As Christiana drove home, she realized she hadn’t hugged Avery hello or goodbye once this summer. Those friendly embraces had been part of their routine—before they’d each headed off to their respective freshman years at different universities. She tamped down the thought that the lack of hugs meant something and concentrated on taming her untamed thoughts about Congressman Brond. She needed to regain her footing. The last time she ran into him, it took hours to reorient. Hell, days.
She mentally ran through her summer mantra to try to calm herself. Make money, think about your future, money, future. It didn’t help recover her equilibrium or quell the shame that the gorgeous Jonathan Brond might think she was a complete idiot.
A cold shower when she got home didn’t help either.
Christiana stepped out into the living room, her hair wrapped in a towel, as her father’s key clicked in the front door.
He dropped the mail on the table by the door. “Hey, Chrissy.”
“Hi, you’re home early.”
His face registered shock. “Oh, shit, I forgot.”
“Don’t tell me. You didn’t file for that tax extension.” Christiana sighed.
“Tomorrow, I promise. We’ve got that reception tonight. The Caucus Room. Gonna be big. You not ready yet?”
Great, she’d forgotten she’d agreed to be “his date,” as he called it. More like his chauffeur. Her get-a-real-life agenda didn’t include loitering around a bunch of legislative aides who either ignored her or looked down the front of her dress for hours—unless they fixated on her scar. What fun.
“See anyone in particular today?” She had debated all afternoon about just asking straight out if her father had used her as bait to get an interview with Jonathan Brond.
He cocked his head like he didn’t understand. “I see lots of people. Got anyone in mind?”
“No, wondered about your day, that’s all. So, what’s this thing tonight?”
“Copyright issues, online privacy, cyber-bullying. Strange, but the Blanchard and Brond families called it.”
Christiana froze. He had pestered Jonathan Brond—and probably aggressively. The man could forget the mundane, like taxes and house payments, but potential stories? They remained front and center in his mind. No wonder the congressman’s eyes swam with displeasure earlier.
“I need twenty minutes.” Christiana headed to her room to prepare.
She had to repair this situation. Here was her chance to tell the congressman she hadn’t told her father anything about him, apologize for her dad’s forceful behavior.
Christiana slipped on her ivory sundress, another hand-me-down from Avery’s regular closet purges. Wouldn’t it be the nice thing to do to invite her to the reception? Avery would kill to be in the room with Congressman Brond, and it would make her father happy to see her together with Avery. It also might get their friendship back on track.
Christiana looped her pearls around her neck, a talisman against making any more social blunders. After tapping some Dermablend on her forehead, she checked her reflection in the mirror. Not too bad, but she’d always fade into the wallpaper standing next to Goddess Avery.
She changed her mind. It would be best to go solo with her father. She could then talk freely.
7
Black-suited attendants rushed the car when Christiana’s father pulled up to the Russell Senate building. The reception would be large. Sponsors didn’t spring for parking help on Capitol Hill unless they expected a strong turnout.
People streamed toward the reception area and Christiana jogged down the wide hallway, trailing her father. You’d think he was about to lose the story of a lifetime if he didn’t get there before any other reporter. He only slowed down when they hit security. Her father had forgotten to empty his pockets of metal objects—coins, keys, an embarrassing nail clipper. His sheepish smile didn’t stop the large African-American woman in uniform from sending them back to the end of the security line. Twice.
Once through the security protocol, Christiana took her father’s arm in the reception room entrance and immediately wished she had known the dress code. Both men and women sported dark suits even though it was on the cusp of summer. Only the interns stood out in their khaki pants and polo shirts. In her sundress, she didn’t look like any of them.
Light streamed in through large windows on the far side of the cavernous room. Tall marble columns glowed a stark white with thick black and grey veins crawling up to meet ornate tops.
“Chrissy? Club soda?” Before she had a chance to respond, her father slipped his arm free and set off for the bar in the corner. A few of the khaki-clad aides moved away as he walked across the blood-red carpet.
Christiana edged through the doorway to stand on the periphery of clusters talking in hushed tones. She searched for people who stood alone, hoping someone could point out Congressman Brond’s legislative assistant, while minimizing the risk someone might know she was asking for the Congressman himself. Everyone seemed deep in discussion. That didn’t stop her father, who floated from one group to another.
Her father slapped a man on the back affably. The man retreated, and two other gentlemen nearby laughed loudly, only to edge away from Peter’s outstretched hand. By the time her father made a third trip to the bar, Christiana gave up in her quest to find a friendly face. Her feet hurt from standing against the wall, so she crossed the room to retrieve a club soda her father had forgotten to order.
“Could I also have some lime, please?” she asked the bartender.
“Hitting it a little hard, aren’t you?” Warm breath whispered through her hair.
She turned and blushed. “Hello, Congressman.”
“Vodka. Straight up,” Congressman Brond said to the bartender without turning his eyes from Christiana. “It must be my lucky day.”
“Sir?”
“Third time’s a charm?”
“Um, I’m glad I ran into you.”
“Well, that’s the best news I’ve had all day.”
Christiana smiled and felt her cheeks redden more. Why did everything he said in that silky voice sound like a proposition?
“I–I wanted you to know that I didn’t say anything to my father about us . . . talking, I mean—”
“I know you didn’t, Christiana.”
“Well, I wanted to make sure—”
“Gossip is not in your nature,” he interjected before she could finish her thought much less her sentence.
“No. It’s not.” She smiled at his attempt to relax her.
“There’s someone you should meet.” He took her arm and steered her across the room toward a tall young gentleman, built wide and stocky like a football player rather than like the more slender congressman. “Christiana, this is Mark, my assistant.”
Christiana hoped he didn’t feel the pounding of her heart beneath his grip on her arm. His warm hand didn’t stop a chill from running up her spine, either. She silently cursed her inability to stay composed in the congressman’s presence.
“We were wondering what your generation felt about social media,” Mark said.
“I don’t have much experience with it.”
“But you’re on it, right? Facebook, Twitter . . . .”
“Sometimes. I never considered it that social.”
Jonathan grinned. “I completely agree. Too removed from normal human interaction and rife with carelessness.”
“Um, you’re doing market research on Internet issues or something?” she asked.
“Perhaps.” The congressman sipped his drink, his eyes scanning her flushed face. Another man, in the ‘legislative aide’ uniform of khakis and white shirt, sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.
Christiana scanned the room for her father. When she inadvertently caught his eye, he abandoned the group of men he’d been chatting up and wove a boozy path her way. Oh, shit. Within seconds, her father circled her shoulders with one arm and dangled his empty glass from his fingertips.
“C
ongressman, good to see you,” her father slurred.
“Mr. Snow.”
“So, Chrissy, I see you’ve found the man of the hour.”
Her cheeks colored anew. “Dad—”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Snow?” Brond asked. “My aide tells me you’ve been calling.”
“Yes, well . . . .” Her father handed Mark his empty glass. “Do you mind? A double? The congressman and I need to talk business.”
“Double what?” snapped Mark.
“Mark.” The congressman kept his eyes trained on her father’s face.
Her father held Congressman Brond’s stare. “Bourbon. One for the congressman, too.”
Mark stalked off, and Christiana wondered if she should leave, too. An invisible string of tension ran between her father and the congressman, as if they were two gunslingers striding toward one another, spurs clinking, along the board sidewalk of a town in the Old West. Little bullets of light bounced around behind her eyes and she concentrated on breathing in and out.
“This social media thing . . . .” her father said.
“Yes, Christiana and I were discussing it. You’ve got a smart girl on your hands, Mr. Snow.”
“Yes, she is. So, this privacy bill you’re backing. Severe, almost authoritarian.”
One side of Brond’s mouth quirked up. “Well, there is a time and place for authority.”
“Not a fan of transparency?”
“Not everything needs to see the light of day.”
“Such as?”
Mark returned and handed her father a half-filled tumbler.
“You forgot the congressman’s drink, good man,” her Dad said.
“No, Mr. Snow. I’ve reached my limit.”
“So strict . . . and disciplined.”
“You have no idea.”
The young legislative aide murmured in the congressman’s ear.
“Mr. Snow. We’ll finish our conversation when things are more sane.” The congressman strode away without looking back, Mark and his aide trailing behind.
A band of cold steel clamped around Christiana’s forehead, and she grabbed her father’s arm before she stumbled.
“Whoa, Chrissy, you been nipping at someone’s drink?”
She took several more inhalations, listening to blood gush through her ears.
“I’ll be right back.” She hurried out a side door.
The cold ladies’ room reeked of antiseptic. Thankfully, it was empty. She leaned against the marble sink. She had gotten out what she needed to say, even if she witnessed legislative aides parting like the Red Sea when she and her father walked in. Even if she had to endure getting her father back to the car after he turned brash, spitting Jim Beam on his targets. Even if she had to see Congressman Brond’s expression harden and feel the very air around him close up like an umbrella.
Christiania pressed a wet paper towel to the back of her neck as she rested her forehead on the marvelously soothing tiled wall. The pricks of light stopped dancing and her heart slowed. It was time she and her father headed home. She shouldn’t care what people thought.
She turned and took a last check in the mirror. At least her make-up behaved. She pushed open the metal door and stepped into the hall, steeling herself for the extraction process. No matter what her father said or how loud he grew, she would get him to the car.
The tap-brush sound of feet on marble steps echoed through the deserted hall. It was him. Even his footfalls exuded confidence.
Congressman Brond appeared in front of her before she could duck away. Without a word, he encircled her waist and steered her into a room across the hallway. He caged her against the wall inside the door. His green eyes reflected how he felt about what had happened upstairs.
Christiana hated that look of pity.
Should she protest him stealing her away or apologize for her father’s behavior?
Cupping one side of her face with his hand, his thumb moved slowly over her bottom lip, releasing it from the nervous clasp of her teeth. She gulped, startled, as his hand grasped the back of her neck. She inhaled his expensive linen and leather aroma. Her mind struggled to catch up to his hold when his knee slipped between her legs and parted them. He leaned into her pelvis.
Her heart pounding, she arched her back to meet his rigid erection underneath.
What was she doing?
His eyes narrowed in response, a little surprised, a little less sympathetic.
She wanted to know what his body would feel like under her hands. Her palms slid, almost as if under someone else’s control, under his jacket until she embraced his waist. His jacket, now parted on either side of her, left only a thin shirt and her dress between her belly and the ridges she felt across his abdomen. She was right about what she’d imagined under his suit. She curled her fingers around his lower back muscles. The congressman’s mouth was on hers before another thought had time to form. Soft lips moved over her mouth. His leg forced further between her thighs, parting them more.
A greedy yearning obliterated her thinking. She never wanted him to break away.
His tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She moaned as she acceded to his command. He slanted his face to latch his firm lips onto hers more fully. She didn’t know how long their tongues danced or exactly when she lost the distinction between her body and his, but she didn’t care.
He finally broke their kiss but kept his face close. “Lovely,” he murmured.
“Congressman?” Her voice sounded as weak as her knees.
“Drop the whole ‘congressman’ thing, Christiana,” he said, his hot breath moving over her moistened lips.
“Yes, sir,” she said softly.
She could feel his lips quirk into a smile, sliding over hers. “Call me Jonathan when we’re together. At least for now.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. The gentle glide of his fingers teased her skin, until his thumb faltered over her scar. Her legs sagged onto his knee, still firmly planted between them. The urge to rub her ache up and down his quad grew stronger.
“Come with me. I’m taking you home.” He slipped his leg free.
She hesitated. “Home?”
He cocked his head, then smiled in reassurance. “Not my home. Yours.” He grasped her hand.
She blushed like a schoolgirl and hated the naiveté that continued to display every time she ran into the Congressman.
As he guided her through the hallways, the rush of cooler air replacing the warmth of his body did nothing to shake her disbelief at what just happened. He kissed me! Me? She’d never had anyone take her mouth like he had. The taste of his lips lingered on her tongue all the way back to the reception. She wanted to grab his hand and pull him back. Please. Kiss me. Otherwise she wasn’t sure she hadn’t hallucinated the last five minutes.
Jonathan’s tall frame wove through the throng of people. He marched to her father, punching the air with his hand emphasizing his point, a sure sign the alcohol had begun to take its toll. A sick sense of shame replaced her euphoria. Jonathan would never touch her again after witnessing her father’s sloshed tirade.
“Mr. Snow,” Jonathan said. “Call Shane tomorrow. We’ll talk then. He’ll set it up.” The young man in khakis magically appeared behind her father.
Her father blinked. “Uh, ‘kay. I’ll be sure to do that.”
“My driver is taking Christiana home. She shouldn’t be out this late.”
Jonathan noticed Snow had the decency to flush, realizing the unforgiveable situation he created for his daughter.
“Of course. Such a gentleman,” Peter lifted his glass in a half-toast toward him.
Jonathan led her outside to an idling black sedan. Mark held open the passenger door as Christiana slipped into the back seat. Jonathan folded himself next to her.
“You said your driver was going to take me home.” Christiana’s eyes registered alarm.
“He is. He’s taking me home, too. To my home.”
�
�My Dad . . . .”
Her words evaporated when he patted her hand. Nothing she could say could possibly make up for her father’s conduct. Peter Snow’s boorish behavior wasn’t her cross to bear though, by the look on her face, she’d likely had a lot of practice.
“Don’t worry,” Jonathan said.
Shane popped his head into the still open door. “Congressman, you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, make sure Mr. Snow makes it home safely after the reception, and go over some possible subjects with him for our interview later in the week, would you?”
“Yes, sir.” Shane slipped from sight, and Mark closed the door. The partition rose between Mark and the back seat. Finally some privacy. Christiana slid across the leather closer to him as Mark smoothly made a U-turn in the street.
“I didn’t know Mark was your driver,” she said.
“Among other roles.” Jonathan took her hand. “Christiana.”
“Yes?” Her rosy lips parted on an involuntary sigh, and his imagination got the better of his intellect. It took every ounce of control to not crush her to the seat with his body and take her right then and there.
“I shouldn’t have . . . .” He had no right to her. She had not given herself to him. He had yet to even ask, and he shouldn’t. Washington was unforgiving in many matters and getting involved with a nineteen year-old would prove fatal. He already tested the boundaries with his sexual proclivities.
“No, please. Do it again.”
Okay, so he hadn’t scared her off completely. He laughed and then tamped down the ferocious protectiveness filling his insides. “I shouldn’t have been so impulsive with you.” He touched her face. She pushed her cheek into his palm, like a kitten might arch into an outstretched hand.
No mistaking, she would test his control. “You really are exquisite.” He dropped his hand and leaned back into his seat.
Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1) Page 6