Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  “Bellamy.” Graham turns his eyes on me, and in spite of myself, the fear subsides. Not completely, but enough. “Consider what Brian is saying.”

  “I did consider it. I can’t do that. We can’t do that.”

  “I’m perfectly willing to stage a proposal.” The thought of him on one knee in front of me takes my breath away.

  A lot about Graham takes my breath away.

  “What?” Graham’s a rule-breaker, a playboy, a self-centered asshole, with the perfect body and the most charming smile. “You’d be willing to put your family through that?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. For the greater good.”

  “I’m not.” I’m starting to babble. “I can’t lie to them. Not like this. And my career—”

  “Is already in the gutter, is it not?” Graham’s words are a strike to the heart. “This is the best way forward, Bellamy.”

  I look at him—his open, handsome face, with eyes that strip away all of my outer defenses and leave me panting and breathless. The pressure mounts against my temples. I have to get out from under it at any cost. “Fine.” I throw the word at him like a poisoned dart. “Fine. I’ll go along with it.” The tension in my head releases.

  Graham grins. “I promise I’ll make it worthwhile.”

  11

  Graham

  Two weeks later, after every single aspect of the proposal has been coordinated with the White House social events staff and polled into oblivion, I get down on one knee in the tiny space next to the most private table at the Inn at Little Washington. Our dinner has been taken away, our dessert plates cleared. Bellamy’s eyes shine in the candlelight, the gray amplified by a sheen of tears.

  Is she still crying about her principled stand against this, or is this a dream come true—even if none of it’s real?

  “Bellamy Leighton.” I take a deep breath, like my nerves might run away from me. “From the moment I first met you, I knew you were different.” In the back of my mind, a small voice screams that this is the wrong move, that this is a bad plan, and I will end up hurt.

  “I knew that day that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.” The real story isn’t romantic in the least. What would I say about it, even if I wanted to tell the truth? She purposely fucked up my coffee order, and that was true love. Her visor made me hot and bothered.

  Jesus. No.

  “I’d be the luckiest man in the world if you would be my wife.”

  I hold my breath. This is Bellamy’s big chance to say no, to stick to her principles, to reject me in front of some of D.C.’s wealthiest, most well-connected people. We’ve already lost another ten staffers at Accelerated Governance and it’s in a spiral that can only be stopped if she says yes. My heart pounds like her rejection could be real, personal, in a way that it can never be.

  But she doesn’t. She nods, her smile reaching all the way to her eyes and wrinkling her nose. My heart squeezes. Shit, she’s fucking cute. Cute...and then the way she walks in that dress is all sultry temptress. I fall into a vivid flash forward of me sliding my fingers underneath the waistband of her panties, even while she wears a dress that retails for $6,000.

  “Yes.” Her voice is breathless and delighted, nothing like the crisp professionalism she wears like a disguise in our meetings with Brian. “Oh, my God, yes.”

  The restaurant erupts in applause—applause that’s too loud for the size of the place.

  Bellamy falls down onto her knees to kiss me, right there on the floor, and then we both laugh as I slip the ring onto her finger. It’s a delicate gold band with a constellation of diamonds on it. Brian thought it should be a huge rock, something that the cameras could pick up a mile away, but she insisted, as always, on authenticity. The laugh dies away under my touch, and she feels warm, alive, and I want to see her lithe body spread open for me on the bed.

  There’s no time to think of that now.

  “Congratulations!” My brother makes his planned surprise appearance, my parents right behind, and the moment is broken open. It reminds me of a camera panning backward from the set of a sitcom. What looked so real on the screen is revealed to be painfully fake. Andrew claps his hand on my shoulder, pulls me in close, and whispers, “Thank you.”

  Then he turns and kisses Bellamy on both cheeks.

  The regular patrons at the Inn at Little Washington are wealthy enough that they don’t cause a scene. There are more than a few discreet phones popping up among them, though, and as I shake hands with my parents, I try to angle myself toward them.

  “Congratulations, darling,” my mother says, wearing a tight-lipped smile. “It’s about time we were introduced to this lovely creature.”

  Bellamy’s face flashes with something I can’t identify, but then she’s all smiles again, blushing prettily and grinning at my mother’s recounting of her own proposal story. The woman can’t read a room to save her life.

  My father shakes my hand too hard, and glances to the side. “You sure about this one, son?”

  This is a pretend engagement to a woman who clings so hard to the fact that this is a lie, that she’ll never see it could be a useful one.

  Or a pleasurable one.

  No. Not Bellamy.

  I look my father in the eye. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” I fill my voice with every bit of determination and warmth that I can.

  He narrows his eyes and cocks his head.

  He doesn’t fucking believe me.

  If it were Andrew, he’d be crying tears of joy, and I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother me that all this climbing, all this acting, all of this work, has barely managed to elicit a smile on his face that’s not false. But fuck, if there isn’t a stab at my heart.

  “Well, good work.” He pats my shoulder, like he would in an office meeting room, or if I made yet another successful merger for my company. Not that he cares what I do with my companies, or whether I acquire new interests successfully or not.

  I turn away from him and back to Bellamy.

  She is glowing.

  There’s only the smallest hesitation when she tucks herself under my arm, so we can move through the crowd together. They’re sweeping us out on their current, out to the lobby, to the not-a-surprise surprise engagement party, to be held at the White House. There are photographers shivering on the sidewalk outside, but we stand in the superheated air of the lobby, everyone laughing and talking around us.

  “Who are these people?” Bellamy’s face is bright and hopeful. “Are they all your family?”

  “God, no.” I shudder at the thought. “My parents and my brother’s closest advisors.” I scan the grouping of men pulling on overcoats and helping women into winter outerwear that can’t possibly be warm enough. “A couple of relatives.”

  “It was nice of your parents to come.” Bellamy sounds wistful as I hold up a fur-lined winter coat, which she steps into. Then she frowns. “They don’t—they’re not inner circle, are they?”

  Inner circle. Me. My brother Andrew. Brian. “No. And even if they were, they’d be here despite—” I can’t let myself get bitter. Not now. It always shows up in photos. “They’d be here.”

  “Why?”

  “For the cameras, sweetness.” I put her hand on my elbow and push open the door. It’s ten feet to the shining black SUV, a short ride to the White House, and then a trip home without her. Tonight, as always, we’ll sleep in separate houses, and I’ll wrap my hand around my own length and try to get her out of my mind. “Always for the cameras.”

  12

  Bellamy

  I’ve had too much to drink.

  I know I’ve had too much, because the ring on my finger—delicate and perfect—feels absolutely right. All of this feels absolutely right. The couples dancing in the East Room of the White House to a string quintet. The tuxedoed waiters circulating through the crowd, little delicacies on silver trays. The expensive champagne, bubbles dancing on my tongue.

  And Graham.


  Graham is always next to me, and even when he steps away to shake hands with various senators and campaign contributors, he’s always back before the photographers.

  This time, there is no photographer.

  He sweeps in with a smile and bends his lips to my ear. “There are swimming pigs on an island in the Bahamas.”

  It’s so incongruous, so wonderfully, delightfully strange, that I throw my head back and laugh. Graham laughs too, one hand on my waist. Flash.

  “That was good timing.” I let the laugh fall away, ignoring the twinge of disappointment in the center of my chest. I’m in a good mood. A great mood. Tonight feels so real. It felt so natural that Graham would want to make me laugh in the center of all this pomp and circumstance, but of course—of course it wasn’t for me. It was for the cameras. “I didn’t see that one.” I shake it off and smile up at him. He was right. This can be fun.

  The happiness fades from his eyes as we turn away from the photographer and blend back in with the crowd, but his grin stays. I hate it. “You look happy,” he murmurs into my ear. “Did you forget?”

  “Forget what?”

  “That this is all a fucking performance.” His voice has a jagged edge, laced with pain. There it is, that needle prick of pain beneath my breastbone, puncturing the senseless joy of this evening. I agonized over it. I lost sleep, deciding whether to take things this far, especially in light of my mother. It seemed so much easier when I said yes; a weight lifted from my shoulders, and now, now that I’m enjoying this, he has to go and say that.

  I clench my teeth to keep my jaw from quivering. “You don’t have to be mean.”

  He turns me toward him, eyes searching, eyebrows raised. “Did I hurt your feelings?” There’s a note of genuine bewilderment is tone.

  “I’m not made of fucking stone.” I look away from his eyes because they’re making me even more drunk than I already am. “And I didn’t forget. Jesus. I was only trying to do what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “That it’s not against the rules to have a good time.” Wine or not, he did say that to me at the Kennedy Center. Right before he made me turn as red as the dress I wore, heat burning in my cheeks.

  He lets out a breath and tugs me in a little closer. “It’s not. I’m sorry.” It soothes the ache in my chest, hearing him say those words—even if they’re part of the act. Graham waves a hand at the knot of people we’re about to approach, twenty feet and a world away. “All of this sets me off.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Graham Blackpool, offering personal information? Up until now, he’s been precisely casual with me—casual in a way that makes my soul burn. At events, we talk about surface-level bullshit, like how things were at law school—they were fine; soul-crushing, but ultimately fine—and a new office building he’s looking to buy. We never discuss his family. We never discuss his emotions.

  “Which part, exactly?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but I’ve had enough champagne that it’s anyone’s guess whether I pull it off.

  “My brother.” He sighs. “My parents.”

  They’re in the center of that knot, and even from here, I can pick up fragments of their story. They’re talking about Graham.

  “Shocked he amounted to a business success” floats over on the air, along with, “Doing quite well for himself now” and, “This will be the motivation he needs to take it to the next level.”

  “What the hell?” I whisper it under my breath, but Graham hears me. They were so nice at The Inn at Little Washington. Either that, or I misjudged them completely. “They’re talking shit about you at your own engagement party?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Those are compliments. They’re so proud that I’ll finally be able to take it to the next level, whatever that means.”

  “Your businesses are worth billions of dollars.” I pick up another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and sip on it thoughtfully. “That wasn’t enough for them?”

  “Look this way.” Graham puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me forty-five degrees to the right, pointing me at a different section of the crowd.

  Andrew Blackpool is at the center, tall and finely featured, blue eyes tired but alight. Andrew, unlike Graham, resembles his mother—and the ladies can’t get enough of it. His black tuxedo is like a magnet for women in jewel-toned gowns. They surround him like a harem, leaning in close, but not close enough to draw the attention of the Secret Service.

  “Oh.” His grip on my shoulders tightens and a shiver of pleasure quakes down my spine. I turn back to face him, staying carefully within arm’s reach. “I’m a little jealous, honestly.”

  “Of Andrew?” He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Of you. Of—” More laughter from Graham’s parents. God, are they always so loud? “I think they’re being pretty shitty at the moment, but at least they can be here.”

  He has the grace to look a little horrified. “Oh, God, and we didn’t invite your parents.”

  “No. No way.” I shake my head to underscore the point and make myself dizzy. I lean into Graham’s arm. “She couldn’t have come anyway.”

  He puts a hand to his forehead. “I am really fucking this up.”

  “I know.” I drag a finger down the front of his shirt and hook it between two buttonholes. “This isn’t the best performance we’ve ever done.”

  “They’re loving it.” He tilts his head toward his parents. “Here I am, being an unholy prick, and they’re perfectly calm.”

  “Let’s ruffle some feathers then.”

  Graham raises his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

  I am buzzed and looking beautiful. I am in the East Room of the White House, doing a personal favor to the President. I am Bellamy fucking Leighton, and I can do whatever I want. And in this moment, it finally feels like Graham and I are on a team. It’s us against the world. It’s the performance of a lifetime.

  So, I hook my hand behind his neck and tug him in for a kiss.

  It’s not a kiss on the cheek, or a lips-closed connection, like we do for the cameras. It’s desperate and needy and raw, and I invite him in.

  It’s like a match to Tinder.

  His hands go around my waist, and he nips at my bottom lip like a man unleashed.

  It takes a moment, but the bubble of silence around us grows, leaving only the sound of the string quintet and his mouth against mine, my heart beating into my ears, the low noise I make in the back of my throat. Fuck, he’s a good kisser.

  It consumes me.

  And then, like the tide rushing back in, the applause begins.

  13

  Graham

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  I never thought, in all my life, that I’d be calling my brother a fucking asshole in the Oval Office.

  Yet here we are.

  I did exactly as Andrew asked. I pulled the attention of the press. My engagement is all over the papers, all over the Internet—and nobody can get enough of the shot of Bellamy and me at the party, her laughing in my arms.

  We look like we’re in love

  And in that moment, who knows? Maybe I was a little in love with her. Maybe my heart leapt at the sight of those gray eyes, filled with joy and surprise. Maybe, at the end of the night, I wanted to kiss her again; kiss her so hard and deep, she’d never want to leave my arms.

  Maybe.

  But no—I’m not in love with Bellamy Leighton. Nothing real can come out of such a thoroughly false situation. Childhood taught me that.

  So, it isn’t love. It can only be want. Want that makes my tongue dry and my cock hard as steel.

  None of that factors into this meeting.

  Andrew stands in front of the Resolute Desk, hands in his pockets. I wonder if he planned that—the standing. He’s right, in a way. I’m not going to stand in front of his desk while he sits there like a king. “I need more time.”

  “You need more time. Right.” A pull, a twist i
n my chest, hot with anger. “And because you need more time, I have to upend my life?” I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through it with obvious swipes at the screen, then flip it toward him. “Here’s my banking app, if this is really about money. Are you concerned about losing major donors, for some unknown fucking reason? You want a campaign donation for the next term? Name the amount.”

  “Jesus, Graham, it’s not about money.”

  “Then what the fuck do you want me to move to New York for?”

  “It’s not permanent.”

  “Sorry. Why the fuck do you want me to go to New York for a year?”

  “I need the press to be focused there. On wedding plans, and a brand-new life.”

  “That can happen here. It’s working here.”

  “It’s working for the moment. How long do you think you can go without the press discovering that you live in separate apartments?”

  “Oh, fuck off. There are a million reasons we would live separately. We can tell them she’s religious.”

  Andrew raises his eyebrows.

  “We can tell them I’m religious.”

  He laughs out loud.

  I’m not laughing.

  “I don’t get it, Andrew. This is exactly what you wanted. Why can’t we let this fade into oblivion?” Because if she laughs like that in my arms one more time, I might not be able to stop myself from falling.

  “Because I have to protect—” He cuts himself off. “I have to protect the country. You know that.”

  “From what? Every presidency has its rumors. Every single one has its scandals—”

  “Damn it, Graham, not this one!” He breaks. His self-control cracks, red rushing to his face.