by EM BROWN
Ben rubbed his temples with his middle finger and thumb. He had committed his fair share of mistakes and done a great many stupid things, but Kimani Taylor was easily the biggest mistake he had ever made.
“NO RULING FROM THE FPPC?” Ben asked his uncle after Aunt Alice and Eumie had left Gordon’s office to get boba and milk tea down the street. Ben gazed out the window onto the floor of the headquarters, busy with volunteers that morning as they kicked off the weekend’s precinct walking activities.
“Not yet,” Uncle Gordon replied as he readied himself to pound the pavement for votes. “I bumped into a walker for Oakland Forward the other day.”
After Ben had refused to take calls from Ezra Rosenstein, the committee chair for Oakland Forward had finally gotten the message that he shouldn’t share any information about the PAC with Ben.
Ben’s own pollster, who lived in Oakland, had mentioned that he had received two mailers from Oakland Forward. If the PAC was also hiring precinct walkers, that meant the committee had raised a decent sum of money so far.
Suddenly, Ben stiffened. His whole body turned hollow and hot at the same time. “What is she doing here?”
Uncle Gordon tried to follow Ben’s line of sight. At first, he couldn’t seem to find who Ben was referring to, but then he must have seen the woman in the red Stanford baseball cap with a curly ponytail sticking through the back.
“Ah, Montana,” Uncle Gordon said. “I mean, Kimani.”
Ben turned sharply to his uncle. “How do you know her name?”
“She told me.”
Ben was stunned. “She told you?”
“She came to see me the other week.”
Ben felt the hairs of his neck stand on end. What was she up to now? She would have heard about the impending closure of her paper. Was she trying to unearth more dirt in the hopes of keeping the paper alive?
“Turns out she’s a reporter for the Tribune,” Ben cautioned. “If I had known—”
“She told me,” Uncle Gordon acknowledged in a tone devoid of anger or suspicion.
“She told you?” Ben repeated. “Why?”
“She came to apologize. Said the article that led to the FPPC investigation was her fault.”
Ben was quiet. He hadn’t expected that.
“I told her it doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” Gordon put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I mean it. Finding fault compels one to stay in the past instead of moving forward.”
“Analyzing the cause helps us to learn from our mistakes so we don’t repeat them. I shouldn’t have allowed her to get so close. I don’t know why I trusted her.”
“She said you didn’t know she was a reporter and that you did nothing wrong—which is what I’ve always believed anyway—and she wanted to take the blame for that article.”
“I knew something wasn’t right about her, but I didn’t act on my suspicions.”
“I appreciate that you both want to claim credit for what happened, but it really doesn’t help me.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She asked how you were doing.”
His pulse quickened. Had she inquired after him to be polite or had she been truly interested in the answer?
“So you forgave her,” Ben said. “What is she doing here now?”
They watched her receive a pile of door hangers from the precinct captain.
“It looks like precinct walking,” Gordon replied, “though my staff is supposed to let me know about any new volunteers so that I can meet them personally to thank them. Or maybe it’s part of the story she’s working on.”
Ben turned to his uncle again. “What?!”
“The Tribune is doing a profile of all the mayoral candidates.”
“And you trust her and the Tribune to do this?”
“I read the Tribune quite often. They’re an honest paper. And I don’t see any reason not to trust Kimani.”
Ben could hardly believe what his uncle was saying. He knew Uncle Gordon preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t naïve. He came across mild-mannered, but that didn’t mean he allowed people to take advantage of him. When going to bat for his clients, he was as much a bulldog as any hard-nosed, trash-talking, bloviating attorney—only more effective.
“I trust your judgment of people,” Uncle Gordon added, “and you seemed to like her.”
“That was before I knew what she was capable of.”
Ben pressed his lips into a line and considered shutting the paper down without the two-week notice. He and Uncle Gordon watched her exchange smiles with the precinct captain, a good-looking African-American male, before she pointed to another folder on the table behind the young man. It seemed like she said, “I’ll take that one, too.”
What the hell was she up to? And was she being friendly or was she flirting with the guy? Ben didn’t like the way the young man’s smile made him look more charming.
“Are you going to go over and say hello?” Uncle Gordon asked.
Ben drew in a sharp breath as he felt a throb in his chest. Though he had considered the many ways his paths might cross with hers, he had not concluded what he would actually do if they did meet. Uncle Gordon’s campaign headquarters was one of the last places he would have expected to see Kimani.
Fuck.
His mind told him he should just skip what was sure to be an awkward and unpleasant moment, but every nerve of his was drawn to her. If he didn’t take this chance, he’d be thinking about her every bloody minute for the rest of the day. Maybe he could tell if she was up to something questionable by her reaction to him.
He could imagine the look on her face when she realized she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She might think she could pull one over on his uncle, but she wasn’t going to fool him a second time.
Straightening, he opened the office door and walked out onto the floor.
Chapter Eight
“Are you sure you want to do all those precincts?” the cute college grad asked with a smile that would make anyone who saw it brighten.
“I set aside the day to do this,” Kimani replied.
“That’s amazing of you, but we don’t expect volunteers to do more than a precinct this morning, two at most.”
“I’m a fan of Gordon Lee.”
She didn’t add that she also felt like she had to make it up to Gordon still.
“Well, you gotta be back for lunch,” said Anthony. “We’ve got soul food for everyone walking today.”
“I thought pizza was the staple of campaigns?”
“Yeah, but Maybelle is a big supporter of Gordon, and I’ll take her barbecue over pizza any day.”
Recalling the time she’d had lunch with Gordon and Ben, Kimani grew wistful. “I’d take her sweet potato pie over anything any day.”
Anthony’s smile grew even bigger. “You’re my kind of woman.”
Kimani returned an amused look. Was he flirting with her? She liked his affability, the sparkle of his eyes and that beautiful smile, but she had never considered dating a younger guy. Even though he was probably only about three years younger, she felt much older.
“You left your share of pie at my place.”
She felt frozen to the spot while the coordination of her arms disappeared. Doorhangers and precinct folders slid to the floor.
Still rooted to the spot, she allowed Anthony to pick them up for her as her heart began to pound.
She couldn’t believe it. It was him. Here. She thought he was in Hong Kong or Beijing. Why was he back already?
She turned around—and seeing Ben was like slamming into a brick wall. She couldn’t even muster a fake smile and simple “hi.”
His stare bore into her. It wasn’t the same hungry-wolf look that she had been accustomed to seeing during her week with him, but it wasn’t dissimilar, and it had the same effect of rattling her to the bones.
Anthony, having picked up on the words “my place,” raised his brows. Ben didn’t e
ven look like he noticed Anthony, but Kimani knew Ben noticed a lot of things that other guys tended not to.
Somehow she had convinced herself that she was never going to see Ben again, so she had never prepared for what she would say if their paths did cross. From his lack of response to her messages and letter, she had assumed he wouldn’t ever want to talk to her again.
Luckily, she was saved from the prolonged agony when a female campaign volunteer called out, “Anyone need a lift to their precinct?”
“I should grab her offer,” Kimani said, turning to Anthony for the doorhangers and folders. She felt stupid for not even saying hello to Ben, but she didn’t want to stick around.
“I’ll help carry the stuff,” Anthony offered.
“I’ve got it,” Ben said sternly, perhaps the only person impervious to Anthony’s smile.
Anthony handed over the stuff with a touch of reluctance. He held out his hand. “I’m Anthony, one of the precinct captains.”
Ben looked at Anthony for the first time. He shook the young man’s hand. “Ben. Lee.”
“Oh! Are you related to Gordon?”
“He’s my uncle.”
Anthony brightened and shook hands more warmly. “Nice to meet you.”
“I should catch my ride before she leaves,” Kimani said. She tried to take the doorhangers and folders from Ben. “I can get these.”
But he didn’t release his hold of the materials. “I’ll give you a lift.”
No, no, no, no! She didn’t want that. Several weeks ago, she had longed for the chance to talk to him, to tell him how sorry she was—face to face, not via a letter. But now that she had reconciled herself to the fact that she would never have that opportunity, now that she had accepted he probably hated her guts, she preferred that he was out of her life.
“I’m perfectly fine taking the bus, too,” she said, “which is what I had planned on doing.”
Ben ignored her. “Bataar has the car parked in front.”
Her mouth went dry. Hurry, think of something!
As if sensing an alternative might prove helpful, Anthony said, “Or I can drive. In fact, given where you’re walking, it’s probably best you have someone with you.”
That wasn’t the solution she was looking for.
“I’m sure, as a precinct captain, you’re needed here,” Ben said to Anthony.
When she didn’t budge, contemplating whether or not it was a good idea to take Anthony up on his offer, Ben grasped her elbow and guided her toward the doors. She opened her mouth to object at being dragged out as if she were a child refusing to leave the candy store. She wasn’t his to boss around. She wasn’t his...pet. Not anymore.
“I don’t need a ride,” she said when they were outside. She spotted his silver Porsche Panamera.
Whatever you do, girl, don’t get in that car.
But maybe he just wanted to escort her off the premises because he didn’t want her around him or his uncle. She couldn’t blame him.
At the car, they stopped. She turned around. Meeting his gaze, she faltered. She couldn’t make out the emotion in his eyes. Her insides crumbled, but mustering her courage, she said softly, “I tried to reach you, but I take it you didn’t want to be reached—which I totally get.”
Her words seemed to upset him, for he looked away. A muscle tightened in his jaw. He turned back to her with a look that could have sliced steel.
Somehow, she pressed on, “But I was—”
“What are you doing here?” he interrupted.
She glanced at the doorhangers he held. “Trying to make things up to Gordon.”
“You don’t need to make anything up. In fact, it would be better if you didn’t try to do anything at all where Uncle Gordon is concerned.”
She drew in a painful breath. She deserved that. “A little precinct walking won’t hurt.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I can believe you.”
That hurt even more, but again, she deserved it. Her heart twisted in misery. Words couldn’t express how bad she felt, but even if they could, she doubted she could find them. Her pulse was going at the speed of a NASCAR race because she realized he had drawn within inches of her, like he intended to pin her to the car. She remembered being caught between him and a car once.
Suddenly, she found it hard to breath, his presence drowning her. Part of her wanted his body to press her into the car. She wanted to drown. In him.
No, you don’t.
Alarm bells went off in her head. He was trying to intimidate her, standing so close. She had tolerated his domination when she was playing the part of his submissive, but they weren’t roleplaying anymore.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,” she replied, sounding harsher than she’d intended because of her panic. She could feel his heat and energy in every molecule of air between them.
“I don’t expect that you’ll forgive me,” she continued, “but I’m going to pass out these doorhangers. It’s the least I can do.”
His gaze seemed to search the depths of her eyes.
“And these precincts aren’t getting done,” she added.
He straightened to open one of the folders, providing an inch or two of space, enough for her to take a decent breath. He glanced at the map inside the folder with a neighborhood in East Oakland highlighted. Havenscourt.
“You’re not walking here,” he pronounced.
Now she was starting to get irritated. Why wouldn’t he just leave her be?
“Why not?”
“Get a different precinct from that college kid.”
Did that mean Ben was going to let her volunteer?
“East Oakland is not as bad as people think,” she said. “And it’s a Saturday morning.”
He snapped the folder shut. “There are other precincts that haven’t been walked.”
“I don’t think your uncle would want East Oakland ignored.”
“The other precincts have more voters.”
She lifted her chin. “All the more reason to walk East Oakland. There are plenty of potential voters there, but a lot of them feel disenfranchised, left out. They don’t feel empowered enough to believe their vote will make a difference.”
“Elections are a numbers game. With limited time and limited resources, you want to aim for the highest, fastest returns. You can do voter registration outside of election season.”
Although she usually enjoyed policy discussions, she didn’t want to have one with Ben. She would have thought that Ben, having gone to Howard, would understand where she was coming from. But maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought. Being a billionaire from China still put him worlds apart from where she had grown up.
She reached for the doorhangers and folders. “I’m walking East Oakland.”
How she thought she could wrestle the materials from him, she wasn’t sure, but she wanted to find a way to end their conversation. She wanted to be on her way.
But he grabbed her wrist before she touched the doorhangers. Suddenly, only half an inch separated his body from hers. Adrenalin spiked through her, but, momentarily mesmerized by the emotion flaring in his eyes, she didn’t try to escape.
“Benji!”
His hold on her wrist loosened, and she took the opportunity to both slip away and grab most of the doorhangers from him. A few fell to the ground, and she hurried to pick them up before they got dirty.
Having collected all the doorhangers, she stood up to see a tall, beautiful woman approach Ben and wrap an arm around his waist. A few steps behind her was another Asian woman Gordon had introduced to the volunteers earlier as his wife, Alice Lee.
At the risk of appearing rude but realizing this was her chance to get away, Kimani said quickly, “I should get going to my precinct.”
Campaign materials in hand, she scurried away.
“Who was that?” she heard the woman who could have been a Victoria Secret model say.
Kimani didn’t hear Ben’s reply, bu
t her ears burned as she imagined the possible answers: damn reporter who can’t be trusted, a pet I played with for a few days...nobody important.
The last one was probably the hardest to take.
IT HAD BEEN DARK FOR half an hour when Kimani decided to call it quits. She had passed out hundreds of doorhangers and spoken with dozens of registered voters. She had half the neighborhood to go, and then she would be completely done with the last precinct, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched again. Was she just being paranoid because of the break-in or was someone truly tailing her—and why? Had Jake hired someone just to spook her?
Marissa called her as she was taking the BART train back into San Francisco.
“When are you going to be back?” Marissa asked. “I’m kind of nervous being home alone.”
“I’m about thirty minutes away,” Kim answered.
“God, I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.”
After hanging up, Kim leaned her head back against her seat. She felt bad for Marissa. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t tried to expose the Scarlet Auction. Claire might have been just fine with Jake. Gordon would not be investigated by the FPPC, and though her efforts had landed her a job at the Tribune, she was going to end up unemployed soon anyway. Plus, she would never have met Ben.
If she could do it all over again...
But he gave you the most mind-blowing orgasms. You sure you would give those up?
Closing her eyes, she replayed her first time squirting. She had actually thought she had peed her pants, or his pants, rather. Jake had disallowed clothing for his subs, but Ben had lent her his sweats and shirt. Looking back, she should have seen earlier that he was different from Jake and the other two frat boys, Derek and Jason. But she had been prejudiced towards Ben, judging him guilty of assholeness by association and because he had offered to buy her for sex. The $200,000 he had paid for her could have gone toward a worthier cause.
So could the four dollars you spent on your morning latte. Who cares how much he spent? The guy made you squirt. And not just once.
A shiver went through her as she recalled her first night in his Pacific Heights penthouse. He had made her come ten times in succession that night. She would never have thought she could get exhausted through coming. She seemed to have an endless reservoir of arousal where he was concerned. He always found the right spots on, and in, her body, and he worked them relentlessly. She liked the way he dominated her—no, she loved the way he dominated her. She now fully understood why Marissa was so attracted to BDSM. Which shouldn’t have surprised her that much because anything involving power was sexy, in money, politics, and sex itself.