Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Now, up close and in person, Christiana’s shy but genuine demeanor piqued his interest. A yearning lay behind those sapphire eyes. Someone so young rarely showed such depth.

  How old was she? He would find out.

  Jonathan took in the traces of her vanilla perfume left in the stale air of the hallway. Lovely. Such a woman would be the antidote to his bland and oh-so-politically correct work activities planned that summer.

  His logic kicked him in the pants. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t go there.

  His imagination went there anyway.

  The other women at the reception had had every molecule of originality polished out of them at their finishing schools, debutante balls, and girls’ colleges, ensuring a future husband a blank slate to write upon. Thoughts of Christiana, a wildflower in a sea of hothouse orchids, giving her trust to someone—to him—fed his erection and his interest. He imagined she’d be tentative at first, allowing only a little bit of intimacy at a time. Christiana would require proof of his intentions. She’d need to be coaxed, calmed and lured forward. Her hesitancy would prove too frustrating for most men. It would only power Jonathan’s resolve. Because, when she did let go, the results would be titanic.

  Christiana was something he hadn’t encountered in years. Maybe never. Christiana Snow was real.

  Christiana’s moment of swagger dissolved three steps later, and she slowed, entering the main reception room. She realized the low to which the night’s potential had plummeted. Well, hell. Christiana’s feet ached as she stood inside the doorway and stared at the dance floor. She should go home.

  Her focus snapped to a point just behind her back. She sensed him.

  Christiana turned to face Congressman Brond. No more than a foot separated them. His eyes showed his self-assurance hadn’t wavered in the two minutes they were apart. Neither had her sense of being out of her element diminished. She didn’t know where to look—his radiant green eyes smiling down at her, his hair catching the light, or his broad shoulders.

  He took her elbow before she had a chance to choose.

  “Shall we?” He pulled her toward the whirling mass of color on the dance floor.

  When her foot hit the parquet, the up-tempo music changed. People melted into one another, stilling to a slower beat. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into him with an unyielding strength. She’d been unmistakably seized.

  They started off slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

  The band played a bluesy number. It wasn’t an easy rhythm, but he had no trouble finding it. He turned sharply, and her pearl necklace swung out.

  “You can dance,” he said.

  She swallowed. “My father taught me.”

  “Ah, yes. The gregarious Peter Snow.”

  “You know my Dad?”

  “Only by reputation.” His face held practiced neutrality. Not good.

  The congressman twirled her through the swaying crowd. On tiptoes, she tried to stay loose for his lead. Her father could have taken lessons from this man. The congressman had woven them through the crowded floor to an almost deserted corner in seconds. His grace sent her heartbeat into a strange cadence.

  “So, you are friends with the Churchills,” he said.

  “Yes. Avery is my best friend.”

  “I see.” He sounded pleased.

  Of course. He wanted more information about Avery. But he mustn’t know Avery very well. Holding Christiana this close would only bring out her legendary temper. Of course, if she could extricate herself, Avery could move in.

  “I’m sure Avery would love to dance with you,” Christiana said.

  “I’d rather talk about you. Tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How about a little bit of everything? At least for now.”

  Christiana couldn’t help but smile. “What would be after everything, then?”

  “Oh, that’s good.” He twirled her in a tight circle. “So, you’re a model,” he said, definitively.

  “No, I’m in school.” She was a little thrilled he would think such a thing after the long day she’d had.

  “Well, you’re quite lovely, Christiana.”

  She flushed more at the stunning richness of his voice than the compliment. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” He swung her in a big arc, and her skirt swirled out. His warm breath ran through her hair.

  Christiana inhaled deeply, taking in his scent. It reminded her of an exclusive men’s store, with hints of linen, wool and a trace of leather.

  “How do you find the event?” His voice broke her trance.

  “Oh, good, I guess. It’s an important event.” There. That’s something Avery would say.

  “The cause, yes. But the party seems a little over-the-top, don’t you think?” He winked.

  Her shoulders dropped a little under his warmth. He honestly seemed interested. Well, he is a politician. Yet despite his obvious charm, he seemed so normal—but not ordinary.

  She exhaled heavily. “To be honest, I never understood why they spend so much money just to raise money. Why not just funnel it all to the charity?”

  He laughed. “You should run for office.”

  Christiana dipped her eyes to his lapel. She hoped the scar on her forehead wasn’t at his eye level. She tried to concentrate on the music, but the vibrations between her legs threatened to pull her off rhythm. As if reading her mind, he pulled her closer. Her nipples hardened as the bodice of her dress grazed his suit jacket. She should say something, make polite conversation. She could have used the distraction herself.

  “Christiana.”

  She peeked up at him under her lashes.

  His face held a resolve, like a man used to wielding power. “Are you here alone?”

  “Sort of.”

  He smiled. “Have someone on standby?”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that.”

  “A date, then?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I’m glad you agreed to dance with me, Christiana.”

  Had she agreed? It didn’t matter. Christiana followed his steps . . . and his scent. Her arm lay heavy against his chest as his height allowed only her hand to reach his shoulder. Underneath his tuxedo, his muscles felt tight and hard. His strong thighs brushed hers. God, what he must look like under that suit.

  He twirled her in a double spin that made her gasp. He smiled down at her, bemused. The music had changed to a Frank Sinatra song. He didn’t let her go. Don’t let me go. Not yet.

  A steady craving warred with her nerves—and her good sense. One more dance, she told herself. Then you’ll leave.

  His hand moved farther down her back, and a strange desire spiked, winning the battle. She wanted him to drop his hand lower, cup the curve of her bottom and draw her closer. Without thinking, she leaned into his body.

  He loosened his hold as if he’d heard her inappropriate thoughts and meant to rectify the situation. “What are you doing this summer?” he asked.

  “Sir?” His direct tone penetrated her haze. She searched for a suitable answer. What first flashed in her mind couldn’t be what he meant. Waiting tables, wasting time at the pool, helping my father with . . . everything.

  He frowned. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, nothing, really.”

  “When we’re together, I expect you to always tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Before she could process his words, someone spoke into a microphone, announcing something Christiana was too flustered to catch, and couples separated. The congressman let her go.

  “Meet me outside in ten minutes. In front,” he said.

  Avery’s voice scissored between them. “Why, Congressman, you are quite the dancer. Perhaps you’ll show me some of your moves?”

  “Yes.” Christiana cleared her throat and crashed to earth. “Avery’s a wonderful dancer.”

  Avery’s eyes flashed with resentment, but they paled
in comparison to the storm in the congressman’s. Christiana left the two of them standing together before the tempest broke. She had to go elsewhere to reclaim her mind. She had to get away from his penetrating eyes, his seductive voice and his scent. Besides, her replacement had arrived.

  She made it out the front door and onto the lawn near the parking lot. The late-spring air hung heavy, ripe with the scent of freshly mown grass. She tilted her head up to the starless sky and wished for a breeze to stir the stifling air and maybe cool the stickiness between her legs.

  She should go home. Her feet refused to move.

  “What were you two talking about?”

  Christiana startled at Avery’s voice. “He asked me how I knew your family. I said you and I were friends and that he would enjoy dancing with you.”

  “I don’t need you to do that. What were you really doing?” Avery snapped.

  “He wanted to dance. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I hear he likes spreading himself around. Ya’ know, so no one gets the wrong idea.”

  A jolt of irritation ran through Christiana at her friend’s tone. “What do you mean?”

  One of the plastic surgery brigade, who Christiana recognized from Coco Churchill’s bridge club, looked out through a half-open door. “Ah, Avery! There you are. Your mother’s looking for you.”

  Avery huffed. “Duty never ends. Later, you have to tell me everything.”

  Christiana, watching Avery hurry across the lawn and disappear through the door, stayed perched on the edge of one of the Adirondack chairs, ignoring the rough surface pulling threads from Avery’s blue dress. She scanned the darkened sky. The moon peeked from behind gathering storm clouds, and the air bore down on her chest.

  Jonathan hurried down the hallway. He managed to avoid dancing with the ersatz Avery Churchill but got stopped by the Dardens for another bout of mundane small talk. He only hoped Christiana Snow hadn’t left. He wasn’t disappointed when he slipped out the wide front door.

  He waited a moment, drinking in the sight of Christiana’s pert ass perched on an Adirondack chair on the front lawn. After telling his cock to stand down, he jogged down the wide steps onto the grass.

  “You didn’t tell me how you’re spending your summer,” he said to her back.

  Her face turned, whispers of blond hair falling off her shoulder. She didn’t rise right away, but her elegant profile showed she smiled.

  He drew closer. “Surely, a beautiful young lady such as yourself has a full dance card by now.”

  She cleared her throat and stood to face him. “No, I don’t.”

  Her hair shone in the soft glow from the gaslights surrounding the lawn.

  “Um, how do you know my full name? Everyone calls me Chris, but when we were dancing, you called me Christiana.”

  “You seem like someone a person should know.”

  “A waitress from The Oak Room?” She blushed. “At least ‘til I go back to school later. To Virginia, uh, UVA.”

  “Good restaurant. Good school.” He walked toward her, and she stepped backward nearly sending herself over the side of the chair in response. He reached out and grasped her arm, steadying her for the third time tonight. She stilled, hardening his most manly parts at her reaction to his touch.

  “UVA is my alma mater,” he said. “Law school, anyway. Charlottesville is a beautiful town.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t get out much. Studying and all that.”

  He released her arm. “That’s a shame. There’s much to experience there. I could show you.”

  She looked up at him quizzically and then sank back down on the edge of the chair. Perhaps she wasn’t interested—as if that would stop him from persisting to learn more about the girl. It would take more than her natural shyness to make him stand down his pursuit.

  “Grad student?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I’m a sophomore this fall.”

  “Oh. You’re twenty?”

  “Um, nineteen.”

  Damn. Full stop. Exactly when did young girls start looking like they were twenty-five? Obviously much younger than he recalled. Christiana Snow could easily have passed for one of those public relations girls working down in the Watergate offices or an art studio assistant in some one room gallery in Dupont Circle.

  She clutched at her fingers and cast her eyes down, obviously uncomfortable at how long he’d been staring. He just couldn’t believe her youth. Everything about Christiana Snow spoke of having lived far longer than nineteen short years.

  He sighed. “I’d have taken you for someone older. Your maturity exceeds your age.” He took her hand and kissed it. Jonathan was no stranger to disappointment, but when she trembled as the stubble of his upper lip brushed over her wrist, he nearly cursed the Gods for presenting such a temptation before him.

  “You really are exquisite, Christiana.”

  She blinked as if she hadn’t heard him.

  And then he did the only thing he could do. He walked away.

  4

  Rain peppered Christiana’s bedroom window, and flashes from lightning bolts darted through the curtains. She couldn’t sleep with the thunder hammering outside and inside her head.

  Christiana sat up, and a wave of clammy dizziness washed over her whole body. Wine is so not worth this. She pulled herself out of bed, steadying herself on the nightstand. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, tasting a strange, acrid fuzz.

  She stumbled into the kitchen and downed a large glass of water along with three Advils. “I don’t know how Avery drinks wine. Two sips and I’m toast.”

  Yawning, she shuffled to the living room. Dust motes floated in the stale air, highlighted by the gloomy morning light that shone through the bay windows. Newspapers, mail, and half-written essays with red pen marks cascaded from piles around her father’s faded, brown recliner. Or, as he liked to call it, his throne.

  Christiana leveled a pile of magazines on the coffee table and fluffed a few of the gold pillows on the green couch. She folded the red plaid blanket, thankful her father hadn’t slept on the sofa. Comfort seeped through her limbs as she set about straightening things so familiar.

  Since her mother had died, Christiana had kept up her mother’s ritual of cleaning the house on Sunday mornings. Housework brought a sense of solace that she had missed those mornings away at school. By the state of the living room, the house missed it too.

  An image of green eyes and a warm hand on her waist swam up from the back of her mind, interrupting her focus. The remnants of last night’s dreams—rose-colored silk, a dark chocolate voice, and the feel of wool against her skin—wouldn’t retreat.

  Christiana tamped down her imaginings. It was absurd, these daydreams. Why would a congressman pay any attention to a girl who didn’t fit with the society crowd? Pity, probably. If she had her wits about her, she would have recognized the clues—the misgivings that ran across his face when he said goodbye.

  Water trickled through the pipes and Christiana switched on the radio in the kitchen. Rihanna’s singing didn’t quite drown out the groans coming from her father’s shower, a clear sign he drank too much last night.

  Maybe Avery downed too much champagne at the reception and wouldn’t remember Congressman Brond’s hand on Christiana’s back.

  Fat chance, Chris. Add that to your growing list of delusions.

  Speaking of lists, Christiana needed one for all the things she intended to do this week. Get oil changed in Dad’s car, turn in her semester admission fee, get insurance, update Quicken . . . get a life. Her tasks ran through her head like a chant as she washed the dishes. Call the dishwasher repairman.

  Her father lumbered into the kitchen, hair still wet. He sported the family uniform of sweatpants and t-shirt. “Talking to ourselves a little early, doncha think?” She hadn’t realized she’d been chanting her list out loud.

  As he reached for the coffeepot, Christiana snapped him with a dish towel.

  “Good. You’re up,” she said. �
��Lots to do today, Dad. In fact, about this insurance . . . .” She waved a form at him. It had lain on the kitchen counter the entire two weeks she’d been home from school.

  “I’ll get to it. So, what was the charity event like?”

  “Very pink. Lots of champagne. They had beef Wellington.”

  “I would expect nothing less of the Honorable Churchill. So, anyone interesting there?”

  “Business men. A few congressmen. Oh, and this horrible woman with too much plastic surgery.” The one who couldn’t keep her hands off Congressman Brond. Christiana shook her head, and some coffee sloshed over her mug onto the counter.

  “Careful there, Chrissy.” Her father picked up a sponge and wiped away the spill. “Which congressmen? Any pundits?”

  He must be desperate for specifics. Her father wouldn’t touch a sponge unless he was trying to ingratiate himself.

  “Umm, I think I saw Tyrone, Carroll. I don’t know who else.” She swallowed the name she wanted to say. “Hey, did you file that tax extension?”

  “What were they talking about?”

  She sighed. Her father’s focus was singular. “I don’t know. Lots of back slapping, drinking, dancing, watching Avery . . . .”

  Her heart twinged when he glanced up at the mention of Avery.

  Christiana’s father delighted over her friendship with the most popular girl in school and her resulting connection to one of Washington’s most powerful families. Yet, too often his fatherly eyes cast the question neither had ever asked. Why did Avery befriend Christiana in the first place? Avery spent the last three years schooling Christiana on the ways of a socialite—and failing repeatedly. Still, it had been nice to have a friend who tried.

  Her father stared at her. “What about their wives?”

  “I don’t know what their wives look like.”

  “Well, anyone you recognized?”

  “Not really, Dad. Look, I’m getting a headache—”