The Boss and His Cowgirl(23)

“Smile, sugar. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Breathing deeply, Georgie lifted her chin, but the army officer offered his arm before she could reply. A female air force officer appeared beside her and twitched the back of her dress into place. Georgie managed to murmur a “thank you” under her breath. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin—and wouldn’t her mother be so proud of her now?—Georgie accepted her escort’s arm and stepped toward the doors. She totally ignored Boone ducking back into the limo and the vehicle pulling away—and did it without hyperventilating.

The East Entrance foyer was full of people, but she saw Clay the moment she stepped inside. His head was bent in conversation with a stylish woman who looked vaguely familiar. One of Georgie’s talents was remembering names and faces. After a mental file shuffle, she placed the woman—Ramona Morris, wife of Ambassador Charles Morris. The revelation settled her nerves somewhat. This might be a state dinner, but it was a working affair for the senator. Work. She could handle that.

Clay froze, his head raised, and turned to face her. His eyes widened and he looked as though he’d smacked face-first into a closed glass door. She’d never seen him appear dazed. Her heart fluttered and she flexed her free hand to keep from rubbing it down her thigh. Even though she wore elbow gloves, her palms were damp. Her eyes remained glued on the senator as he strode toward her.

His custom-tailored tux caressed his body in ways that made her jealous. Her palms itched, wanting and needing to touch him. One side of her brain berated her for the visceral reaction she had to him, reminding in the no-nonsense voice of her socialite mother that she was just an employee with no beauty to recommend her to a man as powerful as Clayton Barron. But the part of her that read romance novels and sniffled at chick flicks craved to touch him, to feel his hands on her, his lips on hers in a deep kiss. She remembered the question Boone had asked her. She had her answer now.

“Yes, Boone. I’m sure,” she murmured, still mesmerized by the handsome man who stopped in front of her, his brown eyes hungry as he looked her up and down.

“Georgeanne.”

“Senator.” Was that her voice? She never sounded breathy. Ever.

“Tonight I’m just Clay.”

Clay offered his arm and she slipped her hand under his left elbow. With his free hand, he tugged her fingers until they curled over his forearm and he could trap her hand close to his body. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with her scent. Vanilla, with a hint of something sweeter. He needed to acknowledge the army officer who’d escorted her inside but he really wanted to punch the guy. Which was ridiculous. He had no room in his life for jealousy, especially since the man was only doing his duty. Reining in the green monster, he nodded to the man and guided her toward the East Colonnade.

He didn’t speak as he shepherded her along the windowed hallway overlooking the Kennedy Garden. As they approached the White House proper, two marines in full dress uniforms opened the doors. There was another long hall to navigate before they reached the diplomatic reception room, entrance there by special invitation only.

Clay entered the room with Georgie on his arm and didn’t hide his smirk at the stir they caused. Years of practice kept his gait and demeanor smooth even as his heart raced. The strength of his reaction to her was totally unexpected. Though they’d worked together for years, sometimes rather intimately in hotel rooms, the confines of his family’s business jet and his office, it wasn’t until recently that he caught himself thinking about her in totally inappropriate ways.

He’d seen her in formal clothes before—campaign functions ran the gamut, but he’d never seen her look like...this. Red was definitely her color, but he’d decided that the moment he glimpsed her in the red bra and panties in his bathroom in Scottsdale. The vision, and the feel of her in his arms, had been the subject of many a dream during the nights since.

Her gown draped her curves, leaving enough to the imagination—and his was active—to make him glad his tux jacket was buttoned. Heads bobbed in their direction, expressions curious, deferential or speculative, depending on the person. Georgie faltered a step and he tightened his arm against his side, trapping her arm. She found her footing and apologized in a soft mutter.

“What’s wrong?” He’d been against this harebrained idea since Boone cooked it up. Granted, he’d planned on inviting Giselle to this soiree but after his incident of foot-in-mouth disease, escorting the star wasn’t an option. Now he was worried about embarrassing Georgie. He valued her as an employee and didn’t want to upset her. And honestly, he wanted her to have a good time. With him. As his date. Which was all kinds of messed up.