The Boss And His Cowgirl. Silver James
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off dying last night. Oh, Mother Goose, Jen. I am so screwed.”
“You keep saying that! What happened? Have you been holding out on me?”
“No. Oh, dang it, dang it, dang it.” Georgie needed coffee. Stat. There was still liquid left in her Diet Coke bottle. She gulped it down and glanced at the clock. Five-fifteen. Arizona didn’t do Daylight Savings Time so it was just after 7:00 a.m. in Washington. She rubbed her face and eyes. This was bad. Really bad. How many times had she dreamed of a romantic interlude with the senator? Way too often, but never played out in front of cameras. And reporters. On the national news.
Memories crowded in and she swayed. “He saw me, Jen,” she whispered into the phone.
“Saw you? What do you mean?”
“In my bra and panties. I...I panicked. He... I think he held me in his lap.” In full panic mode, she fled her bedroom, praying there would be a coffeemaker in the kitchen. And stationery. So she could write out her resignation letter. How in the world was she going to face Clay this morning? Sprinting through the living area, she barely noticed the bodyguard jumping to his feet. She sort of waved him back to his chair with a vague motion of her hand.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she murmured when she spotted a Keurig machine and a display of K-Cups. “Coffee, Jen. Coffee first.”
“You okay, Miss Dreyfus?” The guard watched her warily from just beyond the granite bar separating the kitchen from the dining area.
“Yeah. Yes. Coffee. I just need coffee. Sorry to have disturbed you. Um...carry on.” She wanted to head-slap herself. Carry on? Seriously? Her foot tapped a jittery rhythm as the machine performed its magic. Once she had a fresh-brewed latte in her hands she could breathe again. Almost. She drained the cup in a few gulps and brewed another.
“Who are you talking to and I’m still waiting for an explanation, missy,” Jen hissed through her phone.
“Shhh. I have to get back to my room.”
“Back to your room? Where are you?”
“I’m in the senator’s suite.”
Ducking her head, she dashed back to her room and shut the door, ignoring the guard’s grin as she ran past him. “Okay. I can think now. Maybe.”
“How in blue blazes did the senator see you in your underwear and please tell me it was the nice stuff and not the ratty granny panties you normally wear!”
“The protesters yesterday. There were smoke bombs. And...they cut the lights, Jen. I was backstage. I fell and banged my head. Tripped on the darn stairs and fell again.”
“Jiminy, girl! Are you okay?”
“I have some wicked bruises.” She touched the back of her head. The lump remained but wasn’t as tender. “And thank goodness, I have a hard head.”
Jen’s voice turned sly. “Did the senator kiss all your owies to make them better?”
“Jennifer Marie Antonelli, he did not!” Casting a worried glance at her closed door, Georgie lowered her voice. “It wasn’t like that. He was holding my hand because he was being nice. And then I tripped getting out of the car because all the camera flashes blinded me. My glasses were smeary and you know how blind I am so—”
“And the man picked you up like you were a fairy-tale princess and carried you off to his castle.”
“Well...sort of. They’re worried about security because of the protesters so I was moved into his suite. There’s lots of room. I mean serious room. Four bedrooms, five baths, all the amenities.”
“You’re stalling, Georgie. I don’t want a travelogue. I want the down and dirty.”
She inhaled and blew her breath out through puffed cheeks and pursed lips. In a resigned voice, Georgie recounted the events, ending with, “Then he left.”
“Wait. You played strip Jeopardy?”
“My boss saw me in my undies and you’re making up games? And what part of him holding me and...and...” She started to hyperventilate again. “OMG, Jen. I have to resign. I can’t face the man.”
“Breathe, Georgie. Does he have any idea how you feel?”
“You mean have I told him that I love him like crazy and have since the moment I met him? Oh, yeah, right. I definitely confessed that to him last night.”
“Your sarcasm is showing. That’s a good thing. It means you’ll be okay. But you can’t quit, Georgie. You have your dream job. Besides, if the man can’t look beyond your tighty-whities and see what a jewel you are, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“Awww, Jen. Loyal to a fault. But they were red.”
“I’m serious. You’re just panicky. How many times have you had to put your head between your knees this morning?”
Laughter burst from Georgie’s mouth. “Too many.”
“See? I know you. Now, grab a shower. I’d tell you to put on something sexy but you don’t own...wait! Red? You own red panties?”
“And a red bra.”
“Are they lacy?”
“Well...um...no.”
“Just as I thought. Now go put on your business suit of armor, get more coffee and do what you do best—work. Okay?”
Georgie nodded then remembered Jen couldn’t see her. “Okay. You’re right.”
“Of course I am. I’m always right. I’m your BFF. Keep me posted. I never want to find out stuff like this from the news ever again. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
Clay stared at the press briefing folder lying front and center on his desk. He did not want to open it. He’d already seen the news coverage of yesterday’s fiasco. The file would hold hard copies of clippings and photographs from print media and the internet. Georgie would have put together a digital file of clips, too, and emailed it, but she knew his preference for paper. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled so he could look out the window. A few of the more lurid headlines made him roll his eyes.
Senator Protects Aide à la The Bodyguard
Barron Rescues Damsel in Distress
Senator Barron—Hero in Disguise
All the articles led with a photograph of him sweeping Georgie into his arms to carry her. He leaned forward, tapping two fingers on the photo. Georgie must have been up before the Arizona sunrise to cull all the stories from the New York shows and national press and prepare them, though she evidently had gone back to bed. She’d been asleep when he returned from the fund-raising dinner last night. The night guard said she’d taken some prescribed sleeping pills and went right to bed. Her door wasn’t locked so Clay had peeked in first thing this morning and she’d been curled up in a semi-fetal position under a thick pile of bedcovers. Then he’d walked into the suite’s study and found his desk set up just like every other working day.
Boone rapped his knuckles against the door and sauntered in, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. He inclined his head toward the open file. “You’ve seen the headlines.”
Nodding, Clay shuffled through the file, barely glancing at the various photos and clippings. “And the coverage on all the news channels. Your take?”
“You should have a nice bump in the next poll, especially in that all-important women’s vote. They’ll see you as heroic and dashing now. Let’s face it, you’re already the most eligible bachelor inside or outside the Beltway, and we all know you’ve got the Barron good looks.” He chuckled. “Tates are more handsome, but you Barrons aren’t bad.”
Boone