Mile High Club : Billionaire Romance

by Amy Faye

  "Are you finished?"

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "So what was the plan here?"

  Linda's fingers dig into the counter, and she keeps her eyes down. It's easier than looking up. If she does, it becomes a contest of wills. She's not going to want to lose that any more than Tom is—but she already has to admit that she doesn't have the hard edges that he has.

  Sometimes it's better not to play if you know you're going to lose. That goes double if someone's going to get hurt. She doesn't know if it's her or him. Or maybe it would only be Adam, whose campaign was set to rely on the two of them working together.

  "Back off a little, will you?" Adam's voice has the same air of a threat that keeps Linda from speaking herself. He should've kept quiet. But he doesn't.

  "I didn't think I needed to communicate this to you, Adam. You can do what you want to do with who you want to do it with, but you're an idiot if you pick her."

  Linda keeps her mouth shut. She can't disagree with his assessment. She's about the worst of all possible choices. And yet, she doesn't want to hear it, and least of all wants to hear it about herself.

  "He's right, Adam," she says softly. It stings a little when she says it.

  "Who the fuck cares about that?"

  "Adam, I need you to listen to me," Tom rumbles. "There's not much that I'm genuinely worried about in the next few months. Your poll numbers are higher than anyone could have expected. You've got a reputation that means any accusation slips right off your back."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The problem is, we need to be proving to people that you can keep it in your pants when it counts. When there's an ethical problem, for example."

  "And you think I can't?"

  Linda looks up for the first time in a while. Adam's jaw is clenched tight. If you didn't look hard, his posture might seem casual, leaned up against the counter-top with a foot up on the bottom rung of a bar-stool. His body sags a little, between shoulders that are holding him up.

  But as Linda looked closer it didn't take long to notice the little things. The way that his muscles bunched up in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. His fingers pressed into the counter until his knuckles are white. Hearing his voice, though, doesn't hold the same illusion. He's furious, and anyone listening can hear it right away.

  Tom's no different. Casual. He's better at hiding his anger in his body, but he can't hide the look in his eyes. He never can. There's something in it that she can't quite place, a predatory nature that she knew he held. His voice is low and even, and as smooth as his gravelly tone can manage.

  "Can't you?"

  Muscles bunch and tense in Adam's back. And then, slowly, he relaxes them one by one. Linda watches all this with a vague sense of detachment. And then she speaks, before one of them pulls a knife.

  "It was my fault. I—"

  Tom's eyes flick over to her.

  "You what?"

  "I made the first move."

  "Doesn't matter." His eyes flick back over to Adam. "It's about him, not about you."

  Linda's eyes shut, and she imagines herself back at home. There was a time that her life wasn't this complicated, and it will come again. It has to.

  "It won't happen again, Tom. Please, just. Leave it be."

  "Linda, I'm not going to back off until I hear it from him."

  Adam's shoulders tighten up again, and then untighten. His weight shifts and his hips lift until he's sitting. His hands slack.

  "It won't happen again."

  "Good. Now keep telling yourself that until you believe it."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Adam Quinn was coding again. He knew what it meant, of course. It meant that he was in a sufficiently good mood not to be drinking, but a sufficiently bad mood to want to work through whatever was in his head, bothering him.

  And then, as it often seemed to these days, the thing that was bothering him interrupted him in the middle of coding. The look on her face was wild, and her eyes opened and shut like she had to do it herself, because the force of what she'd just had to watch on the television was too great to deal with. Like the Ellen Holden interview had just fried the part of her brain that dealt with normal function.

  "I thought you said it went great," she says. Her voice is low and controlled and holds none of the screaming she's obviously thinking about doing.

  "Linda, you caught the interview."

  "Of course I caught it. Catching interviews, particularly big ones, is my job. It's what I'm paid for."

  "What did you think?"

  "Don't interrupt me," she said. Her eyes bored a hole in him. It was an unusual intensity from her, and he had to admit he liked it. What would he have to do to awaken this woman when their clothes came off, he wondered? "Now of course, I thought that it was just a formality, given how well you said it went. It cleared up all our problems, you made it sound like. Oh, it couldn't have gone more perfectly."

  "Well? What was the problem?"

  "What was the problem, Adam? Are you seriously asking me that right now?"

  "Is this angry mommy act going to take long?"

  Her eyes looked like they might just pop out of her head, and Adam thought that would have been perfectly entertaining if they had.

  "Mr. Quinn, if you want me to resign—"

  "I'm only teasing you, Linda. Relax a little, will you? You look like you're going to have a stroke."

  "My blood pressure is high enough," she says, without a hint of irony. "You walked out of that interview feeling confident about it? As if it went well?"

  "Well, I mean. I guess there are various definitions of 'well,' if you want to argue the point."

  Linda presses her fingers hard into her temples and rubs a small circle. Then her hand comes up and jabs a button on the remote, and the TV comes back to life.

  Ellen really does clean up well for television. She's an attractive enough woman—Adam wouldn't kick her out of bed—but there are too many hard edges to her. Too many defining features. Her looks are striking, but they're not strikingly good—just striking. The magic of a professional makeup crew makes all the difference.

  The sound doesn't need to be on to know what she's asking. She's got her best professional face on, which in Ellen's case looks like she's about to stab Adam at the next opportunity she gets.

  He doesn't need to read the captions, either, nor be a gifted lip-reader, to know the question she's asking, because he remembers his reaction to it. A second later, he sees himself lean back and bark out a laugh silently on the muted television. He could still recall, almost to the word, what he said.

  She'd just asked him about his relationship with Sofia, the eldest daughter of the King of Spain. Mostly a figurehead, not a real King. Well, mostly. The only real Kings left are in the Middle East, and you don't get away with having a fling with their daughters.

  He tried to recall the exact question. Something like, 'You've had several romantic interludes with high-profile celebrities; not all of them ended on good terms. Many started on bad terms, with women whose marital status—'

  He'd cut her off then, with the laugh. Sure, she was right. He'd had a few good stories to tell. Then she'd finished her question.

  'As President, what guarantee can you give the American people that trend won't continue, and that your relationship with, for example, King Nicolas, won't be harmed by your past indiscretions?'

  He'd given her the truth, which might have been seen by a politically-minded observer as a mistake. He'd told her that there was no such thing as a guarantee when it came to the future.

  Oh, he'd have promised not to do it again if it would help, but promises don't count for much, and there's no way around it. She knew it, he knew it, everyone knew it. And everyone knew there was no way he could guarantee anything like that.

  There was no way a question like that wasn't going to make the final video package. No way in hell. And of course, it had.

  "I don't see what the pr
oblem is," Adam finally responded, after Linda paused the video and looked at him expectantly for an answer.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when she opened them again none of the anger that she'd been no doubt hoping to reign in had faded in the least.

  "Adam, it's my job to try to keep the public from thinking of you as a loose cannon who can't be trusted with the Presidency. You hired me to do that job."

  "And nothing has changed."

  "If you're going to be going off and saying things like, well, like this, on national television, I don't see how I can."

  Adam looked at her blankly for a long moment, and a scowl slowly soured his face. Yes, that was going to be a problem for her. It shouldn't be, which was what he'd been struggling with all morning.

  It shouldn't be, because her job wasn't to stop him saying something stupid. It was to make sure that he didn't get hurt.

  "I trust you, Linda," he said, with all the emphasis on the right places in the hope that maybe she'd get it.

  "Do you want me to quit? Just let Tom do his thing? I know you'll have plenty of success. He's a brilliant strategist, but—"

  "If I wanted you to quit, Linda, I wouldn't have hired you. Don't make stupid suggestions."

  She took a deep breath and turned and took it the wrong way across back to her little cubby.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The question of secrecy has been one that Adam Quinn has had to worry over many times in his life. So far, however, this political run hasn't been one of those occasions. In fact, it's been an adventure trying to get people to spill his secrets when that was the right move.

  But Tom wanted to meet in a University parking garage, and who was Adam to deny him his little theatrics? No reason to refuse. So he went in spite of his reservations.

  "You alone?"

  "We could have done this at the office, Tom."

  "Don't argue with me," he growled, and Adam shrugged.

  "Alright by me, I guess."

  "Nice interview, by the way."

  "You caught it?"

  "Sure I caught it. Linda was furious?"

  "Well…" Adam shrugs again. "I don't know about furious."

  "Did she threaten to quit? She did, didn't she?"

  "I don't know where you're getting your information, but—"

  "Oh, don't be a wet blanket." Tom leans back against a wall and lets his eyes shut. "You asked her not to, right? Then it's fine."

  "When are you going to tell me why we're meeting separately?"

  "I suppose it's about Linda, more or less."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I don't know how to work with her. We're working cross-purposes most of the time. What she wants is for things to stay quiet. What I want is for them to get wilder."

  "So you called me out here because… what? You were nervous about talking to me in front of a girl?"

  Tom barks a laugh. "Sure."

  "Then what did you have to say?"

  "The interview. You pulled that stunt about bagging women. Well, what if we pushed that a little? You get seen out in public with a woman on your arm, a woman you barely even know the name of, and—"

  "And it looks like I'm just as ready as ever to make waves?"

  "Exactly."

  "I don't know if it's time for something like that."

  Tom leans forward, hard. He almost looks surprised. "What's that?"

  "I say we let it simmer a bit before we start making moves again. Let the clock reset."

  "You're kidding."

  Adam's head is already shaking, almost unconsciously. "No, not kidding."

  Tom's expression is hard to read. Then again, it always was. "What's the problem, then?"

  "I told you. We can't be the ones always making moves, and if we are, then the voters—not to mention the press—get tired of it. It loses its effectiveness."

  "But that hasn't happened yet."

  "And I'm not looking for it to." Tom's lips press together hard, and Adam notices. "Just say it."

  "This is about her, isn't it?"

  "Linda?"

  Tom nods.

  "Not about her at all. It's about keeping our heads on straight."

  "But you're thinking about her."

  Quinn's jaw tightens. "No, I'm not, Tom, and if you keep trying to read my mind, and you keep fucking it up this bad, then I'm going to get frustrated with you."

  Tom's smile is grim. "Yeah, I suppose you will."

  "Back off. I know what I'm doing."

  "You hired me to advise you. I'm advising."

  "That's right. I hired you. You're not the one making decisions, I am."

  Tom leans down and grabs the driver's side door handle on a car next to him. It opens with a click.

  "You're absolutely right. But don't lie to yourself. She's getting in your head. If you're alright with that, then you're alright with it. But don't pretend it's not true. I'm not an idiot, Adam. Don't treat me like one."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Maybe, Linda thought, she was over thinking things. Adam had survived everything up to this point. Why wouldn't he be able to get past a little interview?

  He didn't seem to be the least bit worried about it, either. Maybe he knew something she didn't. Most politicians, like anyone who had to guess at the future, were gamblers. They thought they knew how the world worked, but in the end they were just guessing.

  There were a few, though, who defied classification. They were gamblers just like any of their peers, but somehow, over and over, they proved to gamble right. If it's all random chance, there's no such thing as skill, no matter what anyone tells you.

  But when there's a clear pattern, when the same person consistently comes out on top… well, that's a different story altogether. That's a situation where it's undeniably the result of some skill, even if that seems completely impossible.

  Adam Quinn had been one of those figures in the tech world. He'd been one of those in the tumultuous world of television personalities. He'd come out on top of a thousand situations that could have turned bad, like an expert hand kayaking through white water rapids. If he wasn't worried, then she shouldn't be.

  But Adam didn't pay her to make rationalizations about why she didn't need to do her job. Her job was to figure out options to protect the candidate from himself. She didn't get to vacate that responsibility because he was, by all outside indicators, immune to hurting himself.

  So she was sitting at a diner, the sun long-since down, staring at a notebook with scribbled notes. Nothing that would be worth saving so far.

  She could let him do his thing. That was a given, though. Whatever recommendations she gave, Adam would ultimately make the decision. She wrote it down anyways. Writing down ideas is like kick-starting an engine. It might take a half-dozen tries, but eventually the idea engine sputters to life and she'll figure something out.

  He's got to demonstrate that he can make good decisions. Safe decisions. He's got a dangerous edge, and that's good. Not to mention sexy, she added. She didn't write that part down.

  But as much as people were attracted to dangerous ideas, they wanted to know that they weren't personally in danger. They wanted to hedge their bets. Never go all-in, and never go into a room you can't leave again. Look, measure, then leap.

  It was strange, because so few people were able to apply the same standards in their own life. But when it came to making a decision like who to elect to the Presidency, suddenly they made decisions on a thousand little signals that they wouldn't even have been able to explain if you tried to pay them for their insight.

  That, and a thousand things that they would insist had nothing to do with the decision, as well. Like how good-looking the candidate is. How much he looks like someone that's in charge. How much he pays for his suits. How mean they think he probably is.

  Nobody thought Adam Quinn was mean, which was a blessing in and of itself. But hard? Sure. Dangerous? Definitely. He was the picture of dangerous beh
avior. Thrill-seeking, unpredictable… He was one part James Bond, one part Thomas Edison.

  A difficult combination to resist for anyone. Which was exactly his problem. Nobody resisted. Nobody wanted to resist. Hell, he was the one who had to resist. His animal magnetism had already gotten him into plenty of trouble with the sort of people that you don't want to have trouble with.

  As an eccentric billionaire, it was cute. It sold magazines, sold advertising time on the evening news. Because it was a ratings magnet, and that's all it was. Nobody was going to throw their computer out because they didn't like the man selling them.

  People didn't vote for assholes for President. At least, they didn't vote for someone they suspected of being an asshole. Usually, anyone hoping to run for President knows where they can and cannot be an asshole. Adam seemed to be testing where the line was, and that was dangerous.

  So how could he demonstrate that he could keep his snake in his pants? Well, if he publicly turned someone down… that could be something. And it would be newsworthy. But it would look like a publicity stunt. Which might hurt the believability of it, if they weren't careful.

  Then you could give him a reason that he wouldn't. Gay? Not a chance. Nobody would believe it, and it would be a lie.

  Another idea flashed through her head, as the door opened, blowing a cold November wind through the diner. If he were in a relationship… well, it would work.

  Someone settled down on the opposite side of the table from her.

  "You mind if I sit?"

  Tom Delaney rubbed his chin and unzipped his coat before she could respond, and she knew that he wasn't really asking so much as telling. And she knew that she wasn't going to do anything about it.

  "Good," he said, without waiting for an answer. "Because we need to talk."

  Chapter Thirty

  Linda had to admit that he had surprised her by showing up. The second time in two days, now, that he'd done it. He should've kept himself to himself. Both times. But even though she was supposed to be immune to surprises, she'd been getting them fairly consistently since Thursday and it was starting to look like a problem.