Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  The familiar Old Spice scent broke into her sniffling. He pulled her back and held her face between both hands. Their eyes locked, and a thousand unasked questions with a thousand unspoken answers passed between them. Her eyes moistened.

  But the tears dried in her eyes as the only words left to say tumbled from her mouth. “The bounty’s been paid.”

  35

  Christiana threw her cell phone onto her car’s front seat as she took the exit for Afton Mountain off the interstate. Her father had sounded less shaky in this last conversation. Now out of detox, he was forced to face his real demons.

  “Damn those therapy sessions,” he had laughed. “They make me want to drink more.” That progress alone was worth the uncomfortable confrontation she’d had with him after the Churchill standoff. After her impasse with the Judge, she had figured if Jonathan could defy his father over remaining in Congress, then she could confront her father about his love of liquor.

  Of course, before Jonathan announced his congressional retirement the day after the Churchill meeting, he proved that being a member of Congress had perks. He got her father admitted into the most exclusive alcohol rehabilitation center in Maryland. Jonathan told her dad it was where all the congressional wives and agency heads went. Christiana was sure that tidbit helped quell the initial resentment he mustered when first approached about going away. When Yvette agreed to drive him there, Christiana knew he might have an additional reason for getting sober.

  She hadn’t shed one tear during the talk with her father. She gave all credit to Jonathan. Normally tight-lipped about her thought and feelings, she could barely shut up now. Well, except for one topic.

  Christiana braked as she took a curve a little too fast. Her impatience to see Jonathan was only fed by the decision she’d finally made just that morning.

  Since that day at the Churchills three weeks ago, Jonathan hovered over Christiana like she’d drop off the face of the earth at any point. But while his attention never wavered, she’d find him studying her face, as if he wanted to pose a question but hadn’t yet formed what he wanted to ask. She felt the unspoken truth lying between them, and neither one was yet brave enough to pick it up and present it to the other. So she’d have to. Someone had to say “I love you” first.

  She had three days before school started. She wouldn’t leave this weekend until she claimed his whole heart. He had hers, and she didn’t care if no one approved.

  Christiana pulled up to the smooth polished wood gate of Covil Sereia and punched in the code Jonathan had provided. The gravel crunched under her tires, and as she rounded the tree-lined bend, the house rose from the trees. Jonathan’s broad smile beamed at her from his front stoop. His hair glinted gold in the dappled sunlight, and he wore her favorite jade-colored t-shirt. His emerald eyes shone with happiness. Nothing in nature could compete with that green.

  “Come inside,” he said. “I need you.”

  Jonathan sat up from the tangled mass of sheets and pulled her up to his chest.

  Christiana drew her leg over his hard quad in a protective embrace. A spasm of desire shocked her inner thighs awake even though Jonathan had spent most of the night between them. He was more than her kryptonite. He lived inside her molecules.

  “Is there anything you’ll miss about being in Congress?” Christiana asked tentatively. She wasn’t sure he wanted to remember.

  “The marble smell when I first walk in.”

  Christiana laughed. “The smell of dust and cement?”

  “The older buildings have marble steps with little dips from so many people stepping on them, like a million men—and now women—have jogged up and down them, going to meetings to make important decisions. People committed to making life better for people. Not enough people walking through those hallowed corridors realize the history they step on.”

  “Is that why you stayed? I mean, for the history?”

  “Something like that. I was supposed to run for senator next.”

  “Did you want to be a senator?”

  “No. Before you, I don’t think I ever thought about who I was. I now know what power is, Christiana. It isn’t about how many people you can get to do your bidding. It’s about knowing who you are and being able to take care of the people who matter to you.”

  He kissed her forehead and then looked back up at the ceiling. “There’s one thing I won’t miss, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The trafficking of half-truths.” He leaned up on his elbow. “I owe you an apology, Christiana.” He released a stray hair stuck to her cheek. “When I first ran into you at the club—”

  “The pink fundraiser.”

  He pulled her into a tighter embrace. “I knew you’d never be happy unless you were living your truth. It’s why I haven’t been the best for you. I showed you a side to yourself that lay dormant, but I required you to tell lies during that discovery. That wasn’t fair.”

  Christiana watched his eyes glaze over a little bit more with each word. Was this what he’d been mulling over for the last few weeks?

  A breeze from the open window moved the sheer curtains. A thin layer of air passed between her body and his. She shuddered at the thought the space could grow any wider, and she drew closer to his chest, trying to squeeze out the possibility of anything being between them.

  Jonathan nuzzled the top of her head. “Washington is a small town that traffics in half-truths and never lets you forget your mistakes.”

  “It seems pretty big to me.”

  “You’ll outgrow Washington in due time.”

  “I’ll never want to leave.” She tried to bury herself in his chest.

  He tipped her chin up with two fingers. He cast his warm green eyes down on her. “Someday, Christiana. You will want something more than Washington.” His fingers dusted along her hairline, over her scar and down her cheek.

  Before she could speak, he reached over to the bed stand. “And on that note. I have something for you.” Jonathan pulled an envelope from the nightstand drawer. “Here. A gift.”

  She sat up. “What’s this?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Jonathan pulled out a letter from the envelope and handed it to her. His beautiful eyes danced over her face.

  She read the print on the heavy watermarked stationery—twice. “How? I didn’t even apply for this scholarship.”

  “It’s more than fair. Coco Jackson Churchill is the founder of the Jackson-Heard scholarship. It’s the least she can do.” He sighed at the disbelieving look on her face. “She spends more at Tiffany’s buying Christmas gifts for her staff. Besides, it’s her money.”

  Christiana arched an eyebrow.

  “You do know the Churchill fortune comes from her family, right?” Jonathan asked.

  Christiana drew a large breath. No wonder the Judge stood down so quickly.

  “It’s unethical. My silence isn’t for sale. Half-truths, remember?” Christiana threw herself on to her back.

  “That’s not what this is about. This is a thank-you gift. For the help. Besides, there are six other people who make the decision. Coco submitted you at the last minute, and they voted. You earned this fair and square.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “It looks like it’s a done deal. Now you can go discover life without the burden of working yourself to death while doing it.”

  Christiana wrestled with the thought of taking anything from the Churchills—even through a scholarship fund—after what Avery did to Jonathan. But it would be so much easier if she didn’t have to work two jobs next year to go back to school.

  Wait . . . discover life?

  Christiana positioned herself astride Jonathan's lean torso and pinned her eyes on his face. His face held shock, but he didn’t move to push her off. She let the moment hang in the air. She didn't want to miss a single muscle twitch when she finally let the words out. His eyes appraised her. He had to know something was up.

  All su
mmer she’d prayed for this moment, a chance to be with Jonathan without all the secrets and lies. Never good at talking, she found the words threatening to lodge in her throat.

  “So serious, lovely.”

  God bless him for always wanting to make things easier for her.

  “There are things I want to discover, Jonathan—with you. I have something to tell you. Something I didn’t say before, but should have. I love you.” She grasped her bottom lip between her teeth and forced herself to hold his gaze.

  Jonathan’s green eyes misted. The wind outside rustled tree leaves through the open window, the only sound breaking in to the silence that sat between them.

  He swallowed. “Thank God.”

  “W-what?”

  “I love you, Christiana. I love you,” he said emphatically, as if he didn’t quite trust his own words had landed. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever said that to outside my mother. God knows, I didn’t want to expose you to the kinds of things people will say. But if I learned anything this summer, it’s that I’m a selfish man. The thought of you with someone else . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t allow it. Marry me, Christiana. This weekend. Hell, today.”

  Jonathan sat up and grasped her arms. “I’ll take you away to anywhere you want to go so long as we’re together.” Jonathan stole her breath away with one of his all-consuming kisses. She followed his tongue spreading his love inside her mouth. When he released her, his eyes still shone emotion.

  He reached for her panties.

  She pushed him back. “Wait. Please.”

  If she’d learned anything that summer, it was how quickly she could fall into Jonathan and never surface. She had to do this the right way. She jumped off him, needing distance from his body.

  His eyes registered something she hadn’t seen ever before. He’s afraid of what I might say next. Emboldened by the effect she had on him, she pressed forward.

  “Would you do something for me?” she asked.

  “Anything.” He snatched her hand.

  “Wait until after I graduate from school?”

  His lips stretched into a grin. “I’ll think about it.”

  “And I want to meet Blanca. I don’t believe she’s real.”

  “Oh, she’s real.”

  “Well, I want to thank her. For taking such good care of you. You once told me I had a lot of need. Well, I see the same in you. It’s different. But it’s there.”

  He brushed hair from her face. “Truth becomes you.”

  “Only truth from now on.”

  “Deal. Okay then. June first, three years from now, and not a day later, you’ll meet me at an altar, location to be decided.”

  “Deal.” She straddled his lap and kissed him to seal her answer.

  “Christiana, you’re never going to stop speaking up now, are you?”

  Her lips curled into a smile. “No, sir.”

  “Good girl.” He ran his fingers over her forehead, and she didn’t even mind.

  ~THE END . . . for now.~

  Don’t miss the next Elite Doms book, Untouchable. Tap to add it to your want-to-read shelf at Goodreads.

  For a sneak peek at Untouchable, turn the page!

  Also by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Elite

  Holiday Ties

  Untouchable

  Perfect

  Riptide

  Lucky

  Fearless

  Invincible

  The White House Gets A Spanking

  Spanking the Senator

  Shakedown

  Tough Luck

  Tough Break

  Tough Love

  Untouchable

  Chapter One

  My future will be made in the next thirty minutes. Okay, perhaps she was being a tad theatrical. But the thought wasn’t too far from the truth. London Chantelle took in a sobering, deep breath. Drama wouldn’t help her. Carson Drake sat on the other side of that door. She had to focus on business today—and only business.

  She smoothed her pencil skirt down for the twentieth time, pulled her shoulders back and marched her Kate Spade pumps into Whitestone International’s boardroom.

  The men around the table stood as she entered. Carson was conspicuously absent. Good. She’d dubbed the company’s contentious head of legal and public affairs the “Gladiator.” All too often she’d felt like the weaker opponent in the arena of his boardroom.

  After the pleasantries of handshakes and good-to-see-yous were over, she launched into her pitch. It took under twenty minutes to explain why she believed Whitestone required a full-scale rebranding.

  Isolated at the other end of the vast conference table, CEO Stan Whitestone and his CFO leafed through the thick packet she’d slaved over for two weeks. She sat still and silent in the enormous leather chair, taking the moment to assess his mood. You could tell a lot about someone by watching their face as they read. So far, so good.

  Mr. Whitestone pushed his copy of her proposal forward on the table. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. Oh, thank God. He doesn’t hate it.

  Her promotion to vice president at Yost and Brennan Communications rode on his acceptance. She desperately wanted that VP title and all that went with it. As vice president, she’d slave over her ideas rather than other people’s. And the money? For once in her life, she might live in a place with a separate bedroom instead of a studio apartment.

  “So, Miss Chantelle, only $500,000?” Mr. Whitestone asked. His CFO stared at him as if gauging his tone. She’d learned over the years that clients didn’t often tease, and certainly not the head of a multibillion dollar contracting firm.

  She cleared her throat. “Spending less would be a waste of money. If we can’t do it right, then we shouldn’t do it at all.” Oh, no. She led with the punch line. She meant to save that last line until she needed a clincher.

  “Well said.” A familiar voice filled the room, and the air seemed to shift, along with her luck. The Gladiator had arrived. On cue, her belly flipped at the sound of Carson Drake’s confident tone.

  “Carson, so glad you could join us,” Mr. Whitestone said. “London was just talking about recasting our image.”

  “So I hear.” He strode over to the credenza and poured himself a cup of coffee. The air crackled with the addition of his dominant energy. It was as if he, not Mr. Whitestone, were the CEO.

  He took the seat across from her. He fit the oversized chair. Another subtle reminder she was a small player in this big man’s world. His dark eyes raked over her body as if assessing her reaction to his presence. She’d fought so hard to hide the illicit, secret thoughts she’d had about him since they met months ago, but his gaze seemed to penetrate her mind. Hearing my inappropriate thoughts.

  During their first meeting, she’d had trouble tearing her eyes from his face. She’d spent every meeting since avoiding his dark eyes, as if that would hide her scandalous daydreams. He, on the other hand, watched her every move.

  Of course he’d kept a professional tone with her at all times. Albeit combative. It was just as well. Her life didn’t allow for illusions that Carson elicited with a single, knowing smile. She’d seen how other the women in her office grew all swoon-y over men like him. Men who were accomplished, good looking and oh, so arrogant, and who would turn a woman’s focus from herself to him with a wink.

  “My apologies, Miss Chantelle. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He looked at Mr. Whitestone. “Carter cancelled. I recommend to abort. Effective immediately.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Now where were you?” His brown eyes returned to settle on her. A shock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead like he’d finger-combed it all day.

  When did the room grow so hot? She casually pulled her blouse a little from her skirt to ease the straining fabric from her clammy chest. Focus, London.

  She had no time for flirtations. She had responsibilities and a brother who counted on her. Unlike her mother, she would not abandon those dependent on her at the firs
t charming thing out of a man’s mouth. Whomever she got involved with—if she ever got involved—would not be like any swarthy Casanova her mother had brought home. Good looks always came with a price.

  She grasped her portfolio on the table, opened it and pretended to glance through her notes. Carson isn’t going to affect me. Not today. She straightened in her chair and squared her shoulders.

  “Go on, Miss Chantelle,” Carson urged.

  “Thank you, Mr. Drake.” She pushed a copy of her proposal across the table to him, which he ignored as he casually sipped his coffee. His fingers wrapped around the entire coffee mug. She hadn’t noticed how large his hands were before.

  She addressed the person who really mattered, Mr. Whitestone. The man who will sign an acceptance agreement, she told herself.

  “Mr. Whitestone, I understand that discussing your business dealings in the press has been . . . difficult.”

  “You could say that,” Carson said.

  Dammit, she wasn’t talking to him.

  “Refreshing your image will bring a desirable type of attention to your company. We will sidetrack sensitive information about what you do and how you do it. Instead we will focus on the expertise of your executive team.”

  “A new brand based on our executives will invite questions,” he said. “Questions we might not want to answer.”

  “We can deal with them as they come.”

  “Is that so?” He arched his brow as if he didn’t believe her. She noticed his intimidation technique. Well, she wouldn’t let Carson frighten her. So what if he’d negotiated six multimillion-dollar acquisitions in the last three years, testified before Congress, and been on every “most successful list” in Washington for the last three years? So what if I paid that much attention to your credentials. She knew what she was doing when it came to counseling her clients.