Pawn: Volume One

by Maya St. James

  Either way, I don’t like it.

  I make it nearly a quarter block when his voice stops me cold. “Elle?”

  In life, there are so many shoulds and should haves. I should have spent just another ten minutes exercising. I should have worked a little harder in school. I should have broken up with that asshole a long time ago. The list goes on and on.

  Well, I should ignore the deep, sensual voice behind me and keep walking.

  But I don’t.

  I face him slowly, curling my toes more and more in the red and white Converse that had been part of my work uniform the closer he gets to me. My first assessment of him hadn’t done him justice. Graham is just tall as I thought he was, easily six foot two, but his body . . .

  God, his body.

  Coatless and dressed in dark jeans and a blue check shirt with rolled up sleeves, he’s got that perfect physique—that sweet spot between Brad Pitt in Fight Club and Troy. I swallow hard when he stops just inches away from me, the frigid breeze ruffling his thick brown hair, causing it to look more grab-worthy. “Did you need me for something, Mr. Delaney?”

  Without warning, he grabs my upper arms and pulls me closer to the building, closer to him. Pressed up against his body, I feel muscles I didn’t even know existed, and when I look up at him with wide eyes, a heart-stopping grin tiptoes across his face.

  Chapter Four

  Being against Graham’s body is a shock to the system—like I’ve been doused with both ice and lava. I drag in a ragged breath. He tightens his hold on me. “What exactly are you doing?” I ask.

  “Saving you.” I follow his gaze to the group stumbling down the sidewalk, registering the middle guy who’s being supported by friends on either side as he sings Love is a Battlefield. “That drunken shit was about to run you over. It would be remiss of me to let that happen.”

  “Apparently chivalry isn’t dead.” I let myself get lost in his eyes before I add, “Do you . . . did you need my help with something back at the restaurant? Because I know Jana would be happy to help you.”

  Even if you do leave really bad tips, I silently add.

  “I don’t want Jana.” He loosens his grip on my arms but makes no move to distance his ripped body from mine. Taking a step backward so that my back is up against a brick building, I do it for him. “It’s dangerous for you to be out here so distracted.” It’s almost animalistic—the way he says “dangerous”—and I hold back a shiver. “I came out here for you. To make sure you were safe.”

  That’s why he followed me? To make sure I’m safe? My heart pounds harder—a hot and heavy thump, thump, thump that sounds more like the drum solo in The Perfect Drug than anything that belongs inside my body.

  “I’m distracted because I just lost my job,” I admit. “But I’ve lived near D.C. my entire life, so I promise I’ll be okay.” I walk around him, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when our bodies brush again. I want to believe he’s affected too, especially when I catch the brief flicker of desire in his eyes as I move away from him. “Thank you for checking up on me.”

  Again, his words follow me. “Then, I changed my mind.”

  I look over my shoulder at him to see the corners of his brown eyes crinkled. “Excuse me?”

  He’s by my side before I can stop him. “I’m taking you out for a drink.”

  I point back in the direction of 202. “There are drinks in there.” I stuff my hands into my coat pockets so he won’t see how badly they’re shaking. “And aren’t you cold?” Not that I mind him without a coat. I make a mental note to start tuning in to senate floor proceedings, just to imagine Delaney jacketless and looking the way he does tonight in those jeans and the pec-and-bicep-friendly shirt.

  “The weather here is tame. And I’m aware there are drinks back there. They just wouldn’t be with you.”

  Stunned, I lift my chin until we’re eye to eye. He’s hitting on me. Senator Sexy-Ass is inches away from me on one of the busiest sidewalks in D.C. openly staring me down and hitting on me.

  Is this real life?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with my appearance. I like my dark hair, my green eyes, and Cupid’s bow lips. I have breasts and a butt, and I haven’t been bothered by the fact I’m not model thin or easily susceptible to a tan since my junior year of high school. I’ve even accepted that I inherited my coloring from my father and pointy nose from my mom. Attracting boys has never been a problem for me, but that’s just it.

  Graham Delaney is most certainly not a boy.

  “Your face is on fire. Didn’t take you for a woman who’d go up in flames at a simple request for drinks.”

  “You know nothing about me,” I say flatly, despite the tingling beneath my skin. He responds with a half-smile that makes me groan. I might as well wear a big ass sign on my forehead broadcasting that I’m Robert Courtney’s reluctant offspring. “How’d you know?”

  “I overheard one of your co-workers say your last name last week. Yes, Elle. I know who you are.”

  Had he told my dad he’d seen me working at 202? Stopping at a crosswalk, I tap the pedestrian button and trace my tongue over my lips. “Did he tell you to check up on me? Is that why you came out here after me?”

  Graham frowns. “If we’re talking about your father, no. I’ve never spoken to him about you. My wants are my sole motivation.”

  “Your wants?” I manage to ask.

  He nods very slowly. “Tonight that would be you.” He pauses a moment, giving the sharp fluttering in my stomach time to go completely out of control and then he adds, “Your company, I mean.”

  The light turns green, and I rush across the intersection. Graham is right by my side, so close that when I drag in a breath, the force of his spicy, completely male cologne hits me in the face. Damn, he smells good. He makes thinking clearly harder than it ever should be. “Isn’t that kind of a selfish thing to say? Especially in your line of work.”

  “Do you want me to lie to you, Ms. Courtney, to tell you that I don’t find you attractive?”

  “Of course not, but you don’t know me.” Luckily, my phone rings, stopping me from saying something that will make me look like a fool.

  “Yes, we’ve already established that.” He nods at my vibrating pocket. “Don’t you need to answer that?” When I don’t make an effort to take the incoming call, a satisfied grin splits his golden features. “I don’t have to know you to take you out for a drink. People have known far less about each other and have done much, much more than drink.”

  The suggestive lilt of his voice is enough to thaw the most frigid woman, and I feel the flush spread from my face to the rest of my skin. “I’d better get home. The classified ads are calling to me.” To my disappointment, he lifts his shoulders indifferently.

  “I won’t get down on my knees and beg.” No, he wouldn’t have to. There’s a better chance of hell freezing over a few times before Graham Delaney isn’t able to find a willing volunteer to sit across from him and hang on to his every word.

  He must think I’m a freak.

  Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, he glances around. “I’d be an asshole if I didn’t walk you to your car. Do you remember where you parked?”

  Now it’s my turn to look at our surroundings, and when I squint up at the street signs, I almost want to tell him that I took the bus to work tonight. At his insistent stare, though, I lift my shoulders and quietly admit, “Five blocks back.”

  The smiles he’s given me before—the wide grins and sexy smirks—they have nothing on this one. It’s triumphant and self-confident, and I know he realizes just how much he’s affected me. That he’s knows he’s gotten me.

  To my relief, my phone beeps again, and I choose this opportunity to speed walk past him and pretend I’m more interested in whatever is on my screen. Instantly, I regret that decision. I have a missed call and a text from my ex-boyfriend—the one I probably should have broken up with months before I actually did nearly half a year
ago—and I grip the phone tightly as I skim the message.

  Alex Landry: Leaving for Puerto Rico on Monday and need to see you. Movie at my place?

  I’m aware that Graham is behind me a few seconds before he says anything, but I still have no time to react and turn my phone off before he drawls in my ear, “D.T.F. text messages, Ms. Courtney? Tell me you’re not going to humor that little shit.”

  “D.T.F.?” I repeat.

  “Down to fuck. That’s what he’s asking you, by the way.”

  Returning my phone to my pocket, I shiver at the way his breath feels against my ear. “It does not say that,” I retort. “And you also don’t know him well enough to make judgment calls about him, Senator.”

  Still, to my embarrassment, Alex’s invitation to watch a movie at his apartment is so obviously a thinly veiled attempt to get into the hot pants under my jeans. Especially since we haven’t had any contact in the last couple months, which was our last post-breakup tryst.

  “Drinks, Elle?” Graham says from behind me, his fingertips brushing the sensitive spot between my shoulder blades. Thank God the street is so busy tonight—otherwise people would pay attention to us. They’d see my fluttery hand movements and bewildered expression when I look behind myself to see his knowing grin. “Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your night listening to a boy quote you his favorite scenes from The Hangover while he fumbles to put a condom on.”

  “Or I could just go home, like I planned, and ignore you both.” But he doesn’t move his hand from my back, and his dark, almost-black eyes don’t lower from mine. Before I can stop myself, before that cautious side of myself can kick in and run screaming in the other direction, I clear my throat. “Why the hell not.”

  Chapter Five

  “Why were you working at 202?”

  Although I should’ve expected this question since Graham and I sat down over an hour ago at the intimate piano bar on Pennsylvania Avenue, it still catches me off guard. Looking up from the green onyx tabletop, I see that he’s rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he stares at me across the candlelight. Somewhere in the background, the pianist is playing a moodier, sexier version of Hotel California, and I pretend like I’m more interested in humming along with the melody than answering his question.

  Obviously, he’s not having it, because he leans as close to me as the table between us will allow. “You’re, what? Twenty-one? You don’t know shit about this song, so stop acting like you care just so you can get out of answering me.”

  “We are programmed to receive,” I croon, but the flash in his eyes makes me swallow the next line. Lust. That is most definitely lust, and I regret choosing that particular line to sing.

  “Careful or I’ll think you’re issuing me an invitation.”

  I blink. Then look away to gather my thoughts. I’m not innocent, but when he says things like that—in that growl that makes me feel like he means every word of what he said—warmth floods my body. “I’m twenty-two, actually. Besides¸ you’re thirty-three, Senator, I have a feeling The Eagles are a little before your time too.”

  His lips do that sexy, smirking thing, the one he needs to patent, STAT. “We’ve talked about everything from my home in Manhattan to your travel journalism aspirations to your love of blackberry cocktails.” He traces one long finger around the rim of my nearly empty glass, his movements drawn out to give my imagination something new to go crazy over.

  “You’ve told me at least ten times you should probably get home, and I’ve told you all ten times that you’re a fucking bullshitter.” He touches his finger to his lip, tasting my berry drink, before returning it to my glass. “But not once have I mentioned my age. Have you been doing your homework on me, Ms. Courtney?”

  “For starters, stop calling me Ms. Courtney. It makes me feel like my mother.” Inwardly, I shudder at the thought. “Secondly, your age is public record.”

  “Public record you thought was important enough to research.”

  So I’d looked him up once, after that night he asked me to grab his check at 202. I’d read enough to learn that he’s the son of a filthy rich real estate developer, that he’d followed his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather’s footsteps when he graduated from Harvard Business, and that he’s independently wealthy thanks to smart investments and a no-nonsense attitude. My research also confirmed what I already knew just by looking at him—having just turned thirty-three a couple months ago, he’s the youngest Republican senator in office. The youngest senator, period.

  Now that I put all that in perspective, I could probably write a Graham Delaney research paper.

  Pulling my glass away from his fingers, I tip it to my lips and polish off the last splash of the vodka bramble. “I was curious, and I might have Googled your name. No big deal.”

  “You looked me up, Elle. I find that to be highly . . .”

  I hate when he does that, and he’s been doing this crap since we sat down. Trailing off. Leaving me to fill in the blanks to try to figure out what he meant to say. In this case, it could go several ways. Highly flattering. Highly creepy. Highly adorable in a sort-of-stalkerish way. Returning my glass to the center of the table, I tap my nails against the table a few inches from the tea light centerpiece.

  “Do you do that on purpose?”

  “Do you really want me to finish?” he retorts.

  I drag my hand through my black hair in frustration. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

  “Why were you working at 202, Elle?” He leans back and crosses his arms over his muscular chest. “And there’s no need to lie to me.”

  I suck on the inside of my bottom lip for a second before releasing it and a sigh. “Because I’m a journalism student, and this is—was—an assignment.” Needing something to grasp as I lie to his face about my financial woes, I grab a cocktail napkin.

  Graham’s eyebrows come together, and I decide he looks even sexier when his strong features are worked into a scowl. Ugh. What’s wrong with me?

  “Your assignment was to jiggle your ass and pass out drinks to horny fucks in business suits. And I’m guessing the travel portion of that specific assignment was to find a destination in D.C. that you’d have never stepped foot in otherwise?” When he words it like that, my explanation just sounds stupid. “Forgive me for sounding like a dick, but you’re feeding me a load of bull. Tell me the real reason.”

  But I won’t divulge that because, in spite of his public image and the last hour we’ve spent together, Graham Delaney is a mystery. His Wikipedia profile is certainly not enough for me to tell him that my dad has cut me off. Right now, Graham is just a handsome face to me. I can’t tell him that my brother’s love life doesn’t quite match my father’s beliefs or his platform, or that my dad thinks I’m supporting Zach just to break whatever is left of his heart and ruin his flawless image.

  My nostrils flare because just thinking about my dad’s embarrassing tirade a couple weeks ago during Thanksgiving dinner makes my blood boil. Looking down at the table I realize I’ve twisted the napkin to pieces.

  “Must be one hell of a—” He clears his throat. “—journalism assignment to bring out that kind of reaction.”

  I drop the shreds to the table. “Believe whatever you want, Senator,” I respond coolly, narrowing my eyes. “I’ve told you all you need to know.”

  “You’re really something when you’re pissed.”

  “Who said I’m pissed?” I counter. “I only answered your question.”

  “Oh, I heard you. My balls are still thawing from all the ice you dripped all over them.”

  I swallow hard. Does he have to bring up his . . . gear so blatantly? “So what about you? Why are you a senator?”

  He runs his thumb over his full lips, drawing my attention to his mouth. He’s doing it on purpose, trying to make me want to kiss him. He’s also succeeding because I have this intense desire to reach across the table, dig my hands into dark hair that’s still disheveled from the wind, and
pull his face to mine.

  “World peace,” he states.

  “That’s not something you joke about.”

  “Maybe if I were heir to an arms dynasty it would be a joke, but I promise you I’m being sincere.” A seductive glint enters his eyes, and I hold my breath in anticipation of what he’s about to say next. “So, now that you’ve been given the boot at 202, what next for your . . . ‘journalism project’?” He does air quotes. Senator Sexy-Ass actually does air quotes to mock me.

  And here comes the fun part of telling a lie—following through. Even if he knows the excuse is bull, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of gloating about it. “I guess I’ll find something else for next semester.” As our waitress walks by, I wave to her, pointing at my drink. “Can I please get another?”

  Graham has said the tab is on him, so I might as well drown my misery with one more since he’s decided to interrogate me.

  “No problem, hon.” She grabs my glass, and then looks expectantly at him. He lifts a hand and moves his head from side to side.

  “Just the check.” Once she’s gone, he slides forward on his side of the booth and rests his forearms on the table. His rolled-up sleeves ride up a little to give me a front row peek of sculpted muscle. “I bet your father has some connections and might be able to get you an interview at some place like Monroe’s,” he says, mentioning a reservation-only restaurant that’s only a couple steps from Capitol Hill. It’s one of my parents’ favorites, which means it’s out of the question.

  “No!” I nearly shout it, and he lifts a thick, dark brow. “I mean, I don’t do that. I don’t like using who he is to get me ahead. It just seems . . . wrong.”

  Relaxing his expression, there’s now approval in Graham’s striking eyes. It sends a strange wave of pleasure through me. “Good girl,” he says.

  When the waitress brings my cocktail back and the receipt, I drink in silence. The song has changed—now the pianist is playing Constant Craving—and it’s the perfect background to the unapologetic way he’s looking at me. His gaze searches me slowly. The wavy dark locks hanging around my face. The big green eyes and full lips. My breasts.