by Claire Adams
Then I remembered that I had already hurt Corsica, and because of that, I would probably never see her again. What did it matter, then, who I ended up being like? I was going to end up being alone, and I needed to get used to it.
"Speaking of conversations, have you talked to Corsica yet?"
I jumped, still not fond of my mother's near magic perceptions. "Why would I talk to Corsica? She ran off all wounded and probably wouldn't even answer the phone if I called."
The strange wrong number I had gotten the afternoon before sprung to mind again. Like an idiot, I had assumed it was her and had even called her name. The person hung up after only a few seconds, but the embarrassment had lasted. First, her song haunted my entire three-day trek, and now I was hoping strange phone calls were her?
Alice crossed her billowing sleeves with an irritated look. "Wounded? Corsica has survived far worse wounds than you being a jerk at a society ball. She's a lot stronger than you think she is."
That's one of the things I love most about her, I thought. It was a good thing I bit my tongue, but I was afraid my mother had read that thought, too. Alice smiled and loosened her hands.
"The person you should worry about is you," she said, taking my fingers and squeezing them. "You're too tough on yourself. It's your father's stubborn pride. Ask him because Xavier knows the only person who suffered because of it was him."
My father tugged my mother away and brushed a kiss against her cheek. "It's true. I avoided Alice for too long because I was afraid she wouldn't forgive me. I couldn't stand the idea of her seeing how much that would hurt me."
"But you forgave him," I said. It was a fact that still amazed me, but I was beginning to see that my father really had changed.
"All it took was a little honesty," Alice said.
Xavier scoffed. "That and your own stubbornness making me worry about you enough that I had to see you face to face."
They rubbed noses and only laughed when I looked away. My father announced they were taking a walk on the beach before our dinner reservations. I didn't turn around until they were gone, but then all I could do was watch them walking arm-in-arm.
If my mother had forgiven my father for his drunken loss of control, then I wondered if Corsica would forgive me for my cowardly lie? Would she understand that I really just wanted her to get to know me before she knew how much money I had?
The thought stayed with me the entire afternoon. When my parents returned from the walk all fresh-faced and giggling like high school sweethearts, I made up any excuse I could to escape. "I'm going to take a rest and then get dressed for dinner," I said.
I shut the door of my master suite and leaned hard against it. The memory of that quiet night next to the stream filled my head until I thought I would explode. Corsica's sweet smile as she explained the comforts of dressing for dinner, the water of the stream doing nothing to cool my desire for her, the moment she stepped up to the campfire looking so elegant and happy…
Happy. I'd been happy. Then the night turned into one of the best of my life, and I screwed it all up the next morning. I was exactly like my father, except there were no twelve steps to repair the damage my ego had done.
I paced around my suite like a caged animal until it was time to put on my suit. I knew Xavier had made the dinner reservations, and it would please them both if I, for once, tried to act like a civilized man.
"Now that is a fine cut suit," Xavier said when he saw me. He slipped out of the guest room and shut the door behind him. "Might as well get comfortable. Your mother is trying out a new look."
"She's really feeling better?"
My father smiled. "She really is. Every second of it feels like a miracle. That's why I was so sharp about your comment earlier. I know you were just teasing us about the wedding, but you understand how important it is to us, don't you?"
I cringed. Even my own family thought I didn't have the ability to care. "You know I'll be there even if you two decide to get married in a meadow at dawn."
"God, let's hope not," my father joked. "We know it's going to be outdoors, but I'm trying to steer your mother towards a garden or something with at least a few vestiges of civilization."
He kept talking about the wedding plans with a smile on his face. I watched him and suddenly couldn't take it anymore.
"I forgive you."
"What?" Xavier asked, taking a step back.
"I know you never wanted to hurt her. I know it was just the alcohol. You've really turned everything around, and I know it wasn't easy. I forgive you." I felt like an elephant eased off my chest and walked away.
Tears sprung to my father's eyes as he stumbled forward to fold me in a hug. "I really am sorry, Penn. There is nothing I can do to change it except tell you I think about it, think about how I was to you, and I regret it every day."
"It's over," I said, my throat hot. "Now let's figure out how to tell Alice you want a garden party wedding."
My father laughed. It took him a moment to steady himself and even then, he kept a hand tight on my shoulder. "Next you have to forgive yourself, Penn."
"For what?" I asked, immediately tense and stepping away.
Xavier smoothed down his tailored suit, but kept his eyes steady on me. "You had every right to hide your financial status. We have to be guarded; it's just part of the territory when you have that much money."
I shook my head. "But I was so hard on her. I made fun of her for wanting money. I made her think that I was better because I didn't need money, and all the time, my bank account was climbing into the stratosphere. I made her feel bad for wanting something I was taking for granted."
"So you made a mistake," my father shrugged.
Alice appeared at that moment and tuned into the conversation as if she'd been in the room the whole time. "There are no mistakes," she declared. "There's only what you choose to do next."
"How very Zen. Thanks," I muttered.
My mother swept over and cupped my face in both hands. "You changed directions once, remember? It was drastic, and it took you far away from your father and me. But, it brought you to where you needed to be. So why are you so afraid of changing directions now?"
I took her hands and squeezed them, not quite up to meeting her sharply intuitive gaze. "I can't go back."
"No you can't," Alice said, her voice certain and strong. "But you can stop hemming and hawing over the next step and just take it already. You know what you want to do, so get on with it."
I tried to brush off her words, but they stuck hard in my chest. "How about we have dinner first."
My father saved me with another slap on the back. "Excellent idea. And wait until you try the salmon at this new restaurant. You'll swear they fished those fillets straight out of heaven."
Alice stopped and gave us a mischievous smile. "About that restaurant."
My father and I groaned. Every time Alice had that expression on her face, we had ended up trying some authentic hole-in-the-wall where we didn't speak the language and the food set our senses on fire.
"Oh, come on, where's your sense of adventure?" she asked.
My mother was impossible to resist, but we complained the whole way there.
"If I'd have known, I would have eaten at home," I said.
My father held up his hand and whispered, "I would have stuffed some crackers in my suit pocket."
"And antacids," I added.
"Enough," Alice said with a laugh. "We're here."
Both Xavier and I were shocked when we stepped out of the car. My mother, the wild bohemian, had chosen an old-fashioned supper club.
The sign still buzzed with red neon, though the exterior was completely new and very swanky. A gold-colored awning sheltered a red carpet up the steps to heavy oak doors. Inside, the restaurant glowed with candles in jars on each table. The wood-paneled walls offered the only other light from sconces. The curved booths were covered with red leather, and the floor was a wild swirl of old-fashioned paisley.
"This is great," Xavier breathed. "I bet they even have rare steaks here. Actual rare steaks."
I hung back as my parents followed our white-jacketed waiter to a booth. All I could think was Corsica should be there. She would have delighted in the way my parents walked with arms wrapped around each other, but more than that, she would have loved the stage.
There was a small, raised dais of a stage with a grand piano and a row of gilded stalls for a full jazz band. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the single, vintage microphone sparkling under the spotlight. It was like a beacon showing me the first time I saw Corsica sing.
That very moment when I fell in love with her.
"Penn? Are you coming?" my mother asked.
"In a minute," I said, turning back to the front door. "I have to make a phone call."
"If it's work, it can wait," my father advised.
"Nonsense," Alice said. "Whatever it is can wait until we've ordered at the very least."
I had no choice but to slide into the booth and listen to a novel length's explanation of the daily specials. When my father asked about the steaks, the waiter launched into a whole other spiel, and I thought I might lose my mind.
"I really need to make a phone call," I said through gritted teeth.
My mother patted my hand. "I know, dear. If you're in such a hurry, you can order first."
"Ladies first," Xavier said. Then, after my mother ordered, he took forever to decide on what sides to have and what dressing would go best with his salad.
"I'll have whatever that first special was. Just the standard sides. No dressing," I snapped when the waiter turned to me.
His eyes widened slightly but he bowed. "Very good, sir. Enjoy the show. Your food will be out shortly."
I stood up from the booth so fast that the silverware jangled. "I just have to make a quick call," I lied. If I got Corsica on the phone and she didn't hang up with me, I knew the conversation could very well take all night. In fact, it would probably go better if it was face to face.
I was about to make my excuses and call for my car when the house lights dimmed and the stage lit up. A band shuffled on, looking relaxed and ready for a good show. My mother tugged me back into the booth. It was a good thing, too, because my legs turned to jelly.
After the musicians took their places, Corsica appeared on stage. She floated along looking like some figment of my desires in a perfect black dress and patent-leather pumps. Her hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders, glowing in the soft light of the spotlight. She looked at home, happy, and in her element.
The music swelled, and I stopped breathing. Stars burst along the corners of my eyesight before I could manage a shaky breath. Corsica opened her smiling mouth and sang the first verse of the song that had haunted me all through my trek across the desert.
I blinked and stopped breathing, and then gasped for air. Corsica was either a mirage come to life or I had somehow gotten my wish. I wanted to talk to her face to face, and there she was.
I stood up, though my mother tried to stop me. The gravitational pull of Corsica in that spotlight was too strong. I had to be near her. I had to know she was real. I walked through the tables scattered around the small stage until I was standing directly in front of her.
She saw me and kept singing, each note drumming all of my doubts away.
I loved Corsica. That was it. That was all I could think and when the song ended and the whole restaurant paused to hear me address the angel in the spotlight, that was all I said.
"I love you."
Corsica apologized to her band and stepped down to face me.
I didn't even give her a chance to speak; the words tumbled out of me. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"So where have you been?" she asked, her eyes bright.
"It doesn't matter," I said, taking her hands. "Everywhere I go just leads back to you."
Then she smiled. "Ah, now we're getting somewhere."
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
I ran down the beach as fast as I could, but even the punishing pace couldn't burn away the joy I felt. The beach house was more than my finish line. It was my home.
"What's your hurry?" Penn called from the deck. "Now that you're done with your morning run, we're going back to bed, right?"
I laughed despite my heavy breathing. "I thought you wanted to sleep in."
"Only with you." He caught me as soon as I stepped on the deck.
"Stop! I'm all sweaty!"
He nuzzled my neck and growled deep in his throat. "And you taste delicious."
"No, really stop. We have to get ready. Today's the big day," I reminded him.
Penn didn't stop until his kisses made me lose track of all time. Then he leaned back and beamed down at me. "We can be late, can't we?"
I shook my head, though I was too content to leave his arms. "The ceremony can't start until we're there."
"I can't wait to walk you down the aisle," Penn said with another hungry kiss.
This time I did push him back, the bright ring on my finger glinting in the morning sun. "That's not until April. Today is all about your parents."
"Today is all about love, as my mother keeps reminding me. Surely, she'll understand if love is what makes us late."
I couldn't resist Penn any longer. I distracted him with a kiss and then lunged for the sliding glass door. "I'll race you to the shower."
He caught me halfway through the kitchen and I was overjoyed when those hard, tattooed arms closed around me. I looked up at him and wondered again how lucky I was.
Once we were done with assumptions, it was just us, and we were so very happy.
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POWER BOX SET
The Complete Power Romance Series
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
POWER #1
Chapter One
I stood in the shadow of the great house before me, hearing the taxi whiz behind on its way back toward Pennsylvania. I’d never been in the White House before, but God, had I imagined it. The exterior white shell of it seemed to speak of so much—so much history. Those immaculate rooms, that power, the vibrancy. And, above all, that handsome president—the leader of the free world.
I adjusted my blue suit beneath me, tugging at it, allowing my breasts to bounce a bit. I knew that they didn’t hurt my chances, but I didn’t like to think of it. I knew my smarts could propel me into the role if I played my cards right; if I flung myself through the interview like a pro—like I had countless other times throughout my career—I could land the position of my dreams.
Head of the President’s Re-election Campaign.
I thought about the way they’d discuss it on the news: Amanda Martin, the woman of the hour. Only 29 years old and already moving her way up the political ladder.
Beneath my fine blue suit, I felt my stomach grumble at me with a sort of rage. I was nervous, certainly. After all, my past accomplishments didn’t stand up against this feat. I’d been president of my sorority back in school, just because I didn’t want my sorority (the one my mother had forced me to join, stating she wouldn’t pay for my college otherwise) to be just like any other sorority. If I was going to be a part of it, we were going to make a goddamned difference. And we did.
And then, after that, in my home city of Philadelphia, I’d become one of the secretaries in the mayor’s office. Nothing big, no. But after a few years into it, with success around every corner and my name blasted in a few important people’s ears,
I’d been invited to come to Washington to work on the initial campaign for the now-president. I’d been only 24 at the time, and I wasn’t ready for the flash, the grandeur of D.C. But I acclimated easily, after a few minor bumps and one silly affair with a congressman.
Just one!
And now, I found myself back in D.C. A congressman, George Carlman, had suggested I apply. I’d been an essential part of the previous campaign. I remembered the rallies, the fast-paced nature of it all. I remembered counting votes until my eyes bled. But when our president, Xavier Callaway, had made that speech on that January day, I knew it had all been worth it. My heart seemed to beat only for him. It wasn’t just that he was handsome—after all, he’d paid nearly no attention to me during the entire election process. It was that what I had done, all the work I’d propelled into the campaign, had been worth it. Goddamn it, it’d been worth it. And that, beyond anything else, was beautiful.
Two Secret Service agents met me at the door and pushed it open, allowing me entrance into the immaculate foyer. I thanked them with a polite, if firm, voice. I wanted them to take me seriously, as I was interviewing to run their president’s re-election campaign. I didn’t envision myself as some flighty girl. No, I was so much more—intelligence and strength and vitality.
“Just a minute, Miss,” the Secret Service agent stated, bringing his hands up to his shoulders, positioned in the air. “You know the drill.”
I did.
I held up my hands to mirror his,and allowed him to touch my body with his long, thick fingers. He roughed up around my hips, on my ass, making sure I didn’t have anything on my person. I winked at him as he did it, making him feel uncomfortable. He looked down, uncertain.
“I’m just kidding, Dimitri,” I told him, nearly laughing. I’d known him for nearly four years at that point and I knew he felt awkward.
“Amanda, so sorry about this,” he said. I knew that he had a crush on me; I’d known it since we’d met on the campaign trail.
“Please. It doesn’t bug me at all. I kind of like it,” I laughed, raising an eyebrow.