Rules of Re-engagement. Лорет Энн Уайт
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president, and there would be no elections in the foreseeable future—the beginning of the end of democracy.
His job was to stop that from happening. That’s why he was standing here tonight, in the cold streets of Manhattan, a city he thought he’d never set foot in again, preparing to face down a nemesis he’d never wanted to lay eyes on again, about to confront the woman he was once going to marry. A woman he thought he’d only ever touch again in his dreams.
He closed his fist tightly over the box. This was business. He could not allow it to become personal. The stakes were too high.
He turned his back on the photographer and the blocked-off street. If he tried to slip through those barricades now, he’d alert the cops and Secret Service. He couldn’t risk that.
He’d wait at her apartment until she came home…if she came home, if she didn’t sleep with Forbes in that hotel. She wasn’t likely to bring the vice president back to her place. That would require some serious advance security planning, and it would generate the wrong kind of publicity.
Jacques crossed the street, dodging cars, oblivious to the angry honk of horns. Must be hell dating at that level. Not that he had any sympathy. Olivia was once going to be his wife.
Now she was positioned to become the First Lady of the United States. He cursed softly. He’d loved Olivia—mind, body and soul. He remembered how her skin felt beneath his. How soft the insides of her thighs, how…he jerked to a sudden stop, clenched his jaw in pain and lifted his face to the cold rain, his scar twisting tightly down the side of his face.
Her father must be damned pleased with himself. He’d gotten rid of that “poor bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.” He was giving Olivia a president instead—a man of breeding, a man of wealth. A man befitting his little girl.
Rage mushroomed through his pain. He was going to look right into Samuel Killinger’s eyes when he quashed that dream. He was going to show the megalomaniac bastard just what a guy from the “wrong side of the tracks” was made of. He was going to give Samuel Killinger a taste of real power.
Jacques swore bitterly as he reeled under the pressure of the emotions surging inside him.
He could see now there was no way in hell he was going to be able to keep the personal out of this. That genie escaped the bottle the instant he’d caught sight of Olivia again. This was personal. He was a fool for even trying to think otherwise. It was precisely because of his connection to Olivia and Killinger that he had been the unquestionable choice for this phase of the mission.
The best he could hope for now was to keep a tight leash on his feelings and to maintain his balance—and to remember, above all, that the success of the mission must come first. Above Olivia. Above him. Above this sudden ballooning need for revenge.
And in a few days it would all be over. He could get the hell out of New York and go back to the way things were.
He gritted his teeth and stalked with purpose into the city streets. He made for her apartment, his coat flying out behind him, images of her and Forbes searing his brain as the rain beat at his head.
Garish shades of neon—pink and yellow—slid over his features as he moved between the alleys. People in his path averted their eyes, stepped quickly out if his way as he approached, not because he carried a visible weapon. He didn’t need to. His body was one, and he walked like he knew it.
He had a mission, and he was going to get it done.
The heavy wooden doors swung shut behind Olivia as she stepped into her favorite restaurant. The soft sounds of a harp and the gold light of hundreds of candles enveloped her instantly, but there was none of the usual buzz in the room tonight. La Bocca della Verita was empty of patrons.
Save one. And his entourage.
Vice President Grayson Forbes pushed back his chair and stood up from the only table set for dinner. “Olivia! I’m so glad you could make it.” He stepped forward, arms held wide, an unusual animation dancing in his eyes.
An inexplicable sense of foreboding rippled through her. She glanced at the serving staff and bodyguards lined along the wall. “Grayson…what’s this all about?”
“Surprised?”
She had a sudden, sickening feeling that things were about to come to a head, that Grayson was going to force her hand, and that she was going to have to tell him it was over between them. She’d been dreading this moment.
Grayson was not a man to accept rejection easily. He was like her father that way.
She’d planned on talking to him after the election, after he’d left office. She’d wanted to at least do him that courtesy.
“You…you’re supposed to be in Washington,” she said nervously. “What are you doing in New York? Why…why all this secrecy?”
He took her hands, drew her closer. “I wanted to have dinner with my girl tonight. No crime in that, is there?”
“Dinner?” She tried to smile. “You snarled up half of Manhattan and had me kidnapped by agents just for dinner?”
His eyes turned serious. He pulled out a chair. “Sit, Olivia, please.”
She sat slowly, eyeing the bodyguards along the wall. “Do they really have to be in here?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She and Grayson had been through this a hundred times before. He knew she was uncomfortable under their constant scrutiny. He’d learned just how much when he’d officially requested round-the-clock Secret Service detail for her, and she’d refused it, as was her right. After much argument, he’d relented. But when she was with him, it simply was not her choice.
Still, she didn’t see why his men had to sit in on their private discussions—like now. It really wasn’t necessary. It had begun to feed a growing suspicion in her that the exhibitionist in Grayson Forbes actually enjoyed the audience, the constant attention. It was just one more little reason that their relationship was beginning to wear her down.
He raised his hand, motioned to the sommelier. “I’ve taken the liberty of preordering your favorites, Olivia. Both wine and meal.”
Even the music being played by the solo harpist was her favorite. Anxiety circled tighter. “Grayson, talk to me. What’s going on?”
He paused for a moment. Then he placed his hands firmly over hers, looked into her eyes. “Okay, why wait? I want you to marry me, Olivia.”
Shock slammed through her. She glanced around the room in panic.
A frown creased his brow. “Olivia?”
“Grayson…I—” She cleared her throat. “This…this is so sudden. I—”
He placed a finger over her lips. “Don’t say anything. Not yet.” He lifted her left hand and he slowly slid a ring over her finger.
Olivia stared at the shimmering cluster of diamonds set against cool platinum, and her mouth went bone dry. She could feel the staff watching from all sides. A buzz began in her head. She felt dizzy. Claustrophobic.
Her eyes flashed to his. “This is…so unexpected, Grayson.” Why had she not seen this coming? Why had there not been a small sign, some warning that things had gone this far with him?
She liked him, always had. And she’d known him forever. His family had owned a holiday home near theirs in the Hamptons. Their parents were politically connected and they were friends.
Grayson was also devastatingly good to look at. He was rich, powerful, chivalrous, charming. And he made her laugh. He’d been obsessed with her since they were teens, but her heart had belonged exclusively to Jack.
And then Jack had gone and betrayed her—in love, and in death.
And even though he’d killed her cousin and fled from the law, he’d still managed to take a part of her with him—her soul.