Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “What?” The woman shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You gave me a check from the Bigelow Foundation.”

  Kristi raised her brows. “So?”

  “Isn’t that his charitable organization?”

  “Yes, of course.” She seemed unconcerned.

  “Then I don’t underst—”

  “It’s fine.” The assistant bent back over her phone in response to the ding of a text. “That’s how it’s done. Don’t worry. And if you need any help removing everything from this room in the next five minutes, please let me know.”

  Jenny corralled her cart and heeded the clear dismissal, despite her confusion. But once she reached her own room—not a penthouse suite, but equally gaudy and uncomfortable in its own way—and set aside her burdens, she unearthed her tablet for some research.

  After a couple of minutes spent Googling, she knew only one thing for certain: Just as she’d thought—and just as Kristi had confirmed—the Bigelow Foundation was indeed a charitable organization, and it claimed to give money to the sick and needy worldwide.

  For all Jenny’s problems, she didn’t qualify as either. So why had he paid her with a check from his foundation?

  The whole situation was very odd, and very much outside her areas of expertise.

  Was it illegal for Bigelow to use his foundation’s funds, money donated by others in the belief it would go to the world’s most vulnerable citizens, to pay for two portraits of himself? Or just unethical? How many other times had something like this happened?

  The edges of the check bent as she fiddled with them.

  If she were smart, she’d forget the whole issue and hightail it to the nearest bank. Her pitiful checking account needed an influx of cash, stat. And with a decent payday finally in her near future, she should keep her head down and paint Napoleon portraits until her fingers cramped around her brushes and the turpentine fumes made her hallucinate diminutive, tiny-cocked French dictators.

  She couldn’t even say for sure whether Bigelow had broken the law. God knew, she didn’t understand the financial regulations governing charities.

  A pragmatic woman would cash the check and ignore her qualms.

  Jenny bit her lip and studied that tempting, damning check for another moment. Then, with an effort, she pushed it across the coffee table.

  Screw it. A pragmatic woman wouldn’t have gone to fucking art school. And pragmatic or not, she needed her damn health insurance, as well as a government not controlled by the most venal, self-obsessed, hateful politician she’d ever seen. Which was saying something.

  If Bigelow was breaking the law, the public should know before the election in November. Especially since, to her horror, he appeared to be within striking distance of the presidency.

  She needed to alert the press. Somehow.

  The candidate had weathered a staggering amount of scandal already, true. But…maybe this story. Maybe this incident. Maybe the way he was snatching sustenance from the mouths of the needy to feed his own ego would sway public opinion once and for all.

  She didn’t want to advertise her current paintings or her current job to a national audience. But surely she wouldn’t have to reveal her identity to tell her tale. Reporters used anonymous sources all the time, right? And someone should really look into the Bigelow Foundation, using her check as an entrance into the subject. Someone should pull that lone, loose thread and see what else unraveled.

  That unraveling would prove a bigger story than one down-on-her-luck portrait artist. She was sure of it.

  But who would listen to her? Who would tug on that thread until the entire skein of Bigelow’s lies frayed and fell to pieces?

  Redi’s a nasty piece of work, he’d said.

  David Redi. She recognized the name. He’d been covering the Bigelow campaign for months now on behalf of the Washington Chronicle, addressing every scandal with dogged tenacity, keen intelligence, and calm good sense no matter how much abuse Bigelow and his acolytes offered him.

  She also remembered his face. For a print journalist, Redi knew how to rock a cheap suit and dark-framed glasses. If she’d been painting that visage, that subject, she wouldn’t have rushed her initial sketches. She wouldn’t have bothered with withered mushrooms. She’d have laid him on a couch and explored all the bright colors that comprised such a glorious man.

  That rich brown skin tinged with gold in the sunlight. The way fluorescent light danced among the short black twists of his hair, tinting them blue. The pink tones she’d add to his generous mouth, with its characteristic wry smile.

  Her fingers twitched, hungry to paint him.

  Yes, he was the journalist to contact for so many reasons, some more laudable than others. But doing so while lodged in Bigelow’s figurative gullet didn’t feel right.

  She walked down the endless hall to the elevator, her cell and key card in her coveralls pocket. The glass enclosure whooshed downward in a nauseating rush, and its doors opened to the lobby. The entrance to the hotel lay across an endless expanse of gold-veined marble, the slabs punctuated by inlaid initials. LVB.

  Then crisp fall air washed over her at last, and she strode away from the revolving door and the valet guys and the polite doormen. She navigated to Twitter on her phone and found David Redi’s account. He’d pinned instructions for contacting him at the Chronicle.

  The message only took a minute to type.

  Dear Mr. Redi:

  * * *

  I’d like to keep my name out of the news, but I know that Larry Bigelow is using his foundation’s funds for non-charitable causes. Please contact me at this e-mail address if you’re interested in more information.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Jenny Meyers

  There. She’d done her part. The rest was up to him.

  And if she was just a bit too excited to do her civic duty, no one but her had to know.

  2

  David had never, not once in his life, encountered a human Muppet.

  But there she was, waiting in the lobby of Bigelow Tower as she’d promised, golden brown curls dancing around her face. She was scanning the crowds, her head tilted and her brow creased in concentration as she bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

  No attempt to appear calm. No pretense of sophisticated detachment.

  Interesting.

  The open neck of her paint-splattered olive coveralls revealed a white tank top and a hint of pale cleavage. Battered Chucks—also covered with drips of colorful paint—peeked out beneath the frayed hem of those coveralls.

  As that oddly distracting cleavage indicated, she was clearly a human adult. But at first glance, she appeared to have no sharp edges to her, despite her slim frame. And all her features seemed just a bit too big to fit that expressive face.

  A Muppet. Definitely a Muppet.

  A wide, guileless smile plumped her cheeks as she caught sight of him, and she waved with great enthusiasm. Apparently, his ball cap and casual outfit had only served to disguise him from the doormen directed to eject him from the premises. He hadn’t fooled her for a moment.

  No doubt her artist’s eye helped in such matters.

  “Hey!” She rushed in his direction. “Mr. R—”

  He held up a staying hand, tilting his head toward the nearest hotel employee. “Let’s talk somewhere else. Somewhere more private.”

  Her pale blue eyes rounded into absurdly huge, bright orbs. “Of course. Let’s go to my room.” She wrinkled her nose, looking apologetic. “I wish we could meet outside the hotel, given the situation. But I got another Artify Yourself! commission this afternoon, and I need every spare minute to paint. No time for going somewhere else.”

  As far as he knew, guest suites in Bigelow Tower weren’t surveilled in any way. Still, meeting in her room seemed…intimate. More than he’d anticipated. Maybe more than was wise.

  “Are you sure? We can go to a nearby restaurant, or—”

  She fro
wned. “You haven’t eaten? It’s almost nine at night.”

  “No, but I’m fi—”

  “We’ll get room service.” She nodded to herself, grabbed his arm, and began towing him to the elevator. “That’s the quickest way to get you fed.”

  More paint on her fingers. He shouldn’t find those splotches of pink and green and yellow as charming as he did. And he definitely shouldn’t feel the imprint of each fingertip against his arm on a cellular level. Like she was changing his DNA with a single touch.

  He didn’t manage to gather his thoughts enough to speak again until the elevator doors were closing on them. “Let me show you some identification before you take me to your room.”

  She shook her head while he fumbled in his messenger bag for his wallet. “I know you.”

  Did she? At the moment, he wasn’t entirely certain he knew himself.

  “Still,” he said. “For safety’s sake.”

  He showed her his badge from the Chronicle, and she took it from his hand. Not to compare the picture on it to his face, which was still shadowed beneath his ball cap. But to critique his identification photo, of all things.

  “They had you standing in an awkward position.” One of those short, stained fingernails tapped against the picture. “You can see the tension in your neck. And the lighting…” She tsked. “That’s not doing anyone any favors. As handsome as you are, even a simple ID photo should make people slip in their own puddles of drool.”

  Heat rose in his cheeks. Shit, when was the last time he’d blushed?

  Had he ever blushed?

  He cleared his throat and retreated to the familiar safety of his work. “Thank you for meeting me tonight. I apologize for not being able to arrive sooner.”

  “No problem. You were busy. First you had a meeting with…him.” Her nose wrinkled. “And then I guess you probably had to write your article about the interview.”

  He dipped his chin, considering the extent of her knowledge. Yes, she’d clearly had some recent contact with Bigelow. Only the man, his closest advisors, David, and David’s editor had known about that meeting beforehand.

  “You discussed the interview with him?”

  Those enormous eyes rolled to the ceiling. “He mentioned it, but we didn’t discuss it. Do I seem like the sort of person who’d strike up casual conversation with a man who wants to strip away my healthcare and deport my friends?”

  The doors opened on the floor she’d chosen, and she led the way down the lengthy hall.

  “I don’t know.” He kept his voice neutral. “Are you?”

  Her long stride turned into more of a stomp. “Rude.”

  “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I need to know—”

  “I thought you wanted privacy for this conversation.” She swiped her key card against a door’s sensor, and it flashed green. “Or did you forget?”

  She sounded pleased by the notion. And goddammit, she wasn’t wrong. He had forgotten, and a hotel hallway wasn’t the place for this discussion.

  How had she thrown him off his game so quickly after a decade and a half at the Chronicle? He’d interviewed difficult people before. Hell, he’d done so mere hours ago. But even Bigelow’s bluster hadn’t shaken him the way Jenny Meyers’s breezy disposition did.

  “You’re right.” Over the years, that two-word sentence had ceased clinging quite so hard to his throat. It never got easy to say, but a man of almost forty either had to acknowledge his mistakes or risk remaining a boy in a man’s body. “Thank you for the reminder.”

  She held the door for him. “After you.”

  The barrier closed behind them with a quiet snick, and he took his time scanning her room. He couldn’t suppress a small smile at the sight.

  Books everywhere. Some sort of bouncy, guitar-driven music playing on the clock radio. An occasional item of clothing tossed over a chair or table. Tarps on the floor. A folding easel and two canvases turned toward the wall. What appeared to be her painting supplies, including various cups filled with a million different, brilliant shades of purple and pink and green and blue and yellow and every other color under the sun.

  She didn’t belong in this generic room, full of gilt trappings over standard hotel conveniences. He could see her in a loft with four roommates, or in a carnival of some sort. Hell, he could see her on a farm better than he could see her here, surrounded by the pretense of luxury.

  If she was an associate of Bigelow’s, David would tear up his Harvard diploma.

  But she’d been in close contact with the candidate in recent days, and he needed to know why. Needed to know what she’d learned and why she suspected the Bigelow Foundation of illegal dealings.

  After slipping off her Chucks, she plopped down on the couch and arranged herself cross-legged on the cushion. Looking up at him, she beamed again and patted the seat next to her.

  He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

  But, helpless to resist the welcome in her eyes—Christ, those eyes. Had she stolen them from a cartoon princess? Because really, what the actual fuck?—he put his messenger bag on the floor, removed his cap, and settled next to her. Not touching, but close enough to do so easily if he chose.

  Which he wouldn’t. He definitely wouldn’t.

  “Here you go.” She pressed a menu into his hands. “Meal’s on me. Or, more accurately, Bigelow, since he’s paying my expenses.”

  He kept his eyes on the cream-colored paper for a minute, but he wasn’t reading.

  Had he mistaken the situation? Bigelow was known for his roving eye, but the women with whom he’d dallied in the past hadn’t resembled Jenny. Not in any way.

  Time to act like the professional he’d been up until about ten minutes ago.

  He set aside the menu and produced his iPhone from his pocket. “I’m going to record this conversation. Is that all right?”

  “Ummm…” She stared down at the device, deep lines appearing between her brows. “Nope. Not all right.”

  “Okay.” He put the phone down on the table in front of them. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I want our chat off the record. Is that possible?”

  Possible, but far from optimal. “Yes. Although I may try to persuade you to change your mind.”

  The frown promptly vanished. “Really? That sounds exciting.”

  He closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

  “Mr. Redi? David? Are you okay?” Her warm hand skimmed his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

  But he was. Incredibly, he was.

  “Maybe you just need a standard grilled chicken sandwich that costs thirty-five dollars and comes in a monogrammed gold foil wrapper.” She lifted the receiver of a nearby phone and pushed a button. “I can supply that.”

  He took the receiver from her hand as gently as possible and replaced it in the cradle. “I’m fine. Let’s talk first.”

  “Are you sure?” She leaned close, scanning his face. “I don’t want you passing out on me. The Chronicle would probably raise my subscription rate if I let their star reporter swoon from hunger.”

  He tried not to roll his eyes. “I’m not on the verge of swooning. And trust me, I’m no star reporter.”

  “Could have fooled me.” She seemed to be staring at the line of his cheekbone, her gaze intent on that single feature. Picturing how she could paint it? “Your stories are singlehandedly responsible for that subscription I just mentioned. And lots of my friends subscribed because of your work too. The ones who didn’t subscribe just to stare at your byline photo longingly, that is.”

  He licked suddenly dry lips, and her gaze lowered to his mouth.

  Shit. He was in serious trouble.

  Before meeting her, he’d located pictures of her online from a few years back. He should have known what to expect. But somehow, in person, the sheer force of personality that surrounded her like a magnetic field proved overwhelming in a way he hadn’t ever experienced.

  She was beautiful in an entirely unconvention
al way. A long, prominent nose, a high forehead, and those enormous eyes dominated her face. She didn’t have the strongest jawline he’d ever seen, either.

  But by God, he was orbiting her like a lonely electron.

  Countless grueling months of covering the Bigelow campaign had clearly taken their toll on his equilibrium, because no woman had commanded his absolute attention or flustered him like this in years. He couldn’t explain it, and he definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it.

  But he was. And that wasn’t professional of him. Not in the slightest.

  He eased further away from her. “I don’t need dinner, although I appreciate the offer.” His cell phone was still sitting on the table in front of them, and he tapped the screen. “Why don’t you want this conversation recorded?”

  “Those reasons are personal. And they’re not relevant to the information I have for you.” Her chin tipped up. “So do you want that information or not?”

  He wanted to kiss that stubborn mouth until it unpinched and she was beaming at him again. Wanted to replace the wariness in those enormous pale blue eyes with pleasure. Wanted to unzip the front of her coveralls, find the other places paint had splattered on her pale skin, and lick every single spot.

  Above all else, he wanted to forget his job and chase his own happiness.

  But becoming romantically attached to a source with information about Larry Bigelow could destroy his credibility. The scandal-prone, demagogic presidential candidate and his followers hurled accusations of bias at David already, ones tinged with insinuations about how his race affected his reporting.

  He needed to remain above reproach. Squeaky-clean.

  Until ten minutes ago, that had never proven difficult.

  Time to give in and move on. “All right. This conversation is hereby off the record. Tell me how you came to encounter Larry Bigelow, and why you think he’s misusing his foundation’s funds.”

  “It’s kind of a longish story. Let’s get some food.” She handed him the menu again. “There’s a pizza that costs fifty bucks and has inexplicable flecks of gold leaf on the mozzarella. Or a standard burger with the initials LVB seared onto the bun and something called Bigelow’s Special Sauce on it. It’s white and creamy and potentially his sperm, so I’d definitely get that on the side.”