the small scar bisecting his brow, he had no obvious marks. Until he took off his clothes, that is. And the last thing she needed to be doing was thinking about Colin with his clothes off. Did she miss dating? Sometimes. But there was nothing Rowena needed that she couldn’t provide herself. In or out of the bedroom.

  That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.

  Three

  The following day seemed to drag by, as if time were moving through a vat of molasses. Rowena tried to keep busy, ordering supplies, working o
n lesson plans and scouring the internet for craft ideas. Then right in the middle of a task, a vision of Colin, standing in the pool house, his chest bare, his arms thick with sinew, would pop into her head and she’d completely forget what she was doing.

  Would he be at the pool again tonight, or when he said maybe, had he just been humoring her? Did he really mean no way lady? Maybe after they talked, he didn’t find her quite so attractive after all.

  She felt nervous and distracted all afternoon, and during dinner, while Dylan chattered away about his day, she was only half listening. What if Colin really did show? What then?

  Even if he liked her, and she liked him, he was only here for a few weeks. It’s not as if they could ever have any kind of relationship.

  She was a responsible adult. Someone’s mother. Her days of brief affairs and one-night stands had ended the day she found out she was pregnant. It was too…undignified.

  It shouldn’t have mattered if Colin was at the pool or not. So why, when she went to take her swim and she found the chairs empty, was she so disappointed?

  When she was done, as she was walking back to her suite, she thought about taking a quick detour to Colin’s suite. Only to tell him again that she had enjoyed their talk, and to let him know that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask.

  Rowena, she imagined him saying, all I need is you.

  He would be shirtless, of course, and possibly just out of the shower, with droplets of water dotting his pecs. His hair would be wet and spiky. He would hold out his hand, and though she would hesitate for several seconds, she would take it. He would pull her into his room, closing the door behind them….

  At that point she made herself keep walking until she reached her own suite. As unlikely as it was that would ever really happen, it scared her to think what would happen if it did.

  The following morning she managed not to think about him much at all, until she was walking up to the mansion and saw Colin and her father’s attorney sitting on the back patio.

  “Hello, Colin,” she said with a smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him, only to flop back down and land with a sickening thud when he replied, “Hello, Miss Tate.”

  He didn’t even crack a smile.

  ’Nuff said. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had no reason to be upset or feel slighted. They’d talked one time. It wasn’t as if he’d promised they would see each other again. To avoid seeing him again she left through the front door, taking a different route back, walking all the way down the driveway to the road, then up a quarter mile to the day-care center.

  “Why did you go the long way?” Tricia asked.

  “Good exercise,” Rowena told her, then hid in her office for the rest of the morning, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She was being silly, that’s all. All the time she spent cooped up on the estate must be taking its toll.

  In the afternoon a feisty ten-year-old named Davis, whose mother worked for the senator soliciting donations, took a tumble off the monkey bars and Rowena sat with him, holding an ice pack on his bruised and swollen arm, until his mother arrived and rushed him off to the E.R. for X-rays.

  She filled out an accident report and all the other appropriate documentation, then sat through a berating from her father—in front of Dylan, no less—because naturally it was her fault.

  “Dabis godda owie taday,” Dylan said as she tucked him into bed that night.

  She pulled the covers up to his chin. “Yes, Davis got an owie. But his mommy called and said it was just a small owie. Nothing broken.”

  There was genuine relief in his big hazel eyes. Having been through so much himself, Dylan was exceptionally empathetic for a boy his age. And though he might have physically disabilities, he was smart as a whip and wise beyond his very short two and a half years.

  “Papa mad at you,” he said.

  “No, baby, he’s not mad,” she lied. “He was just worried about Davis. But Davis is fine, so everything is okay.” She got so tired of making excuses for her father’s behavior. Dylan adored him. He was the only grandparent Dylan had, but Dylan was exceptionally smart. It wouldn’t be long before he began to understand the kind of man his grandfather really was.

  As she leaned down and kissed him good-night, Dylan asked the same question he had every night since he’d learned to talk.

  “I gedda big bed?”

  She sighed and tousled his curly red mop of hair. “Yes, sweetie, you’ll get a big-boy bed very soon.”

  She felt guilty for depriving him of something he wanted so badly, but she just wasn’t ready to take the chance. In his crib she knew he was safe. In a regular bed, if he had a seizure or even just rolled too far to one side, he could fall out and hurt himself.

  Accepting her empty promise with a hopeful smile, the way he always did, and with his favorite toy race car clutched in his hand, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so tiny for his age. So small and defenseless. She wasn’t ready for him to grow up.

  She leaned down, kissed him one last time and whispered, “I love you.”

  “Wuboo, too,” he said sleepily.

  She switched off his light, checked that the baby monitor was on, then slipped out of the room. As much as she needed a break by the end of the day, and a little time to herself, she hated leaving him alone. Until a year ago she’d kept him in bed with her, until the pediatrician warned that coddling him might only inhibit his progress. But it was so hard to let go, to relinquish control.

  Rowena changed into her swimsuit, but she still had twenty minutes before Betty would be there to babysit, so she switched on the television. It was tuned to the American News Service—the cable network that had broken the presidential paternity scandal—and the anchor, Angelica Pierce, was reporting, as was often the case lately, on recent developments in the story. And Angelica seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction in relaying the details.

  Having been the target of rumors and speculation a time or two herself, Rowena could relate. Although in her case, the rumors usually were true. But she was never outed in front of hundreds of people.

  Angelica Pierce was saying something about paternity and blood tests, and how both Ariella, the president’s alleged illegitimate daughter, and Eleanor, his high school sweetheart, were unavailable for comment. The devilish gleam in Angelica’s eyes said she was out for blood and thoroughly enjoying the scandal.

  Rowena was about to switch the channel when she was struck by a sense of familiarity so intense it actually gave her goose bumps. Something about Angelica had always annoyed Rowena, but she had always attributed it to ANS’s sleazy reporting. She’d also thought that the woman looked vaguely familiar, and suddenly she realized why.

  She reached for the phone and dialed her boarding school buddy Caroline Crenshaw. Until recently a public relations expert at the White House, Cara kept Rowena up to date on all the juicy D.C. gossip—confirming time after time that Rowena had made the right decision leaving Washington permanently. Only when Max, Cara’s fiancé, answered did Rowena remember the time difference and realize that it was nearly eleven-thirty there. “Sorry to be calling so late,” she said. “Is Cara still awake?”

  “She’s right here,” Max said. There was a brief pause, and then Cara’s voice came on the line. Sounding worried, she asked, “Hey, Row, is everything okay?”

  After receiving countless, random drunken midnight phone calls from Rowena, of course Cara would think the worst. “Everything is fine. I had a quick question for you and I completely forgot about the time difference.”

  “That’s a relief. I thought maybe something had happened to Dylan.”

  Or did she think that Rowena had backslidden and gotten herself in trouble again? And could Rowena blame her if she had? “Dylan is tucked away safe and sound in bed. Do you by any chance have the television on?”

  “Actually, we do. We’re in bed watching the news.”

  “NCN?”

  “Of course.”
<
br />   She’d assumed as much, since Max had made a name for himself as a hotshot political anchor and talk show host at National Cable News. “Can you switch on ANS for a minute?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “You’ve seen Angelica Pierce?”

  “Sure. I’ve actually met her a couple of times. Now there’s a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it. I pity the person who tries to stand in her way.”

  “Does she look like anyone else to you?”

  “I don’t know. There’s always been something about her that bugs me, but I think that has a lot to do with her working for ANS and their sleazy smear campaign against the president.”

  “Take a really good look at her, and think back to boarding school.”

  “Boarding school?”

  “Think Madeline Burch.”

  “Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about her. What a loon!”

  Madeline had been an unstable, mousy plain Jane who insisted that she had a secret wealthy father and that her mother had been paid big hush-hush money not to talk about him. Which only led the students to believe that she was nuttier than a fruitcake, a label that seemed to push Madeline even further over the edge, until her behavior became so erratic and unpredictable she was eventually expelled. “So, look at Angelica, and think of Madeline.”

  “Wow, you’re right. She does sort of look like her, but a hell of a lot prettier and more glamorous.”

  “Do you think it could be her?”

  “She would have had to change her looks and her name. Why would she do that?”

  “That’s the real question, I guess. News anchors are supposed to be objective, but she takes an awful lot of satisfaction in smearing President Morrow. You know she wants to take him down.”

  “Maybe she’s just a bitch,” Cara suggested.

  “And if she is Madeline Burch?”

  “I’m still not sure why she would go through all that trouble, but it couldn’t hurt to look into it. I’ll see what I can dig up from my old contacts.”

  “I’ll try the internet.”

  “Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.”

  After they hung up, Rowena logged on to Google to see what she could find about Madeline, but there was virtually no information about her after the incident at Woodlawn Academy, when she had attacked a student who called her a liar and a freak. When Rowena did a similar search on Angelica Pierce, the woman didn’t seem to exist before her college days.