Kitabı oku: «Bedroom Diplomacy»

“When your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?”

Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasn’t so sure.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust?

“Your father did mention that you’ve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.”

Rowena’s father didn’t even know the half of it. “I guess it’s made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.”

“If I came on too strong, I apologize.” He paused. “That happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.”

Dear Reader,

My husband and I have something that we like to call “Mole Stories.” I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.

After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day I’m looking at my husband’s chin, and I ask, “Didn’t you used to have a mole there?” Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage he’s usually had either a full beard or goatee, so it’s not too weird that I’m just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kid—completely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to “keep an eye on it.” Eventually it started to fade, and now it’s gone.

As he’s telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the “mole story” was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadn’t heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.

Which has nothing to do with the book, but it’s kind of a cool story on its own.

Until next time,

Michelle

About the Author

MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.

Bedroom Diplomacy

Michelle Celmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.

It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.

An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.

And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.

One

Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her father’s personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, “He said to tell you that he’s on his way over now.”

“And…?” Rowena said, knowing there was more.

“That’s it,” Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.

“You’re a worse liar than I am.”

Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, “He wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.”

Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. He’d demanded—not asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anything—that she have things in order. He’d suggested, not for the first time since she’d taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and inept—labels that he apparently would never let her live down.

She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees—about the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.

She could be in the world’s worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, she’d had little interest in children. Now she couldn’t imagine a more satisfying career choice.

And she knew, if she wasn’t careful, he would take that away from her, too.

“He’s never going to trust me, is he?”

“He put you in charge.”

“Yeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.”

“He does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

Having been her father’s assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowena’s mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senator’s protégé.

And people wondered why Rowena was so screwed up.

Was, she reminded herself. “Who is it this time?” she asked Margaret.

“A British diplomat. I don’t know much about him, other than that he’s lobbying your father to support a tech treaty with the U.K. And I think he has some sort of royal title.”

The senator probably loved that. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

“Good luck, honey.”

The buzzer sounded, announcing her father’s arrival. With a heavy sigh she pushed herself out of her chair, took off the paint-smudged vinyl smock she’d worn for the morning art project and hung it on a hook in the closet, then headed through the activity room and out to the playground to open the gate, which was kept locked at all times. To keep not only the children in, but strangers out. With a man as powerful and influential as the senator, and the day-care center on the grounds of his estate, one could never be too careful.

Her father stood on the other side, dressed for golf and wearing his plastic politician’s smile. Then her eyes settled on the man standing beside him.

Whoa.

When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere around six-three. As lean as he was, he should have looked lanky; instead, he was perfectly proportioned.

The rebel in her said, Come to mama. But the logical Rowena, the mature adult, knew from experience that powerful, sinfully attractive men were the worst kind of trouble. And unfortunately, the best kind of fun. Until they took what they wanted and moved on to greener pastures. Or, as had happened with her son, Dylan’s, father, knocked her up and abandoned her. She punched in her code, opened the gate and let them in.

“Sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Colin Middlebury,” the senator said—sweetheart being a term he only used when he was milking his family-man image. “Colin, this is my daughter, Rowena.”

The man leveled those remarkable eyes on her and flashed her a grin that was as much smirk as smile, and her heart went pitter-patter.

“Miss Tate,” he said in a silky smooth voice punctuated by a crisp accent that, if she were still the type to swoon, would have had her fanning her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me. She glanced over at her father, who was wearing his behave or else look.

“Mr. Middlebury, welcome to L.A.,” she said.

“Please, call me Colin.” His grin, the slight lift of his left brow, made it feel more like a dare. And when he shook her hand, she felt a delightful little tingle.

Wow, it had been a really long time since a man had made her tingle. Most of the men her father brought around were stodgy old politicians with clammy hands, roaming eyes and greedy smiles. The kind whose power in politics made them believe they were irresistible to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts.

“Colin will be staying here at the mansion while we iron out the details of a treaty I’m sponsoring,” her father said. “Two or three weeks.”

This was usually the worst part of being a politician’s daughter—having to play the role of the polite hostess, when on the inside she was grinding her teeth. But when the guest looked like Colin Middlebury? Well, he could be the world’s biggest jerk, but at least the view was nice.

Looking in the direction of the playground, her father asked, “Where is my grandson?”

“He’s upstairs with his speech therapist,” she said. The main floor of the building served as the day-care center, while the upper floor was set up to accommodate a variety of physical, speech and occupational therapy equipment. That way her son, Dylan, could receive all the therapy he needed and she could run the day care without interruption. Her father’s idea, of course. Only the best for his grandson.

“When will he be finished? I’d like Colin to meet him.”

She glanced at her watch. “Not for another thirty minutes. And he shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Another time,” Colin said, and asked Rowena, “Will you be joining us at Estavez for dinner tonight?”

Heck yes. She would love to. But a stern look from her father made the correct answer to that question more than obvious.

“Maybe some other time,” she told Colin.

“Colin,” her father said, “why don’t you and I take a quick tour inside.”

“Fantastic,” Colin said, and maybe it was just the accent, but he sounded genuinely excited.

“I started this project two years ago,” the senator told him proudly as they walked to the building, not mentioning—he never did—that the initial idea had been hers.

“Hey, Row!”

Rowena looked across the playground to where Patricia Adams, the assistant manager—and also her best friend—stood watching the kids on the monkey bars. She fanned her face and mouthed the word wow.

No kidding.

Only a few minutes passed before her father and Colin reemerged from the building, and she could see instantly that the senator was in a huff about something.

“It would seem that someone left paint on the edge of one of the tables and it’s gotten onto Colin’s pants,” he told her, and while his tone was reasonable, his jaw was clenched and his eyes had that if-I-get-any-angrier-I’m-going-to-pop look about them.

Colin, in contrast, seemed unfazed, despite a rather large magenta smudge on his left pant leg. “It’s really no problem,” he said.

“It’s a water-based, washable paint,” Rowena told him. “A little soap and water should take that right out. I’m sure Betty, our housekeeper, can take care of it for you. But if for whatever reason they’re ruined, I’ll replace them.”

“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Colin said.

“Well, we should let you get back to work,” her father said, flashing his plastic smile. “Colin, would you excuse me and my daughter for a moment? I just need a quick word with her.”

Oh boy, here we go.

“Of course. I’ll start back up to the house.”

She followed her father into the building, then, he turned to her and said, “Rowena, all I ask when I bring a guest in is that you have the center clean and presentable. Was it too much trouble to wipe up a paint spill? Colin is royalty, for God’s sake, an earl, not to mention a war hero. What possible reason could you have to be so rude?”

If he was a war hero, he’d probably had a lot worse than paint spill on his pants, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it.

Like so many times before, she swallowed her pride—and even managed not to gag at the bitter aftertaste— saying, “I’m sorry, we must have missed some when we cleaned up. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“If there is a next time. If you can’t manage something as simple as wiping up paint, how can you be expected to adequately care for children?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

“After all I’ve done for you and Dylan…” He shook his head, as if he had no words to describe her audacity and selfishness. Then for dramatic effect, he stormed out in a huff.

She slumped against the wall, angry and frustrated and yes, hurt. But not defeated. He could keep knocking her down, but she would always get back up again.

“Hey, Row?”

Tricia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced what probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. “No big deal.”

“I heard what he said about the paint. That was my fault. I asked April to wipe the tables down and I guess I forget to check if she’d missed anything. I know how picky he is when he brings people in. I should have been more careful. I’m so sorry.”

“Tricia, if it hadn’t been the paint, it would have been something else. You know that he always finds something.”

“It’s not right the way he treats you.”

“I put him through a lot.”

“You’ve changed, Row. You’ve pulled your life together.”

“But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without his help. You can’t deny that he’s done a lot for me and Dylan.”

“That’s what he wants you to think. But that doesn’t make it okay for him to treat you like an indentured servant. You would manage just fine on your own.”

She wanted to believe that, but the last time she’d been on her own she had made a total mess of her life.

“You know the offer still stands. If you and Dylan want to come stay with me for a while…”

And the instant she left, he would cut off not just her but Dylan, as well. And without the money to pay for his medical care, her father would have all the ammunition he needed to take Dylan away from her. She’d been hearing that threat since the day Dylan was born. It was the ultimate punishment, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he would do it.

“I can’t, Tricia, but I love you for offering.”

Her own irresponsibility and carelessness were what had gotten her into this mess, and she was the only one who could get herself out.

Colin had never put much stock in rumors. In a royal family, even on the outermost fringes, gossip spread like a disease. Which was why, when he heard the speculation about the senator’s daughter, out of fairness and respect, he reserved judgment. And maybe he was missing something, but she’d seemed all right to him. Of course, she could have had two heads and hooves for feet and he would have been perfectly gracious.

This assignment was Colin’s first go as a diplomat, and certainly not somewhere he had intended to be at this point in his life—or ever, for that matter—but he was making the best of an unfortunate situation. He had been warned that when dealing with American politicians, especially one as powerful and influential as Senator Tate, he would be wise to watch his back. The senator was a man who got things done. When he put the weight of his office behind legislation, his colleagues naturally fell in line. The royal family was counting on Colin to ensure that the tech treaty, a crucial piece of legislation for both the U.K. and the U.S., became law.

Too many high-profile instances of phone and internet hacking had been occurring in both the U.K. and the U.S. A tech treaty would give international law enforcement the tools to see that the guilty parties were brought to justice.

Due to illegal hacking, President Morrow had been outed as having an illegitimate daughter by the press at his own inaugural ball in front of family, friends and celebrities. Even worse, his supposed illegitimate daughter, Ariella Winthrop, had been standing a few feet away from him when the news broke and was taken by complete surprise herself.

The U.S. was finally willing to negotiate. It was up to Colin to see it through.

He’d made it nearly halfway up the bricked trail to the mansion when Senator Tate caught up to him, saying, “Again, my apologies.”

“As I said, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s no secret that Rowena had problems in the past,” the senator said. “She has worked hard to overcome them.”

Still, the senator seemed to keep her on a very short leash. It was silly to get so upset over something as simple as spilled paint.

“I think we’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

The senator was quiet for several seconds, then, looking troubled, said, “Can I be direct with you, Colin?”

“Of course.”

“I understand that you have something of a reputation as a womanizer.”

“I do?”

“I don’t mean to imply that I would hold that against you,” the senator said. “How you lead your life is your business.”

Colin wouldn’t deny that he had dated his share of women, but he was no cad. He never dated a woman without first making it absolutely clear that he was in no hurry to settle down, and he never promised exclusivity.

“Sir, this so-called reputation of mine sounds a bit hyperbolic.”

“You’re young, in your prime, and I don’t fault you for playing the field.”

Colin sensed an unspoken “however” at the end of that sentence.

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even bring it up, but I’ve welcomed you into my home for an extended stay, and I should make it clear that there are certain ground rules I expect you to follow.”

Ground rules?

“My daughter can be very… impulsive and in the past has been a target for unscrupulous men who think they can use her to get to me. Or simply just use her.”

“Sir, let me assure you—”

He held up a hand to stop him. “It’s not an accusation.”

It certainly felt like one.

“That said, I must insist that as long as you’re staying in my home, you are to consider my daughter off-limits.”

Well, it didn’t get much more direct than that.

“Can I count on you to do the right thing, son?”

“Of course,” Colin said, unsure if he should feel slighted or amused or if he should pity the senator. “I’m here to work on the treaty.”

“Well, then,” the senator said, “Let’s get to work.”

Two

After a long day of collaboration with the senator that was encouragingly productive, and dinner out with him and several of his friends, Colin found a quiet, dark corner by the pool to relax. It was blessedly out of view of the mansion, and the only place that he felt truly alone on the estate. And he needed his alone time. He stretched out in a lounge chair and gazed up at a clear, star-filled sky while he sipped a glass of the senator’s finest scotch.

When his phone rang he was surprised to see his sister’s number flash across the screen. It was only 5:30 a.m. in London.

“You’re up early,” he said in lieu of a hello.

“Mother’s having a rough night,” she told him, “so I was up watching television. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re enjoying your stay there.”

“It’s been… interesting.”

He told her about the senator’s warning, and at first she was convinced he was joking.

“It’s the God’s honest truth,” he assured her.

“Her father actually told you that she’s off-limits?”

“In those exact words.”

“How unbelievably rude and tactless!”

“Apparently I have a reputation with the ladies.”

With Rowena’s flame-red hair and striking, emerald-green bedroom eyes, he couldn’t deny that under different circumstances he would have been interested. Very interested. But he was more than capable of resisting a beautiful woman.

“Maybe you should come home,” Matty said.

She meant to London, of course, and though he’d spent most of his recovery there, it hadn’t felt like home any more than it had when he was a child. Home to him was boarding school, then later whichever country he’d been stationed in.

“You’ve been through so much, and you’re still healing,” Matilda insisted. Twenty years his senior, she had always been more of a parent than a sibling. But more so after the helicopter crash. Yes, he was lucky to be alive, but dwelling on the past was counterproductive. The worst of his wounds had healed and he needed to get on with his life. Not that he could ever expect to forget completely, nor would he want to. He was proud of his service and honored to defend his country. Deep down he would always be a warrior.

“I know you’re doing this for the family’s sake,” Matilda said, “but, Colin, politics? It’s so… beneath you.”

Having spent most of her life distanced from the royal family and isolated from the real world, Matilda couldn’t truly grasp the need for the treaty. “I need to do this. The family’s privacy has been violated countless times, our reputation damaged. This has to stop. We need the treaty.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she said. “Are you staying warm?”

He laughed. “I’m in Southern California, Matty. It doesn’t get cold here.” Unlike Washington, where he’d made a brief stop before flying to the West Coast. There the bitter wind and subzero temperatures seeped into his bones, reminding him, with aches and twinges, that he had a while to go before he was fully recovered.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Matilda started to yawn.

“You should try to get some more sleep,” he told her.

“Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise. Love you, Matty, and give my best to Mother.”

“Love you, too.”

He disconnected, slid his phone back into his pants pocket and closed his eyes, going over in his head all that they had covered this afternoon, and how much more work they had ahead of them. Thorough as the senator was, he insisted they pick the treaty apart, section by section, line by line. It would be a slow and agonizing process. And it would be given the same scrutiny in the U.K. before anything was set in stone.

At some point he must have drifted off, because he was startled awake by a loud splash. He jerked up in the chair, blinking furiously, briefly disoriented by his surroundings. He’d lived so many places that at times they all blurred together, and when he woke from a deep sleep it took him a moment to get his bearings.

Senator’s mansion. Pool deck. Got it.

Had he actually heard a splash, or had it just been a dream? He noticed movement in the water at the far end of the pool. Backlit by the glow emanating from under the surface, the blurry outline of a figure cut though the water. Then, as the swimmer came up for air, he saw the unmistakable flash of flaming red hair.

Rowena dove back under, then resurfaced when she reached the opposite side, not ten feet from where he sat. She flipped over, arms slicing through the water as she pushed off the side. He sat there, transfixed, hypnotized by the graceful glide of her body, the practiced, even strokes that took her to the opposite end of the pool, then back again. It went on like that for a while, until she finally stopped at the end farthest from him and hung on to the edge, seemingly exhausted and out of breath. But she couldn’t have rested more than a minute before she started the process all over again.

After a few more laps he began to think about the senator, his ridiculous ground rules, and how Colin’s sitting there watching his daughter might be misconstrued. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed inappropriate. He could sneak away, but if someone were to see him that would definitely make it seem as if he had something to hide. By not leaving the second she dove into the pool, without even realizing it, he had created something of a dilemma for himself. At this point, it seemed that the wise thing to do would be to politely announce his presence, then get the hell out.

Still fuming over the berating she’d received from her father in front of her staff today when he learned that she’d gone thirty dollars over budget on art supplies for the month, Rowena pushed herself harder than usual, working out her frustration, swimming until her arms and legs felt rubbery and her shoulders ached.

Three years, two months and six days sober, and the senator was still waiting for her to fail.

And while she wasn’t denying she’d made a lot of mistakes, they were mistakes that she had since owned up to, and paid her penance for a million times over.

She had done everything her father had asked of her, but it still wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough for him. She would always be the bad seed, always chasing after his love, trying to please him, but never quite making the cut.

It was tough to impress a man who didn’t want to be impressed.

By the time she was finished swimming she was so exhausted she barely had the strength to hoist herself up over the side and out of the water.

“That was quite a workout,” an unfamiliar and sinister-sounding voice said from somewhere behind her in the dark.

Startled, she whipped around, seeing only the shadow of a very large and intimidating figure. Her heart stopped, then picked up triple time, alarm flooding her veins with adrenaline, her automatic first thought being rapist or serial killer. In that split second she imagined José the pool boy finding her bloated, discolored corpse floating in the water the following morning, or some unfortunate jogger finding her in the woods along the jogging path in one of the city parks.

Her brain said run, and she took an instinctive step back—right off the edge of the pool. She felt herself falling backward, thought, Okay, now what? and then a hand shot out of the darkness and locked firmly around her wrist, tugging her upright, to her imminent doom.

She jerked her arm back, expecting him to let go. Instead she managed to knock both herself and her would-be attacker off balance and sent them both careening into the pool.

They landed with a splash, the voice she’d heard suddenly replaying like a tape recorder in her head, only this time it sounded vaguely familiar. This time she heard the crisp accent, the smooth-as-caramel tone that really wasn’t sinister after all. And as he surfaced beside her, sputtering and cursing, all she could think was that her father was going to kill her.

If Colin didn’t get to her first.

“Why in the bloody hell did you do that?” he said, treading water.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He grabbed the edge of the pool and hoisted himself up. But the fact that she wasn’t about to be murdered left her so weak with relief that when she tried to pull herself up onto the deck, her arms crumpled and she slid back into the water instead.

“Allow me,” he said, reaching down to help her. When she hesitated, he said in an exasperated voice, “Just take my hand, for God’s sake.”

It was either accept his help or swim to the steps at the opposite end, and she honestly wasn’t sure she had the strength.

She grabbed his outstretched hand and with hardly any effort at all he hauled her out of the water. He was strong, which had her questioning how she’d managed to get him into the water in the first place. Maybe the adrenaline had given her superhuman strength. Now she felt weak and trembly and cold.

Colin grabbed her towel from the chair where she’d left it, but instead of using it on himself, he wrapped it around her shoulders. Her modest one-piece could hardly be considered revealing, yet she couldn’t help feeling exposed.

His soggy slacks and sweater were a pretty good indication that he hadn’t been out there to swim. Unless he’d been planning to skinny-dip.

She wouldn’t have minded seeing that.

He pulled an expensive-looking cell phone from the pocket of his soggy slacks. She cringed as he gave it a shake, jabbed the home button a few times and got nothing.

If he told her father about this, she was dead meat.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was out here. I usually have the pool all to myself.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, ringing water from the sleeves of his sweater. “I was sitting by the pool and I must have dozed off. I woke up when you dove in.”

“Your phone—can it be salvaged?”

“I doubt it,” he said, and shoved it back into his pocket.

His sweater wasn’t looking too promising, either. Her father was going to have a field day with this one. “I am so sorry, Colin. First your pants, now this.”

He gave up on the sweater, which had gone all saggy and misshapen, and said, “Could you spare me a towel?”

“Of course!” Where were her manners? It was the least she could do, since, in the process of trying not to get herself murdered, she had murdered his phone instead and, from the looks of it, his sweater… and were those leather shoes?

“They’re in the pool house.”

He followed her, his soles squeaking against the ceramic tile. She prayed he wasn’t wearing an expensive and non-waterproof wristwatch.

The door was locked, and she didn’t have her keys, so she dug behind the loose strip of siding beside the door frame and pulled out the spare. Once inside, she switched on the lights, blinking against the sudden brightness.

While it was technically a pool house, it was the size, and had all the amenities, of a studio apartment.