Dirty Scandal Read online

  My ears ring from the sheer volume of his voice. Is this it? Are the Secret Service agents going to come rushing in and defuse the situation? I glance out the windows, into the Rose Garden. One of them has a hand to an earpiece, but otherwise, they’re perfectly still.

  The silence carries echoes of Andrew’s thundering yell. He never yells. The fact that he has—the fact that he’s already at the brink—makes me back off.

  But there’s more to this than he’s telling me.

  Andrew takes a breath in through his nose and moves on, as if nothing had happened. “The rumors are dying out, but they’re not dead yet.” His voice is deadly calm. “I need you to go to New York and focus the attention there. It will mean press interviews. It will mean public outings. You’ve got to sell this, Graham. I’m asking you personally.”

  “Yes, but you’re also ordering me to. As the President of the United States.”

  “However you want to see it.” A glimmer of exhaustion peeks through the bravado, through the poise. It’s barely two months into his presidency and I can already see it wearing on him. I hate how easily I can empathize. Not with the responsibility of the office—I’ll never identify with that—but with the way things can multiply until the very weight of it keeps you up at night.

  I pout at him. “That’s it then? I don’t get a White House wedding?”

  He smirks. “You’d never want a White House wedding.”

  “Who’s to say?” I shrug one shoulder. “With the right woman...”

  “Are you so certain Bellamy’s not?”

  The sound of her name on his lips makes me want to take his shirt in my hands and shake him. It’s a powerful, possessive urge, but I only stick my hands in my pockets. “Of course I’m certain.”

  “It didn’t look like a show at the engagement party. I was half wondering if we might be on the verge of planning a real wedding.”

  I’m still buzzing with the high of how mortified my mother was at our kiss.

  “It was a special performance, just for you.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  “Ugh.” Andrew leans back against the Resolute Desk and crosses his arms, studying the seal of the President on the rug at our feet. “You made it look real.”

  A strange urge tickles the back of my mind, but I dismiss it. “Anyone can make anything look real. Take our parents, for example.”

  “What?”

  “They made a convincing case for being happy for me at the engagement party.”

  Andrew nods, slowly, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Illusions,” he says cryptically. “They can be powerful.”

  “No shit.” I straighten up and adjust my tie. “When this is all over, you’re going to pay me back. This New York City shit is above and beyond, Mr. President.”

  “You’ll have my eternal gratitude.”

  “You do remember there are two people who have to agree to this, right? There’s no guarantee Bellamy will want to leave everything behind.”

  Andrew gives me a half-grin that makes my own lip curl. “You might be surprised.”

  14

  Bellamy

  Graham Blackpool is at my apartment.

  He stands in the hallway in his impeccable suit, wool winter coat draped over his arm.

  I thought this apartment building was nice until I saw him standing in it.

  Like this.

  Like that.

  Now all I can see is the paint peeling around the trim of our doorframe and the way the carpet is slightly lighter in the middle from all the people who go back and forth from their doors to the outside world all day and night. Someone is cooking—it’s a spicy dish and the air is redolent with it.

  My face gets hot.

  At least I’m dressed well enough to look him in the eye.

  I step toward him, out of the elevator, and he notices me, straightening his back. A lovely little dance goes on in his face. First, the little quirk of the eyebrows, oh, a person is here, then his lips parting, oh, she looks good, and then a little smile of recognition.

  I like it.

  I can’t help myself.

  I’m utterly drained from two different interviews today, and while Graham might be an asshole pretending to be in love with me, he’s the only constant. And I know, at some level, he wants me—even if it’s only in a needy, sexual way. I felt that in his kiss.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know what to do with my hands. Should I just...get my keys and unlock the door? I snug my purse up on my shoulder.

  “Nice to see you too, sweetness.”

  I force myself to keep my eyes on his, even while a flushing pleasure moves down my spine. That pet name—God. It’s hard enough to admit to myself that I like it, in a perverse, fall-on-my-knees kind of way.

  Especially after that kiss.

  “That’s not an answer to my question.”

  Sober, the walls between us are back up.

  But they seem thinner, somehow. Less durable. Less insurmountable. Like the Graham who made me laugh at the engagement party is just beneath the surface, if I can only find a crack in his defenses. The Graham who kissed me like that in front of his parents has a weakness that I could find, if I looked hard enough.

  Not that I need to do that—of course not.

  “I’m here to see you.” Graham steps closer and I breathe in the soap and leather smell of him. “Am I not allowed to visit my fiancée?”

  “Oh, stop. There’s nobody here to photograph you.”

  He puts a hand on his chest. “Ouch.”

  “Aww.” I put a hand on his cheek and stick out my bottom lip. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Feelings? What would make you think I had feelings?”

  “You’re right. You’re a stone-cold bastard.”

  He laughs out loud. “Might as well be.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He leans down and kisses my cheek, and it sets my heart racing. I wasn’t screwing around—there is no one here to see us. He’s not obligated to play this role when we’re not strictly in public. But maybe it’s easier for him to stay in character. “You look tired.”

  I pretend to fluff my hair. “So kind of you to notice.”

  He grins, and for a moment I get a flash of Graham as a teenager, carefree and funny. He must have been that way once. I can see it in his face.

  “You all right?” His tone is gruff, and oh—oh. He’s really asking.

  It makes me nervous, these glimpses of a kinder Graham; one who cares about more than his business ventures. My first instinct is to lie, but I won’t have that. We can do small talk and light conversation all day, but who would I be if I got into the habit of lying casually all the time? Right—I’d still be Bellamy Leighton, because Graham Blackpool looking at me this way has always been a lie. “I’m a little worn out.”

  “Long day at the office?”

  “Two different offices.”

  His eyebrows go up in surprise. “You had interviews today?”

  “I had interviews. I won’t get callbacks.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I laugh out loud. “One of the hiring managers was so nervous about me that she asked me each of the questions twice, and the other one wanted to know how long I’d really be available at the firm.”

  Graham shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t you be available?”

  I let out another laugh, but it’s from the tight space at the back of my throat, where all the disappointment of today is stored up and ready to be unleashed in a torrent of tears. “The wedding.”

  He blinks. “What wedding?”

  “Our wedding.” My voice rises. Damn it—I am not going to lose it in front of him. Not today.

  “Oh, shit,” Graham says, and then his face changes, emotions flickering through his eyes faster than I can keep up. “Are you hungry?”

  “Did you
come here to talk to me about something? Because if you didn’t—”

  He puts his hand under my chin and tilts my face up to his. “Food. Have you eaten?”

  I sigh. “No.”

  “Then come with me.”

  He takes me to the tiniest Italian restaurant I’ve ever been in. The size, in this case, truly doesn’t matter—every inch of it is magnificent, gleaming. Tables and chairs in dark, polished walnut, under pristine white tablecloths. We’re seated at a table in the back, and when the waiter asks if the location will do, Graham nods. “This is perfect.”

  “I’ll be back with our wine selections.” The waiter is tall and lanky, and looks positively skinny next to Graham’s muscular frame.

  But I shouldn’t be paying attention to his muscles.

  We sit and look over the menus.

  After a minute, I realize he’s staring at me.

  “What?”

  “You look different.”

  “I thought I looked tired, you charming man, you.”

  “You do.” He’s honest, but not malicious. “But you’re also....” He screws up his lips, searching for the word. “You look confident.”

  “It’s the suit.” This is the custom skirt suit I spent a fortune on at the tailors on Connecticut Avenue. I was sure it would get me a job, just based on how killer I look in it. “And…the hair, and makeup.” Disappointment crowds in at the corners of my eyes, and I press my fingertips there, willing the tears away. “I went all-out.”

  “I can see that. Are you sure they’re not going to call you back?”

  I look at the ceiling. “I’m sure. I could practically hear them whispering liability before I was even out the door.”

  Graham turns his menu over. “I hate to pile on.”

  That makes me laugh. “Do you really?”

  He looks me in the eye, and the gleam in his makes me wish we were sitting on the same side of the table. “Tonight I do.” Then he barrels on without waiting for another snappy comeback from yours truly. “My brother needs more from us.”

  “Not possible.” I cut a glance to the tables around us, to be sure nobody’s listening. “Unless there’s something really kinky I should know about him.”

  A dangerous grin lifts the corners of Graham’s mouth. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be discussing...things of that nature.”

  “This is about your brother, not us.”

  “And that’s better?”

  I have to be stupidly red right now. “You’re right. This is not better. Let’s—let’s focus on what you came here to tell me about. It’s bad news, right?” A tiny, nameless dread comes to life at the back of my mind. “Am I getting fired?”

  “From what job?”

  “From being your—” I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, my God. I don’t even want to say it.”

  “Then don’t.” Graham puts his menu flat on the table in front of us. “I told him you wouldn’t be interested in this. I know you’re going to hate it. But the President of the United States is asking us to move in together.”

  I have to close my eyes. “Move in together? As in, live together?”

  “Yes.” Graham nods solemnly. “I knew you’d be opposed. Especially because he wants us to live in New York City.”

  It would have sounded absurd, a month ago. Before the papers started calling me America’s Sweetwhore. Before I lost my job at Capitol Bean. Before I looked into Graham Blackpool’s eyes and fell beneath the surface, never to recover.

  But now?

  Washington D.C. is a claustrophobic hell. Manhattan, with all its filth and flaws, couldn’t be better. I can disappear there. We both could disappear there. Even if I have to move in with Graham—and God, I can’t even think of how it would feel to be so close all the time—at least we could roam freely through the city.

  I could get a job. I could do what I set out to do.

  “That’s perfect.” Graham’s mouth drops open in shock. “When do we leave?”

  15

  Graham

  “You must have been so unhappy without us.” Jax Hunter’s crystalline blue eyes study me carefully from across the table at the Purple Swan, the club I never thought I’d come back to.

  I expected it to be familiar, but everything’s different now. Even the hum of the other people at the tables, here for elaborately plated dinners, dancing, and other delights, has a different tenor. Or maybe I’m only hearing it differently.

  The walls have been repainted, a crisp white, with wood paneling at the bottom. They tables are the same, but the centerpieces are understated, heavy things that reflect the candlelight.

  It’s like trying on an old jacket that only partially fits. Why did I agree to come here?

  “Unhappy? I wouldn’t say that.” I give Jax a cocky grin.

  “Oh? Then why have you come crawling back, as if you never left?”

  “It’s not as if I never left. My penthouse has been closed down. It’s nothing like I remember. The whole thing is gutted—I’m paying the crew triple to get it done in ten days.”

  “Why the rush?”

  I give him a look. I’ve known Jax for years, and if pressed, I couldn’t say how I met him.

  Probably the Swan, during some drunken, heady night, when I’d ended up at his table. I’d accept his invitations to join the party when I wasn’t busy with women.

  He’s married now, happy and lean, and his eyes don’t look quite so tortured as they did when we first met.

  “My brother wants me to...expedite the situation.” The Swan is the same shape, but it’s a different place altogether. “Why all the redecorating?”

  Jax follows my eyes. “Redecorating? It’s been like this.”

  “Since when?”

  “You’ve been gone for two years, buddy.”

  I check my watch in exaggerated surprise. “Two years? What, did you gut the place in sadness once I moved to D.C.?”

  Jax laughs. “No. We cleaned it up after your rowdy ass finally gave us a breather.”

  “Touché.”

  “I’m here.” Jax’s wife, Cate, sweeps in like a goddess, in something silvery and tight-fitted. “And Eli and Jett are right behind me with—”

  “Blackpool!” Jett Brandon might as well be a frat boy in college, yet he’s grown up into a mega-successful owner of a conglomerate that quietly spans the globe. He shakes me by the shoulders, pulling me up out of my seat, and looks me up and down. His voice clamors along with Eli Pierce’s. If that guy isn’t still a walking scandal, I don’t know who is.

  “Is it really him?” Eli peers at me through glasses that must be new—or for style purposes only. “He looks different.”

  “He looks rugged.” Jett nods approvingly. “He’s been partying. You know it. Look at him.”

  Quinn and Angelica, Eli and Jett’s wives, follow close behind, their heads bent together. Angelica’s blonde hair reminds me of a lesser version of Bellamy’s. She perks up when she hears Jett say rugged. “He does not look rugged, Jett. My God.” She gives me a peck on the cheek and slides into a seat at the table, Quinn right next to her, and Jett and Eli push me back down into my seat. Eli’s hands on my shoulders are firm—this is where you belong.

  It takes a moment for the thought to crystallize, and when it does, it horrifies me: I belong with Bellamy.

  But that’s insane.

  I don’t belong with her, any more than I belong in New York City. Both of these things are temporary, false, illusory.

  Jax leans back in his seat, his arm curled around Cate’s bare shoulders. He waits until there’s a relative silence, until Eli and Jett aren’t shouting happily at each other about the stock market, and then shoots a question at me across the table. “What’s she like?”

  I raise my eyebrows. It’s an old instinct. Buy some time. Think of an answer.

  “Bellamy Leighton.” Cate folds her hands under her chin. “It’s a pretty delicious name. Did you really meet her in a coffee shop?” I can hear the
question in the undercurrent of her voice, and it offends me. It fucking offends me. I’ve had years of practice making my face obey my commands, making my expression sickeningly charming at will, but right now, it fails me.

  “Yes.”

  One word. Razor sharp. Cate blinks, her eyebrows lifting, the curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “That’s lovely.” Her tone is all olive branch. “When do we get to meet her?”

  Jax bolts upright, eyes shining. “Is she here? Did you leave her in your hotel room, you unbelievable bastard?”

  I laugh, trying to dispel the web of tension still hovering over the table. I haven’t seen my friends since I left New York City. They’re being decent people, welcoming me back without giving me shit for disappearing out from underneath them. I didn’t want to explain, so I left—and here they are, hosting a dinner for me at the Swan. They’re taking time out of their married, busy, glamorous lives, to be with me, a fraud by order of the President. “I did not leave her in the hotel room. She’s back in the District, packing.”

  This is partially true. Bellamy, it turns out, didn’t have much to pack—she’s been frugal about her law school wardrobe and doesn’t like to be weighed down with too many things. She even packs her purses light. So, I’m sure it’ll take her all of five minutes to fold her closet into a suitcase. Everest, on the other hand—she’ll be harder to leave behind for a year. But New York City and D.C. are only a few hours apart. I keep telling her that when she looks mournful over the thought of leaving her best friend.

  I get to come back to mine, only...I wish it were under better circumstances. Being back in the city is dredging up a tension I wish I could shake off.

  “You didn’t answer the question.” Cate doesn’t betray even a hint of hurt at my clipped response. “When will we get to see your lovely lady?”

  “Soon.” I signal to a waiter and he comes running, which is the only thing that feels normal about this place in this moment. “Very soon.”

  16

  Bellamy