True North (Compass series Book 4)

by Tamsen Parker

  The interloper gone, I turn on Pressly. “What are you doing here with him?”

  “Jealous?”

  “You know I am.”

  She shrugs, her shoulder rising out of the cut of her dress, showing off more of that flawless skin. “I know you used to be. Besides, I always thought of it more as possessive.”

  “I can’t be possessive of you anymore.” Because I don’t possess you. And ain’t that a kick in the balls?

  “No, you can’t.” She lifts her chin with a hint of tease. Maybe she feels like that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world? A man can dream.

  “But seriously, what are you doing with Clay Hollingsworth? Did your daddy set you two up?”

  The color rising high in her cheeks says yes and that I’ve hit a nerve. After everything she’s said about not wanting to be valued only for her connections, how could she end up here with this guy who’s clearly using her?

  “As a matter of fact, he did introduce us. And…” I don’t like that uncertain pause, the way her mouth purses slightly. I’ve known her long enough to recognize reluctance when no one else would. “Clay and I have been seeing each other.”

  She dares me with imperious eyes to respond. But I can’t because my brain’s gone fuzzy, like it’s blanketed by a mid-Atlantic fog. “Seeing each other?”

  “Yes, we’re dating.”

  “For how long?”

  “About six months.”

  Six months?

  “And you were going to tell me when? Dammit, Pressly, we’ve been—”

  Her eyes have gone frozen and sharp, stabbing into me like a shiv fashioned from an icicle. I don’t dare finish my thought: fucking like rabbits.

  “Clay and I are not exclusive. It’s…casual.”

  “It doesn’t look all that casual to me.” Not from the hungry way he’s eyeing her from across the room. But it’s not the desperation of a starving mongrel like me. No, it’s with the confident certainty that he knows he’ll be sinking his teeth into her later. And the idea of his teeth getting anywhere near her throat…

  “We only see each other about once a week.” Huh. When Press and I were dating, we’d spent as much time together as humanly possible. Which, granted, hadn’t been all that much given she’d been finishing classes and I’d been putting in serious time at the firm, but it had been every second we could find to spare.

  “And do you fuck?”

  “Really, Slade? Are you really asking me that?”

  “I really am.”

  I can practically feel Rey standing next to me, slapping a disappointed hand to his forehead, covering his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch this trainwreck I’m driving straight toward.

  She sniffs and crosses her arms, the motion making her cleavage deeper. “What do you think? We’ve been dating for six months and we’re not in high school anymore.”

  The pressure starts to build behind my eye sockets, and it’s all I can do not to run frustrated hands through my hair. Yeah, we’re all grown-ups here, and the second she signed the divorce papers she was free to fuck whomever and however she liked. It’s none of my business, but I can’t help my stupid face from asking about the how.

  “So you have sex, but do you…you know…”

  I’m glad Pressly doesn’t have a drink in her hand, because if she did, she’d likely throw it in my face and rightly so. She answers me nonetheless. “No, we don’t.”

  “Does he know?”

  “All he knows is I need something he can’t give to me, but I know how to get it discreetly. I’ve made it clear other questions are not acceptable. He doesn’t seem to care as long as I show up looking like I do. You know as well as I do what political marriages are like, anyway.”

  Yes, what her parents groomed her for. To attend all the right events, look and talk pretty, be an asset and provide connections, have a few beautiful children who will be poured into the same mold. Never did they teach her to expect or demand love, passion, joy. Yet we’d stumbled into it anyway. Before it all went to hell. But now we’ve got a chance to get that back, better than before, and she’s inclined to give it up? Is that what I did to her? Made her believe it was all a fiction, a fantasy, not worth going after? That meeting expectations and fulfilling her destiny was a better idea than bliss? For fuck’s sake.

  She smiles at me, tight-lipped, and looks like she’s dying inside. Brittle when I’ve always assumed she was strong. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem.”

  “I—”

  “Not. Your. Problem.” That perfect enunciation in that killing-with-kindness saccharine voice makes me queasy. I want her to be my problem. I want her to have everything instead of a sham, for her to cry out in passion and be cherished instead of being a pretty paper doll for some dickwad who doesn’t know what she’s good for. She tips her perfectly coiffed head in Clay’s direction. “I should go. Duty calls.”

  “Will I see you Wednesday?”

  “That’s up to you, isn’t it? Bye, Slade.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‡

  It’s early the next morning that I have to haul myself out of bed, into the shower, and out the door to where a car is waiting to take me to the airport. As I wander through the all-too-familiar hallways, I think about calculating all the hours I’ve spent in transit, but that might depress me. So when I’ve made it to the gate, I shuffle through some papers while I wait to board instead.

  It’s all review documents for the LAHA receivership. Though I’ve been trying to ignore exactly what that means, the idea slams to the forefront of my brain. India. I haven’t seen her for months. Talked to her on conference calls and exchanged emails with her and Jack and Evans, yes, but not face-to-face. Which is probably better. But now…

  It’s not like I’d ask for a repeat of that one night—she pretty clearly adores her husband and isn’t in the poly business—but I’d like to talk to her. Like, actually talk, because we have this thing in common and it feels like a secret club. One she gave me the key to and I want to thank her. With true words, not circumspect, nebulous appreciation. For once, I’d like to be very specific about exactly what she’s done for me. Without her…

  Well, without her I probably would’ve had another assistant or two quit, have some other underlings ask to be transferred, and maybe even Cooper would’ve had enough of me. It’s not always easy to contain my temper, but though it might be exhausting, I do feel like a better man for it at the end of the day.

  She should know that. I want her to know. I want to make her soften the way she does when she talks about Cris. And how I suspect she does when she talks about Rey. I’d like to put that theory to the test, but first I’ve got to wing my way across the country and listen to presentations on how successful LAHA’s become. Honestly, if everything in the reports is true—and India wouldn’t lie, even if she’d totally massage the data—I’m very impressed. LAHA should be the poster child for a successful receivership, and JVA should put a stamp on their shingle. Plus, I’d gladly work with them on anything else. Professional hardasses. Except that Evans guy. He seems smart enough, but stutters too much for my liking. Working for India should toughen him up some.

  This report, though—it’s really something. Makes me wonder if they might have me after I leave HUD. There’s a chance the election will go our way and I’ll get to stay on—maybe even get promoted because Secretary Vazquez might be done after eight years in the hot seat—but if not? I haven’t quite figured out what to do after I leave this job. Maybe that’s something I should hint to Jack about next time I see him. If he doesn’t think I’m a complete and utter sack of shit for making India cry. Which he should because I was.

  But if India were to vouch for me—and she might now—maybe I’d have a shot. Something to think about, keep in mind over the next couple of days. I’m not the only one who needs to be impressed anymore.

  *

  There she is, looking sexy as fuck. I don’t know a whole lot of women who
can rock a skirt suit like India Burke. No one has a right to look so fuckable in business attire. But in her black Armani that clings in all the right places—holy shit, that ass—and that crimson silk shell underneath, she looks like a goddamn Black Widow spider waiting to devour any clod lucky enough to fuck her. How does that hippie-ass husband of hers handle her?

  She struts up to the podium, and I don’t fail to notice the red underside of her heels, which are slightly on the too-high-to-be-professional side. But who’s going to call her on it? Sure as fuck isn’t going to be me. I like the way she’s so confident in her abilities she’s not afraid to be sexy at the same time. Who says you have to be a staid schoolmarm to be successful? Nope, I like her way better. Far better.

  India goes through the presentation, her voice clear, her posture confident, and I let myself be drawn in by her. Every guy here is on the edge of their seats. It’s hard to tell if they want to fuck her or hire her, though both would be a totally fair assessment. The only ones who aren’t are Jack and Evans, sitting in the front row. Jack looks like a proud Papa Bear, and Evans looks a bit starstruck. Well, he should. India’s one of the best in the business and just how good becomes rapidly apparent, because not only have they dragged LAHA out of the gutter they were languishing in, they’ve also managed to catapult them into one of the most functional agencies we’ve got.

  At the end of her presentation, I join everyone else in standing and giving a round of applause because they deserve it. I even allow myself a little smile when she meets my eyes, and of course the self-satisfied woman grins back like the Cheshire Cat. Yeah, yeah, you know you’re fantastic, we get it. But honestly? I can’t begrudge her that. She should take a bow, and I admire her for not.

  On her way down the aisle, she stops and chats with various people, and I content myself with pulling out my phone and scrolling through messages that have arrived while I’ve been captivated by her. I’ll catch her later.

  Except while I’m thumbing through page after page of emails, a folded piece of paper drops onto my screen. My head snaps up, because what the hell is this, middle school? But the only thing I catch is retreating red soles, side-by-side with the conservative navy pumps Cynthia Quaid’s got on.

  Opening the juvenile missive, my heart speeds up, and when I see the handwriting—perfectly legible but aggressively slanted, like she has so much to say and you’d best listen to it because she wants to say it now—it positively races.

  Dinner tonight?

  Yes. Oh, hell yes.

  *

  Nerves have me fidgeting with my cufflinks while I wait at the back corner table for India to show. She’s not late, but I was early. The place is packed and I wonder how long she’s had a reservation because it doesn’t look like a place you can waltz into. India Burke might be approaching royalty status in our political world, but to people in LA, she’s a nobody.

  I feel it when she arrives. As she struts toward me, the corner of her impeccably lipsticked mouth curls up in a slightly rapacious way. I can’t help but return her expression with a cocky grin of my own.

  Particularly when she slides easily into the booth and purrs my name. “Slade, so nice to see you.”

  Her eyes, as she looks at me—they almost…I don’t even know, sparkle? Which I bet she’d kick me under the table for even thinking. And for good reason. That’s fucking ridiculous. But she looks happy to be here and it makes me huff a laugh. My how things have changed.

  “And you.”

  Her phone makes a strange noise, and she holds up a finger while a smile spreads across her face. If that’s her husband, I’m going to be irrationally annoyed.

  She makes a few taps on the screen and outright giggles, types some more, and throws her phone on the table while shaking her head, a strand of hair finally escaping that perfect coif of hers.

  “Rey says hello. He also requested a selfie of the two of us.”

  A snort gets caught in my throat. “And what did you say?”

  The very attentive waitress who’s been catering to me since I got here starts to lower a drink onto the table, but India snags it out of her hand before it even reaches the cocktail napkin and takes a healthy swig.

  “I told him to go fuck himself. Or someone else.”

  “Does he…” Wow. So none of my business, but I have to admit it’s an intriguing question. He and Matthew obviously have a sexual relationship, but that seems more utilitarian than romantic. Rey must have dozens, if not hundreds, of willing play partners, but I’ve never heard him talk about his own sex life. And weirdly, I’ve never wondered if he had one. But he must, right? Good-looking guy like that? And smooth as fuck? Though he’s more like Teflon and I wonder if anyone’s ever stuck. He’s also intimidating as hell. What kind of person would think they’d be worthy of more than a few hours of his time? I suspect even the people who pay for it feel lucky. I do.

  India rolls her eyes as she takes another sip of the cocktail—where the hell did that come from and how did they know what to bring anyway? It’s not like she had time enough to order…

  “Trust me, Rey isn’t lacking for partners. Or anything else he wants for that matter.” She hums appreciatively while eyeing her drink. “He makes good choices too.”

  It all clicks into place. “He got this reservation, didn’t he?”

  “Yep. And ordered this drink. Want to try it?”

  She holds it out, and I’m tempted. If I thought there were a chance in hell we’d be fucking later, I would. The print of her lips left by her cherry-red gloss on one side, my mouth on the other, sharing something already, an invitation to share more because god knows that wouldn’t be enough.

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick with this.” I wave the tumbler of whiskey in her direction and feel a pinprick of jealousy that Rey ordered for her and not for me. But that’s stupid, right? Of course he wouldn’t take that liberty with me, but it’s a mark of intimacy that might be…nice. Because I’m turning into the kind of dude who would play a guitar—or, worse, a ukulele—and sing fucking Kumbaya around a campfire. For fuck’s sake.

  To wash the taste of those conflicting emotions out of my mouth, I take another sip and then leer at her. “So, dinner, huh?”

  She rolls her eyes at my verbal air quotes, but it’s with more of an amused fondness than with disgust.

  “Yes, Slade. Dinner. And that’s it. I think we’re both out of the casual hate-fuck game, aren’t we?”

  I almost choke on the liquor that hasn’t quite finished its slow burn down my throat. Pounding on my chest with a fist, my sneer turns to a glare. “What makes you say that?”

  “Fine,” she says, holding up a placating hand. “Maybe it’s just me. Maybe you’d rather be prowling a bar down the street for some easy hookup who you can fuck into next week, who might let you smack her around some. Or maybe you’ve got an invitation to a club where you’ll find that special sort of someone who might share your…interests.”

  “It’s not. I wouldn’t. I don’t.” The grudging admission makes its way out of my mouth as I stare into my glass. When I look at her, I’m expecting a self-righteous smirk, but what I get is a softer smile. And god help me, I like it. I want India to like me. To trust me. “There are very few places I’d rather be.”

  That sentiment rocks her back, but she doesn’t tease me, doesn’t put on that saucy…what I’m coming to think might be just a part of her. Maybe India’s dark side is a little bit squishy, vulnerable. More lines drawn between us, and I feel the kinship grow. Maybe we could be…friends. It wouldn’t be bad to have more people to talk to. But this is a bit of a dance, figuring out how much we want to share. And while I’d rather tango with India, feel her hot, lithe body pressed against mine in an insanely provocative way because I know we fit together like that, this is more like those mincing social dances people used to do and I don’t know the steps. Friends? How does one do that with a person you’d like to fuck exactly?

  She nods, offers me a nervous smile,
the first whiff of uncertainty I’ve ever gotten from her. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I offer her my glass, and she clinks her own against it. Neither of us says the words—because what exactly would we say?—but we each take a swallow and then start to talk work, where we at least have some solid ground to stand on. At work, we’re both unfailingly competent.

  When the entrees have been cleared away and coffees delivered with a plate of chocolate-dipped almond biscotti set between us, India stares at me a beat too long.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was wondering—and you don’t have to tell me, obviously—if…if things were going well.” The slight emphasis on things tells me she’s not talking about the bill I’m trying to get passed or anything else work-related. This is personal. Very personal.

  I take a second to consider it, but I find myself wanting to tell her. Wanting to share this with someone I consider my peer on every level. “Yeah, things are going well.”

  She laughs at the wag of my eyebrow. “Good. I haven’t heard as many horror stories about you since last time, and I thought…” Her features go from teasing to tightly earnest. “It’s good for you, right? You feel more like yourself? Or, at least, more like a person you hoped you could be?”

  Something lances through my chest, an unfamiliar feeling that I don’t quite know how to deal with. My first instinct is cruelty: make her regret it, make that pretty face crumple into embarrassment and hot tears. But my second impulse is far more charitable. So I choose—choose—to go with that one. Because I think people more familiar with emotions might call what I’m feeling empathy.

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what it’s like. And I think…”

  She waits for me, not pressing, but simply dipping the crunchy cookie into her coffee before taking a bite. Her patience, something we both have in short supply, floods me with gratitude.