“You’re pathetic, now go.” I push the door, causing her to jump backward.
FIFTEEN
Camille
A blocked number calls my phone the second I collapse on my apartment bed Sunday evening.
“You’re not wasting any time, are you?” I say when I answer. “Just got home.”
“Good,” he says. “Meet me at the apartment in an hour.”
“Give me two,” I say. Traveling makes me feel dirty. I want to shower and freshen up, and I want to do my hair for him, even if it’ll be all kinds of messed up by the time he’s done with me.
“Fine. See you in two.”
He hangs up, never giving me much to work with. Just once, I’d like to take a tiny little peek behind that curtain and see what I’m dealing with. Then again, curiosity almost always kills the cat.
Before I forget, I pull out my phone and Google Vivacorp one more time. I checked it the night I left the apartment last week, but came up with nothing beyond some weird website that claimed it was registered to Vivacorp, LLC. Not a single name or address was attached to this company, and I wonder if it’s some kind of pass-through entity. I suppose it would make sense. John wouldn’t take me somewhere that might be traced back to him with a simple Internet search of the address.
I strip off my travel clothes and step into a hot shower. By the time I’m done, I’m shaved, polished, and moisturized, and my skin is butter-soft beneath my fingertips. I bought a new lotion from some boutique back in Oakdale over the weekend that claims to be some kind of miracle product, and if John’s going to worship every square inch of my body, it may as well be soft as silk.
Midway through blow-drying my hair, I remember the journal. I switch the dryer off and run to my room to lift up my mattress.
There’s nothing.
I blink, rubbing my eyes as if this is all a hallucination. It has to be. No one knows about this.
I lift my mattress higher, summoning some kind of superhero strength I never knew I had until now. Still nothing. The mattress falls with one big whoosh, and I climb across my bed to scan the perimeter, thinking maybe it had fallen between the bed and the wall.
Nothing.
This can’t be happening.
I’m sucking in hair, but I still can’t breathe. Glancing around my room, I see nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing is remotely out of place. It certainly doesn’t appear that someone came into our apartment over the weekend and ransacked the place. Even my laptop is resting on my desk, connected to the charger exactly the way I left it Friday.
Araminta doesn’t know about my journal, and even if she did, she wouldn’t want it. Secrets can be deadly, she always says. And at times, we’ve vowed never to share too much with one another just to be safe.
I fly out of my room like I’m looking for a ticking time bomb that could detonate at any minute. Our place is spotless, everything in its place. Nothing out of the ordinary. I pull sofa cushions and check behind throw pillows. I even enter Araminta’s room, which I’ve never done without her permission unless it was to retrieve a borrowed dress.
Nothing.
SIXTEEN
“John”
My fingers knot in her hair, and I bring her mouth to mine. I’ve waited all weekend for this moment. Camille Buchanan is the only escape I have, and I treasure our meetings more than I could ever explain to anyone. Nothing else exists when I’m with her, and within the confines of these four walls, I’m not inflicted with Montgomery burdens. I’m just a man like any other, the kind of life I could only ever dream up in some sort of frivolous fantasy.
She kisses me back, but her hands aren’t searching my body and her breath isn’t labored. Camille goes through the motions, but her mind is elsewhere.
I stop.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Her mouth searches blindly for mine, but I pull away.
“Don’t lie to me, Camille.”
Her lips purse, and she sinks back on her bent knees in the center of the mattress. Her palms lie flat across her thighs, and her lower back is arched. I get the feeling she’s attempting to keep her composure for the sake of what we came here for tonight.
“Something’s bothering you. I can see it,” I say.
“Just kiss me, John. Please?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” A million scenarios rake my mind.
Camille’s chin dips, and she exhales slowly. “Someone took something of mine while I was out of town this weekend.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did they take?”
“I . . . I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” My hands clench, and a large part of me feels entitled to this information.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“You can.”
She huffs, adding a tension-breaking smile as she tugs her blindfold into a better position. “How can I trust a man who won’t let me look into his eyes?”
She has a point.
“Because you have no other choice.” I offer my counterpoint. “Now, Camille, tell me what was taken from you so that I can help you get it back.”
“Let me take off the blindfold. I want to see you.”
I take her wrists in case she gets any funny ideas. “It’s not a good idea.”
I stare at the beautiful girl I saw at a ball not quite a year ago, the one I was dying to have for myself. The one I selfishly stole so I could create my own little paradise. And I’m well aware that I’ve given her no reason to trust me. Every word that leaves my mouth in her presence is filtered as to not give her as much as a single clue as to who I am.
Ripping off the blindfold would make it all for naught.
“This item that was stolen,” I say. “It wasn’t a piece of jewelry or something like that, was it?”
“No,” she says.
“Was it a computer? A flash drive?”
“John.” She sighs.
It’s blacker than midnight outside, and the room darkening blinds lie behind room darkening curtains. I can hardly make out Camille’s face in here, but I see the edges and outlines when she moves. Even in the dark, she’s recognizable to me. Then again, I’ve studied her face enough that my mind fills in the blanks.
I’m not sure she’d be able to recognize me.
Her fingertips reach toward my face, running the length of my jaw and stopping at my mouth. She leans in, taking it upon herself to steal a kiss.
“Let me see you.” She sighs, her lips pressed on mine. “Let me see the man who makes my body lose control.”
I taste her lips—sweet mint and perfection. In the short time Camille has belonged exclusively to me, I’ve made her body mine. I’ve mastered her hot buttons and reveled in the way her body responds to all the places my mouth wants to travel.
But the one thing I never anticipated, the one thing impeding us from taking our torrid little affair to the next level . . . is an emotional connection. And it’s the one thing we can never have.
The first time I looked into her eyes, I didn’t know her name. And I didn’t know that one passing glance from a stranger could make a man feel everything he could possibly feel all at once.
Entertaining that possibility could be dangerous for the both of us.
“Come on,” she whispers, lifting my fingers to her blindfold. “Let me see you.”
I need to know what was taken from her.
With one swift tug, I lift her blindfold. Camille blinks in the dark, the whites of her eyes coming into focus. She runs a pinky below her bottom lashes and smiles.
“Wow,” she says.
My heart stops, and for a moment I second-guess my decision on the off-chance she can see more of me than I initially assumed.
Her fingers find my hair in the dark, and she combs it across with nails raking against my scalp. I swallow the hard ball in my throat when her palms drag down the sides of my face and along my jaw.
&
nbsp; “You’re just as handsome as I thought you’d be,” she says.
My heart hammers.
“I mean, I can’t really see you that well.” Her voice is a half-whispered smile. “But I can tell.”
Our eyes meet in the dark.
“Why’s an attractive man like you paying for sex anyway?”
I can’t answer her question. I can’t explain to her how exhilarating it feels to find a way to have something I’ve been told my entire life is off limits. And I sure as hell can’t tell her the last thing the son of the POTUS needs is to be caught red-handed with a woman known in powerful circles as one of the most sought-after, highly paid escorts.
“It’s complicated.” I circle her waist and rise up on my knees before pressing her against me. My hand travels between her thighs, slicking a finger along her wet seam before pushing it inside her. She moans, burying her head into my shoulder.
Camille kisses my neck, her hand pressed against my opposite cheek, as my fingers probe and curl inside her. With hips circling and bucking, her kisses grow anxious, impatient. She’s wetter than ever, her body more relaxed than in recent times.
Lifting her head, she faces me again, kissing me with a smiling mouth.
“Why are you so happy all of a sudden?” I ask.
“Because.” She kisses me again. “It’s not every day someone like you comes along.”
I take her lower lip between my teeth, my fingers pulsing in and out of her.
“Someone like me?”
“Attentive. Talented. Attractive . . . at least from what I can tell,” she teases. “You’re the trifecta, John. And for the next hour, I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Enough flattery.” I smirk, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck and biting kisses into her soft flesh. Everything about her is on point tonight—her sweet scent, her buttery skin, her eagerness.
But I can’t have her staring into my eyes all night or studying my face until the murky image is forever engrained in her memory.
“On all fours,” I command.
Camille twists her body slowly, taking her time before striking a sexy pose. Her thighs spread as her ass backs up to my hips, and her lower back dips. Dark hair falls down her back and shoulders and squirms with tantalizing impatience.
I reach for the rubber packet next to me. It tears with one pull across my teeth, and a second later, I’m sheathed and pressed against her soft entrance. Gripping her hips, I pull her against me and enter her in one thrust.
Camille moans, dropping to her elbows and keeping her perfect cherry ass positioned against me. I drive into her over and over again, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the spaces between her soft sighs. I reach for her breasts, cupping and kneading them as I pound her from behind.
Everything about her is malleable putty, warm and pliant and desperately eager to please and be pleased.
Her fists clench around gathered fabric as she holds steady, and her cheek flattens against a pillow. I know that when her eyes squeeze, she’s fighting the release she knows is coming, staving it off just a while longer.
We could go all night like this. And maybe one of these times we will. But not tonight.
Her body trembles, quivering and tightening as she calls out a string of nonsensical madness. A slow buildup from the base of my cock spreads to the tip, until I release inside of her. Five hard thrusts and I’m spent.
She flips to face me as soon as I pull out. Crawling on all fours, she works her way toward me, climbing into my lap with her thighs hooked around my hips. Before I have a chance to say anything, she kisses me again. With eyes closed, I feel the shape of her full lips as they edge up at the corners.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her mouth centimeters from mine. Camille holds my head between her hands and stares at me from up close. “I really wish I could see your face in the light. I bet it’s even more beautiful than I could possibly imagine.”
I can’t help but wonder where her fixation on my exterior stems from, but I prevent myself from inquiring. I imagine the last several years have been spent keeping the company of older, less virile men who’ve let their looks fade in favor of prioritizing their political agendas.
“Beauty is on the inside,” I tell her.
“Not always.” She sighs.
“So do you trust me now, Camille? Now that you’ve seen me?”
Her shoulders fall forward, and our eyes meet again. “I don’t know, John. I mean, I want to. But I’m looking into your eyes right now, and I couldn’t even tell you what color they are. I can see you, but I can’t. I don’t even think I could pick you out of a lineup if I had to.”
“You have to tell me.” My teeth grind. “What was taken from you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just not ready.”
“Then at least tell me if it’s tied to me in some way.”
“How could it be, when I don’t even know your name? The color of your eyes?”
“Then you should have no problem telling me what it is.”
Camille scrambles, pulling away until she’s off the bed and searching the dark floor of the bedroom for her dress.
“I have to go,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
***
“Park here,” I instruct Oliver the next evening. After Camille fled the apartment last night, she hasn’t answered my calls, so I’m personally seeing to it that she’s all right.
Oliver pulls in front of her building and feeds an already running meter. I’m not sure how long we’ll be here, but I’m willing to sit here for hours if it means seeing for myself that she’s okay.
An hour passes.
Then another.
My stomach grumbles as we approach evening, but I ignore it.
“It’s been three hours,” Oliver complains from the front. “Should we call it a day?”
“Let me try her again,” I say. “And my answer is no. We’ll sit here all night if we have to.”
Thirty seconds later, she still won’t answer.
The spinning door to her building releases a handful of residents a minute later, one of which is Camille.
“There she is,” I mutter.
“Huh. So she was home this whole time,” Oliver says.
We watch idly as she hails a cab. Thank God she’s not taking the Metro, or we’d have had no way to tail her.
“See where she’s going.”
We follow the taxi about twenty blocks until we reach a remote neighborhood just outside the metro area. The cab deposits her at the front of a cozy restaurant, and we park a few spots back.
“So what now?” Oliver asks. “You want me to go in?”
“Absolutely not,” I spit. If she sees Oliver, she’ll know I followed her here. “Let me think.”
I lean against the black leather, my fingers strumming against my mouth as I attempt to determine how best to proceed.
But in an instant, everything changes. I watch Camille check in at the hostess stand, which tells me she’s meeting someone and they’ve likely made reservations. But it’s all I can do not to lose it when I see him walk in.
Trey fucking Bancroft.
“Go,” I seethe. “Get the hell out of here. I’ve seen enough.”
SEVENTEEN
Camille
Three. Long. Deep. Breaths.
I’d give anything for a drink of water right now. A freshly poured glass of still water rests right before me, but I can’t reach for it. My hands are trembling, and I’ll be damned if I let Trey Bancroft see me shaking like a leaf.
“I’m glad you called, Camille.” He’s calm and even-keeled, one of his greatest strengths. In the face of scandals and high-pressure political storms, he’s always had the uncanny ability to remain perfectly intact and come out unscathed. “I’ve missed you.”
“This isn’t about us. Let me make that clear.” I want my journal back, and my gut tells me he has it. He’s the only man in this city who knows where I live, and the only person I know who is
ballsy enough to help himself to my apartment if the opportunity arose. Perhaps he was searching for something else and found more than he bargained for. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
He smiles his arrogant smile, like I’m just some political pundit he needs to butter up in order to fall into their good graces. Trey oozes confidence, and I can’t say that I blame him. He’s a man who rarely swings and misses, a man who knows how to get what he wants.
Screw it. I’m taking a drink.
I don’t think he’s looking at my hands anyway. He hasn’t taken his eyes off my breasts since he walked in here, despite the fact that they’re one hundred percent covered in a cable-knit cardigan fit for a schoolmarm. I made sure when I dressed for this evening that nothing about my ensemble remotely whispered sexy.
“Then what is this about?” he asks, wearing a smile as fake as his dyed brown hair. Trey wears his forties well, but not without some assistance. An avid runner with an eye for style, he’s an attractive man with a charismatic way about him. People are drawn to his magnetic charm and easy personality.
But he’s also a liar and a cheat.
There’s no easy way to ask, so I lay it on the table without any kind of preface. “Were you in my apartment this weekend?”
He scoffs, nearly choking on the wine he just sipped a second earlier.
“Excuse me?” He laughs. “Why would I have been at your apartment?”
“Something of mine is missing,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Don’t play games with me, Trey. You are the only person in this city who knows my address.”
And the only man in this city who’s ever set foot in there . . .
“Did you ask Araminta?” Trey suggests. His eyes roll as if this conversation bores him.
“Don’t worry who I have and haven’t asked.” I lean forward, narrowing my gaze. “I’m asking you, Trey.”
“I haven’t seen, nor heard from, nor spoken to you in months, Camille, and this is what I get? An accusation of theft? I knew we left off in a bad place, but I expected a little more class from you.” He sips his wine like he’s some dignified diplomat.
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