Vaughn's Pride: California Cowboys

by Selena Laurence

  “Normal” meant she surrounded herself with friends who didn’t ask questions and accepted her for who she said she was. She left work at the hotel door, and lived the quiet, upscale days of a woman with money in her off-hours. She had a house in a highly respectable neighborhood, she casually dated respectable men on occasion, and had highly respectable friends like Joanna, who was currently standing on London’s front stoop waiting for her.

  London exited the cab and thanked God she’d had the chance to freshen up so that she didn’t look like she was doing the walk of shame at 11:30 in the morning.

  “Hi!” Joanna called out cheerfully, smoothing her silk Alexander McQueen skirt as she wiggled on high-heeled Prada pumps.

  “What brings you out before noon?” London joked as she put the key in her front door and ushered Joanna inside.

  Jo flipped a strand of perfectly coiffed auburn hair over her shoulder and batted YSL-coated lashes, her big brown eyes sparkling with the mischief that they typically were. “I was at the salon around the corner and wondered if you might be willing to exchange lunch for decorating advice.”

  Normally London would be happy with an afternoon watching Joanna spend her husband’s money on knick-knacks, but the encounter with Derek Ambrose had left her disoriented and dissatisfied somehow. Yes, she’d learned to accept the life choices she’d made since she left home at seventeen, but something about the way he’d looked at her had made regret blossom inside. Now she knew she had to kill it off—fast—before it took root, choking off her ability to reach that space in her mind where she was able to be London the hooker, rather than London the society girl.

  “Could we do it next week? I’ve spent all morning running errands and I’m so worn out. I almost wonder if I’m coming down with something.”

  Joanna set her Kate Spade bag down on the foyer table and put her hand to London’s forehead. “You do look a little peaked. Why don’t you lie down and I’ll get you some water. Do you have a headache?”

  “No. Just tired and cranky.”

  “Maybe it’s PMS?”

  “Maybe,” London answered non-committally as she walked to the front living room and collapsed on the sofa.

  Joanna returned with a glass of ice water and London welcomed the distraction for a moment as she drank half of it down.

  “You’ll never believe who I met last night,” Joanna gushed after she sat in an armchair near the sofa.

  “I’m sure I won’t, so spit it out.”

  Joanna stuck out her tongue before continuing. “Senator Melville and his wife.”

  London’s heart skipped a quick beat then settled back to its normal rhythm.

  “What’s so special about him?” she muttered into her water glass.

  “The rumors are that he’s running for president, and Brian’s going to support him if he does. With the kind of resources Brian’s firm can throw behind Melville, we’re thinking the thank you might include a minor cabinet appointment or a diplomatic posting.”

  London always feigned ignorance of all things political, and it drove Joanna’s husband, Brian, insane. He worked for one of the largest law firms in D.C. and spent much of his time on the Hill lobbying for various clients. His goal was to be Secretary of State someday.

  “So when do you find out if he’s announcing?”

  Joanna looked at the Cartier bracelet on her wrist that had a small clock in the center. “Actually, he’s supposed to hold a press conference in just a few minutes. Mind if I turn on your TV?”

  London gestured at the flat screen on the wall over the mantle. “Be my guest.”

  Joanna took the remote from the coffee table and turned the television to WNN. “Oh look! Here it is.”

  Jason Melville’s handsome face filled the screen and London saw the flashes of cameras and heard the shouted questions that reporters tossed from the audience. Melville’s words were smooth and polished, just like his appearance. He was flanked by his wife, Angela Vandermeer Melville, his two preschoolers, and his parents, the owners of Melville Industries.

  But it was the man standing at the back corner of the stage that captured London’s attention. He stood taller than the Senator, and was even better looking. His hair was tousled, but not in an artificial way like Melville’s. The dark blonde locks were cropped close on the sides, but longer on top, and had enough wave that London suspected they were impossible to tame.

  His broad shoulders and narrow waist were emphasized by the perfect cut of his suit, but his tie was askew, as if he’d been yanking on it, and his body hummed with a kind of restless energy visible even on camera. As Melville gestured around the stage, talking about supporters and advisors, the camera zoomed in, and London got a split second close-up of those eyes. The icy blue eyes that had stared her down not two hours ago in a bedroom of the Renaissance Hotel. Coupled with the hard-as-steel jaw, those eyes were intimidating. But then everything about Derek Ambrose was intimidating. And sexy. Really damn sexy.

  “Oh look,” Joanna breathed as she watched the screen raptly. “There’s Derek Ambrose, he must be Melville’s campaign consultant. Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

  London scoffed. “If you like them big and mean, I guess?”

  “How do you know he’s mean? Ooh, have you met him?” She turned to face London, her face lit up with excitement.

  “Just look at him. Look at his expression. That is not the face of a nice guy.” London nodded her head as if it would give her statement more weight.

  Joanna pondered the screen for a moment. “I suppose you’re right. Melville seems a lot more approachable. And he might even be better-looking anyway.”

  London wished she could agree.

  “Oh. Here we go,” Joanna said, turning up the volume.

  “So it is with great pleasure,” Melville spoke into the microphones set before him, “that I officially announce my candidacy for President of the United States.”

  The various hangers-on and hired guns on stage clapped loudly and Joanna squealed with excitement.

  “He’s doing it, he’s going to run.” She turned to London. “You have no idea how this is going to change Brian’s career. He can go from being a minion at the law firm to being a power broker on the Hill. You have to promise me you’ll vote for Melville.”

  London tried not to sigh. “I don’t vote. You know this.”

  Joanna made a face in exasperation. “London, seriously, you can’t keep living in D.C. and be so incredibly blasé about our nation’s governance.”

  “Like you care who wins? The only thing that matters to you is whether Brian gets to be Ambassador to some small exotic island where you can lie by a pool all day and be fanned by native boys.”

  Joanna laughed and London softened the words with a grin.

  “That is patently untrue,” Joanna said, turning serious—at least for her. “I care a great deal about who runs this country, and I think Senator Melville would make an excellent president. He’s young and creative, he’s sponsored some of the most important legislation protecting women and children that we’ve seen in decades, and he seems very devoted to his wife and family. Doesn’t that sound like the kind of man you want as president?”

  It took everything London had not to fall on the floor laughing. Melville was young all right. That’s about all London was willing to give him at the moment.

  London cleared her throat. “Well, I hope he wins—for Brian’s sake at least.”

  “So you’ll think about voting for him? Maybe you could even get involved in the campaign a bit. You are registered so you can vote in the primaries, right? Please tell me you didn’t go and do something dumb like put yourself down as an independent.”

  London took another sip of water before answering. “I’m registered. And for the right party even.”

  “Oh thank God. I didn’t want to have to unfriend you after all the effort I’ve put in.” Joanna winked and stood. “I really should go, Brian is going t
o want to talk about the campaign tonight, and I need to have the furniture for the solarium picked out by the time he comes home so that he’ll be too distracted to notice the prices.”

  London smiled. “You’re a devious one, Joanna Russell.”

  “That I am.”

  After Joanna left, London turned her attention back to the television screen, watching the last of the press conference play out. As the camera panned around the stage while Melville answered the final questions from reporters, it stalled on Derek, his face stony, his expression unreadable, and then just before it moved on, he cracked. His eyes flashed fire and his mouth twitched, those full lips pursing briefly. As London watched, rapt, she could have sworn he was looking right at her. And burning her alive while he did it.

  Derek Ambrose was the nation’s leading campaign consultant. Blessed with the looks and persona that could easily have made him a candidate himself, he’d chosen life on the inside of the political world, but that didn’t stop him from being a star in his party, known by the public, often the public face of campaigns, and a darling of the media. When Derek spoke, America listened, and when he posed, they watched. He actually preferred pulling the strings from behind the scenes, but he’d long ago become accustomed to the attention, and used it to his benefit when necessary. Because in Washington you needed every advantage you could get, and Derek wasn’t shy about finding his own advantages.

  Several hours after Melville’s announcement, Derek dropped his jacket and briefcase on the sofa as he entered the large lounge of a studio apartment in the heart of downtown D.C. It contained all the classic elements of a man cave—sectional sofas, pool table, fully stocked bar, big screen TV—and it served as the headquarters for the Powerplay Club.

  The Powerplay club was one of the best-kept secrets in Washington. Formed by Derek and his college classmate Kamal Masri, the son of a wealthy Egyptian businessman and currently the Egyptian Ambassador to the U.S., the club’s members had been chosen carefully and consciously. Each of the six had a position in a different area of Washington’s elite, and each brought unique knowledge and insight to the club. The club’s objective was to garner power and influence for its members, and Derek had known that together they stood a far better chance of reaching the top of the D.C. dog pile than they did alone.

  The club operated with very few rules. Each member had his special connections and skills, the others would call on them as needed. Derek was a mastermind who could strategize better than anyone in the District. Kamal had connections—legal ones and not so legal ones—who could get intelligence on virtually anything or anyone. Teague Roberts handled all their legal issues from criminal to contracts. Other members had their own skills and resources, and they all benefited from the association.

  One of the club’s biggest pushes had been to find a presidential candidate they could support, nurture, and place in office. The inside track to the President of the United States was a goal that all of the Powerplay members shared, and one that would give them unprecedented influence. While Derek had personally known every U.S. President for the last decade, he’d never been the campaign manager for any of them. He’d grown tired of waiting to be invited and decided to recruit his own candidate.

  By joint agreement the club had settled on Jason Melville, second term Senator from Pennsylvania, and up and coming party favorite. The Powerplay members had been impressed with his leadership on the Senate Foreign Affairs committee, his spotless personal life, and his willingness to listen to their objectives while still standing strong in his positions. It didn’t hurt that Melville was dedicated to working for some of the issues closest to Derek’s heart—women, children, and workers’ rights. Melville was widely known as being one of the hardest-working members of the Senate. He was serious about the issues, and about his part in effecting real change in Washington.

  But given what Derek had seen of the Senator earlier in the day, perhaps his workaholic tendencies needed some tempering—in a way other than sex with a hooker. Now Derek was faced with telling his closest friends and confidants that their chosen one was tarnished so badly the whole effort might have been a waste of time.

  Kamal, and Jeff, a U.S. Army Colonel and the group’s security specialist, had beat Derek to the club condo, and were arguing at the pool table as he approached.

  “I did not tap it twice,” Jeff rumbled. “It was a clean shot, you just can’t stand to lose.”

  Kamal shook his head of dark hair. He needed a haircut, Derek thought. What the hell kind of Ambassador let his hair curl up over the collar of his shirt?

  “You clearly tapped it twice. But since you’re afraid I’ll win unless you cheat, then we’ll call it good and move on.”

  Derek reached the table, watching as Jeff shook his head and pursed his lips. Kamal had a spark in his eyes that was a clear indication he was in a trouble-making mood. Something that rarely bode well for anyone.

  “Is this how you handle delicate international negotiations?” Derek queried. “Tell them they get the win because they’re pussies?”

  Kamal laughed heartily. “Yes, telling the diplomatic staff of opposing nations that they’re pussies—as you so eloquently put it—is a highly effective strategy. I think in fact that’s how World War II started, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re a dick,” Jeff answered with no real heat from where he now lounged against the bar, a tumbler of scotch in hand.

  “Ah, but I’ve been told it’s one of my more popular features.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes and Derek stared at Kamal with disdain.

  “It’s true,” a voice boomed from the front door of the apartment. “I was with him at the Stageline Club last week and the blonde on his lap was very complimentary of his dickliness.”

  “That’s not a word, Teague,” Derek answered, turning to watch the dapper, imposing figure approach.

  “How are you?” Teague asked as he reached the pool table and gave Derek a hard slap on the back.

  “I’ve been better,” Derek grumbled.

  “This ought to be your moment of triumph,” Teague said. Derek could see the high-powered litigator in him laying in wait just under the surface, ready to do battle with anyone or anything that might have fucked up Derek’s day. Teague hadn’t made it to full partner at one of the most powerful law firms in the nation by being quiet and compromising. Unfortunately, they were all hamstrung when it came to Jason Melville. They’d chosen him, and now they had to live with the consequences.

  “Did you catch the press conference today?”

  All three of the other men around the pool table nodded.

  “Well, the part you didn’t see was when I caught our candidate about to fuck a hooker two hours before that.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Teague muttered.

  “Bloody fool,” Kamal added, tossing his pool cue on the table in disgust.

  Jeff merely snorted. Everyone there knew what he thought of politicians.

  “I did clean up as best I could. The woman is apparently known for her discretion, but I wonder how many presidential contenders she’s had as clients. I doubt she’s dealt with this level of shit before now.”

  “Who is she?” Teague asked.

  Derek reached into his briefcase on the sofa and picked up his tablet swiping at the screen quickly to pull up the report his top-notch investigations team had put together over the last few hours of the day. In Derek’s line of work, having highly capable and highly discreet P.I.s at your beck and call was essential.

  “London Sharpe. She’s been with Double D Escorts for the last eight years, and before that it appears she was an exotic dancer at the Beltway Club.”

  “So high-end all the way,” Kamal added.

  “Yes. She’s a damn grand an hour.”

  “Whooo,” Teague shook his hand out and whistled.

  “And before the Beltway Club?” Jeff asked.

  “There are a couple of years missing in her late teens. She’s the daughter of a Middle E
astern linguistics professor at Georgetown. Father unknown.”

  “What’s the mother’s name?” Kamal demanded, extra alert now.

  Derek scrolled through the report he’d been emailed by his in-house investigation team. “Farrah Amid. Iranian dissident who claimed political asylum when the daughter was about two.”

  Kamal nodded. “Persian. A lot of highly educated women in Iran. I can’t imagine her mother is too pleased with the daughter’s choice of profession.”

  “So was she a runaway teen?” Jeff interjected.

  “What makes you think that?” Derek asked, something about the idea of the beautiful fiery woman being young and alone twisting his stomach.

  “There are years missing right around the time she’s what, seventeen? Eighteen?”

  Derek looked at the screen. “Yeah, last adolescent record is first semester of her senior year in high school. She would have been…seventeen.”

  Jeff nodded. “And she turns back up when?”

  “At twenty.”

  Teague looked at Jeff and some understanding seemed to pass between the two men. Jeff’s childhood had been spent in the rural south, while Teague’s was in a New York City housing project. But both men had clawed their way to the top of their respective fields, and they’d both seen a lot of the darker side of life before they got there.

  “My guess is that’s as long as she could make it before she had to turn to stripping and prostitution to survive,” Teague said quietly.

  Derek’s gut clenched. There was a vast difference between a confident, beautiful woman choosing to become an escort and a scared, hungry teen turning to prostitution in order to eat. He didn’t like either scenario personally, but only the latter made him physically nauseous.

  “Luckily she landed in the classier places,” Kamal added. “Could have been worse.”

  “She said something to me this morning,” Derek said. “She said, ‘I have complete control over my life. Don’t pity me.’ It sounded so much more like it was a choice than the picture you’re painting.”

  Teague shrugged. “Sometimes it helps to convince yourself of that.”