Chapter Fourteen

 

Linda Owens settled into her couch and turned on the TV. It was likely the last day before the bombshell dropped. They'd be vetting the story now. Whoever ran it first—it read like tabloid smut, so they would probably be the ones to do it—would get plenty of play for at least a couple of days.

The others would be kicking themselves for getting scooped.

And Linda Owens would be hoping to hell that the story turned into a big nothing burger. It was a risk. A hell of a risk, to be honest, and there was no way that they could play it straight no matter what happened.

Nobody hacked straight through a problem, not even someone as straight-forward and as untouchable as Adam Quinn. Nobody would be surprised that Adam had been there. It had the stickiness that they wanted. Something that wouldn't just slide right off.

The problem wasn't that people wouldn't forgive him for it, either. He was a known quantity, thank God, and he was known for this kind of thing, so nobody would freak out. Not really.

The problem was that it didn't damage his personal brand but it reinforced the idea that many were concerned about that he wasn't electable. That if they put him into the office, the Democrats would never get the seat back because they'd forever be the laughingstock of the world.

A president who cavorts around with prostitutes and sluts, who spends his time at sex parties when he should be—who knows. At some kind of monastery, Linda supposed. There were few men who worked harder than Adam Quinn, regardless of the number of sex parties he went to.

A number that can't possibly have been as high as some would suggest. But what if he were going to as many as some thought? That would be— That would be a truly intimidating amount of sex. No way.

Linda lays her head back. The news coverage is thinning out. They're talking about pop stars now. Which is to say, back to the usual news cycle. A holding pattern until something real juicy comes along that they can devote all their coverage to.

Well, don't worry, Ellen—Tom Delaney's on the job, and he's not going to leave you without a story to report on for long. If you play a nice puppet, he'll make sure you don't have to ever know what it feels like not to be dancing.

She let her mind drift. It was a luxury she could rarely allow herself. Everything was in reacting and covering bases. There was a distinct advantage in being so far out ahead of the story that there hadn't been any press about it.

It allows time to breath. Time to think. Time to plan, and time to get real creative with responses. Linda might have been good at it, if she'd been given the chance before. Now was her chance to figure it out.

But instead, her mind just reeled back to Tom's gravelly voice. Flat and prodding, not curious at all. As if he knew the answer, but he wanted to make her say it. Why had she been at that party?

She hadn't been lying to him, though. Avoiding the question, sure. But not lying. Why she'd gone was a question that she'd been asking herself since it all blew up in her face.

What had gotten into her? What had convinced her that it would be a good idea to go to a place where she fit in so poorly? She wasn't exceptionally adventurous. What sort of 'sex party' was going to let her move slow, exploring the boundaries of lovemaking beyond the usual?

None that she knew of. Which meant that it was out of character for her. But people don't just do that. Not even her. There are reasons for people's actions, and it stands to reason that there are reasons for her actions, as well.

What her reasons were… that was a question she didn't know the answer to. She'd wanted to get laid. That was the obvious answer, and it was deficient. She knew—or, she should have known—that it wasn't that simple. She should have known that there would be things that tested her limits when she got there.

Which had to mean that she wanted to have her limits pushed. When she'd gotten there, faced with that fact, she'd shut down. But there was something in her, some spark, that wanted to see where the limit really was.

Right?

Linda's nipples start to harden. Is there a chill in the room? She pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders and turns to lay down in the couch.

Was there something wrong with that? Was that strange, to want something… else? Whatever that was. She could have had it, if she wanted it. She didn't need to go out to find strangers to sleep with. She knew plenty of debauched men. They were exactly the kind of people who hired her in the first place.

But something had drawn her to that place, instead. Something had made her want to go into a situation where she'd have control and she'd have deniability, but she'd be available.

What had Delaney wanted her to say, anyways? Why had he been so insistent on her answering him? There was an answer he wanted. Linda was sure of that. A specific answer.

He was good at reading people, but more than that, he was good at smelling blood in the water and going after it. He didn't know she was lying when she said she didn't know because she showed some sort of obvious tell.

She didn't think she knew, but as her fingers start to trace lines around the fabric of her jeans, teasing closer to the inside of her thighs without ever quite getting there, something in her is willing to admit that there were reasons. She wanted something that she wasn't ready to admit to herself, never mind anyone else.

But Tom—Tom Delaney knew exactly what it was. He sensed her weakness, sensed her uncertainty, knew it for what it was, and wanted… something. Wanted to be there when she finally broke down and admitted it, maybe?

Or wanted to show her what she was missing out on?