The Phoenix Candidate(18)

He flips a glance at me and his scowl melts into something … hungry. “You’d better stop looking at me like that or else we’re going to miss our flight.”

“Our … flight?” I’m not going anywhere today.

Jared lets his towel slide off his hips, snaking to the floor, and he crawls from the foot of the bed toward me. I squeak and pull up the covers, giggling, but there’s no laughter in his eyes.

Only intent.

“Look at me, Grace.”

I raise my chin and let a coffee-colored curtain of hair fall away so he can see my eyes. He has me pinned beneath the sheet, and I feel my breasts tighten as his gaze sweeps over me.

“It’s not over. You’re on the short list.”

“I am?” I’m lightheaded, not fully comprehending. “I thought you decided. After I shouted at you and told you I was most definitely not going to fall in line.”

“You’re perfect.” His hand cups my cheek, maybe the first tender touch I’ve experienced from this rough, intense man. “You told me everything I need to know even though you were telling me to go to hell. You told me you’re tough and brave and principled. You told me you were going to ask questions, and draw lines, and push back. That’s what we need in a VP.”

“Yesterday was a test?” I feel my throat constrict with anger, and I’m again at war with myself over whether Jared is a man I can trust.

Lust after? Abso-fucking-lutely. But trust? I still don’t know.

“I know I should apologize for that, but I can’t. I won’t. I had to know what you’re made of.”

I snort and borrow a hundred-year-old line from “Cactus Jack” John Nance Gardner. “And here I always thought a VP wasn’t worth a bucket of warm piss.”

“Don’t discount the importance of this for your future. Even if we aren’t chosen at the convention—and Shep’s a long way in the numbers from Darrow—getting named matters.”

I drop my eyes to my fingers tangled in the sheet. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Jared is very naked. But I’m not so much fired up as I am anchored. The words This is real peck at the edges of my mind.

“Are we really flying somewhere today? I haven’t packed, and I haven’t looked at my schedule.”

“Already done.”

“You packed for me?”

“And I called Trey.”

My mouth drops open, somewhere between annoyed and astounded that he’s called my assistant in D.C. already. This guy knows how to move fast. In every way.

Jared’s hand skates across my shoulder, then down my arm. “The things I’d like to do to you right now.”

The look from his hooded brown eyes and his face full of stubble would incinerate my panties right now if I were wearing any.

Regretfully, he pulls back from me, dragging the sheet along with it. I immediately move to cover myself, and he raises a brow.

“Grace. We’ve been over this.” He stands, wraps the towel around his hips again, comes around to my side of the bed and extends a hand. I take it and grab my robe as he leads me to the kitchen.

“Priorities, Grace. Coffee. Then shower. Then flight.”

“You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

I open my mouth to protest but a smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Bastard.”

“Mouthy broad.”

“Controlling ass.”

Jared snorts. “We can go like this all day. You want to play that, or do you want to show me how this stupid machine works?”

I grab a couple of espresso capsules and hit a switch on the side of the machine to warm it up. When the green light stops flashing, I pop a capsule in, shove a mug under the spigot and press a button to start the creamy brew.

“I can take it from here. You shower.” Jared’s command brooks no argument, so I work through my morning routine. I go back to my bedroom to dress and find a suit laid out for me: medium gray, single button at the waist, with a dark teal silk shell and black patent heels.

It’s a power look. Serious, but with enough feminine details that I don’t look like I’ve shopped in the men’s section.

I’m fully dressed when I hear my front door open and close. Jared’s in a new suit, no tie. His rough stubble is in stark contrast to the suit’s neat pressing and tailoring.

“Ready?”

“For what?”

“Seriously, woman? Can you just follow directions for one fucking minute without asking questions?”

I raise a brow and he has the good grace to look a little chastened. I’m not accustomed to just following directions. For five years, I’ve been flying solo, so other than the expectations placed on me by constituents and my congressional calendar, I make the rules.