He's America's golden boy. A power broker. A Kingmaker.

She's America's dirty little secret. A sex broker. A scandal maker.

Together they are headline news.

Lies, deceptions.

A Presidency hangs in the balance.

Then, there is the chemistry.

It's combustible, incendiary, explosive.

She.

Will.

Ruin.

Him.

He might not care.

 

This pre-release sample has not been proofread, it may contain minor errors.

 

Chapter 1

He stared at a pair of legs—long and shapely, with dark olive skin that glowed in the low light of the room. They ended in a pair of very strappy stiletto heeled shoes, and toe nails the color of a fine burgundy. Unfortunately, those spectacular legs were currently pressed against a wall while his client—his very married client—mauled the owner of said legs in a swanky hotel suite in southwest D.C.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Derek groaned as he stood in the doorway viewing the clusterfuck that had just exploded all of his plans.

“Unh,” Jason Melville grunted as he stopped ravishing the woman’s neck and raised his eyes to gaze over his shoulder at his very pissed campaign consultant. “Derek,” he gritted out. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Derek slammed the door and strode across the room to glower at Jason and the woman splayed against the wall.

“What exactly is it then, Jason? Because it looks to me like you’re about to screw a woman who is not your wife hours before we’re supposed to announce your candidacy for president of the fucking United States. Did it ever occur to you that she could blow your entire campaign to hell before it even starts?”

Derek’s gaze drifted from Jason’s rapidly reddening face to the brunette he had pinned, hands above her head against the expensive wallpaper. As Jason released her and she straightened her clothes with a huff, Derek could see that the rest of her was as exquisite as her legs. Classic bone structure covered with smooth as silk, flawless skin. Exotic eyes the color of dark chocolate, tipped up at the outside corners, the lashes long and luxurious. And below all of that, a pair of tits that would tempt any president—well, maybe not the current one, since she seemed to swing toward men.

“I’m a professional escort,” she hissed. “And I’ll have you know that I’m very discreet. I would never discuss a client’s business with anyone, whether he’s the president or a janitor.”

Jesus. A hooker? Could it get any worse?

“Look, sweetheart, I’m sure you’re the picture of discretion, but the presidency is not something to risk over a tumble with an escort.” He squeezed out the last word like he could hardly tolerate saying it, and her cheeks turned pink in response, her mouth tightening and eyes narrowing.

Jason exhaled a big breath and stepped further from the brunette.

The woman pursed her plump lips and nudged Jason out of the way before brushing by Derek heading for the bathroom, her perfectly firm and round ass swaying in the pencil skirt that hugged her like a second skin.

Derek whipped around to glower at his candidate who blatantly adjusted himself in his $1000 Armani dress slacks.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Derek snarled. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I’m under a hell of a lot of pressure,” Jason muttered. “And I’m tired of being the only one in DC who doesn’t get to indulge a vice once in a while. I need a goddamn way to relieve the stress.”

Derek walked to the thermostat on the wall and turned on the AC to rid the room of the scent of the hooker’s perfume which was perversely turning him on even in the midst of his anger.

“Well, if this is how you handle your stress, I’m not sure you’re cut out to be president. While indulging a vice as you put it may be commonplace in D.C., it also nearly always ends in scandal that ruins careers. Particularly for a young, good-looking candidate with little kids at home. Do I need to mention Gary Hart and John Edwards to you?”

Jason grabbed his jacket off of the bed. Derek heard the water turn on in the bathroom and wondered exactly how much money he’d have to cough up to make this woman go away, and how long it would be until she came around again wanting more.

“London is known for her discretion,” Jason said as he unrolled his shirtsleeves. “No one will ever find out.”

Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. I’ll stop, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I won’t see her again, and I’ll be a good boy and jack off in the shower instead. God knows Angela’s not going to help me out.” Frustration rolled off the Senator in waves, almost palpable in the re-circulated air of the room.

Derek thought of Jason’s Patrician blonde wife and their two preschool aged children. His stomach churned. Why the fuck did these guys get married if they weren’t going to make the commitment? It wasn’t essential to have a wife in order to be successful in politics these days. He shook off the thoughts and focused on the problem at hand.

“How much?” he asked.

“How much what?” Jason responded, searching for something on the floor next to the bed.

“How much do you normally pay her?”

Jason muttered, “Got it!” in triumph and stood to put on a pair of diamond cufflinks. “London? She’s a grand an hour.” He checked his watch. “And she’s been here about twenty-two minutes.”

Jesus. A grand? The last time he’d gotten laid, Derek had spent fifty bucks on two cocktails, and then taken the pretty young reporter home for a couple of hours before sliding her into a taxi and saying goodnight. Final total? Maybe a hundred dollars. A grand seemed excessive.

“So how much do you think it’s going to take to keep her quiet?” he asked.

Jason ran a hand through his perfectly disheveled dark hair tipped at the temples with the first smatterings of gray—hair dye to lend him more gravitas—and cocked his head at Derek.

“She won’t talk. Really.”

“Bullshit,” Derek answered just as the woman in question emerged from the bathroom looking every inch the respectable wealthy D.C. wife, a perfectly fitted plum-colored business jacket molded to her hourglass figure, her thick hair in an upsweep, and those sexy as hell strappy shoes still attached to her perfect legs.

“I won’t talk,” London repeated, casting him a dismissive look.

Derek turned to her, fury simmering only slightly below the cool as steel façade he’d worked to develop and maintain for fifteen years.

“Look, I’m sure you’re a lovely escort, very trustworthy and all, but you have no idea what kind of investment I’ve made in Jason here. One wrong word, one wrong look, or a secret shared between you and one of your ‘friends,’ and his career as well as mine are shot to hell.”

“I don’t tell secrets to friends or anyone else, and I’ve never looked wrong at someone in my life.” She paused. “So what are you going to do now? Kill me?” Her left eyebrow lifted and he could see the spark of derision in her face.

He rolled his eyes at her. “We’re not on House of Cards, sweetheart,” he answered drolly. “How much will it take to have you leave the country for a few weeks?”

London smirked. “Really? You want to pay me to take a vacation even though I have absolutely no intention of saying anything to anyone ever?” “It’d make me feel better,” Derek answered.

“Fine. I’ve always wanted to do the Bahamas. So, what? Ten? Twenty?” She looked at Jason before striding over and adjusting his tie. Jason’s face lit up and he licked his lips as he looked down at her like a piece of prime grade steak.

Derek’s rage bubbled up threatening to explode. “Senator!” he snapped. “Eyes on me.”

London snorted delicately and stepped away from Derek’s candidate.

“Jesus,” Jason’s face flushed. “Just pay her and get it over with,” he answered before he stepped out of the room swiping the screen of his phone as he went.

Alone in the bedroom, Derek and London stared at each other for a moment, and he swore her uber-confident, devil-may-care exterior cracked briefly.

She moved to the nightstand and gathered her purse before walking to him and holding out her hand. “I don’t care if you give me extra, but I do insist on the grand I earned.”

Derek looked down at her. She was on the tall side for a woman, probably five eight or nine. But he was six two, so she seemed delicate as he stared at her achingly perfect face. She could have been a top model or an actress, and if her snark was any indication probably plenty of professions that required verbal smarts as well. Why was she doing this? Servicing arrogant, careless men who only wanted to have their egos stroked more. Why would such a spectacular woman sell herself so short?

He knew he should pay her and send her on her way, but he was caught in some sort of twilight zone, drawn in by her smart mouth, her resistant attitude, and that damn spicy perfume that floated around her like a tropical flower.

“Why?” he asked, voice soft. “Why do you do it?”

Her eyes turned hard. “I have complete control over my life, Mr. Ambrose. Don’t you dare pity me.”

“You know my name.” Some part of him buried deep sparked with anticipation.

“Everyone knows your name,” she answered.

He clenched his fist and then shook his hand at his side, trying to release the urge to run his fingertips across her satiny cheek.

“You’re not everyone.”

“No I’m not. I’m nobody, and that’s how I wish to stay. Now, will that be cash or--?”

Derek sighed, then removed his phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. “It’s Derek,” he said, never taking his eyes off of London. “I’ll need twenty thousand in cash brought to the Senator’s suite. My personal account please. And make it snappy.”

---

Thirty minutes later London rode in the back of a taxi on the way to her Dupont Circle brownstone. It was still early by Washington standards and she knew she could call in to Margrite, her boss at the agency, and make herself available for another client, but the morning’s dealings had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. And not only because Jason Melville was a boring prick. No, it was Derek Ambrose that had ruined her normally level disposition. The censure that had permeated his face when he looked at her. The way he’d dropped the cash in her hand as if he might catch something if he touched her.

It had been a long time since London had felt the need to justify herself or her profession to anyone. Her work as an escort had begun eight years ago after she’d spent two years as a runaway teen, fighting to make her own way in a world and a city that simply weren’t designed for a minimum-wage earner without a high school diploma. She would never claim the job was easy, but she’d learned to do what she had to in order to earn a very nice living, and still maintain some semblance of a normal life.

“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-commitally as she walked to the front parlor 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 DC 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 blond 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 to 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 DC. 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 US, 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 US 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 worker’s 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 US 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 blond 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 Eastern 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.”

All four men were silent for a moment. Derek knew better than to ask Teague for details about his life prior to the day Teague arrived in DC to attend law school at Georgetown, but he’d gleaned enough over the years to realize that Teague had lived through things most people only saw on television shows like Breaking Bad. If anyone knew what if felt like to be young, alone, and desperate it was Teague.

“Now if only we knew whether she’ll be satisfied with the payoff I gave her…” he muttered.

“She will,” Kamal said with confidence. “Even after she gives the agency their cut she earns a great deal, and she was raised in a culture that highly reveres integrity. Her word is probably as good as gold. You just made her day at work more profitable than usual is all. “ He paused. “How much did you give her anyway?” “Twenty grand.” Derek sighed. He made a very good living, but twenty grand wasn’t chump change, and he’d really been looking forward to having that new Jaguar F-Type parked in his Georgetown garage next month.

“Ouch,” Jeff said, grimacing.

“So we think she’ll keep quiet?” Kamal summarized.

Teague and Jeff nodded.

“And if she doesn’t?” Kamal asked.

“Then we’re fucked,” Derek answered. “And eighteen months of plans are as well.”

No one looked happy at that. The Powerplay club had worked hard to choose Melville. They’d scouted candidates, discussed options, and vetted the Senator very carefully. It was a colossal disappointment to find out he had bad habits they hadn’t discovered prior to his announcement.

“How did this slip by us?” Jeff asked. “There was nothing in his background or profile that indicated he was seeing a hooker.”

“Escort,” Derek interjected halfheartedly.

“Whatever,” Jeff replied.

Teague snorted.

Derek continued, “I don’t know how it slipped by, I’ve talked to our investigators and believe me we’ll be shopping around for some new talent, but in the meantime I do not like someone else holding the cards here.”

“Let me look into options to get us in a better position,” Teague said. “Maybe we can find some sort of leverage to insure she keeps quiet.”

“I’ll ask my contact at the D.C. police department what he can tell us about the escort service too,” Jeff added, running a hand over his buzz cut hair. Even though he’d been assigned to the Pentagon for several years, he kept his hair as short as a field officer did.

“Good,” Kamal said. “And let’s get Scott to keep an eye on our candidate while he’s at work on the Hill.” Powerplay member Scott Campbell was Chief of Staff for the President Pro Temp of the Senate.

“And I’ve got him when he’s on the campaign trail.” Derek scowled.

“Now,” Kamal pressed. “What’s next on the agenda?”

---

London didn’t work that night. Generally she had one client a day, four to five days a week. She took on a new client every couple of months, but most of the time she was dealing with regular customers. She was the most popular escort at her agency, and didn’t need to do anything to get new clients referred to her whenever old ones dropped off.

But she decided to stop by the office. She wanted to check up on the next day’s schedule and get out of the house, plus she really owed it to her employers to inform them of the day’s happenings, since they’d been anything but ordinary. The entire event with Melville and Derek Ambrose had left her restless and unfocused. She’d tried cooking, her usual go-to for stress relief, but that had only resulted in a house full of bread that she really shouldn’t eat all in one day, so she wrapped up a couple of loaves, and caught a cab to a high-end storefront in the tony shopping district on Wisconsin Avenue. The small luxury lingerie store served as a front for the much more lucrative business of escort service.

The door chimed as she entered the store. Gorgeous French silk in pastels, jewel tones, and neutrals hung from padded hangers and filled glass cases along the walls. Bras, panties, corsets, garter belts, the store was the wealthy DC woman’s ace-in-the-hole when it came to seduction.

A well-dressed and well-coiffed woman in her early fifties stepped out from the back room, her face breaking into a smile when she saw London. The inky hair that was pulled back into a sophisticated twist had strands of silver through it, but her green eyes were bright and her face was nearly unlined. She also had a style, and the very slightest accent that told of her French origins.

“Darling,” she trilled. “What brings you by?”

“Margrite.” London walked closer and kissed her on both cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d still be here. Where is Gerard?” she asked, referring to Margrite’s partner in the escort agency.

Margrite waved a hand in the air carelessly. “One of his boys didn’t want to play as rough as the Deputy Ambassador of Latvia did, so Gerard had to go negotiate a compromise.”

London shivered in distaste. “The boys really do have it harder don’t they?” she asked. “No pun intended,” she quickly added.

Margrite grimaced sympathetically.

“And is that delicious smell coming from your bag something for me?” Margrite raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows.

“Yes, take me to your lair and I’ll give it to you.”

Margrite laughed, pulling London by the hand toward the back of the store where they entered a small office space carpeted in deep pile aquamarine, the walls painted a soft cream, and the entire space finished off with Louis XV furnishings.

“First show me what you’ve baked, then tell me what’s bothering you so much that you had to bake all afternoon.”

London removed the two loaves of Middle Eastern sweet bread from her satchel and set them on Margrite’s credenza. As she busied herself getting out the plates and knives that she knew Margrite kept in a cabinet under the espresso maker, she stayed silent, weighing the best way to explain her morning to her boss.

“Now, to what do I owe this visit?” Margrite asked, delicately bringing a piece of sweetbread to her ruby red lips.

“I had a little problem earlier today. Senator Melville…”

“Oh, do tell,” Margrite deadpanned. Decades dealing with D.C.’s politicians had left her somewhat cynical when it came to the nation’s leaders.

“We were interrupted by his campaign manager, Derek Ambrose. I’m not sure if you saw, but the Senator announced his candidacy for President a few hours after our date. Finding us in the Renaissance Hotel together was not high on his campaign manager’s list of very good things today.”

Margrite took a sip of tea from the cup sitting on her desk. “What did he do?”

“Yelled, insisted that I was a risk to the campaign, and paid me off.”

Margrite raised an eyebrow. “Paid you off? To keep quiet I assume?”

“And to leave town.”

“And are you?” Margrite looked skeptical.

“No! I took the money because he was hysterical and wouldn’t stop shoving it at me. You know I don’t need to leave town. I’m not going to tell anyone about Melville for heaven’s sake. And here it all is, by the way,” she added, placing a stack of cash on the desk.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tips are yours, you know that. This was simply a larger than normal tip. It also sounds as though you earned it having to deal with the horrid man.”

London couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of what Derek Ambrose would say if he heard the owner of an escort service referring to him as ‘the horrid man.’

“He was annoying as much as anything. You know me, I don’t like drama, and he was full of it.”

“He always seems so stoic on TV,” Margrite observed. “He’s charming to the press, but reserved. He tries to keep the focus is on the candidate.”

London thought back to the serious way Derek had looked at her when he asked why she did what she did. Stoic. That was one way to describe him. A force of nature was another.

“Oh dear.”

“I’m sorry, what?” London snapped out of her reverie.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” Margrite’s blue eyes were sharp beneath her dark brows.

“No!” London protested a little too loudly. “Didn’t you hear the story? He was convinced that I kiss and tell. How could I like someone like that?” Margrite had a smug smile on her face. “I’ve seen him on TV, darling. What’s not to like?”

London rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t go there. I don’t have time to ‘like’ anyone as you put it.”

Margrite leaned across the desk and took London’s hand in hers. “You could make time. You know I’ve never thought this was the way for you long term. I had hoped to earn some money and give you a safe place for a couple of years at most. I always thought someone would have snapped you up by now.”

London gave her friend’s hand a squeeze before she pulled away. “And that’s very generous of you, but I’m not interested in having someone rescue me. I do quite well on my own, and I live the way I want to. I don’t have to rely on anyone, I don’t have to bend to anyone else’s ideas about who I should be or how I should behave.”

Margrite’s eyes turned soft. “Oh my love, someday you’re going to tell me what it was that mother of yours did to you. But until then I wish you’d at least consider the possibility that you might want to be someone’s mistress or wife someday. There are plenty of lovely, wealthy men out there who would adore having you on their arms during the day, and in their beds at night. I’m serious when I say that a permanent paramour has many advantages over the hourly ones.”

London shook her head and chuckled. “You can have them,” she said. “The last thing I need is some man trying to tell me what to do.”

“Even one who looks like Derek Ambrose?” “Even him.” Yes, she thought, banishing the memory of those icy blue eyes. Even him.

---

Chapter 2

Derek’s fists pounded a heavy bag over and over again. Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, in rhythm—one, two, one, two. His bare chest was covered in sweat and his shoulders ached from the brutal pace he’d kept up since he arrived at Spar.

“You’d better be careful old man, you’re going to strain something,” his brother Marcus’s voice snapped him out of the haze of frustration he’d been in for the last hour.

He grabbed the bag as it rebounded from his last punch. Steadying it he turned to face his twenty-five year old kid brother, a near double for Derek, but with darker eyes and hair.

“I’m just getting warmed up,” he told Marcus. “Get your gear on and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Body punches only from now on,” Marcus instructed. “This face is my livelihood.”

Derek grimaced. The kid had a point, he’d recently started as a political correspondent for WNN news, and Derek knew that while Marcus was talented as hell, his good looks didn’t hurt his career.

“Fine, body punches only, pretty boy, now get moving.”

Marcus smirked and loped off to the locker room to change out of the five thousand dollar suit Derek had bought him. Derek knew he spoiled the kid, but he was so fucking proud of him he couldn’t help it. Marcus had graduated top of his class from one of the best journalism programs in the country, worked for two years as a reporter in a large market, and then snagged the political correspondent job at WNN, the biggest news network in the world.

Derek had paid for everything his brother did since the kid was sixteen and Derek got his first good consulting gig. In the intervening years he’d put Marcus through college, grad school, and now gotten him a swank apartment and a BMW to celebrate the new job in D.C. He shook his head as he went back to punching the bag. He probably did spoil Marcus, but it gave him joy to do it, so what the hell.

Some people might think that he ought to be spoiling a woman the same way. But he’d never met one that tempted him to do so. He thought back to earlier in the day and the escort he’d caught Melville with. Now there was the kind of woman who deserved to be spoiled by her man. He wondered if she had one—a man that is. Did prostitutes have boyfriends? He shuddered at the idea. Not if the men had any sense they didn’t. Oh he knew the cliché, the pimps were their boyfriends, but London Sharpe wasn’t some hooker with a pimp. She was far too high-end for that. She probably knew about as much about streetwalking as he did, which was to say, not much.

The fact was, if he’d ever met a woman like London, Derek might have been tempted to spoil her. He’d want to spoil her with protection, companionship. He’d want to have her back—and a few other parts as well. He hit the bag one more time and stopped to wipe his brow. Yes, a woman like her had no business working as an escort. She tried to act tough, but he’d seen it in her eyes. She was far too refined for that kind of life. She needed a man—her own man—to care for her, support her, do whatever she needed done. She was the kind of woman who inspired ancient tribes to go to war over her, and modern day CEOs to stop their manwhoring ways.

Manwhore. The word brought back the vision of Melville with his hands and lips all over the inspiring Ms. Sharpe. Derek growled and hit the heavy bag so hard it nearly popped off its chain.

“What’s crawled up your ass?” Marcus asked as he reappeared, headgear and gloves in hand.

Derek scowled at him, but all Marcus did was laugh. “You don’t seriously think that’ll still work on me, do you?”

“Shut up and get in the ring, junior.” Derek gestured at one of the sparring rings nearby.

“Did you reserve it?” Marcus asked as they walked.

“No, but Renee did.” Derek saw his brother’s eyes light up when he mentioned his secretary’s name. “And get that starry-eyed look off your face. I’ve told you more than once that my staff is off-limits to you.”

Marcus shook his head. “And I told you, I’m not going to make a move on your secretary, even if you are out of line trying to dictate who I can and can’t date.”

Derek seriously doubted Marcus was telling the truth. He knew how his brother operated with women. He was all about the chase and the conquest, then he was on to the next. And that was why Derek wanted to keep him away from the cute blonde who sat in his office lobby. Renee had enough pain in her life right now, she didn’t need a player adding to it. She reminded Derek so much of their younger cousin who had been killed in a rafting accident two years before. He couldn’t bear to let his womanizing wolf of a brother have at her, even though he knew they were both adults.

As they got settled in the ring and started a slow dance around one another he changed the subject to something less inflammatory than Marcus’s love life.

“So tell me what you heard at the office about Melville’s announcement?”

While Marcus was a reporter and very serious about his career, he was first and foremost always Derek’s brother, and though Derek didn’t think he was ready to have his baby brother on the inside of the Powerplay club, he also knew he could count on Marcus to have his back with the press. Marcus would always give his loyalty to Derek before he gave it to a job or a source.

“You know, when I got hired we discussed how this was going to play out—you being related to me—and management decided that as long as they didn’t put me on a story directly related to you it’d be fine. But I can see it’s making everyone else nervous.” He shrugged.

“So you’re telling me they’re so tight-lipped around you that you’re useless to me?” Derek winked and grinned.

Marcus jabbed a hard right at Derek’s midsection, catching him off-guard. He spun away, receiving only a glancing blow, but pissed that he hadn’t been more aware. Between the press conference he’d held earlier and the wrench that Melville’s extra-curricular activities had thrown into the mix, Derek knew he wasn’t in top form, but he couldn’t afford that. He had to be on the ball at all times.

Marcus danced on the balls of his feet for a moment before raising his fists up in fighting stance again. “No, just saying that I don’t hear everything. But today I heard that the consensus is you’ve got ‘the one.’ He’s the President’s heir in the party, and with you managing the campaign he virtually can’t lose.”

Derek knocked Marcus upside the head with his big padded glove-encased fist. Not enough to hurt him, just a tap. Marcus shoved Derek’s arm away.

“Damn straight he can’t,” Derek snarked.

“Asshole.” Marcus shook his head.

“And how about you? You figured out how to get the nightly anchor spot yet?” Derek dodged a blow to his left shoulder and planted a firm shot right in the middle of Marcus’s chest. The younger man coughed and rubbed the spot, wincing.

“Jesus, give me a week, will ya? I barely know where the bathroom is in that place.”

Derek checked the surrounding area. The gym was crowded, but most people there were working out on the bags or in a training session with the gym owner.

“I had a little problem before the press conference today,” Derek said, quietly.

“Yeah?” Marcus asked.

Derek proceeded to describe the events in the hotel room prior to Melville’s announcement.

Marcus stopped moving, dropped his hands to his sides and stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

Derek motioned for Marcus to keep sparring. “I only wish.”

“Jesus. What the hell was he thinking? I mean it’s one thing to have an affair, but a hooker?” He looked appalled.

Derek felt heat rise in his face, and his chest tightened. “What?”

Marcus’s eyes darted around the way Derek’s had a few moments earlier. “You said she was a whore, right?” he hissed.

Derek shoved Marcus. Hard. His kid brother stumbled and cursed under his breath. “What the fuck?”

Derek took a deep breath, his reaction surprising himself as much as it had Marcus. He rubbed the back of one glove across his forehead before he put his fists up again, indicating the spar should resume. Marcus was slow to follow, still shaking his head in disgust.

“I didn’t teach you to talk like that,” Derek gritted out. “She’s a human being, and while I can’t agree with her career choices, that doesn’t make her unworthy of our respect.”

Marcus mouthed something silently that looked like, “Wow.”

“Am I right?” Derek asked, giving his favorite man in the world a hard look.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m sorry, of course you’re right.” He was silent for a moment as they continued to dance and jab at one another, taking things slow and easy as if the conversation were enough of a firestorm.

“Have you ever…” Marcus’s voice faded away, but Derek knew damn well what he was asking.

“No. Of course not, but I know plenty of men who have.”

Marcus shook his head. “Yeah, I can’t see ever being that hard up.”

“If you’d seen this woman you’d be singing a different tune,” Derek muttered.

Marcus sliced a halfhearted uppercut at Derek’s chin, but Derek dodged and came back with a jab to Marcus’s side.

“So she was hot—the woman?”

Derek gave Marcus another tap on the side of the head. “She was very hot.”

Marcus stopped his dancing around the ring, gesturing to the water bottles at the edge of the area. Both men walked to the ropes and reached out to grab their bottles.

“Sounds like you might like to be one of her clients,” Marcus joked.

Derek could feel himself bristle, but he knew he couldn’t blame Marcus for the question.

“No, I’d never be a client,” Derek answered. “But if she were in a different line of work…”

“I want to see this woman,” Marcus grinned.

“I’m thinking there’s no way that’s going to happen,” Derek answered as they moved back to the center of the ring and began sizing each other up.

“Famous last words.” Marcus grinned as he landed an uppercut on Derek’s jaw and did a victory dance around the ring.

---

Derek rolled over and slammed his hand down on the cell phone that was chiming relentlessly. He fumbled with it, finally peeling open his eyes and running a finger across the screen to turn the alarm off.

He groaned and reached for the remote to power up the flat screen television mounted on the wall across from his king-sized wrought iron bed. WNN filled the room and Derek sat up and adjusted his pillows. In his line of work it was essential to be on top of every piece of news out there. Years ago he’d learned never to leave the house until he’d checked the media.

“And in Washington this morning it might be the shortest-lived presidential campaign on record.”

Derek’s chest felt like it was suddenly coated in ice. He clutched the remote, clicking the volume higher as he climbed out of bed and walked toward the TV.

“Jason Melville, Senator from Pennsylvania, announced his candidacy for president yesterday in a brief press conference.” The screen cut to a clip of Melville’s press conference while the announcer continued talking and Derek swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

“But this morning WNN has obtained information from a confidential source that may end Melville’s campaign before it even begins. Sources say that Senator Melville spent time alone in a hotel suite with a high-end D.C. call girl. Information verified by hotel records and security cameras show a woman identified as a popular D.C. prostitute visiting Melville’s hotel suite at the Renaissance yesterday afternoon, only hours before he announced his candidacy.”

“Fuck!” Derek yelled in the early dawn gray of his bedroom. “No fucking way!”

“Sources tell us that the as yet unnamed woman, shown here in the elevator of the Renaissance, was sequestered in Melville’s suite for about ninety minutes. No word yet from the Melville campaign, but no one can deny that this must come as a huge blow to well-known political strategist Derek Ambrose who has been guiding Melville’s presidential plans.”

Derek ran a hand harshly through his hair and threw the remote at the wall, shattering it and disconnecting the television.

He picked up his phone and clicked on speed dial number seven.

“Derek,” Jason said as he answered.

“She won’t tell anyone?” Derek growled. “She’s discreet? She’ll never say a word? Well, goddammit she said something. It didn’t even take twenty-four bloody hours, Jason. Not even twenty-four.”

Jason sighed. “I don’t understand it, I really have no idea how this happened, but right now I’ve got bigger problems. Angela’s not awake yet, but my father-in-law, Vandermeer is, and he’s seen the news. He’s going to tear me to pieces, Derek.”

Derek gritted his teeth and wondered how he could have ever been stupid enough to think this jackass was the key to getting him inside the White House. “And you deserve it. Stay put. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll call your staff and tell them what to do, so don’t even answer calls from them.”

“Okay, but what am I supposed to do about Angela?”

“Try apologizing, Jason. And keep it up for the next decade or so. Don’t bother me unless she cuts your dick off. I’ll be in touch.”

He ended the call and flicked to speed dial number one immediately.

“I just saw,” Kamal answered without preamble.

“He has no idea how it happened.” Derek paced the bedroom, rubbing his hand on his bare chest where a burning pain was working its way to the surface. “I think I’m having a fucking heart attack.”

“Remember that game we played against Dartmouth senior year?” Kamal asked, referring to their time on the Cornell soccer team.

Derek’s scowl deepened. Now was not the time for a walk down memory lane. “Yeah?”

“You thought you were having a heart attack then too, and you went out and scored two goals and got us the conference championship. You’re not dying.”

“Says you,” Derek muttered.

“So what’s the next step?”

“I’ve got a visit to make to a certain high priced call girl.”

“You sure that’s a good idea? What if you’re seen?”

“I’ll be careful. Call Jeff and ask him to get me a tail that can keep anyone else off my ass?”

“Done,” Kamal responded. “We’ll get them over there in the next thirty. Want me to get someone to talk to Melville’s staffers so they don’t do something stupid like call a press conference?” “Please. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen her.”

Kamal huffed out a bitter chuckle. “If she hasn’t already taken your twenty grand and whatever else she got paid for blabbing and skipped the country.”

“If she has I’ll hunt her down,” Derek said darkly. “I don’t care if I have to go to Siberia in the dead of fucking winter, I’ll find her. And she’ll be damn sorry when I do.”

---

Chapter 3

The pounding was incessant. London rolled over in her bed and groaned. “Stop it already,” she mumbled. It started again—banging so loud it sounded like it might crack the wood in her custom made front door.

“All right, all right!” she yelled. Who in their right mind would be pounding on her door like that at—she checked the clock on the nightstand—seven thirty in the morning?

She climbed out of bed and grabbed the sapphire blue silk robe that was draped over the footboard of the bed. After she’d donned it she walked to her dressing table and stooped to check her hair in the mirror. It was a mess, but hell, anyone who’d wake her up this way deserved what they got.

“I’m coming!” she shouted, as she walked downstairs and across the cool marble tiles of the foyer. In retrospect, slippers would have been a good idea.

She reached the door and put her eye to the peephole, jerking back as soon as she recognized the very angry-looking Derek Ambrose on the other side. She peeped through again, and saw his cold blue eyes looking right back at her.

“Open. Up,” he demanded in a voice that wasn’t loud, but still sent shivers down her spine.

She unlocked and swung open the door but before she could say a word Derek shoved past her, entering the house, then pivoting swiftly. He caught the door with one hand right next to her head, and slammed it shut, rattling the pictures on the walls.

“What in the world…” London managed to choke out, somewhat breathless from the rage rolling off of him.

“How much and who?” he snarled stepping closer to her.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, stiffening her spine so he wouldn’t see how afraid she actually was.

“Who paid you to rat out Melville and how much did they give you?”

She stared at him, her mind a blank as she tried to process what he’d just said.

“What? Rat out…what?”

He glared down at her, his eyes flashing like chips of frozen seawater. “I have to hand it to you, you work fast. I’m not even sure how you found someone willing to play ball that quickly. But maybe you’ve had this planned for a while, huh? You’ve been seeing Jason for a couple of months. Maybe he slipped and told you he’d be running for the White House, so you decided you could make some extra money. Is that how it happened?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answered, her voice as steady and cold as she could make it.

Derek muttered some sort of curse and grabbed her arm, looking around him for a split second before dragging her through the foyer and into the front parlor.

“Who do you think you are?” she gasped. “You can’t come into my house and start throwing me around like some sort of rag doll. I want you to leave immediately!”

“Honey, after what you did to me you’ll be lucky if I treat you as well as a rag doll.” Derek reached out and flicked on the TV, punching the channel button until he found WNN.

London stood, rapt, as Melville’s face flashed across the screen.

Presidential candidate purported to be with prostitute in Washington hotel hours before announcing his candidacy, the scrolling headline read.

“Oh my God,” London murmured as she watched in utter horror. The headline went on to describe the reactions of various pundits and the lack of comment from the White House. “How is this possible?”

Derek stared at her, his face no longer the picture of fury. He paused, cocked an eyebrow, and observed her silently. She glanced at him then her eyes went back to the TV.

“Tell me they don’t have my name. Please tell me they don’t have my name.”

“They don’t,” he answered. “But they have footage of you in the elevator at the hotel yesterday. It doesn’t show your face straight on, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t pick you out.”

“Oh God,” London collapsed on the sofa, while Derek finally released her arm. She held a hand to her forehead. “Oh my God. How did this happen?” “My question exactly. But I’m starting to get the feeling I won’t find any answers here.”

She gazed up at him, her distress replaced with rage. “I can not believe you think I’d do this. I’m an escort, so automatically I’m untrustworthy? I’ll have you know that the measly twenty grand you gave me yesterday is chump change in my world. You see this house? I paid for it. In cash. I have a vacation condo in Vail for God’s sake. I don’t sell out clients for a few thousand dollars. Or even for tens of thousands. I’m a businesswoman.”

Derek looked at her and she watched as myriad emotions crossed his face—surprise, admiration, and something else that made her throat go dry and her palms sweat. She felt her face heat and her pulse rate picked up.

He continued to look at her, his head cocked to the side, his eyes pinned to hers. “You didn’t do it,” he said quietly.

“No,” she answered, her voice just as soft.

He broke the gaze and took a step closer, then seemed to reconsider. “Well with a condo in Vail you’ve surely got a coffee-maker as well,” he proclaimed suddenly, turning on his heel and striding toward her kitchen.

Ten minutes later she faced him across her kitchen island, a cup of coffee in hand. “You’ve got your coffee, now how are you going to fix this?”

He laughed, a deep, raspy chuckle that sent vibrations down to her very center. His smile made tiny crinkles break out around his pale eyes, softening them and warming his whole face. Combined with the light scruff that sprinkled his jaw and the mess of blond hair drifting across his brow the smile sent him from attractive to breathtaking and she sighed, struggling to mask her reactions and regain control over her traitorous hormones.

“What exactly is so funny?” she grumbled, taking a sip of coffee to cover her involuntary response to him.

He winked at her. Bastard. “Ah, you’re good for a man’s sense of humor.” He took a sip of his coffee. She wished she’d poisoned it before she gave it to him.

“I mean it, Mr. Ambrose. How are you going to fix this? I can’t believe I don’t have friends calling me already asking why they didn’t know I was a prostitute.”

“I hate being called Mr. anything by the way, and I thought you were an escort,” he chided.

“That’s not how they’ll see it, and you know it.” He ran a hand through his hair, his expression sobering. “I’m thinking.” She narrowed her eyes at him in anger. “Your idiot client got me into this. You didn’t have him on a tight enough leash. This could ruin me.”

He slammed his coffee cup down on the countertop. “And you think it’s going to do what for me? Make me a great catch for the next presidential candidate? Who the hell will hire the guy who’s forever associated with the shortest presidential campaign in the history of U.S. politics?”

She sighed. “It seems to me we’re both victims of whoever leaked this information. Do you have any other ideas as to who it could be?” He prowled around the kitchen like a big jungle cat, obviously deep in thought. Even with her substantial experience with men of all shapes and sizes, she was held captive, watching his muscles bunch under his dress shirt, the way his broad shoulders dwarfed her cozy kitchen, the way his long legs covered the length of the room in two steps.

Finally he stopped. “I have no idea who it is, but ask me again in twenty-four hours. They won’t get away with it.”

“And what do we do until then?” she asked, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, determined to shake off the attraction that grew the longer he stayed in her house.

He planted his hands on the kitchen island, and leaned forward. His gaze raked over her, obviously taking in the cleavage that peeked out of the neckline of her silk robe.

He breathed deeply, almost as if he was inhaling her. Her tongue darted out between her lips and she knew trouble was coming, could feel it circling the room, making her breasts heavy and her heart race.

“We’re going to date,” he said, the ends of his mouth tipping up in a devilish grin.

---

Damn she was gorgeous. No wonder men paid a grand an hour to be with her. He was about ready to empty his stock portfolio if she’d only open the sash on that jewel-toned robe she wore.

He’d been sporting a semi since he stormed in the door and took one look at her lush breasts and smoking hot ass all wrapped in shiny silk, her hair a tumbled mass of waves around her exotic eyes. Even in his rage he’d wanted to grab her, pin her against the wall, fuck her senseless, and hear her scream his name.

That had to explain why he’d concocted the hare-brained scheme that he was currently explaining while she stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and foot tapping.

“No.” Her voice was flat, her face a blank wall.

“I could let you and Melville take the fall. I’d claim ignorance, you can’t prove otherwise. The two of you would be done forever. He’d never get elected to anything again, and you’d be the notorious D.C. escort—not sure it did much for Heidi Fleiss but who knows.” He shrugged, and she glared. He was being an asshole, but the point needed to be made. They had very few options here. The sooner she realized that the better.

He paced to the other end of the kitchen, trying not to breathe too deeply when he passed her. She still had that exotic spicy scent wafting around her. It made him hungry in the worst possible way.

“I’ve put over eighteen months into grooming Melville, I have a lot riding on this, and I’m not ready to go down without a fight. You should be grateful, because it’s going to help you as well.”

She snorted, and even that was sexy.

“How is dating you going to help me? I’ve seen pictures of some of the women you take to functions—“ she rolled her eyes—“it’s not really the kind of company I want to be in.”

Jesus. What was wrong with the women he dated? They were always attractive, polished, well-bred. He chose them carefully to insure they didn’t overshadow him in the press, but also didn’t embarrass him.

“What the hell’s wrong with my dates?” he asked, truly irked she’d criticized his taste in women.

“Don’t get me started,” she answered, turning to the sink to rinse out their coffee cups.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Stay focused his inner disciplinarian told him.

“Look, let’s stick to the issue at hand. We’re going to hold a press conference. I’m going to say that you’re my girlfriend and that’s why you were visiting me in Melville’s suite. We can’t hide the fact that you’ve worked as an escort, but we can spin it that since you’ve been seeing me you quit. You’re reformed, the love of a good man and all that. It’ll go a long way toward damage control for your reputation. We could turn you into a media darling with this. We can talk about stronger laws to protect victims of human trafficking, have you do a couple of sympathetic interviews describing why and how you ended up in that life.”

He could feel her wavering, but her jaw was still set, steel under silk. She wasn’t a pushover. He could see that she didn’t like to do anything others told her to, and he had to stifle a grin imagining what a failure she must be with some of her more domineering clients.

“You really think I want to spill my life story to the press like that?”

“No, but I also think you’re going to be getting a hell of a lot of attention in the next few weeks no matter what you do. Wouldn’t you rather it be sympathetic attention?”

He could almost see the wheels turning inside her head. He wasn’t even spinning it at this point, it was the fact of the matter. She’d been outed and there was no going back.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally answered.

He nodded, knowing that he shouldn’t push her harder. If there was one thing Derek Ambrose knew it was how to conduct negotiations, and a fiery, sexy as hell escort was no different than a righteous, portly politician in the end. Some situations called for an iron fist, but others a kid glove.

“Tell me who knows what about your job,” he said, propping a hip against her kitchen counter.

She gestured for him to follow her back into the parlor. He watched in fascination as her ass swayed under the soft fabric of her robe as she walked, and his dick twitched for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes.

After they were seated at opposite ends of her brocade and mahogany sofa, she sighed. “No one knows—knew—anything,” she answered softly.

He stared at her in astonishment. “No one? You’ve been an escort for eight years and you’ve never told anyone?”

“Well, the clients obviously know, and the agency, but other than them? No one.”

“Family?” he asked.

“I don’t have any family,” she corrected quickly, her tone indicating it wasn’t a topic open for discussion.

He watched her for a moment, remembering the suspicions the Powerplay members had about her late teens. He tried to slough it off, but it brought back that sinking feeling of nausea.

“What if you run into a client,” the word was shockingly distasteful on his tongue, “out somewhere? How do you keep people from recognizing you?”

“I’ve kept a very low profile on both sides of my life. Once I started the more lucrative side of escort work I stopped going to public events with clients, and I’ve avoided the types of gatherings where my clients might be attendees on the private side of my life. It’s driven my best friend to distraction. I refuse to attend political gatherings or large fundraisers with her.”

He shook his head, amazed at the whole thing. Eight years she’d kept this secret. Eight long years. She obviously wasn’t proud of what she did for a living. She obviously didn’t want it to define her. So why did she do it? For money? He couldn’t believe that was her only motivation. Her townhouse, while not ostentatious, was lovely, stylish and classy like her. She had a vacation property in Vail, her clothes alone could have paid the rent for several months. She could have quit the escort business and found something else long ago.

“And your friends—how do they think you support yourself? What kind of people are they?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not that you have any right to be digging around in my personal life any more than you obviously already have, but my friends think I have inherited money. I lead the quiet life of a single woman of means. I lunch, I volunteer, I travel. The only difference with me is that I also fuck wealthy men for cash. It all worked very well until this morning.”

Derek’s blood pressure rose with the cavalier way she described her business. He knew he had no right to judge, but he couldn’t help the visceral response he had at the memory of her with Melville. Her beautiful soft body up against the wall as that asshole manhandled her. He shivered, trying to dispel the picture from his mind.

“Well, for the time being that difference will cease. We’ll announce that we’re dating, and that you realized as soon as you met me that you couldn’t continue working at the job you had been. You’ll tell your friends that you were keeping me under wraps because you wanted to see where it was going—that’s perfectly reasonable considering my track record as a boyfriend is pretty non-existent.”

“So is mine as a girlfriend,” she muttered.

He stood and strode to the window, not wanting her to see his face while he spoke.

“We’ll need to keep up the pretense until the whole thing dies down. Be seen out in public a few times—eating dinner, going to a function or two. I’ll pay you for the lost income of course.”

He knew he’d have to kiss the Jag goodbye for the rest of the year if he was going to pay her that much money, but if it meant getting his candidate into the White House he’d do it in a heartbeat. The added benefit that it would keep her out of those men’s beds was nearly as enticing an incentive. It wasn’t logical, but nothing about this whole thing was.

He rounded on her. “So what do you say? We’ll be the darlings of the political season.” He gave her a crooked smile and a wink that he knew worked wonders on women. He’d been using it since he was twelve.

Her face was like stone. Immobile, expressionless, cold. Figured. Just when he needed a yes more than he ever had before, he’d met the one woman who could resist the crooked smile-wink combo. Shit.

“This is not a good idea,” she said standing from the sofa.

“Why?”

“We don’t even like each other. How will we convince people we’re dating? And as we’ve both admitted, we’re not really relationship people, our friends will see right through this horrible charade. Or maybe you don’t have friends?”

He rolled his eyes at her snark and the glint that snuck into her gaze.

“I have friends, you’ll meet them…while you’re dating me. Because unless you’ve got another idea, this is what we’re going to have to do.”

“I’ve been so good at staying hidden all these years, I can’t believe this has happened.”

“Surely you knew you couldn’t lead a double life like that forever?” he asked gently.

She sighed in frustration, her perfect brows furrowing. “I’ve had a lot of fools for clients, but I think Senator Melville wins the prize. You really believe he’d make a good president?”

He coughed, trying to cover the chuckle at her description of the men who paid for her company. Any man who had the chance to be with her and then let her go was indeed a fool.

“I do, even after this. He’s a brilliant statesman and politician but he’s also human, and obviously we’ve discovered his fatal flaw.” And hell, Derek couldn’t even hold it against the man. This woman could become anyone’s fatal flaw. She was like a magnet that pulled you in, her sexuality a swirling vortex that could consume you.

“And you actually think this will work? Save the campaign and convince people that I’ve reformed?” Doubt dripped from her very words.

“Yes, this can work. It’s called hiding in plain sight,” he answered, striding closer to her. “We’ve really only got a couple of choices here. We send you abroad for a few weeks while Melville denies it right and left. The press will be relentless looking for you, and as soon as it dies down and we bring you back they’ll be all over you again the minute you set foot in the airport. Meanwhile my candidate will be crippled by the rumors. He’ll have to defend himself at every turn, and eventually the press will dig up something or someone who corroborates the rumors. Then it’s all over, Melville has to drop out, my reputation is tarnished forever, and you’re a notorious hooker for life.”

He could see the pain flash across her face. Her lips tightened, and her eyes dropped to the floor as a flush crawled up her cheeks. He hated that he had to be so crass, but this was Washington and politics. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing kind or sensitive. As much as he loved it—the competition, the fangs-bared, balls-to-the-wall heat of the battle—he also sometimes resented it—the demands on his time, the constant maneuvering and jockeying for position, the fake front that he wore like a protective lacquer each day. And right now he wished that there were some way to achieve what he needed without disrupting this woman’s delicately balanced life.

“And the other option?” she asked. “The hiding in plain sight one?”

“We give them an alternate story. You were at the hotel to see me, you and I are in love, you’re a changed woman. It’s a distraction at best, but if we can buy some time, and muddy the waters well enough the story will never get legs. It’ll resurface—probably more than once, but it’ll continue to go nowhere because we will have planted too much doubt.”

One of her perfectly arched brows lifted and her plush lips pursed for a brief moment. “I see why you’re Derek Ambrose,” she said.

He couldn’t help but smile, his chest swelling just a touch at the fact that she realized he was damn good at what he did. He wasn’t a terribly vain man, but somehow looking good in front of this particular woman felt good. Maybe too good.

She watched him for a moment, neither of them moving, but his own breath coming in faster huffs as he watched her chest rise and fall. Then her tongue darted out to lick her full, dark lips, and something inside of him snapped. Want spread through him like floodwaters filling an empty river basin. The desire seeped into every corner, every spare inch of his being. And it burned. An ember just waiting to take a big gulp of oxygen and burst into flames.

A voice inside his head told him he was fucked. Totally and utterly fucked. And this idea was doomed too, just as he was doomed. But that want, that sizzling ember of desire wouldn’t allow him to care. It wouldn’t allow for anything but the fixation on the oxygen it needed to fully live.

Her. It wanted her.

She sighed as she turned away, and he saw her hands shaking. Thank God. Maybe it wasn’t just him.

“Okay,” her voice was quiet. “I’ll do it. But I’m not taking money from you. So please don’t mention that again.”

He stepped closer, raising his hands as if he were going to place them on her shoulders, then he dropped them and leaned forward, his lips nearly brushing her hair.

“But no clients, right? You can’t continue working if we’re going to sell this obviously.” Deep down he knew this was about more than someone catching her working. He didn’t want to think about any man being near her if she was his girlfriend—even a pretend girlfriend.

She turned, gasping when she realized that he was in her space, inches from her body, nearly touching, yet not. Her eyes traveled up to meet his, and her lips dropped open slightly, sending a shock of electricity straight to his groin.

“No clients.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Just you.”

If it were possible he leaned closer, infinitesimally closer, his lungs straining to function when he hadn’t filled them in minutes—or maybe it was hours. A car alarm sounded outside and he jerked back, stunned at how easily he’d lost track of where he was and what he was doing simply because he could smell her, see her, breathe her. “I’ll call the press conference for three p.m. so we can make the evening news cycle. I’ll send a car for you. Wear something like that dress you had on at the hotel. The purple one. It was perfect.”

She pulled back watching him suspiciously. “You noticed what I was wearing in the middle of that disaster?” “I noticed everything about you.”

---

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