by Silver James
Could she remember those long-ago cotillions where she’d learned place settings and greetings? Did she offer her hand or wait for the other person?
“Breathe, Georgie.”
She gulped in air and fought the urge to put her head between her knees. The gown’s tight skirt didn’t leave room for that. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He patted her hands, which she realized were clenched on her lap. “When we arrive, your door will be opened and a military escort will offer his arm. Someone else will make sure your dress is lying correctly, whatever that means.” He winked at her. “You’ll enter with your escort and everything after that will just come naturally. Trust me.”
“Ha. Just goes to show what you know!”
The limo turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Her breath caught as she focused again on the evening’s events. Mainly, her escort tonight. Senator Clayton Barron. Panic choked off her breath once again and stars circled her head the way they did in the cartoons. Good thing she was the only one who could see them.
They were stopped by the guards at the gates, who checked their IDs and invitation. Moments later the big vehicle slid to a smooth stop in front of the East Doors. A man in an army dress blue uniform opened her door and handed her out, Boone tight on her heels.
He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
She whirled to face him. “You picked a fine time to ask me that, Boone Tate.”
The sorry son of a gun laughed. At her. And winked, his devilish grin hinting that he was up to no good. She’d been well and truly set up. Narrowing her eyes, she muttered through pinched lips, “You are so going to pay for this, Boone.”
“Smile, sugar. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Breathing deeply, Georgie lifted her chin, but the army officer offered his arm before she could reply. A female air force officer appeared beside her and twitched the back of her dress into place. Georgie managed to murmur a “thank you” under her breath. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin—and wouldn’t her mother be so proud of her now?—Georgie accepted her escort’s arm and stepped toward the doors. She totally ignored Boone ducking back into the limo and the vehicle pulling away—and did it without hyperventilating.
The East Entrance foyer was full of people, but she saw Clay the moment she stepped inside. His head was bent in conversation with a stylish woman who looked vaguely familiar. One of Georgie’s talents was remembering names and faces. After a mental file shuffle, she placed the woman—Ramona Morris, wife of Ambassador Charles Morris. The revelation settled her nerves somewhat. This might be a state dinner, but it was a working affair for the senator. Work. She could handle that.
Clay froze, his head raised, and turned to face her. His eyes widened and he looked as though he’d smacked face-first into a closed glass door. She’d never seen him appear dazed. Her heart fluttered and she flexed her free hand to keep from rubbing it down her thigh. Even though she wore elbow gloves, her palms were damp. Her eyes remained glued on the senator as he strode toward her.
His custom-tailored tux caressed his body in ways that made her jealous. Her palms itched, wanting and needing to touch him. One side of her brain berated her for the visceral reaction she had to him, reminding in the no-nonsense voice of her socialite mother that she was just an employee with no beauty to recommend her to a man as powerful as Clayton Barron. But the part of her that read romance novels and sniffled at chick flicks craved to touch him, to feel his hands on her, his lips on hers in a deep kiss. She remembered the question Boone had asked her. She had her answer now.
“Yes, Boone. I’m sure,” she murmured, still mesmerized by the handsome man who stopped in front of her, his brown eyes hungry as he looked her up and down.
“Georgeanne.”
“Senator.” Was that her voice? She never sounded breathy. Ever.
“Tonight I’m just Clay.”
Clay offered his arm and she slipped her hand under his left elbow. With his free hand, he tugged her fingers until they curled over his forearm and he could trap her hand close to his body. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with her scent. Vanilla, with a hint of something sweeter. He needed to acknowledge the army officer who’d escorted her inside but he really wanted to punch the guy. Which was ridiculous. He had no room in his life for jealousy, especially since the man was only doing his duty. Reining in the green monster, he nodded to the man and guided her toward the East Colonnade.
He didn’t speak as he shepherded her along the windowed hallway overlooking the Kennedy Garden. As they approached the White House proper, two marines in full dress uniforms opened the doors. There was another long hall to navigate before they reached the diplomatic reception room, entrance there by special invitation only.
Clay entered the room with Georgie on his arm and didn’t hide his smirk at the stir they caused. Years of practice kept his gait and demeanor smooth even as his heart raced. The strength of his reaction to her was totally unexpected. Though they’d worked together for years, sometimes rather intimately in hotel rooms, the confines of his family’s business jet and his office, it wasn’t until recently that he caught himself thinking about her in totally inappropriate ways.
He’d seen her in formal clothes before—campaign functions ran the gamut, but he’d never seen her look like...this. Red was definitely her color, but he’d decided that the moment he glimpsed her in the red bra and panties in his bathroom in Scottsdale. The vision, and the feel of her in his arms, had been the subject of many a dream during the nights since.
Her gown draped her curves, leaving enough to the imagination—and his was active—to make him glad his tux jacket was buttoned. Heads bobbed in their direction, expressions curious, deferential or speculative, depending on the person. Georgie faltered a step and he tightened his arm against his side, trapping her arm. She found her footing and apologized in a soft mutter.
“What’s wrong?” He’d been against this harebrained idea since Boone cooked it up. Granted, he’d planned on inviting Giselle to this soiree but after his incident of foot-in-mouth disease, escorting the star wasn’t an option. Now he was worried about embarrassing Georgie. He valued her as an employee and didn’t want to upset her. And honestly, he wanted her to have a good time. With him. As his date. Which was all kinds of messed up.
“Oh. Nothing. Clumsy feet.”
She glanced up at him, her lashes fluttering, eyes glistening. Clay realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses and a part of him kind of missed their black-framed heaviness on her face. She must be wearing contacts—and looked extremely uncomfortable doing so.
“Do you want to take the contacts out and put your glasses back on?”
Georgie swallowed a sigh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Her brow knit for a moment. “Why is that woman giving me the evil eye?”
With a casual twist of his head, Clay checked out the knot of people Georgie indicated by inclining her head their direction. In their midst stood a woman he knew well. Pearl Hudson, widow of the man whose seat Clay had taken in the senate, raised an eyebrow as she looked down her nose at Georgie.
And that pissed Clay off. Royally. While Mrs. Hudson was known as a Washington society maven, she was also known to be a complete snob. “Don’t worry about her, Georgie. That’s Pearl Hudson.”
“Senator Hudson’s widow?”
“That would be her. And she’s notorious for creating scenes. There are a few people here I need to speak to so we’ll just stay out of her way.”
“Easy for you to say,” Georgie muttered under her breath. “She’s not cutting you into bite-size pieces with her eyes.”
* * *
By the time dinner was announced, Georgie’s feet were killing her. She managed to keep a smil
e on her face and not stumble through the receiving line. She managed protocol with the president and first lady, the secretary of state, and the Malaysian ambassador and his wife. She managed to sink halfway gracefully into the chair Clay held for her. She navigated dinner conversation and the place settings for the six-course dinner, all without incident.
After dessert, the guests were herded to the other end of the hall and into the East Room. A small orchestra from the navy occupied a dais at one end. Then the music started. Dancing. No one mentioned dancing. The Texas two-step was beyond her. How could she manage the waltz?
Clay took her hand, his fingers warm and strong as they wrapped around hers. “Relax, Georgie. This is the easy part.”
No, no it wasn’t. She’d flunked this part of charm school, branded with a big, fat F for Fail. Fairly certain the whites of her eyes were showing, she reluctantly followed him toward the dance floor. The president danced with the Malaysian ambassador’s wife, while the first lady danced with the ambassador. After a few measures of music, others joined the twirling couples.
Stopping and facing her, Clay gathered her right hand in his left and placed his right hand against the small of her back. In time with the music, he stepped into her and she stumbled backward, her left hand automatically bracing against his shoulder. His right arm shifted and tightened, holding her close. He stepped again, this time to the side, then he stepped back, moving her with him.
“See? Not hard. One, two, three.” He smiled and stepped forward again, forcing her back. “Right foot back, left foot to the side, right foot together. Left foot forward, right foot side, left foot together.” He dipped his face toward her ear. “And remember to breathe, Georgie. That’s important.”
Was he laughing at her? She leaned back. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled like cognac in leaded crystal, but he wasn’t mocking her. She breathed. And relaxed. He moved her around the room, and at one point, he leaned close again. His breath ruffled the stray strand of her hair that had escaped her careful chignon.
“It’s permissible to smile, too.”
Georgie laughed—loudly enough that heads turned. She curled her lips between her teeth and bit down, fighting the urge to hide her face against Clay’s starched shirt and tux jacket. When she looked up, he winked at her and twirled her out then back into his arms.
“See? Easy.”
“When one is handsome and accomplished, of course it is.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
She missed the next step but Clay was there to steady her. His expression portrayed genuine curiosity. Rather than the flippant answer hovering on the tip of her tongue, Georgie swallowed and considered. “Yes. You’re handsome. When you walk into a room, people notice. Women notice.” I notice, she wanted to yell.
“What makes me handsome?” Again, she caught a sense of curiosity rather than ego.
“High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Aristocratic nose. Your hair is...” How could she tell him that her fingers itched to comb through his perfectly styled hair to mess it up and feel its thick, silky texture against her skin. She’d give almost anything to see him with bedhead. “Your hair is dark and luxurious. Rich. And your eyes. How do I explain about your eyes?”
She allowed a wry smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “If I kept a diary, I’d describe them as cognac.” And burnt umber. Decadent as sweet toffee.
“You keep a diary and I’m in it?”
Georgie’s cheeks heated as he spun her away and back again.
“What else do you write about me?”
“No. No. I don’t keep a diary.”
“But I’d be in it if you did, right?”
The music ended and though Clay stopped dancing, he didn’t release her. He studied her face through half-lidded eyes and Georgie shivered beneath his scrutiny. It was as if he peered into the darkest corners of her mind and if he struck a match, he’d see the secret room of a stalker. Pictures of him—snapshots of moments they’d shared, only without his knowledge or acknowledgment—lining the walls. His name traced over and over surrounded with hearts and flowers. She was so pathetic.
“Georgie?”
She stared up at him, horrified at the direction her thoughts had wandered. “I...uh...”
His cheeks creased as his grin widened. “I am in your diary.”
Where was a desk when she needed one to bang her head on? “I don’t keep a diary.” Not now anyway. And thank goodness the darn thing was buried in the back of her closet in her room at her dad’s house. The next time she was home she would burn that sucker.
A waiter passed by with a tray of crystal flutes filled with sparkling champagne. She grabbed one and tossed it back like it was water. It didn’t help. Clay relieved her of the glass and set it on an empty tray. “Don’t look now but Mrs. Hudson is headed this direction. We should dance.”
He didn’t give Georgie a chance to catch her breath before he whirled her out on the dance floor. The music was slow, bluesy, and she just sort of melted into his arms. She couldn’t help herself. She fit against him. Of course, the four-inch heels helped. And his broad shoulders. His arms curled around her, his strong hand held hers.
His lips brushed her forehead and he whispered, “I think it’s time we got out of here and went back to my place.”
She should say no. She should call Boone to come extricate her. She should— Georgie looked up, saw a tenderness in Clay’s gaze that turned her boneless. She was in so much trouble now.
Eight
The limo slid to a smooth stop beneath the East Wing portico. The same army officer from before opened the rear door. Clay handed Georgie into the backseat and ducked to follow. Hunt would be driving and he already had his instructions.
Georgie fidgeted beside him and winced.
“Problem?”
She offered him a nose squiggle and shrug. “My feet are killing me. I don’t wear high heels for a reason.”
There was his opening. “Why doesn’t your building have an elevator?”
“It does. But...” Her cheeks flushed. “Claustrophobia?”
Now her blush made sense because his thoughts went right back to that evening in Scottsdale, too. Red was definitely her color and he wondered if her lingerie matched her dress. He fully intended to find out.
“Ah, yes. Claustrophobia and nyctophobia all in one package, tied up with a red bow.”
“Go ahead. Make fun. Must be nice to be perfect.”
Clay laid his head back against the buttery-soft leather seat and offered a rumbling helping of laughter with a side order of self-deprecation. “Sweet pea, I am far from perfect. Just ask my father.”
“Ha. Just goes to show he doesn’t know jack.”
She’d muttered but he heard what she said and hid his smile. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Georgie.”
Swiveling on the seat, she faced him. Her earnestness almost created a halo around her. “I do. We all do, Clay. Don’t you get it?” She took his hand without noticing she’d done so and continued gazing into his eyes. “You care. Here.” She patted his chest over his heart with her free hand. “So many don’t. You do things not because they’re expedient or make you look good or help out some lobby group. You do things because they’re the right things to do.”
Georgie’s hand landed on his thigh and he barely held on to his poker face. He liked the weight and heat of her touch. A lot. She looked so earnest as she continued.
“I know people want you to run for president. I think you’d be an amazing president. I’ll vote for you.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down. Surprise blossomed in her expression when she realized they were holding hands. She tugged but he didn’t let go.
“I hear a but in there, Georgie.”
“The senate will miss you.”
Th
e import of her words kept him silent on the rest of the drive. The car stopped in the alley behind Clay’s house. Hunt exited, checked for any possible threat, then punched the code for the secured gate next to the garage while Clay helped Georgie out.
“Come inside for a nightcap.” He didn’t ask, but it wasn’t quite an order, either.
Georgie offered him a lopsided smile and limped beside him. He chuckled—not at her discomfort but at the twists and turns their conversation had taken. How did they get from her feet hurting to his position in the senate? He glanced back over his shoulder and dismissed Hunt with a short nod. Georgie would be staying the night.
Inside, he settled her on the couch—a piece of furniture chosen for comfort far more than design. Deep, long and covered in aged “bomber-jacket” leather, it was a couch a man could nap on during a football game or could sit on and read countless bills, feet propped on the overstuffed ottoman.
“Wine?”
“I’d prefer decaf coffee. Or a Diet Coke?”
“I can handle that.” He checked the fridge. No Cokes. Time for Plan B. Microwaves heated water, right? And somewhere in the pantry was a jar of coffee. Hopefully. Rummaging, he got lucky—a box of Starbucks single-serve tube things. Vanilla latte flavor. Georgie must have left them after one of their marathon strategy sessions. He emptied one in a coffee mug, added water and stuck it in the microwave for four minutes.
While he waited, he tugged on the ends of his black tie, unraveling the bow, and popped the first two buttons on the stiff white shirt. The microwave dinged and the water was boiling when he reached in. Maybe four minutes was a little long. He found a bigger mug, poured the boiling water in and added a splash of cold water from the tap. He stopped dead. Did Georgie use cream or sugar? Did vanilla latte need extra? He had milk, if it wasn’t sour. And sugar, if he could find the sugar bowl.