I expect a no. But today is not a day for my expectations to be met. Not one tiny bit.

“That would take a very long time,” he says, deadpan.

“Hey–I’ve got all the time in the world.” I look him over like he’s a piece of meat, as if the question of whether we’ll have sex is a formality and I’m already picking out which condom to use. “You look like you’ve got the stamina.”

His muscular shoulders push against the cloth of his perfectly tailored jacket. I wonder what he looks like naked. Warmth pours through me, a mix of anger and angst and outrage, all ready to be vanquished by breaking every rule inside myself so I can just be broken and not have to deal with anything.

“Jane.”

“If you won’t do it, I’ll go find someone who will.”

“I don’t doubt that you could, and in a heartbeat,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at me with a mixture of lust and restraint that makes me want him even more.

“Oh, please. If I were that hot, you’d have slept with me by now.”

“It’s not for lack of interest.”

“It’s... not?”

“You know damn well I’m interested. Last night should have made it perfectly clear.”

Last night. That was last night. Last night I was in his arms, his mouth on mine, hands exploring, my body offered to him for comfort, for connection, for passion.

Last night I knew who I was.

Last night, I wasn’t Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter.

Last night feels like a century ago.

“Nothing in my life is clear, Silas. Not a damn thing.” Brazen, emboldened by the casual disintegration of every part of my identity, I step into his space and stand on tiptoes, kissing him.

He kisses me back.

And then it’s like he swallows me whole, bringing me into his body and world, eliminating the rush of evil that seems to have enveloped me over the last few hours, days, weeks, months. I feel free again, centered and real as his tongue slips into my mouth, an act of stealth and openness that is a paradox. Silas kisses me with his entire being, breathing for me as I relinquish myself to the blinding possibility of being fine again.

It could happen. Some day.

For right now, I’ll take having the broken pieces of me held together by his hands, his body, his mouth. A sweet kiss can heal, but a hot kiss can transcend. I press hard against him, our tongues warm and wet, moving faster, his claiming of me going deeper, so far down inside me, I feel full. Complete.

Grounded.

“I will not take you home and screw you, Jane,” he says as our kiss ends, his mouth still against mine. “Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t believe in taking advantage of people when they’re weak.”

“You think I’m weak?”

“Did I say you were who I’m talking about?”

“You’re the weak one? You?” My fingertips drag against the cloth of his suit jacket and I swoon, imagining my hands slipping his clothes off him. Power resides in his muscles, attached to bones and tendons and veins that make up the body that moves against mine right now. He’s hot and sweaty and primed for me.

“You’re breaking through every defense I’ve got.”

“Why do you need defenses with me?”

“That is a great question we can discuss over lunch.”

“Lunch?” Images of our naked, sweaty bedroom antics suddenly get swept away by... lunch?

“Yes. It’s a meal you eat around noontime when you’re hungry.”

I punch his shoulder. “I know what lunch is!”

“Good. Then it’s a date.”

“A date? Aren’t you on the clock?”

“We’re going to ignore that.”

“Who said you get to pick and choose which rules we break?”

“I do.” His voice is a low, slow caress.

I take a breath to argue, but let it out slowly instead. He’s right.

“A real date?”

“Yes. One where I pick the restaurant, we drink wine, and no one bombs your car or turns out to be your father.”

“Is that a guarantee?”

“It’s a plan.”

“You’re not going to let me throw myself at you, are you?” I ask, my hands up in the air in defeat and incredulity. Tornadoes of emotion overpower me. I’ll do anything to make them stop.

“I also don’t believe in being used for revenge sex.” He dips his head slightly in a self-effacing gesture that makes him even more irresistible.

“Revenge sex?”

“Revenge sex, angry sex, call it what you want. When I make love with you, it’ll be for all the right reasons. Screwing you so you can forget you’re Senator Bosworth’s daughter isn’t a good enough reason.”

His words–when I make love with you–cut through all my fierce pain. Silas didn’t say if.

He said when.

“Your reasons count, but mine don’t?” I ask, the lingering need to be livid hard to shake.

“When your reasons don’t involve genuinely wanting me, then no.”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you, Silas.” My voice is pleading. Desperate. Angry.

Lustful.

“And I wouldn’t say no if I didn’t want you, too, Jane.”

What am I supposed to do with that?

“This is just plain old awkward.” My words are true. We’ve traded a lot of lies in our short time together, but I just laid it out.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

We’re so close to each other, faces inches away, the casual conversation masking both our racing hearts. I get the impression he’s as overwhelmed as I am, yet Silas is in complete command of himself. Any guy who can turn down a woman who throws herself at him and pivot it into a proper date has a sophisticated inner life.

One I want to know.

“You’re kissing me right here at the senator’s estate.” Somehow, he pulled us into a tight corner where a small solarium pokes out of the house. We’re surrounded by thick bushes, some flowering. I’m sure someone, somewhere, sees us. We’re just public enough to be seen, but private enough not to be obvious.

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about kissing me, or you don’t care about getting caught?” This conversation is Byzantine, with twists and turns that don’t make sense, and yet it holds a strange beauty, an intangible quality that isn’t diminished by the many layers.

“You tell me. Do you think I don’t care about kissing you?”

“No. I think you do care.”

“Good. I don’t like mixed signals. I’m direct, Jane, unless my job prohibits it.”

“I am your job.”

“And I’m very, very good at doing my job. The best. Always.”

My answer is muted by his kiss. As he buries one hand in my hair, playing with the layered strands like he’s touching fine silk, he gives me a strong, possessive kiss that assures me. I’m riveted in place, knees weak, his mouth confusing me even as it makes promises.

This time, I break first. “I just found out that I am the biological daughter of a presidential candidate. And Lindsay!” My hand flies to my mouth, fingertips brushing my pleasantly raw lips. “Poor Lindsay.”

“She’ll be fine, eventually. She has Drew.”

“Who could her father be?”

At my question, his face goes slack, eyes suddenly all business.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“You know?” I let my heart beat a few times as it spreads its wings. The cage it’s been locked inside dissolves as we speak.

“We have suspicions. And rumors. A few tips.”

“Drew’s hidden this from her all along?”

Silas opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, lips going tight, his head shaking slightly. “I said too much. Let’s pretend I didn’t.”

“I’m done pretending when it comes to paternity questions.”

“I can understand that,” he says gently. “But this isn’t about your father. It’s about Lindsay’s.”

I start to cry, silent and soulful. “I feel so bad for her.”

“It must be hard.”

“At least I don’t have Monica for a mother.”

“Lindsay’s had a rough life,” he agrees.

“What about your life? Your mom? Kelly? How are they? What’s happening with your sister’s death and–” My stomach roars with a grumbling, growling sound, like a tiger lives inside me.

“Perfect timing,” he says with a sad smile. “Let’s talk about it over lunch.” As he guides me out of the little corner we’re in, his body language changes. He’s back to all business, stiff and formal, on guard.

I immediately assume I’ve done something wrong.

“Where?”

“In town. By the water, where the old port shopping is. Except we’ll stick to indoor locations with obvious back exits,” he clarifies.

“You’re really selling the romance here, Silas.”

I expect him to laugh. Remember? Today is not my day for having expectations met.

Peering intently at me, he gives me a soft, concerned look. “This is too much.”

I jerk in his arms. “The date?”

“No. All of it. Tara’s death. Your–” His entire body tightens. “Your exam back there. The test results. Monica.”

I interrupt him. “And your sister. Kelly. Your mom.”

He starts to pull me closer, but pivots instead. I’m led away from the kiss, the hug, the comfort. Reality means getting out of here as fast as possible. Reality means never taking the time to feel anything as it actually happens. This is my new reality.

This is all I know now.

Duff is sitting in the driver’s seat of the black SUV Silas guides me to. I wonder how he knows which car to bring me into, how he communicates with his team, what it takes to make everything move so smoothly. I plan to ask when we’re settled into the SUV, but as I try to climb up into the backseat, I pause.

And begin to shake.

My blood turns cold, like someone is flushing pipes, as I look at objects around me–the back door handle, the button on Silas’s cuff, the distance between my eyes and the black asphalt. It all starts to spin, pulling in and out, toward and away, and I am nothing more than a human version of a wax doll.

“Jane?” Silas’s voice comes to me from the end of a long tunnel that separates us. “Jane!” His voice is urgent and softer.

And then it’s gone. I’m gone.

What a relief.