The Boss and His Cowgirl(25)
She allowed a wry smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “If I kept a diary, I’d describe them as cognac.” And burnt umber. Decadent as sweet toffee.
“You keep a diary and I’m in it?”
Georgie’s cheeks heated as he spun her away and back again.
“What else do you write about me?”
“No. No. I don’t keep a diary.”
“But I’d be in it if you did, right?”
The music ended and though Clay stopped dancing, he didn’t release her. He studied her face through half-lidded eyes and Georgie shivered beneath his scrutiny. It was as if he peered into the darkest corners of her mind and if he struck a match, he’d see the secret room of a stalker. Pictures of him—snapshots of moments they’d shared, only without his knowledge or acknowledgment—lining the walls. His name traced over and over surrounded with hearts and flowers. She was so pathetic.
“Georgie?”
She stared up at him, horrified at the direction her thoughts had wandered. “I...uh...”
His cheeks creased as his grin widened. “I am in your diary.”
Where was a desk when she needed one to bang her head on? “I don’t keep a diary.” Not now anyway. And thank goodness the darn thing was buried in the back of her closet in her room at her dad’s house. The next time she was home she would burn that sucker.
A waiter passed by with a tray of crystal flutes filled with sparkling champagne. She grabbed one and tossed it back like it was water. It didn’t help. Clay relieved her of the glass and set it on an empty tray. “Don’t look now but Mrs. Hudson is headed this direction. We should dance.”
He didn’t give Georgie a chance to catch her breath before he whirled her out on the dance floor. The music was slow, bluesy, and she just sort of melted into his arms. She couldn’t help herself. She fit against him. Of course, the four-inch heels helped. And his broad shoulders. His arms curled around her, his strong hand held hers.
His lips brushed her forehead and he whispered, “I think it’s time we got out of here and went back to my place.”
She should say no. She should call Boone to come extricate her. She should— Georgie looked up, saw a tenderness in Clay’s gaze that turned her boneless. She was in so much trouble now.
Eight
The limo slid to a smooth stop beneath the East Wing portico. The same army officer from before opened the rear door. Clay handed Georgie into the backseat and ducked to follow. Hunt would be driving and he already had his instructions.
Georgie fidgeted beside him and winced.
“Problem?”
She offered him a nose squiggle and shrug. “My feet are killing me. I don’t wear high heels for a reason.”
There was his opening. “Why doesn’t your building have an elevator?”
“It does. But...” Her cheeks flushed. “Claustrophobia?”
Now her blush made sense because his thoughts went right back to that evening in Scottsdale, too. Red was definitely her color and he wondered if her lingerie matched her dress. He fully intended to find out.
“Ah, yes. Claustrophobia and nyctophobia all in one package, tied up with a red bow.”
“Go ahead. Make fun. Must be nice to be perfect.”
Clay laid his head back against the buttery-soft leather seat and offered a rumbling helping of laughter with a side order of self-deprecation. “Sweet pea, I am far from perfect. Just ask my father.”
“Ha. Just goes to show he doesn’t know jack.”
She’d muttered but he heard what she said and hid his smile. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Georgie.”
Swiveling on the seat, she faced him. Her earnestness almost created a halo around her. “I do. We all do, Clay. Don’t you get it?” She took his hand without noticing she’d done so and continued gazing into his eyes. “You care. Here.” She patted his chest over his heart with her free hand. “So many don’t. You do things not because they’re expedient or make you look good or help out some lobby group. You do things because they’re the right things to do.”
Georgie’s hand landed on his thigh and he barely held on to his poker face. He liked the weight and heat of her touch. A lot. She looked so earnest as she continued.
“I know people want you to run for president. I think you’d be an amazing president. I’ll vote for you.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down. Surprise blossomed in her expression when she realized they were holding hands. She tugged but he didn’t let go.
“I hear a but in there, Georgie.”
“The senate will miss you.”
The import of her words kept him silent on the rest of the drive. The car stopped in the alley behind Clay’s house. Hunt exited, checked for any possible threat, then punched the code for the secured gate next to the garage while Clay helped Georgie out.