DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

by Renshaw, Winter

  “John . . .”

  “Camille.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  I refuse to give her words any merit. She’s upset with me and her emotions are running high. She doesn’t mean any of this.

  “Let’s meet at the apartment. We can talk there,” I say. “I’d like to offer my apology in person so you know it’s sincere. I shouldn’t have doubted you. We need to get back on track.”

  “Fine,” she says after a lengthy pause. “You get me for one hour, and I’m not going to the Hightower.”

  I laugh as if her statement is a joke because it makes no sense. “What do you mean?”

  “Pick a hotel,” she says. “Not the Melrose. Some place public. Text me the room number, and I’ll get there when I get there.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself tonight.”

  “Interesting observation from a man who knows very little about me.”

  “I know plenty.”

  “And still, you’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  I know.

  I listen to the steady drag of a long breath on her end.

  “I’ll see you soon, Camille.”

  ***

  I wait on the end of a tufted sofa in the presidential suite of the Hotel Mirabelle in Georgetown, checking the time far too often.

  The click of the lock is followed by the sweeping gush the door makes as it swings open. In my haste to get here, I neglected to bring a blindfold, but the room is still plenty dark.

  Camille struts toward me with intrepid strides, her hands fixed on her hips and a clutch under her arm. From what I can tell, she’s dressed for a night on the town, which would explain the traffic noise an hour earlier.

  For a moment, I wonder if she went out because of me in an attempt to forget the sting of rejection she probably felt. Women do that, I’ve noticed. They fish for attention when they’re feeling low. Just the thought of another man hitting on Camille tonight brings a strain to my neck that travels to my jaw.

  I rise, taking her hands in mine. The urge to crush her sweet lips with a punishing kiss overcomes me, but something prevents me from following through. Cradling her cheek, I lift her face and inhale what I fully anticipate to be the intoxicating gardenia scent of her perfume.

  But instead she smells like a man.

  I release her and step away, leaning down to swipe what’s left of my bourbon from a nearby end table.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” she says.

  “Don’t let the door hit you.” I take a swig, letting the liquor burn on my tongue before I swallow. I’m sure if this goddamned hotel room wasn’t so dark, I’d be seeing scarlet.

  I listen for the shuffling sound of her heels against the carpet, but it never comes.

  “Why aren’t you leaving?” I spit my bourbon-flavored words in her general direction.

  “You brought me here to talk,” she says. “I’m just surprised you’re letting me walk away so easily.”

  “I generally find conversations with frauds to be an enormous waste of my time.”

  “Frauds?” She sniffs. “I didn’t come all the way here for you to insult me.”

  “And I didn’t bring you all the way here for you to insult my intelligence.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You smell like another man.” I turn to face her, my eyes following the black outline of her body as she steps toward me. The second I open my mouth to elaborate, the quick sting of her palm floods my left cheek.

  No one has ever slapped me before.

  “Lucky strike,” I say, placing my hand across the pulsing warmth. It’s a miracle her hand found my face in the dark.

  “You don’t get to label me a fraud.” Her words ring clear. “Everything about you is deceptive, John. I’m the genuine one. You know my name. You’ve seen my face. I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not. And yes, I kissed another man tonight. I let him touch me. I closed my eyes and convinced myself that he was you, and then I let him tell me everything I wanted to hear because I was feeling lower than I’ve ever felt before. But I’m not going to sit here blaming you. I’ll take full responsibility for my idiotic lapse in judgment. And I’ll own up to the fact that for one pathetic night I gave two shits about whether or not I’m good enough to be with a man who won’t even show me his face.”

  I pull in a ragged breath.

  “You are good enough for me, Camille.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, her footsteps shuffling away. “I’m done with whatever the hell this is anyway. I never should’ve agreed to it in the first place. I’m not sure what made me think I could trust a man who only fucks me in the dark.” She laughs. “God, I’m the biggest fucking moron. That’s what I get for only seeing zeroes.”

  My offer of one million dollars had nothing to do with the blindfold or the darkness. It was to ensure she couldn’t say no, and that any other man’s offer would pale in comparison to mine.

  “But before I go,” she says, “I need you to answer one question.”

  “You can ask, but I can’t promise I’ll answer.” I bring my bourbon to my lips and take another swig.

  “What’s your relation to Keir Montgomery?”

  Her question slams into me, and I almost choke on my drink.

  “I know you’re connected to him,” she says.

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Because I met him tonight,” she says. “And he took me to the Hightower.”

  Cherry heat blankets my ears as my jaw locks at its hinges.

  That goddamn son of a bitch.

  “Did you fuck him?” I ask a question I never dreamed I’d have to ask her.

  “God, no. Absolutely not.”

  Relief comes when I hear the disgust in her voice.

  “You’re Ronan, aren’t you?” she asks. “You’re his brother.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Camille

  I find my answer in his hesitation, but now I need to confirm it. I move away from the door, my gaze scanning the room in search of the outline of a lamp. I never agreed to the darkness, I only did as I was told because he was paying me. Now that this is over, all bets are off.

  My palm slides up the metal rod of a small desk lamp, searching for the switch at the top.

  “What are you doing?” His question comes half a second too late.

  One little click, and “John” officially has an identity . . .

  And it’s undeniable.

  Ronan Montgomery stands before me, an empty crystal tumbler in his left hand and a concerned expression on his handsome, chiseled face. He’s every bit as beautiful as he looks in the media, and I’m every bit as paralyzed as I was earlier under the trance of his asshole younger brother.

  “Well.” My throat constricts as he holds my gaze captive, and I back myself toward a nearby sofa, collapsing on the rolled arm. The room spins, and my muscles grow weak. This is must be what it feels like when shit gets real.

  “Now do you see why I tried to protect you? You’ll be forever linked to me the rest of your life, whether you like it or not. And anyone looking to damage the Montgomery name is going to use you to do so. Congratulations, Camille. You’ve officially made yourself a pawn.”

  My arms fold across my chest, but I can’t stop staring at this gorgeous creature across from me.

  “I wish you’d have been up front with me from the start,” I say. “It would’ve been nice to know what I was getting myself into.”

  “Why do you think I hid my face? My precaution may have been extreme, Camille, but it was necessary,” he says. “Besides, you’d have said no had I been up front from the beginning.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “So you’d have said yes?” His perfect, dark brows lift as he awaits my response, and my gaze falls to his impeccably talented mouth.

  “I’m not sure.” I glance away for a second, crossing my legs. “Probably not.”

 
; “My point exactly.”

  When I look at him again, I realize he hasn’t taken his eyes off me yet, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m meeting him for the first time all over again. In a way I am.

  My mind wanders to all the naughty things this Adonis has done to me in recent weeks.

  “Why would someone like you pay over eighty grand a week for sex?” I ask.

  “Someone like me?” He huffs, raking his hand along his rugged jawline. “I believe you just answered your own question.”

  “You could have anyone.”

  “Maybe I don’t want just anyone.” He clears his throat. “It’s hard enough to find no-strings-attached sex, let alone with a woman who won’t go running her mouth to the media the second they name her price.”

  “So you limit yourself to anonymous sex because you’re paranoid someone, someday is going to sell you out?”

  “My entire adult life has been nothing but strategic side-stepping, avoiding black marks on my record, walking a straight line, and ensuring that five or ten years from now, when I run for office, there won’t be a single speck of dirt contaminating my past.” He hasn’t moved from his spot. “You understand how being linked to an escort would have implications for me, don’t you? For yourself as well.”

  “Of course.”

  He slides a hand in his pocket and ambles toward me. “I don’t care that you’re an escort, Camille. I don’t think you’re any less a woman because you’ve honed the art of pleasing a man. Quite the contrary.”

  Ronan takes a spot on the sofa, hunching over with his elbows on his knees. He places the empty tumbler on a coffee table and pulls in a long breath.

  “In a perfect world I could walk down the street next to you. I could take you out, really get to know you,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s a luxury I’m not afforded as a Montgomery.”

  “I get it. You’re royalty and I’m a lowly prostitute.” I turn away. “The last thing I’d want to do is tarnish your golden image.”

  The warmth of his hand on my wrist pulls my attention back to him. His dark blue gaze has softened. There’s strength and calmness in him, and I’m surprised he wasn’t more upset with me for turning on the light.

  “When I first saw you,” he says, pulling me to the cushion beside him. His free hand lifts to his chest. “I couldn’t breathe, Camille.”

  Our eyes lock as he takes my hands between his.

  “Everything about you was perfection. You were radiant,” he continues. “Lit from within. I’d never seen someone so effervescent, and yet you were alluring at the same time. And those eyes. I never knew eyes could smile like that.”

  He brings a hand to my cheek, drawing the side of his finger across my cheekbone.

  “Do you remember the masquerade ball?” he asks. “Last New Year’s?”

  My heart catches in my chest, and my body freezes.

  “You were passing the coat check,” he says. “And our eyes met. You weren’t wearing your mask.”

  The corner of my mouth rises. “Silver gladiator mask. All black tux. That was you?”

  We were barely at the party a half hour when Trey declared he couldn’t wait another minute to rip me out of my evening gown. In retrospect, he probably wanted to show me off to a few of his cronies and then get me the hell out of there before someone who knew his wife spotted us together.

  “I thought I imagined that moment.” Everything about that night floods my memory. I used to relive that moment time and again until things grew more serious with Trey, and then I convinced myself that it was all just wishful thinking–that I had imagined it into something it wasn’t. That it wasn’t possible to gaze into a stranger’s eyes and feel something almost otherworldly. I laugh for the first time this evening. “Ronan, that was really you?”

  He nods. “I spent the rest of that evening searching for you.”

  “We left.” My nose crinkles. “I didn’t want to.”

  “I couldn’t get you out of my head,” he says. “I went looking for you, asking around. Nobody knew of anyone who fit your description, or if they did, they weren’t owning up to it.”

  “Smart men.”

  “I saw you a couple of weeks after that night. You were leaving a hotel.”

  My eyes roll. I practically lived out of hotels during my Trey Bancroft phase. The man was insatiable.

  “You weren’t happy, Camille,” he says. “And I knew then that you deserved more than Trey fucking Bancroft.”

  “I was mostly happy with him.” I sigh. “At least while I was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was a lying, cheating bastard.”

  “I sent the letter.”

  His stark admission sucks the air from my lungs.

  “The photo of his family,” he says. “Actually, Oliver sent it if you want to get technical. I’m not proud of what I did or the way I did it, but you had to know the truth, because he sure as hell wasn’t telling you.”

  I stare ahead, lifting my fingers to my temples. “Wow. I . . .”

  “We did some asking around to get your name. It took months, Camille. You should know that your name is kept under lock and key around here.”

  I shrug. “They’re protecting nothing but their own reputations.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t until my assistant overheard Bancroft talking to another senator over lunch at the White House Mess.” He clears his throat, adjusting his tie. “Apparently, he was preparing to pass you along by the end of the year.”

  My gaze narrows. “That makes no sense. The things he was saying to me . . . he was talking about babies and our future. Not that I wanted that with him, but the man was obsessed.”

  “It’s hard telling without having heard the whole conversation,” he says. “But everything in this city is negotiable, and everything can be handled like a business transaction. Votes. Allegiances. Women.”

  “That bastard was going to trade me off.” My voice breaks. Now my meeting with him makes sense. For the first time, Trey Bancroft told the truth: he never truly loved me.

  I sit in silence, sinking from the weight of this information and what it means. Glancing at Ronan, I unintentionally catch his stare when he turns my way. This is the most he’s ever spoken to me, and all things considered, he’s actually not a horrible person.

  “I should be more upset with you than I am right now.” I worry my lip and study the subtle hollow beneath his chiseled cheekbone. “And I have a million more questions to ask you.” I yawn. “But it’s late, and I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to think anymore.”

  He nods toward the bedroom of this palatial suite that I haven’t yet had a minute to fully appreciate.

  “Stay here tonight,” he says. “The room’s already paid for.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  I’m too fatigued to turn down his gesture. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” he says as I shuffle to the bedroom suite and begin to pull the sliding doors closed.

  I yawn once more, sliding the zipper of my dress until it reaches my lower back. Perhaps a small part of me wants to torture him and subtly remind him that he doesn’t get any of this anymore.

  This lifestyle doesn’t serve me anymore. Starting tomorrow, I’m no longer for sale.

  He takes the bait, his eyes glued to my every move, and I let my dress fall down my shoulders seconds before I close the doors.

  I dive between the cool, lux linens of a heavenly king-sized bed and smile into the pillow as the image of Ronan’s longing gaze plays in my mind. Everything I thought I knew was flipped upside down tonight except for one little fact . . .

  Men.

  So fucking simple.

  Starting right here, right now, I’m officially retired.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ronan

  “You’re up.” I rise from the dining table by the balcony as Camille exits the bedroom. Her dark hair is wild and disheveled, and smudges of makeup line th
e corners of her dark eyes. A thick robe covers her body, and I’m positive she’s wearing next to nothing beneath it.

  “What’s this?” She glances at the breakfast spread I had delivered by room service this morning.

  “I thought we could continue last night’s conversation over breakfast.” I fold my newspaper and place it aside. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing compares to the feel of newsprint between my fingers. “Wasn’t sure what you ate in the morning, so I ordered a little of everything.”

  Camille takes a seat, surveying the lavish spread. I wouldn’t have done this for anyone but her.

  “What time is it?” She unwraps a sachet of Earl Grey tea and pours hot water from a carafe.

  “Almost ten. I thought I’d let you sleep in after the late night we had.”

  “Thank you.” Her dark eyes drift across the table to mine, and she wears the controlled expression of a woman trying her hardest not to like what she sees.

  “Last night was intense.” I clear my throat.

  She takes a sip of her tea. “Mm, hm.”

  “Now that we’ve officially met,” I say, “how would you feel about continuing this arrangement? We still have ten weeks.”

  Her arched brows lift and she turns to stare out the balcony window. “I can’t, Ronan. I can’t do this anymore.”

  The most beautiful girl in the world wears sadness in her deep gaze, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on something in the distance.

  “Yeah.” Her mouth pulls into a wistful smile. “I’m done with all of this.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  She faces me, shaking her head. “I don’t want to feel this way ever again.”

  “Which way?”

  “Disposable.” Camille’s full lips smile as tears fill the brims of her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m getting emotional right now. God, this is embarrassing.”

  I lift my napkin across the table and place it in her hand.

  “I’m a smart woman, Ronan. I’m educated and ambitious and driven,” she says. “All I ever wanted was to be unforgettable, and I realized last night that I’d been going about it all wrong this entire time.”