CHAPTER TWENTY
Cameron
Things happened in a whirlwind for me that afternoon. I received a thousand texts as George drove me home, all of them about different fires that were breaking out, and I couldn’t put out a single one.
Part of me just wanted to let it all burn down.
As much as I tried to put her out of my mind, all I could think of was her. Cassandra. Brooke. Whoever. I found myself running through every encounter we’d ever had, trying to separate what was true and what was an act. What had she said when she first met me? I want to have some fun. Was this her idea of fun? When she’d trembled under my touch, was that an act? When she’d told me she loved me?
What else had she said to me all along? It doesn’t matter.
And she was right. It didn’t matter. It was all a carefully constructed act made to topple my political career. My father always said I was too trusting, that I believed in the goodness of people too much and didn’t have enough skepticism. As much as I knew there were ringers out there, I wanted to believe that most people were honorable and forthcoming. It was all an act, and she was a very good actress who’d duped me. I needed to stop her from occupying real estate in my head and concentrate on salvaging my career, my reputation.
I read over the statement that my father’s attorneys had prepared and approved it. Basically, it said that I’d had no knowledge of this and that the campaign’s finance manager had been let go, plus that I would keep a tight watch on contributions from now on. The statement seemed to assert my campaign was not dead, after all. They’d also arranged for me to appear on a few morning news programs, to explain the breach.
My father texted me. You’re still in good shape. Don’t fuck up. Do the right thing.
Bob had been my father’s hire, a friend who’d gone to school with him at Yale, so at least he couldn’t pin that particular fuck-up on me.
It was only four o’clock, but I poured myself a scotch in the back of the limo and sighed. I felt like I had a thousand balls in the air, any of which could come crashing down, and once one went, all of them would go.
And I’d be left with nothing.
Only a day ago, I had wanted to drop those balls. I’d wanted to, if it meant I’d be with Cassandra.
When I realized I was thinking about her again, wistfully, longingly, despite what she’d done, I cursed myself and downed the entire glass. I had to stop this. I needed to realize that she was gone and my preordained life was all I had now. I’d go through the motions, work hard to make the world a better place, and let that be enough.
I didn’t bother to shower or shave, as was my normal routine before a night out. No, I had George drive me around aimlessly until six-thirty, when I’d arranged to pick up my future fiancée for our big bullshit date. I admit I drank too much in the limo, lost in thoughts of the way my life was turning to shit. She called me on it right away, when I stumbled inside, catching the bouquet of gardenias on the jamb of the door and leaving a pile of petals in her foyer.
“You smell like a distillery,” she said, taking the flowers from me. “Bad day?”
I snorted. “You could say that.”
Before I could explain, she tossed the flowers on a table and crossed her arms over her chest. “Your father told me.”
It pissed me off that my father seemed to have more of a relationship with this woman than I did. I reached for her wrap and tried to help her put it on. But I was so unsteady with my attempt that she ended up swatting me away. In the limo, she prattled on about her day, which involved not tipping a manicurist who she thought had provided less than stellar service. I stared out the window as we passed the Capital Grille, where I’d seen Cassandra’s gorgeous face for the first time. The girl she’d been with, the one who’d called me a douche had to have been Blakely’s daughter. Her best friend. She’d looked remorseful when her friend had said that, like she didn’t believe it. She’d looked remorseful in her apartment too.
It couldn’t have all been an act. No one could lie that convincingly.
I shook my head. It doesn’t matter.
“Are you even listening to me?” Bernadette said, inspecting her manicure with an annoyed pout. “I asked you where we were going?”
“Stone Bistro.” Truth be told, I hated that hoity-toity place.
“Oh, I love that place! Did you reserve the rooftop?”
“Yep,” I said glumly, sinking down into my seat. As if agreeing with my lack of enthusiasm, rain started to spatter against the windshield.
I smiled bitterly and reached over to pour myself another scotch, but she snatched the glass away from me. “You’ve had enough.”
“Likely,” I said, still holding the decanter in my hands. I opened the weighted lid, and took a drink right from it, not caring when a little of it dribbled down the front of my suit.
She rolled her eyes. “Darling, I’m not sure I want to be seen with you in this condition.”
I don’t want to be seen with you at all, I thought, turning my face toward the window. It had suddenly begun to pour, the rain falling down in sheets. I started to laugh as we pulled up at the Bistro.
George provided the umbrella, which Bernadette used for herself, so by the time we were safely inside, I was thoroughly drenched. We couldn’t sit on the rooftop, so we settled for a small table inside. I didn’t give two fucks, truthfully, since it meant the end of my life no matter where we sat. I pulled out the chair for her, and it was only when I was sitting down on the tufted chair that I realized I was soaked to the skin. Which made me think of that night in the bay. The maître d’ set a menu in front of me, but the alcohol and my fucking memories had made me horny.
The only thing I had an appetite now was for Cassandra.
Before the man could leave, I pointed at my glass. “Bring me a Macallan 25. Neat.”
Bernadette’s mouth was a straight line. She perused her menu thoughtfully and said, “Just so you know, it’s not going to work.”
I leaned forward, in a moment of sobriety. “What’s that?”
“Making yourself unappealing to me so that you won’t have to use that ring in your pocket.” When I stared at her, frown deepening, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I’ve learned enough of you to know that bulge in your pocket isn’t because you’re happy to see me.”
I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Yeah? Let me guess. My father told you about these plans.”
She smiled thinly and nodded. “Of course.”
“So... my political career in the toilet and me being piss drunk is doing nothing to turn you off?”
Her smile grew into a smirk. “Absolutely nothing. Besides, all you need to do is issue a careful statement on your lack of knowledge about campaign finances, and all will be forgiven. Your political career isn’t in the toilet… yet.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yet? Why does that sound like a threat?”
“Because it is,” she said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a manila envelope and extracted a stack of photos. Then, with no care to whoever was walking nearby, she laid them in front of me like playing cards.
There they were, photos of Cassandra and me. Completely naked. Every bare inch of our bodies melding together. Everywhere. At the club. In the so-called private room of the club. At my private getaway at Rock Hall. My eyes caught on one of her, leaning back against the center island of the kitchen, my face buried between her thighs. The nakedness and sheer graphic nature of the photos were almost enough to be arousing, if it hadn’t been so damn unexpected and laid before me by the woman who was supposed to be my future fiancée, in public, for anyone to see.
My mouth sagged open, and it took a force of will to snap it shut. Suddenly, the collar of my custom dress shirt felt too tight. I tugged on it as she said, “If I don’t even care about this, do you really think I’d care about a little drunkenness?”
The waiter came with my scotch. I was almost too shocked to react, but I quickly scooped the damning photos into my lap. Now stone cold sober, I didn’t have the stomach for drink.
“I see I’ve rendered you speechless,” she said, obviously proud of the fact.
“You’ve been having me followed?” I said, scratching on my jaw, which was now covered with quite a bit more stubble than I usually showed in public.
“I figured I could use a little ammunition of my own.” She lifted a shoulder, looking at those damn nails again. “Just in case you failed to hold up your end of the bargain that our parents arranged.”
I could say nothing.
“I don’t get it, Cameron. Together, you and I, we’d rule. We’d be the most powerful family in this country.” She looked at the photos in my lap and smiled, almost benevolently.
Absolute power… I was too tired, drunk, and beaten to complete the thought. I lifted my glass and downed it, stared at it. “You don’t get the fact that I fucking detest you?”
The smile didn’t falter even a millimeter. She knew it all too well, and she didn’t care. She leaned forward, picked up her napkin, and settled it on her lap. “You can keep your cheap whore if she means that much to you. But you will make me a Brice first.”
I scowled at her, my eyes fire. I’d had enough of people telling me what to do. And no one fucking disrespected Cassandra like that. Despite everything she’d done, she was still worth a million Bernadettes. No, she didn’t have the breeding, but she had so much more. I drilled the glass into the table, feeling it crack under the pressure of my palm. “Like hell I will.”
She simply laughed at me. “Well, now that Cameron Brice is known to not be so capable with financial matters, I’m sure the public will be thrilled to know that he counts fucking random women at sex clubs among his favorite extracurricular activities.” Her leg brushed up against mine under the table, and I flinched away. “How will you explain that away at the debate, Mr. Silver Tongue?”
“I’ll drop out of the race.”
Bernadette just kept grinning. “Fine. But a little birdie told me that your whore was keen on joining the FBI.” She waved her hand toward the photos. “Mission impossible, I’d say. Unless they hire her on as a honey pot. Isn’t that what they call them, darling? Female spies who fuck then fuck over their targets? Like she did you?”
The waiter arrived for our order. I shook my head and told him I wasn’t hungry. I reached into the bread basket and tore a piece from the loaf, ripping it to shreds, which was actually what I wished I could do to her neck. Bernadette studied the menu and ordered the duck, the most expensive thing on the menu, as I quietly watched her. Hating her. Never having hated anyone as much as I did her, right then.
Mrs. Bernadette Dryden-Brice.
I played the name over in my head as I looked down at the pictures in my lap. In one of them, from our most recent lovemaking session, Cassandra was sitting at the edge of the center island, her legs spread, feet resting on my back as I feasted on her pussy. Her back was arched, tits on full display and her head was tossed back in abandon, in the throes of orgasm.
That settled it. I’d said long before I wanted to be the only one to ever see that look on Cassandra’s face. I couldn’t open her to this kind of scrutiny.
These pictures of Cassandra and me together... not only were they painfully graphic, but even if the sentiment behind them hadn’t been real, the photos contained quite possibly some of the best moments of my life. In a life with Bernadette, I’d never see moments like that again. I needed to keep them, keep her, sacred, safe. And I’d be damned if I let these pictures get out. She’d have to kill me first.
I let the options play and replay in my mind, even as Bernadette’s duck arrived, and she began to eat like she was starving. I searched for a way out. A way to protect Cassandra. As angry as I was at her for screwing me over, I couldn’t allow these pictures to get out.
Finally, I made my decision, and did the only thing I could. Sinking low in the chair, I reached into my soggy blazer and took the tiny blue box out. I pushed it across the table to her.
Bernadette gasped as if it was entirely unexpected, looking for all the world as if I’d just dropped to one knee in the most perfect proposal ever.
“I’ll take that as a ‘Will you marry me?’” she said, opening the box, her eyes glittering as she beheld the massive diamond inside. She took it out, slipped it on to her finger, and held her hand out to admire it as it glinted in the candlelight. Then she smiled at me, oblivious to the daggers I’d been shooting from my eyes. “The answer is yes.”