by Tessa Bailey
“I know,” she managed, jolting when the door clicked shut.
* * *
Aaron buffed the front of the wine bottle with his jacket sleeve before ringing the doorbell. Honestly, ringing the bell was a mere formality considering he’d gone through a frisking at the gate that would impress the TSA and had his name checked against a list. He’d needed that extra time to pull his head out of his ass. One would think an entire afternoon spent pouring over Pendleton’s policy and voting records meant Aaron had his shit together, but he couldn’t shake the tightness between his shoulder blades, the pinecone rattling around his rib cage.
How many times today had he stopped himself from searching the woods for Grace? Twice he’d gotten as far as the forest’s edge, using the excuse of taking Old Man out for a piss. He just wanted to ask her a few questions. That was all. First and foremost, from which mystical land of wild-haired thieves had she been teleported? And what did she need the money for? Was she in trouble?
None of your business. Just like you are none of hers.
The door opened to reveal Pendleton’s wife, dressed much the same as she had been that afternoon, a welcoming smile blooming on her face. Shaking off thoughts that shouldn’t have been so troubling, Aaron held out the wine bottle, careful to keep a polite distance between himself and the senator’s wife.
“Mrs. Pendleton, thank you for having me on short notice,” Aaron said, waiting for her to step back so he could cross the threshold, which he did. “I’ve been on the road, so I can barely remember what a home-cooked meal tastes like.”
“Please, call me Beverley.” She closed the door. “And we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?”
Aaron was relieved when the senator showed almost immediately, wrapping one arm around his wife’s waist, shaking Aaron’s hand with the other, all while checking the vintage of the gifted wine.
“Very nice.” Pendleton took the bottle from his wife and tapped a finger against the glass. “We’ll get this breathing so we can have it with dinner. How long, honey?”
“Ten minutes.” She floated off, presumably toward the kitchen. “Give or take.”
“She knows I hate approximations,” Pendleton sighed. “But she puts up with my bullshit, so I guess we’re even. I hope security didn’t give you a hard time.”
Aaron fell into step beside Pendleton. “Oh, something tells me you wouldn’t be too upset if they did.”
The senator chuckled, casting Aaron a scrutinizing glance. “I don’t want to like you, but you’re making it difficult.” They entered the dining room and Aaron counted five table settings—one extra?—but didn’t have a chance to inquire about an additional guest before the senator continued, “Give me one word, Clarkson. Change. Arguably, that single word won a man an election. So what’s mine? What’s going to turn the tide on my campaign?”
“Respect.”
Pendleton set the wine bottle down on the table, rattling carefully placed silverware. “Respect who?”
Aaron slid both hands into his dress pants pockets. “Respect that goes both ways.” He let that sink in, noting the senator appeared thoughtful, but not disagreeable. “The government has lost the respect of America’s youth and they haven’t had enough of ours. You’re going to reestablish that mutual esteem as the next president.”
The senator picked up a wine opener and twisted the metal appendage into the cork with quick, precise movements. “How?”
“We want their ideas. We want to hear from them.”
Pendleton smirked. “We do?”
Aaron started to laugh, but a picture hanging on the wall behind the senator sucked in every ounce of his attention. Grace. Grace was in the portrait—the family portrait—seated in front of Pendleton, along with the slightly older girl he’d seen at the pancake breakfast. His daughter. Jesus Christ, Grace was Pendleton’s other daughter? In all his research over the last few weeks, another child had been mentioned only in passing. A budding artist who simply didn’t share her father’s appreciation for the limelight, but fully supported his political career. There hadn’t been any pictures, though. None. Somehow Aaron knew he would have remembered.
The fifth place setting was for her. Acid climbed up through his esophagus, charring the interior, filling his mouth with a smoky taste.
“Clarkson?”
Breathe, asshole. Number one rule in politics? Just keep talking. But…fuck. It was difficult to think, let alone talk. Grace would be there any minute. He would see her again, but it could very well lead to his final ruination…because if this nightmare were true, he’d aided her this morning in robbing…her own father.
“Ah, sorry.” His hand found the knot in his tie, straightening it. “The demographic we’re trying to reach has access to their favorite celebrities today. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat. They’ve gone from being unreachable to being—or at least creating the illusion of being—peers. Our current president is a celebrity in his own right, as is the first lady.” Aaron picked up a wineglass and held it out when the senator extended the bottle, hoping like hell the other man didn’t notice his hand shook. “You’re not accessible enough. You’re their father’s candidate, not theirs. You might as well try to reach them through MySpace. But here’s the good news: one good sound bite, one good tweet? These days, that’s all you need to trend on social media.”
“All right, enough shop talk,” the senator’s wife said, breezing into the dining room holding a covered platter, which she set down in the middle of the table. “Emily will be down in a moment.”
Aaron was hyperaware that Grace hadn’t been mentioned, especially when Beverley dropped a troubled glance on the fifth place setting, making Aaron’s stomach churn.
“Shall we take a seat?” Pendleton boomed, his smile tighter than before. “I have to admit, Clarkson, this idea appeals to me. I’ll need the opportunity to bring in my staff for a discussion, but it smells like a definite winner. I think the theme of respect could be interpreted favorably by my older voters, too. Don’t want to forget about them.”
“Certainly not,” Aaron agreed.
When the senator’s daughter walked into the room—or skulked, rather—noticeable tension descended over the table, the fifth place setting remaining empty. Beverley passed Aaron a bowl of mashed potatoes, and like that, everyone started to pile food onto their plates without waiting for the final guest.
Grace wasn’t coming, it seemed. Unbelievable that he should feel such a distinct ripple of disappointment when her appearance could very well mark the end of his association with Pendleton. The clanging of cutlery tapping against china the only sound being made, glances being exchanged between Pendleton and his wife. Uncomfortable family meals were nothing new to Aaron, but this was different. Something was wrong, it involved Grace, and he couldn’t even fucking ask about it.
Everyone at the table ceased their movements when Emily mumbled something beneath her breath, earning a dark look from her father. “We’ll discuss it later, Emily. Now is not the time.”
“It’s never the time, because you’re always working.” The senator’s daughter—Aaron placed her at around twenty-eight—dropped her fork and pushed back from the table. “Y-you can’t just keep her out there like a…prisoner.”
Oh God. She was talking about Grace. The bite of food Aaron had been in the process of swallowing got stuck halfway down, so he quickly grabbed his wine and washed it the remaining distance. Prisoner. Prisoner.
“Sit back down, immediately,” Pendleton instructed his daughter, seeming to strive for a lighter tone this time. “Our guest isn’t interested in our family squabbles.”
“Squabbles?” Emily repeated, trading a look with Beverley, before grabbing her still-full dinner plate. “If she doesn’t eat at the table, neither do I.”
For long moments after Emily left the dining room, no one said anything. Aaron was still processing everything he’d learned and trying not to panic. Or panic over the fact that he was panicking in
the first goddamn place. A sense of urgency with no target had him sliding back his chair and standing.
“My family dinners growing up were never complete until someone started an argument, so thank you for making me feel at home.” Aaron laughed, relieved when it didn’t sound too forced, and reached out to shake the senator’s hand, even though hearing Grace—it had to be her—referred to as a prisoner sort of made him want to increase his grip until the other man dropped. “We have plenty of time to discuss moving forward and you know where to find me.” He turned to Pendleton’s wife and nodded. “Dinner was great. Thank you.”
“Can I wrap it up for you?” She sounded weary. “You barely got through half.”
“No, don’t go to any trouble.” Aaron pushed his chair beneath the table. “Have a great night. I hope everything works out.”
Aaron’s first intake of night air outside the house soothed the burning in his lungs, but the relief was temporary. What the hell was the next step? Go back to the cabin, to the company of three people who currently hated him, and attempt to forget what he’d just heard? Impossible. He’d climb the fucking walls.
A cool rush of sensation down Aaron’s spine made him turn around at the base of the walkway. Behind the estate, across the long expanse of manicured lawn, another, smaller establishment peeked out. A miniature replica of the main house. One window glowed with light, a silhouette barely visible at such a distance. Y-you just can’t keep her out there like a…prisoner.
Was Grace in there?
Voices picked up inside the house, an argument ensuing between Pendleton and his wife. That was Aaron’s cue to get the hell out of dodge, since his future employer wouldn’t be appreciative of his private discussion being overheard.
Jesus, was he actually considering seeking out Grace right under the senator’s nose? He’d made considerable headway with Pendleton tonight, despite his serious indiscretion back in California. And this one would be worse.
A lot worse.
I’m just going to make sure she’s okay. Once I know, I’ll leave.
Thankful for the darkness, Aaron made for the guesthouse.
Chapter Five
Grace grimaced at her untouched dinner where it sat on a tray just inside the bedroom door and went back to staring at her distorted image in the window. Her hair hung down on either side of her head in waves that were still slightly damp. When her mother had arrived with the staff hair stylist earlier to wash and detangle her hair, she’d allowed it, even though it had been painful. She didn’t regret stealing the money, but hurting her father hadn’t sat well. Maybe it never would, no matter their dynamic. But she’d taken the hair washing as penance for her deed. Looking presentable should she happen to draw any media attention would have to be enough.
The trees blew back and forth outside, giving the impression of her face changing shape, again and again. Like one of those haunted house pictures that changes from serene to scary, depending on the angle.
If she were a piece of fabric, she would have been torn straight down the middle. Not because she’d been defeated. Nope. Indecision, rather, had kept her rooted to the same spot for an hour. A drumbeat continued to plod along in her stomach, urging her to complete the mission she’d organized for herself. The other side of the ripped fabric, however, was held together by words her father had spoken. Not just tonight, but throughout her life. With one act, she could repair some of the damage she’d inflicted on their relationship. But would she feel disloyal to herself afterward? Wasn’t that what she’d been fighting against?
A knocking sound coming from the front entrance jerked Grace backward where she sat perched on the windowsill. Who could that be? No one in her family knocked. Her father’s security team thinned out in the evening, usually leaving only a nighttime patrol on duty. So who was at her door so late in the day?
Fingers curling and uncurling in the hem of her sleep shirt, Grace prowled out of the bedroom, across the pitch-black living room, to peer through the peephole. When Grace saw the identity of her visitor, she rocked back on her heels, mouth agape. “You shouldn’t be here,” she gasped. “Not even a little bit.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Aaron’s growl reached her through the barrier. “Okay, look. Are you all right, Grace?”
“Yes,” she called, leaning her cheek against the door. “You can go now.”
So much silence passed, Grace assumed he’d left and wished—wished so hard—she didn’t feel crestfallen over it. Not after what he’d said that morning. But she couldn’t help wanting to chase after him. If for no other reason than to stare into his golden brown eyes and demand he stare back. Shove his broad shoulders until he complied. Another problem demanded her attention, but the movie star politician kept breezing into the picture and dominating, even though she clearly irritated him. What sense did that make?
Aaron’s voice found Grace through the door again and her eyes popped open. When had she closed them? “Can you open the door?” A thud against the hardwood made her face vibrate. “Your answer wasn’t very convincing.”
Slowly, she went up on her toes to watch him through the peephole again. “Did you bring Old Man with you?”
“Grace, are you being kept in there, or what?” He sounded angry now. “Why didn’t you tell me you were the senator’s daughter?”
With that, the picture started to clear. Truthfully, she hadn’t had to work as hard to keep her identity from Aaron. The times they’d been together, she’d thought there were more interesting things to talk about. “What would you have done differently, if you’d known?”
A beat passed. “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t like what I come up with when I consider that.”
Grace’s brow furrowed, her breath catching when he seemed to make eye contact with her through the peephole. Without a command from her brain, Grace’s hand reached over and unlocked both deadbolts, watching as Aaron’s back straightened, his surprise obvious. She stepped back and allowed the door open a few feet, marveling over the living room’s transformation, courtesy of having Aaron walk inside. It went from quiet and empty to rife with life, energy.
Aaron’s throat muscles shifted when he saw her, his progress halting just inside the door, that gaze she wanted to hold so badly dipping to her legs and heating. “You have a robe or something you can put on?”
A shiver passed through the lowest region of her belly, warmed and chilled simultaneously by the drop in his tone, but she managed a headshake.
“Of course you don’t,” Aaron said, whipping off his suit jacket and closing the distance between them in two brisk strides. He seemed so full of plans and purpose until he got close and appeared to realize he’d have to put his arms around her in order to get the jacket on. She couldn’t stop staring at his jaw, bunched so tight, as his arms surrounded her without touching—not so much as a brush of arms against shoulders—and dropped the jacket around Grace in a plop of warmth. Then he eased back a few steps, looking like the survivor of a tornado. “Better.”
“Is it?”
Lines formed between his brows. “What happened to your hair?”
Grace experienced a wave of appreciation, just having someone to talk to about her day—even someone who thought her off. Even someone who was kind of responsible for some of the bad parts. “The hair stylist cut out the ribbons and threw them in the trash. The rest just kind of washed away.”
The atmosphere around them went still. Like maybe it was holding its breath. “Are you going to put it back the way it was?”
“I don’t know.” Discomfort, maybe even grief over having the symbol of her freedom taken away, slid down the walls of her throat, making her speech sound unnatural. “It seems like a lot of work just now.”
A handful of seconds passed. “You’re supposed to be smiling and talking about bears and asking me existential questions.” He seemed confused by whatever thoughts were moving through his head. “I don’t like it when you don’t.”
; “Oh.” He’d been very aware of her, hadn’t he? Of her words. Something compelled her to let Aaron know she’d noticed his qualities, too. Because she had. Way too much. “Why don’t you smile very often? You have lovely teeth.”
The corner of his mouth jumped, as if his body wanted to prove her wrong, but his brain shut the idea down. “I do smile. When it can make some sort of difference.”
She nodded, relieved that he’d answered at all after the teeth remark. “When you’re politicizing.”
“Yes.”
“Or charming a woman.”
Grooves formed between his eyebrows. “I haven’t smiled at you, have I?”
“No.” Her knees turned gooey. “But you’re not trying to charm me.”
“If I was, I’d be doing a pretty shitty job.” He gave her a hot, thoughtful once-over as he raked a hand through his hair. “Smiling is meant to invite people and often mislead them. Make them like you, trust you, want more of you. Those are goals I only have in my professional life.”
How could such an astute man not hear the ache in his own voice? “Why?”
“Because it’s only a matter of time before they see…” He shook his head. “The smile is a decoy. It’s not real. And then they’re sorry they ever looked beneath it.”
Watching him return to himself, realizing he’d shown a dent in his armor and was horrified by that fact, had Grace holding her breath, lest she release the whimper trying to get loose. With a muttered curse, Aaron marched off, leaving Grace staring after him. When she found him again in the kitchen, it took her a minute to figure out what he was doing. In his hands, he held a pair of scissors, which he’d apparently found in the still-open junk drawer. Concentration evident in his handsome face, he cut strips of his tie, laying them side by side down on the counter. Long, red streaks stark against the white marble like blood. Blood he was shedding in an attempt to fix something he couldn’t possibly understand, but maybe sensed was important to her?
Time as Grace knew it suspended itself as Aaron dismantled the entire expensive-looking tie, willing her pulse to quiet down so it wouldn’t distract him from restoring a little piece of herself that really wasn’t little at all, but huge and personal. She couldn’t really keep track of things like minutes over her floundering heartbeat.