Campaigning for Christopher (22 page)

“Is that right?” asked Tim. “Well, I tell you what, we’ve got two administrative positions open right now. Indian preferred. Both entry-level. The pay isn’t out of this world, but Miss Crow has been vetted by you, so I could fast-track her application and keep an eye on it. Put in a good word. But I can’t pull strings, Chris—”

“I’d never ask you to,” said Christopher, excitement making him break into a beaming smile as he leaned forward on the couch. “And nor would she. If she’s not qualified, she wouldn’t want to get the job over someone else. But she’s pretty fantastic, Tim. I think the BIA would be foolish to pass up the chance to have her on staff.”

Tim Poser chuckled. “Not that you’re biased.”

“I know her,” said Christopher simply.

I know her.

Oh my God. I
know
her.

His jaw dropped open, and he was so distracted by the thought that she wasn’t—
on any level
—a nefarious stranger anymore, he almost didn’t hear Tim’s reply.

“. . . good enough for me,” Tim Poser was saying. “Tell her to apply and then shoot me an e-mail, okay? I’ll make sure her application lands on the deputy director’s desk with my recommendation.”

Christopher could barely keep from yelling “Yes!” but settled for making a quiet fist in the air instead.

He kept his voice level. “Sounds great. I owe you, Tim.”

“Not even in DC yet, and he already owes me a favor,” teased Tim.

“Don’t worry. I’ll return it.”

“Get her application in ASAP, okay? And good luck to her. And to you.”

“Thanks again, Tim,” said Chris, hanging up his phone and letting out a huge, relieved whoop.

No matter who Julianne Crow had been on the first night Christopher met her, she was someone else to him now . . . because he
knew
her. He knew her heart and her spirit, the different tones of her voice and flashes of her eyes. They’d been thrown together under the worst possible circumstances, but somewhere along the way he’d forgiven her . . . and fallen for her. Hard. He’d never been so relieved, in his entire life, at the thought of a much-delayed farewell.

“Thank God,” he whispered, finally letting the dam give way as his feelings for Julianne flooded his heart.

After Julianne shared with Chris how much she loved Bartram’s Garden, he insisted that she say a few words after him during a campaign event on Friday afternoon. Julianne was finishing her remarks on nature conservancy when she turned to look at Chris behind her, grinning at him before turning back to the small audience.

“In closing, I just want to say that Christopher Winslow cares about historic preservation and green spaces in our city. In fact, he made a recent speech at an elementary school in Hunting Park and shared with the parents and teachers how impressed he was with their efforts to, um, to gentrify and revitalize that area of the city. He’s a Philadelphian, born and bred, and he doesn’t pander to either political party. He thinks for himself, which means he’s thinking for you.”

Pressing her palm to her chest, she continued, “When I left my reservation, last spring, and moved to this city, it felt so foreign to me. I spent a lot of time here in Bartram’s Garden. Every Monday for m-months, in fact. I came to love it, and I promise you all that I couldn’t, um, b-be with a man who wasn’t committed to preserving the public green spaces of America. Vote for Christopher Winslow, friends. That’s what I’m doing.”

The crowd applauded enthusiastically, and Chris stood up behind her, turning her to face him and pressing a tender kiss on her lips before pulling her into his arms.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured near her ear.

She closed her eyes for just a moment and smiled, reveling in the feel of his body pressed against hers, savoring the lingering warmth of his lips. “So are you.”

When he drew back, his smile was wide and open—a new smile—and she logged it in her mind joyfully because there was an unhurried tenderness to it, as though his feelings for her weren’t—or didn’t have to be—fleeting.

After shaking hands with the many employees and members of Bartram’s Garden, they finally made their way back to the waiting car, hand in hand.

Julianne couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different about Chris—that something elemental had changed between them since she’d last seen him, on Monday. And the only way she could explain the way the air snapped and sizzled between them was that it reminded her of the heavens and earth before a storm—the way the sky rolled, blurring to pink and purple, to green and gray. The way you could smell approaching change in the thickness of the air, feel it in the sudden moisture you breathed into your lungs. And inversely, if you closed your eyes and focused, you could sense the surrender of the earth to whatever elements were about to act upon it.

The ravages of wind.

The beating of rain.

The rolling of thunder.

The strikes of lightning.

A storm was coming . . . and the earth would bear it.

In the strangest way, that’s exactly what Julianne sensed now: that one of them was a hurricane and the other was the earth, and both were powerless to fight or stop the imminent collision of forces.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Chris pushed the button to raise the privacy shield between the back and front seats and turned to her, his body language confident and decisive.

“I need you tomorrow night,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “For the Halloween party I was invited to at Westerly.”

“A party?” she asked, furrowing her brows. “But it’s not a campaign event.”

“You don’t have to work, do you?”

“No. I haven’t had to waitress since that job I did in New York. But—”

“So you’re free.”

She took a deep breath and sighed, looking down at her lap sadly. As much as she wanted to say yes and accompany him, acting as his girlfriend for the sake of his campaign was one thing. Attending social events with him would only make things harder when they went their separate ways in a week and a half.

“Free to be your fake girlfriend at a party? No. I don’t—”

Gentle but firm, his palm landed flush on her cheek, urging her to look up at him. His dark, searching gaze landed on her lips before meeting her eyes. “Not fake. Just . . . girlfriend.”

He seemed so earnest, his eyes so beautiful, so intense, she rallied her strength to resist him yet again. “I told you, Chris. I can’t be your temporary—”

His free arm snaked around her waist, and he pulled her across the slick seat, closer to him. So close, her hip was flush against his, their legs tangled and her breasts pushed into his chest. And all along the points of contact, she felt flushed and hot, brutally aware of how badly her body wanted a repeat of that night in Washington. A repeat, and much, much more, all night long.

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say
temporary
. I said
girlfriend
.”

She swallowed uncertainly.
Did he mean . . .? Could he possibly mean . . .?

“But last week you said—”

“Jules,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. “How many ways do you want me to say it? Be my girlfriend. My
real
girlfriend. Not fake. Not temporary. No end date.”

His words stole her breath, and whatever air was left in her lungs, she held on to for dear life. She’d been raised in a place of want. Of just enough and no more. She’d never known what it felt like to wildly fantasize about something you really wanted and then to actually receive it. But if this was it, it felt like being launched up into the night sky and floating, soaring, free-falling back to earth, all the while knowing you’d land somewhere soft.

“You’re sure?” she asked, desperate to believe him.

“No end date,” he said again. “We’ll just . . . see what happens.”

Her eyes watered as she nodded. She hadn’t asked for forever. She’d only asked for a real chance, and somehow, someway, he’d decided to give it to her.

“I’m crazy about you,” she whispered, as a jolt of the car made her lips brush into his.

“The feeling,” he said, nipping her lips between every word, “is entirely mutual.”

***

As they danced in a sea of costume-clad adults, Christopher explained to Jules how the formal dining room at Westerly usually looked when it wasn’t being used for a Halloween party.

“The table over there,” he said, gesturing to the twenty-foot-long table pushed against the wall of the massive space, “is generally in the center of the room. It can seat twenty-four, but when we dine together, my mother sits at the head and we just fill in five seats around her.”

“Real intimate,” she said.

He shrugged, grinning at her. “With Alex, Skye, Elise, and Margaret now in the picture, it’s starting to get downright crowded.”

She chuckled. “We ate at a peeling Formica table in groups of three because, if we pulled the table away from the wall to seat more, no one could walk through the kitchen.”

“Now
that’s
intimate,” said Chris.

“You better believe it,” she said drily. Then, looking at him in wonder, she added, “I still can’t believe you live here.”

“I don’t . . . anymore.”

“Grew up here,” she amended.

“Does it make you like me less?” he asked, keeping his voice light, even though the very thought left him cold.

She grinned at him, warming him, her eyes shining behind a pair of costume glasses. “Nope.”

When he’d picked her up, an hour ago, she’d answered the door looking equal parts hot and demure, and his body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to hug her or jump her.

Jump her won out, of course.

He’d started by checking out her three-inch stilettos, then trailing up her gorgeous legs to a short, tight, brown skirt. His eyes had widened as he realized that the bra under her white, filmy blouse was red or hot pink, and though his pulse had quickened, he’d forced his eyes upward. Her makeup was supersexy, with wet-looking lips and dark-shadowed eyes, but she wore her hair in a tight bun, and what appeared to be reading glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose.

“What are you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

“You can’t guess?” she asked, holding back a smile.

His eyes slid back down to her breasts, and his thumb twitched, remembering the feeling of her pebbled nipple beneath his finger. “No.”

She turned and reached for something on top of her laptop and held up a large, thick coffee-table book.

“
Art History
,” he said, reading the title and raising his eyes to give her a quizzical look.

She beamed at him, tucking the book under her arm. “And if you’ll follow me to the Winslow Gallery, we’ll take a look at the marvelous collection of American Indian artifacts recently donated by one of Philadelphia’s premier families.”

“Holy shit.” He chuckled, nodding his head as he realized exactly how clever she was. “You’re a sexy museum docent.”

She nodded, giggling with him. “So? What do you think?”

“You nailed the sexy,” he said, flicking a glance in the direction of her bedroom. “Fuck going out. Let’s stay here.”

“Oh, no, Dracula,” she’d said, tilting her head to the side to offer him access to her throat. “First, suck on my neck. Then we’re going to a party.”

He’d leaned forward, catching the scent of sandalwood as he breathed deeply, taking his time making contact. Her skin was hot under his lips, but he pressed closer, letting his tongue dart out as he sucked gently.

She moaned softly, her breathing loud and rapid, and Chris felt his dick start to swell in tuxedo pants. Regretfully, he raised his head, muttering, “We’re only staying for an hour. Then you’re coming home with me.”

Her eyes were glassy and huge when she’d nodded back at him. “Deal.”

“Jules,” he said, pulling her closer as the music played in Westerly’s dining room. “It’s been an hour. You almost ready to get out of here?”

Her cheek had been resting on his shoulder, but now she drew back, looking into his eyes. “Almost.”

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“You don’t need to be. We can take things slow.”

She swallowed, searching his eyes. “I don’t want to take things slow with you, Chris.”

God.

She wrecked him when she said things like that.

“It’s
definitely
time to go,” he said, drawing back from her just enough to take her hands from where they were laced around his neck and thread his fingers through hers. “Come on.”

He started across the dining room, pulling her behind him, headed for the side door that opened into a billiard room with French doors leading to the west terrace. From there they could walk around the house to the driveway unseen and forgo another half hour of good-byes.

“Chris!”

Shit.

Jessica.

He kept walking, ignoring his sister’s voice, but it was closer and urgent now as he and Jules got stuck maneuvering around several dancing couples. Jules tugged on his hand, forcing him to stop.

“Someone’s calling you,” she said, looking behind them.

Jessica “Marie Antoinette” Winslow English burst through the crowd, lowering her mask as she looked back and forth between Christopher and his date.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she demanded.

“Sorry,” said Christopher, leaning down to kiss his sister’s cheek. “We were heading out.”

“Heading out? You just got here. I haven’t even—” Jessica turned and glanced at Jules, narrowing her eyes in recognition before whipping her face to her brother with a furious look of disapproval.

Oh, shit.
“Jessica, this is—”

“I know who she is,” said Jessica, still facing Christopher. “Why is she here?”

“Jess!” he said angrily as he heard Jules’s sharp intake of breath. He reached for her and pulled her closer, into his side, putting his arm around her to anchor her against his body. “This is Julianne Crow. She’s here with me.”

Jules was stiff beside him, but she raised her hand to Jessica, who ignored it.

“Are you campaigning tonight?”

“No,” said Chris. “I’m off the clock.”

“Then why the
hell
is she—”

Suddenly, Christopher’s back was slapped, and he heard Elise’s voice saying, “Jules! It’s so good to see you again!”

“Hey, little brother,” said Preston, winking at Chris before turning to Jessica. “Jess, have you met Jules?”

“No, Pres, and I don’t want to.”

“Jessica,” said Elise gently. “You found room for me.”

Jessica cut her angry eyes to her sister-in-law. “You didn’t drug my brother and try to ruin his congressional campaign.”

Jules flinched, and Christopher tightened his grip around her. “We’re leaving, Jessica. And next time you meet my girlfriend, I hope you can—”

“Your
girlfriend
!” spat Jessica with disgust.

“You’re right,” said Elise with steel in her voice, speaking over Christopher and nailing Jessica with a hard look. Both siblings stopped talking, focused on the intensity of their sister-in-law’s voice. “What I did to Pres was far worse than what Jules did to Chris. I told him I loved him, married him, broke his heart, and abandoned him. He started drinking, lost his job, and moved home. Finally, just as he was getting his life back together, I showed up out of the blue, with no warning, turning his life upside down and asking him for forgiveness.”