And then I let it fall to the floor when I catch the reflection of the woman in the mirror who has clearly lost her marbles. The woman in the reflection knows damn well not to get emotionally vested with her clients, and she’s well aware that this is nothing more than a paid, physical arrangement.
I also take a moment to remind the delusional woman staring back at me how easy it is to fake the very emotions that give us butterflies and make us do stupid things. She’s perhaps the most skilled of them all.
After a shower, I throw my toiletries in a bag, disgusted with myself, and zip up my suitcase a moment later.
An unexpected knock at the door sends my heart into a spiral plunge and sucks the air from my lungs. I hate the fact that I know damn well it’s going to be housekeeping, but a small part of me wishes it’s going to be Ronan, saying he forgot something or that he had to come back and kiss me one last time before he leaves.
Checking my reflection in the mirror, I pull my damp mane into a loose side ponytail and tiptoe to the door to peer out the peephole.
Oh.
My.
God.
My heart hammers, and my hand lingers on the deadbolt in case I decide not to open the door for who is clearly First Lady of the United States, Busy Montgomery.
A Secret Service Agent in black reaches in front of her and pounds three times.
“Open up, dear,” Busy’s voice penetrates the door. “I’d like a quick word, and I know you’re in there.”
“One minute, please.” My ears pulse as I attempt to calm myself with three long, deep breaths. When I open the door, Busy Montgomery smiles, though it’s more of a leer.
“May I come in, dear?” she asks.
I widen the door and step away. Busy strides in with her head held high, followed by two Secret Service Agents. She glances around the room, her eyes landing on the messy bed and then darting to my wet hair as her lips fall into a frown.
“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.” Her arms fold casually at her waist, and her head tilts.
I nod, my voice trapped in my throat.
“First of all, I wanted to give you this.” She reaches into her patent leather Gucci shoulder bag and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. The agent on her left takes it and hands it to me.
With hands trembling, I unfold what appears to be a printed copy of a newspaper article, the headline announcing the impending engagement of Ronan Montgomery and Lydia Darlington. A photo of the two of them accompanies the story.
She’s smiling. He’s not.
“That’s right, dear. The man you’ve been sharing your bed with the last several weeks is engaged to be engaged.” The sick satisfaction in her voice nauseates me.
“I don’t believe it,” I lie. Half of me fully believes it. Half of me is well aware that the vast majority of men will lie and manipulate if it gets them what they want.
“Would the Des Moines Register print a tabloid gossip story?” she asks.
I wouldn’t think so . . .
I hand the article back to the agent and fold my arms. “I’m not sure what this has to do with me anyway. I’m not dating your son. He’s free to do whatever he pleases.”
Busy sighs, clucking her tongue. “Listen, Camille.”
My heart stops when she says my name. The fact that the First Lady knows it doesn’t bode well for what she’s about to say.
“We’re on the verge of launching the President’s re-election campaign. I’m sure you understand it’s not the greatest time for his firstborn son to be shacking up with a common prostitute.” Her eyes drag up and down my body as disgust flavors her words. “I raised him better than this. If some cable news political pundits were to catch wind of this, do you know what that says about me? As his mother? And about our ability to raise a son capable of walking a straight line? I can just hear the yammering now. They’ll say if we can’t control our son, how can we possibly run a nation of three hundred and eighteen million citizens?”
I don’t respond. The crazy look in her eyes is enough to tell me to keep my mouth shut and let her finish.
“And don’t get me started on how damaging this will be to the Montgomery name. Ronan is expected to run for office someday, and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that our party will vote for a man with this kind of mark on his past.” Her eyes roll. “Now, Camille. I know you’re a very smart woman, and that’s exactly why you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
My gaze narrows.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a white envelope filled with cash. The agent hands it off to me, and a quick glance tells me there are thousands of dollars in there.
“I’m going to pay you three million dollars never to speak to my son again,” she says. “I realize three million dollars isn’t a lot of money these days, but I’m sure it is to someone like you. Anyway, there’s ten thousand dollars in that envelope. The rest will be deposited into your bank account in increments over the coming year. Consider this my earnest money. A little good faith deposit.”
“I don’t want your money. And I don’t take bribes.”
She scoffs. “You don’t have a choice, dear. I’ve taken precautions to ensure my son is dissuaded from associating with you from here on out. And I’ve also taken liberties to have your plane ticket to DC rerouted to Nashville. You’re never to step foot inside the city again.”
My jaw slacks. “I have an apartment there. A roommate. I can’t just . . . never go back.”
“Oh, but you can. You’ll have enough money to cover your rent and to replace all your belongings, and trust me, once you see those seven figures in your bank account, it’ll be even easier to walk away from this life.”
I shove the envelope toward her. “I don’t want this. I won’t want to be associated with your dirty money.”
She waves both hands, refusing to take it back. “Camille, I know everything. I’ve had tabs on your little torrid affair from the very beginning. I know about the Melrose and the Hightower. And I have your little journal, which I have to admit wasn’t exactly the kinds of things a mother wanted to read about her son. But my dear, I know everything. And I’ll know the moment you set foot in the city again, and believe me, you won’t want to do that.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” I huff. “What are you going to do, have me killed?”
She doesn’t confirm nor deny.
“I strongly recommend that you not test me, Camille Bronwyn Buchanan.” Busy reaches into her bag and whips out a pair of black sunglasses. “Now, your flight leaves in two hours. I’ll have a cab waiting for you downstairs. I suggest you get moving.”
One of the agents leans into her ear and whispers.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’m going to need that prepaid phone before I go.”
This woman is pure evil.
Busy peers around the room, her hand outstretched as she waits.
I fish it from my bag, place it in her impeccably manicured hand, and watch as she drops it in her bag.
“I knew you’d see things my way,” she says, grinning. “Have a lovely flight, dear.”
With that, Busy strides out of my room, sandwiched between her two agents. And I have absolutely no way of contacting Ronan.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ronan
“That went well, didn’t it?” My mother takes a spot next to my father on the flight back to DC.
“Hm?” He looks up from his tablet, smiling like a clueless space cadet. Sometimes I think that’s what draws people to him. He seems so benign and genial.
“The weekend in Iowa,” she says. “It went well.”
Father turns back to his screen and smiles. “We’ll see.”
She turns to me next, tilting her head as she studies me. I’d give anything not to know what she’s thinking, but I’m sure it has something to do with Lydia.
“Did you see the article?” she asks.
“I’d rather not.” I
cross my legs as the plane taxies to the runway.
She swats her hand. “I didn’t raise you to be so stubborn, Ronan. I’m not understanding this resistance you have to the inevitable.”
My father’s index finger drags down the screen of his tablet before clicking on something. He turns the screen toward me, handing it over.
“Engaged to be engaged?” I scoff. “Is that even a thing?”
“This will generate a bit of interest in our families,” Mother says. “You still have plenty of time to work things out, and in the meantime, we’ve just placed your names back in the mouth of the media.”
My blood boils as I scan the article. It’s all bullshit and lies, a manipulative tactic with my mother’s prints all over it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote the damn thing.
I read an excerpt out loud, “When asked about the future of her relationship with the firstborn son of President Montgomery, Lydia Darlington says, ‘He was my first love, and I was his. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else but Ronan Montgomery. We’ve been spending more time together lately, and it’s clear that our feelings haven’t disappeared. Ronan and I have done a lot of growing up the last couple of years, and I’m confident that there are wedding bells in our future.’”
My mother grins from ear to ear, glancing out the window next to her. That woman would sell her soul to be able to plan a Montgomery-Darlington wedding.
“Funny,” I say. “Lydia doesn’t speak this way. She sounds coached.”
I hand the tablet back to my father and sit back, glancing at my brother texting on his phone several seats back.
“She and I may have convened a little before the interview.” Mother plays with the pearls around her neck, twisting them between two fingers.
I know.
“And why wasn’t I in on this interview?” I ask. “You don’t think it looks odd?”
She shakes her head. “Men don’t discuss weddings and engagements. It’s not proper etiquette. It has more weight coming from Lydia, and the public just adores her.”
“Then they don’t know her like I do.”
Her jaw falls, and my father glances up from his reading, his eyes narrowing through his wire-rimmed glasses.
“What is your problem, Ronan?” His voice booms, a rare moment for a man who built his reputation by staying even-keeled.
My mother places her hand on his arm, squeezing ever so lightly. “It’s all right. He’s been a little preoccupied lately. I’m confident he’ll be singing an entirely different tune in the very near future.”
***
I open the door to my apartment and stop when the sole of my left shoe catches on something.
A piece of paper rests on my foyer rug. Someone had to have slipped it under my door while I was gone this weekend.
Upon closer examination, I realize it’s a postcard, only there’s nothing on the white side. No message of any kind. I flip it over to see the front, and my stomach drops.
It’s a black and white photo of the Melrose Hotel.
I set it on a nearby console table and wheel my bag to my room. A large, yellow envelope rests on the middle of my bed. Glancing around the room, nothing looks out of place.
I tear into the envelope, pulling out a small stack of photocopied, handwritten pages. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but my eyes zero in on the dates. They’re all recent. At first glance, this appears to be some kind of diary. I scan the words, my mind working overtime to make sense of everything as quickly as possible.
“He won’t show me his face, which concerns me. But when he touches me, I forget. I relax. How a faceless stranger can wield that much power over me, I’ll never know . . .”
“I didn’t think I’d like the blindfold at first, and then I found comfort in the dark. Every graze and taste and tease was magnified, every impalement that much more intense . . .”
“His voice is handsome, and tonight I traced his face with my fingers. My mystery John has dimples!”
“John told me I was his dark paradise tonight. Little does he know, he’s mine too. He doesn’t touch me like the other men did. He’s gentle and sensual. He makes me forget why I’m really there: to be his whore. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me like that . . .”
I’ve read enough. Letting the papers fall to my bed, I grab my phone and call Camille. She needs to be warned, and until I figure out what this means and who would be tailing us, I want her on lockdown.
Paging through the photocopies one last time, I shove them in the envelope and flip it over. A typed note is taped to the underside.
IF YOU CARE ABOUT HER, YOU’LL WALK AWAY.
That warning could mean anything, and it could’ve come from anyone. Political rivals. Someone with a vendetta against my family. Anyone looking to ruin my father’s campaign before it even gets off the ground.
And just as I anticipated, they’re using Camille as a pawn.
She doesn’t answer her phone, and I check the time. She should’ve landed hours ago.
I fire off a text, WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.
And then I call Oliver to come back for me.
***
“Oh . . . hello.” A blue-eyed blonde with hourglass curves answers Camille’s apartment door in a designer tracksuit. This must be Araminta. “Um . . .”
I’ve known their address since the day I discovered Camille’s identity.
“I’m looking for Camille.” I peer over her shoulder toward an apartment fit for two modern-day princesses. “Is she home?”
Araminta stares at me, her fingers fidgeting as she struggles to speak.
“You’re . . . you’re Ronan Montgomery,” she says.
“Yes.” I glance at Oliver to my left, who stands out of the way. His eyes roll. “May I come in and speak with Camille?”
She steps backward, swinging the door open and ushering me in.
“She’s not here,” she says. “How do you know her?”
“We’re acquaintances. You must be Araminta?”
She nods, extending her hand. “Yes. Araminta Randall.”
Two hallways jut out at opposite angles from the living room. “Which way to her room?”
Araminta points to her right. “But she’s not here. She’s . . . not coming back.”
I scoff, pushing past her and heading toward Camille’s side of the apartment. “What do you mean, she’s not coming back?”
“She called me earlier,” she says, gingerly ambling behind me. “She said she was done with Washington. She needed a fresh start.”
“You don’t think that’s odd?” I twist the knob and open the door. Her room is impeccably clean, her bed made and all her belongings in their rightful places, including her laptop.
“I mean, I knew it was coming, I just thought she was waiting until our lease was up. She’s been talking about moving to LA for years.”
“She’s in LA?” I ask.
Araminta shrugs, lifting a bottle of Camille’s perfume and bringing it to her nose. “I didn’t ask. I was kind of upset with her at the moment. I was more concerned with her half of the rent, to be honest. I think she said she was going home first, to Tennessee.”
“Did she sound upset? Nervous? Scared?”
She laughs. “No, she sounded normal, I guess. I was sort of in the middle of something when she called, so I had her on speaker. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
My hands rest on my hips as I exhale.
“Have you tried calling her?” Araminta asks.
“Yes,” I say. Both numbers. She hasn’t answered either. My last call was placed from my personal cell, the number left unblocked so she would have it if she needed to reach me. That was an hour ago.
“You’re ‘John’ aren’t you?” She studies my face, her lips pulled up at one side.
“Can you call her? Maybe she’ll answer for you.”
She slides her phone from her pocket and dials Camille before handing it to me. If she answers f
or Camille and not me, I’ll know I’m the reason. If she doesn’t answer at all, I’ll have to pay her a visit in person.
“Did something happen between you two?” Araminta asks.
“Nothing that would warrant her running off without so much as a goodbye.”
She chews on her lower lip. “Okay, then that is weird.”
“Are you positive she went to Tennessee?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
I hand her phone back and stride to the door.
“What do you want me to say if she calls back?” Araminta calls after me.
Lingering by the door, I inhale, my stare fixed on a pair of crystal-encrusted heels I recognize from our first night together.
“Tell her to stop running,” I say. “Tell her whatever it is, whatever she’s afraid of, I’ll fix it. Tell her she’s still my dark paradise.”
TWENTY-NINE
Camille
“Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, but I’ll sure take what I can get.” Mom throws her arms around my neck and hugs me close. “I hope you’re still coming home for Christmas.”
I breathe her in.
“What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. I can tell,” she says. “Is this about a boy?”
I squeeze her tight, refusing to let go if only for the fact that I don’t want her to see the tears in my eyes. I’m humiliated. Busy’s words replayed in my mind the entire flight home and then followed me during the drive here. They played on a loop. Stuck in repeat. Reducing me to tears and wearing my self-esteem down until there was nothing left.
“Just feeling homesick lately,” I say. “And I think it’s time for me to head west, finally pursue my dreams.”
She rubs my back. “Oh, sweetheart. I know it’s scary to chase your ambitions, but you only fail if you never try. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”
I blink away tears and breathe in her soft scent before letting go.
“What made you decide to make the jump?” she asks, brushing hair from my face. “Did something happen?”
DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense Page 15