Camille

I flip mindlessly through the TV stations as Ronan knots his black tie the next morning. The mild scent of his soap floats on a humid breeze from the open bathroom door. Our half-finished breakfast rests on covered trays outside the door. We barely had time to finish it when we both decided we’d rather devour each other instead.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as Ronan combs his hair, parting it on the left, and slips his suit jacket over his shoulders.

The last two nights in Des Moines have been ones for the books . . .

At least if I were still chronicling this jaunts.

Rolling to my stomach, I grab a pillow and curl up with it. I’d rather watch Ronan get ready than watch some celebrity get interviewed during the third hour of the Today Show.

I study every angle of his perfect body from his thick head of hair to his carved chest to his taut abs and everything below, and then I wonder how much I’m going to miss this chapter of my life when it’s long gone. When I look back on my life someday, is this little weekend in the middle of the unassuming state of Iowa going to be a moment that defined me?

“We have, what, nine weeks left?” I muse out loud.

He sprays cologne, capping it as he turns to me. “That’s random, but yes. Nine weeks. We’d better make them count.”

He gives a mischievous wink in a rare moment when Ronan Montgomery reveals that he does, in fact, have a playful side.

“I’m going to miss this.” I pull myself off the bed and saunter over to him, gripping his tie and pulling his mouth to mine. “I wish you didn’t have to leave. Wouldn’t you rather stick around, play a little more?”

He kisses me, and tingles radiate from the top of my head as I’m bathed in warmth.

“Maybe we should come to Iowa every weekend?” I whisper between kisses. “You’re a different person here. I almost feel like I’m cheating on Washington Ronan with Iowa Ronan.”

His mouth smiles against mine, and he runs his hands through my hair.

“Are you going to remember this someday? When you’re old and gray and stuck in a sexless marriage?” I inject a teasing, singsong tone into my question, batting at his shoulder. “Are you going to look back and remember the weekend you spent in Des Moines with some random girl?”

Ronan’s hands drop to my waist, and he captures my stare in his. “You’re not some random girl, and I will forever remember this weekend with you.”

His answer brings weightlessness to my heart and heaviness to my stomach. I want to live in this moment a little while longer.

But the clock ticks on.

I memorize his face like it’s the last time I’ll ever see him. The notion is quite dramatic, especially for me, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve reached some kind of pinnacle as far as this arrangement is concerned. I don’t know how being holed up in some swanky hotel back home will ever top midnight car drives and leisurely breakfast sex romps. I can’t imagine that any part of the next nine weeks will be better than it is right here, right now.

Here, for two little tiny days, we were free to enjoy each other’s company, and subsequently, I saw him in a new light.

I entertained thoughts I had no business entertaining, and I wallowed in them like it was my job.

Ronan spins me around, placing one last kiss on my lips before making his way toward the door. I stand back and appreciate how sexy he looks as he fishes for his keys, checks his reflection in the mirror, and turns to me.

God, he’s handsome.

“I’ll call you when I land tonight,” he says.

In an instant he’s gone, and I summon the motivation to pack my things. In a few hours, I’ll take a cab to the airport and this weekend will be nothing more than a memory.

His towel hangs on a bar in the bathroom, and like some crazy person, I gather it into my arms and pull in a long breath, desperate to smell him one more time.

And then I let it fall to the floor when I catch the reflection of the woman in the mirror who has clearly lost her marbles. The woman in the reflection knows damn well not to get emotionally vested with her clients, and she’s well aware that this is nothing more than a paid, physical arrangement.

I also take a moment to remind the delusional woman staring back at me how easy it is to fake the very emotions that give us butterflies and make us do stupid things. She’s perhaps the most skilled of them all.

After a shower, I throw my toiletries in a bag, disgusted with myself, and zip up my suitcase a moment later.

An unexpected knock at the door sends my heart into a spiral plunge and sucks the air from my lungs. I hate the fact that I know damn well it’s going to be housekeeping, but a small part of me wishes it’s going to be Ronan, saying he forgot something or that he had to come back and kiss me one last time before he leaves.

Checking my reflection in the mirror, I pull my damp mane into a loose side ponytail and tiptoe to the door to peer out the peephole.

Oh.

My.

God.

My heart hammers, and my hand lingers on the deadbolt in case I decide not to open the door for who is clearly First Lady of the United States, Busy Montgomery.

A Secret Service Agent in black reaches in front of her and pounds three times.

“Open up, dear,” Busy’s voice penetrates the door. “I’d like a quick word, and I know you’re in there.”

“One minute, please.” My ears pulse as I attempt to calm myself with three long, deep breaths. When I open the door, Busy Montgomery smiles, though it’s more of a leer.

“May I come in, dear?” she asks.

I widen the door and step away. Busy strides in with her head held high, followed by two Secret Service Agents. She glances around the room, her eyes landing on the messy bed and then darting to my wet hair as her lips fall into a frown.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.” Her arms fold casually at her waist, and her head tilts.

I nod, my voice trapped in my throat.

“First of all, I wanted to give you this.” She reaches into her patent leather Gucci shoulder bag and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. The agent on her left takes it and hands it to me.

With hands trembling, I unfold what appears to be a printed copy of a newspaper article, the headline announcing the impending engagement of Ronan Montgomery and Lydia Darlington. A photo of the two of them accompanies the story.

She’s smiling. He’s not.

“That’s right, dear. The man you’ve been sharing your bed with the last several weeks is engaged to be engaged.” The sick satisfaction in her voice nauseates me.

“I don’t believe it,” I lie. Half of me fully believes it. Half of me is well aware that the vast majority of men will lie and manipulate if it gets them what they want.

“Would the Des Moines Register print a tabloid gossip story?” she asks.

I wouldn’t think so . . .

I hand the article back to the agent and fold my arms. “I’m not sure what this has to do with me anyway. I’m not dating your son. He’s free to do whatever he pleases.”

Busy sighs, clucking her tongue. “Listen, Camille.”

My heart stops when she says my name. The fact that the First Lady knows it doesn’t bode well for what she’s about to say.

“We’re on the verge of launching the President’s re-election campaign. I’m sure you understand it’s not the greatest time for his firstborn son to be shacking up with a common prostitute.” Her eyes drag up and down my body as disgust flavors her words. “I raised him better than this. If some cable news political pundits were to catch wind of this, do you know what that says about me? As his mother? And about our ability to raise a son capable of walking a straight line? I can just hear the yammering now. They’ll say if we can’t control our son, how can we possibly run a nation of three hundred and eighteen million citizens?”

I don’t respond. The crazy look in her eyes is enough to tell me to keep my mouth shut and let her finish.

“And don’t get me started on how damaging this will be to the Montgomery name. Ronan is expected to run for office someday, and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that our party will vote for a man with this kind of mark on his past.” Her eyes roll. “Now, Camille. I know you’re a very smart woman, and that’s exactly why you’re going to do exactly as I say.”

My gaze narrows.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a white envelope filled with cash. The agent hands it off to me, and a quick glance tells me there are thousands of dollars in there.

“I’m going to pay you three million dollars never to speak to my son again,” she says. “I realize three million dollars isn’t a lot of money these days, but I’m sure it is to someone like you. Anyway, there’s ten thousand dollars in that envelope. The rest will be deposited into your bank account in increments over the coming year. Consider this my earnest money. A little good faith deposit.”

“I don’t want your money. And I don’t take bribes.”

She scoffs. “You don’t have a choice, dear. I’ve taken precautions to ensure my son is dissuaded from associating with you from here on out. And I’ve also taken liberties to have your plane ticket to DC rerouted to Nashville. You’re never to step foot inside the city again.”

My jaw slacks. “I have an apartment there. A roommate. I can’t just . . . never go back.”

“Oh, but you can. You’ll have enough money to cover your rent and to replace all your belongings, and trust me, once you see those seven figures in your bank account, it’ll be even easier to walk away from this life.”

I shove the envelope toward her. “I don’t want this. I won’t want to be associated with your dirty money.”

She waves both hands, refusing to take it back. “Camille, I know everything. I’ve had tabs on your little torrid affair from the very beginning. I know about the Melrose and the Hightower. And I have your little journal, which I have to admit wasn’t exactly the kinds of things a mother wanted to read about her son. But my dear, I know everything. And I’ll know the moment you set foot in the city again, and believe me, you won’t want to do that.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” I huff. “What are you going to do, have me killed?”

She doesn’t confirm nor deny.

“I strongly recommend that you not test me, Camille Bronwyn Buchanan.” Busy reaches into her bag and whips out a pair of black sunglasses. “Now, your flight leaves in two hours. I’ll have a cab waiting for you downstairs. I suggest you get moving.”

One of the agents leans into her ear and whispers.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’m going to need that prepaid phone before I go.”

This woman is pure evil.

Busy peers around the room, her hand outstretched as she waits.

I fish it from my bag, place it in her impeccably manicured hand, and watch as she drops it in her bag.

“I knew you’d see things my way,” she says, grinning. “Have a lovely flight, dear.”

With that, Busy strides out of my room, sandwiched between her two agents. And I have absolutely no way of contacting Ronan.