"I'm wet for you, Barrett."

"I'm sure you are."

I wrap my arm around Daphne's narrow waist, letting my fingers splay against the red satin fabric covering her body. She moans at the contact, her eyelashes fluttering closed, and her head resting against my shoulder.

"How could I not be? You are so sexy," Daphne purrs, grabbing the lapels of my jacket and trying to jerk me towards her. "Please, Mayor Landry. Fuck me."

Squeezing her hips to hold her steady, I'm afraid she's going to get sick before I can get her out of here.

"Take me home with you, sugar. Take me to the bathroom for all I care, just take me," Daphne thinks she whispers as I guide her to the foyer of the Savannah Room.

Her not-so-quiet request gains the attention of the men in suits lining the marble walls. They look at us, the Mayor of Savannah and the daughter of a United States Senator, over their tumblers of gin. A few crack a grin, but most just nod and turn back to their discussions about oil or the stock market.

Not one man with the requisite American flag pin on his suit jacket is appalled. This may be the South, where people like to think it's all gentility and manners, but it's also politics, and it has its own code of conduct that morality has no place in. Politics equals power, but it also equals fortune, a bit of fame, and a lot of pussy, and these men take full advantage of it all.

And so have I.

But these days, with the gubernatorial election on the horizon and my campaign numbers strong but not enough to make me a shoo-in, I have been more selective in my extracurricular activities. My eligible bachelor title earlier this year, along with some pesky pictures of me with a couple of models at a party in Atlanta, didn’t help my campaign. My adversary, a bastard named Homer Hobbs, has taken the angle that I’m just some spoiled little rich kid that can’t be trusted with the keys to the Governor’s Mansion. That’s one angle. There are others.

“Are you coming home with me?” Daphne slurs against my shoulder.

“You know I can’t do that,” I say, pausing while she catches her balance. “I have to stay here and entertain the masses.”

She giggles. “Why don’t you come entertain my ass instead?”

Fighting to hide my frustration, I hurry her along as best I can towards the exit.

“So many people came to see you,” she gushes.

“Let’s hope that translates to votes.”

“You need my daddy’s vote, Barrett?”

Her tone, a babyish whimper, makes me roll my eyes. I know exactly what she’s on her way to pointing out.

Yeah, I’ve fucked her and I’m not saying I won’t replay that. But I’m not fucking her tonight for her daddy’s endorsement. It wouldn’t be a sexual transaction tonight; it would be an implication of power, of necessity, and I’m not about to step into that.

The oversized door is pushed open by a man in a green-vested suit. He tips his hat. "Mr. Mayor, may I summon your ride?"

"No, thank you, I'll be staying for a while. Can you please see that Ms. Monroe gets home safely?"

I slide my arm from around her waist and watch her teeter on her heels. Her black hair is a mess, her dress wrinkled and clinging haphazardly to her body. She's starting to nod off, and I'm embarrassed for her. The daughter of Miles Monroe, she should know better than to publicly embarrass her family. It's the political Golden Rule, a rule that's simply not broken without severe consequences.

I slide a hundred dollar bill into the valet's palm. "Please get her out of here immediately."

"No problem, sir. I have a car waiting. Anything else?"

"That'll be all."

I turn on my heel to see my father across the hall. He winks, running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and excuses himself from the conversation that's taking place around him.

He falls in step beside me as I make my way into the banquet. I spy my mother, Vivian Landry, in conversation with a judge on the Georgia Supreme Court.

"Nice move, son," Dad drawls, patting me on the shoulder as we walk. "We're going to need Monroe’s support. Your numbers are solid, but Monroe's endorsement would make sure you win. That precinct—"

"I know, Dad."

He shakes his head. "I know you know. I'm just saying I know he'll be appreciative of you getting her out of here. What in the hell was she thinking?”

I shrug, scanning the activity in the room. "I don't know what she was thinking, but I also don't know who let her drink that much," I say, turning my back to my father. It never ceases to amaze me how callous he can be about this entire process.

"Whoever it was just did you a favor, son.”

"Well, I could use a few more favors. Hobbs is doing more damage with his accusations than I dreamed. Did you see the interview today?"

My father cringes. "Yes."

"He pulled up those pics from Atlanta. Again.”

"It's just politics, Barrett. Propaganda."

"Fuck propaganda," I bite out.

Wrapping my hand over the back of my neck, I try to work out some of the tension. The last bit of an election is always tough—mentally and physically. Everyone warned me as I went up the ranks that it would just get harder, more vicious. I thought I was prepared. I thought wrong.

I wake up every day wondering what will be said about me in the media. I have to watch what I say, what I do, rethink every breath that comes out of my mouth because the wrong word to the wrong person can all be twisted. And you can trust essentially no one.

It’s a constant state of defense and it’s starting to wear on me a bit. Or a lot. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it.

This is my dream. I keep reminding myself of that.

“Don’t look like that, Barrett.”

“Like what, Dad? Like I’m tired of the bullshit? Like I just want to be able to speak freely, grab a cup of coffee, crack some jokes without worrying about who will spin it a hundred ways from Sunday?”

“You’re in the big leagues now. This isn’t a local election. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot I can do for you like I can down here. You have to play the game.”

"I’m trying to play the game, Dad, but I’m playing with people who have no rules. How could he support Hobbs anyway?" I ask, declining a glass of champagne.

"He'll support Hobbs if he's going to win.” Dad takes a sip of his drink. “And Hobbs has already said he’ll vote against the Land Bill.”

I stop in my tracks and turn to face my father. The bill in question is one of the hottest areas of contention in this election. It would take a large swath of property near Savannah and convert it into a commercial zone. It would trigger construction, create jobs, create affordable housing, increase revenue. All in all, it’s a win ... except for the landholders who just so happen to be old money families, like mine and Monroe’s.

And apparently I’m the only person that thinks the rich, like me, getting richer at the expense of the poor is a bad idea.

“I’m not ready to commit one way or the other on that,” I say to my dad, not wanting to go into it again.

“I’m just telling you—if you’d just throw your weight against it, it would make this Monroe matter much simpler.”

“So you think I should support it because our family stands to make more money if it doesn’t pass? Funny, Dad, that’s not what I thought I was being elected to do.”

He chuckles, the gravel in his tone letting me know he’s not pleased. He’s also not about to cause a scene. “You won’t be elected at all if you don’t play your cards right. Remember that.”

I give him a look that says all the things my genteel Southern upbringing forbids me to say out loud to my father.

His jaw tenses as he searches my face. “You gotta get your head straight, wrapped around the opportunity in front of you. You can't mess this up now, son. Not when we're this close."

I sigh and scan the room, feeling the incredible weight of all eyes on me. Under normal circumstances, being the center of attention is something I enjoy. It does an ego well to know every female wants you and every male wants to be you. I can’t deny that. But this is not what that is. Not entirely. Half the people in here are deciding what they can get out of me, what favors I can offer them if I get elected and they back me.

Graham catches my eye from across the room. We exchange a look, one that we've exchanged a number of times over our lives.

It was Graham and I when we were younger, walking into our father's office after getting into a skirmish at school. It was the two of us when we came home late and our parents were waiting in the living room as we walked in, half lit. It was the two of us when we wrecked Dad's new Corvette when I was nineteen and Graham seventeen, and had to break the news to the old man that his ‘Vette was wrapped around a tree on the outside of town. Out of all my siblings, it’s Graham that I can count on and, right now, I’m counting on him to get me out of this conversation with our father.

"Hey," I say, exhaling sharply and nodding towards the corner, "I need to talk to Graham for a minute."

"Go ahead. And son, I'm proud of you." He beams with satisfaction. His face, wrinkled from years of politics, running Landry Holdings, and raising six kids, is split into a grin. "So damn proud."

I pat him on the shoulder and turn away.

Grinning at a couple of women, I try to remember if I should know them from somewhere. The one in the white dress looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her. Ignoring the look in their eyes that tells me I could have them both, at the same time, if I prefer, I make my way to my brother.

Graham is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking serious and put together like the Vice President of Landry Holdings should.

"I think it's going well," Graham says as I approach, rocking back on his heels. "As long as you get Monroe on board, I'm pretty sure you're golden."

"I'll get Monroe on board, but I'm probably going to have to fuck Daphne again to make sure," I laugh.

"Oh, I bet it's so hard to stick your cock in that. Damn, brother, I almost feel bad for you."

I shrug, the grin on my face staying put, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time in hours. "I do what must be done for the greater good."

"Such a fool," he says, but I know he's kidding. "Ford sent me an email today. He said he's trying to come home around the election. It can't hurt to have a Landry in uniform standing next to you. Between him and Lincoln, you'll look like an All-American."

"Lincoln was an All-American," I point out about our brother that is currently the center fielder for the Tennessee Arrows.

"True."

"Speaking of our siblings, did you hear from Sienna?" She’s the family wild card, eschewing all things political and Landry-centered for a life as an artist and fashion designer.

Sienna and Camilla are identical twins, but couldn’t be any more different. Camilla is always around, meddling in our business, lending a hand to events or charities when needed. Sienna is usually jet-setting around the world and too busy to check in.

"No. Dad called her earlier and chewed her ass for not being here, I think. Lincoln got a pass because he's training and Ford's excused because he's in the Middle East. But you know Dad doesn’t think painting and designing dresses are really work."

"He could’ve cut her some slack."

I’m cut short by Graham’s smirk. His eyes slide right past me and light up.

"Would either of you like a glass of champagne?" a female voice nearly whispers behind me.

"I'm good," Graham mutters, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "How about you, Barrett?"

I ignore him and let my eyes feast on the curves of the woman in front of me. Her black pants are belted at the waist, her white shirt hugging the bends of her body. She's not overly thin or overly heavy, just a damn-near perfect vision of what a woman should look like.

She has creamy skin and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She tucks a strand of her straw-colored hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. I think she's going to laugh, but she doesn't. Instead, a faint smile ghosts her full lips and she lifts her chin like she has a secret she won’t tell.

Her gaze remains on Graham, almost like she's afraid to look my way. Finally, she turns to me, and when she does, a slight rise in her chest is noticeable as she sucks in a shaky breath.

I grin.

Her eyes are a deep blue. The color is stormy, swirling, moving like a shield between us.

"Would you, sir?" she asks, taking a half a step backwards.

"Would I what?" I press, enjoying the way her cheeks turn pink in the most real way. She’s not reacting to me as part of a calculated plan or trying to endear herself to me for a gain in some way. It’s an experience I haven’t had for a long time and I want to live in it a moment longer.

"Would you like a drink?"

The words topple out of her lips, like she wants to say them and scoot away.

I take a step towards her, watching her beautiful eyes widen. This girl is naturally gorgeous, her features not hidden by a thick layer of make-up. "That depends on what you're offering."

I shouldn't be toying with her, but I can't help it. I want to keep her talking, to watch her reactions.

She wants to get away from me, I can feel it, and I can't help but wonder why. Most women clamor over each other, ready to knife anyone they need to in order to get to me, but this one is trying to run.

"I don't have much to offer," she says, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "Unless you like champagne."

"I like all sorts of things." I keep my gaze heavy against hers, not allowing her to look away. She fidgets with her tray and swallows hard, but never takes her eyes off mine like she’s too defiant to look away. The longer our gazes match, the hotter my body becomes.

She licks her bottom lip slowly, her heated gaze boring into mine. "Is that so?"

Graham chuckles beside me and I watch her jump, like she forgot he was there. She clears her throat and glances around the room.

She turns back to us again, this time a practiced smile on her face. The easy grin and whispery laugh are both gone. This is the reaction I'm used to seeing on everyone, giving me what I want to see, and I hate it on her.

"Gentlemen ..." With a nod, she walks away as fast as she can. She doesn't look back, but I watch her until she's out of sight.

"You're the fucking mayor," Graham snickers, loosening his green silk tie.

"I bet she'd like to be fucking the mayor." I raise my eyebrows, and my brother laughs louder.

"Do you have any class whatsoever?"

"What? I like the look of her."

"Which ones do you not like the look of?"

"I’ll let you know when I find one.”

He quirks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing the role of the good candidate, being serious about all the things that matter?”

“Now, Graham,” I chide teasingly, “are you saying her vote is less important than anyone else’s?”

He shakes his head and pulls out his ringing phone. “You should be worried about her vote, not the way your balls sound bouncing off her ass. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

I laugh as he exits through a side door and leaves me standing alone. Looking around the bustling room, I search for the blonde beauty.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know without looking that it's Daphne, offering herself up again for the night. She may even dip as far as playing the lonely princess card. I don't even bother looking, just stick my hand in my pocket and push buttons on the side until I'm sure it's off. She'll keep calling, but I won’t be answering. On a good day she’s borderline clingy after a fuck. When she’s drunk, it’s only worse.

I scan the room again, but only see the usual faces. Paulina, a friend of my mother's that I've slept with a handful of times, gives me a blatant smile. I pretend like I don't see her. All I want to see is the waitress that wants nothing to do with me. And she's nowhere to be seen.