The Phoenix Candidate Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Phoenix Campaign

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For my muses:

  Jim, Diana, Levi, Katie and Emma.

  You inspire me.

  Preface

  The United States Secret Service uses code names for presidents, vice presidents, prominent candidates, and their families. The words must be unambiguous, easily pronounced, and traditionally all family members’ code names start with the same letter.

  The names often reference the protected person’s history or home. Some code names of note:

  John F. Kennedy: Lancer

  Jacqueline Kennedy: Lace

  Lyndon Johnson: Volunteer

  Lady Bird Johnson: Victoria

  Ronald Reagan: Rawhide

  Nancy Reagan: Rainbow

  Bill Clinton: Eagle

  Hillary Rodham Clinton: Evergreen

  George W. Bush: Tumbler

  Laura Bush: Tempo

  Barack Obama: Renegade

  Michelle Obama: Renaissance

  In 2012, Mitt Romney was Javelin, Rick Santorum was Petrus, Newt Gingrich was T-Rex, and Paul Ryan was Bowhunter.

  In the 2016 campaign, Aaron Darrow is Eureka, Shep Conover is Hawthorn, and Jim Boyce is Empire.

  Grace Colton is Phoenix.

  Chapter One

  June 26, 2016

  “You look like you want to be alone.”

  My eyes snap to the man sliding onto the barstool next to mine. “You’re right.”

  “I’ve always been terrible at picking up on those cues.” His light Southern accent immediately marks him as a visitor to Portland. He takes a long drink of beer and sets the pint down on the bar. His butt doesn’t move.

  His nice butt. His chiseled butt, at least what I can see of it.

  “I can be more direct. I do want to be alone.” I narrow my eyes into my signature get-the-hell-out look.

  “OK, go for it.” He shrugs and takes another drink.

  I huff. “I mean, without you. Right … here.” I flap my hands toward a half-dozen empty bar stools, all a polite distance from me.

  He’s crowding my space. He rotates on his barstool and brushes my knee, sparking every nerve on high alert. I know his touch is not an accident; there’s a challenge in his gaze.

  I am going to have to physically move if I want him out of my space.

  But no way am I going to give him that satisfaction.

  I turn precisely ninety degrees to give him nothing but my profile. I nod to the bartender to refill my white wine. He wants to play? Fine. Mr. Chiseled Ass can just get over himself.

  Aliza’s doing shots, Lacey’s on her fourth margarita, and they’re both on the dance floor while I’m sitting here like the responsible adult, ignoring the hell out of a stranger and sipping my second pinot gris.

  Check that, third. The bartender pours.

  I focus on my wineglass, exploring the man through my peripheral vision as he sips his beer, ignoring me in turn. White collared shirt. Dark jeans: belted, expensive. He’s got a jaw full of stubble and dark hair curls on his forearms from beneath rolled sleeves.

  I look. No ring. Just a sleek, modern watch.

  He turns and catches me red-handed checking him out. A slow smile curls his lip. “I think I’m starting to like Oregon,” he drawls, pronouncing my state Ah-ra-gone.

  “Ory-gun,” I correct him automatically, the way I’d like to correct most of my four hundred and thirty-four colleagues, plus their staff and an army of lobbyists. They insist on pronouncing my state like it’s a polygon.

  He leans in to compensate for the noise from the rowdy dance floor and thumping bass. “How long have you lived here?” His Southern accent is like honey on a warm biscuit.

  “It’s a life sentence.”

  He laughs at my small joke, a low rumble from his chest that reveals perfect white teeth.

  Wait—what? I’m supposed to be ignoring this guy, not making jokes. The crowd spills beyond the edges of the dance floor and someone knocks into me, sloshing my wine. A puddle of pinot gris slicks the bar.

  “Allow me.” He leans over the bar, snatches a towel and mops up the mess in front of me. Then he takes the glass from my hand and towels off the drips from its base. He hands the glass back to me. “All better. Aren’t you glad I’m leaving you alone?”

  “Very.”

  His warm, dark eyes crinkle at the edges. I love crinkles. In my twenties, I was all about abs. But now the crinkles draw me in—lines that say this man smiles and loves the sun and has some good mileage on his life.

  His dark eyes drop, and I feel his gaze ghost over my cleavage, inspecting my hands. My fingers curl instinctively around the stem of my wineglass. Although my left hand is evenly tanned and free of jewelry, the telltale dent in the muscle on my ring finger remains.

  He’ll think I’m divorced. Which is fine. I don’t care what he assumes, as long as he doesn’t recognize me. In this age of Internet dating, online’s the worst place for me to meet someone. I can’t hang my name out there for anyone to see.

  And cast judgment. Should I really be dating? Shouldn’t I be in mourning?

  And take pity. Poor woman lost her family.

  Fuck pity—it’s a four-letter word more foul than anything that comes out of my potty mouth. Pity diminishes you, it puts you and your poor, sorry life beneath them.

  But in a bar like this, with a man like this, my only identity is this man’s assumptions. Unfortunately, my plans for a girls’ night out don’t quite match reality: Aliza’s keeping up with the twentysomethings on the dance floor and Lacey’s getting closely acquainted with some guy’s tongue. I don’t have security detail tonight or staffers trailing me, but I still feel stuck here, afraid someone will recognize me if I start to have fun.

  A light touch on my knee sends a shiver through my body, but this time I don’t turn away or brush him off. Instead, I take a sip of my wine and meet his gaze, challenging him.

  He accepts, but he’s playing dirty in this staring contest as his finger brushes higher, toward the hem of my dress.

  It’s a dress I have no business wearing. Stretchy, black, gathered in all the right places. It hugs the sides of my shou
lders, dips low into my cleavage, and flares below my waist. It requires strategic underwear.

  Basically, it’s a dress for a girl who’s a decade younger than me, for whom twenty-nine is the top of the world, rather than a memory deep in my rearview mirror.

  My breath catches when the man’s fingers reach the hem, his thumbnail tracing a path on the skin of my thigh. I break off the stare and watch his hand, immobile, neither accepting nor rejecting this advance.

  He leans close enough for me to catch a hint of his cologne. “Tell me your name.”

  “Grace.” I purposely leave Colton where it belongs—on my business cards, my office door, and my seat on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. Tonight, I’d like to be just Grace for once. “Tell me yours.”

  “Jared.” His fingers keep up their subtle strokes on my thigh. “Grace-who-wants-to-be-alone, Grace from Ah-re-gone, tell me your story.”

  “No.” My answer is flat. I twist on the barstool to pull my leg away. I lift my wineglass and stand, searching the dance floor for Aliza and Lacey, ready to get the hell away from this soft-drawling, hot, stubbled stranger. With crinkles.

  A hand anchors my hip. “Then no stories tonight.” His tone is lower, more commanding. The playfulness with which he deliberately mispronounced Oregon is gone.

  And fuck if it isn’t sexy. The raw power of his voice spins me back toward him, drawing me toward his parted legs, his white button-down shirt.

  I rest a hand on his firm chest to keep a few inches between us, but my lungs are on fire, cheeks flushed, and it’s not the wine. It’s his darkened eyes, his slightly lowered lids, the fullness of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” I pull back, trying to break the invisible force that draws me in, but my fingers itch to trace his jaw to feel that stubble. “I should go find my friends, keep them company.”

  Jared cocks his head, looking over my shoulder for them. “You said you wanted to be alone.” His eyes crinkle with a smile, a light-hearted bullshit flag. He’s got me.

  “I did.”

  His hands tug at my hips again, pulling me between his legs. “I’d like to help with that.” His chin drops and I feel his warm breath brush my collarbone, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “Look, I, ah, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I’m not looking for company—”

  “I am.” Jared’s gaze is searching. “Grace, you’re a beautiful woman. You can do whatever you choose, but here’s what I’m offering: No stories. No strings. And no regrets in the morning.”

  I still, my breath torn from my chest, alarmed and totally aroused by the directness of his demand. Command. No way in hell that was just an offer.

  He takes the half-full wineglass from my fingers and places it on the bar. Then his hand is back on my hip, his fingers pressing into my flesh, testing me.

  He’s crossing a line.

  I am, too.

  Chapter Two

  We are consenting adults. We are consenting adults.

  That’s the soundtrack running through my head as he leads me a few blocks through downtown Portland to The Nines Hotel. He wraps my arm under his, lacing our fingers together, and I feel energy zing through that connection.

  I text Lacey and Aliza that I’m heading out, leaving out the fact that I’m with someone. A crinkly-eyed stranger. They’d pass out from shock.

  There’s a briefcase on Jared’s hotel-room desk, a sleek laptop and a few folders set at careful angles. Neat. Precise.

  “Are you here on business?” I ask to break the silence from our walk.

  “Yes.” He doesn’t offer more and I don’t dare ask. No stories. No strings. I don’t want any questions in return.

  “Thirsty?” He nods to a pair of heavy glass tumblers on a mini-fridge. Then he closes the space between us, his hands again on my hips. Possessive. “Hungry?”

  I bite my lip and slide my gaze away from his. It’s too raw, too intense, and I’m not experienced enough in the realm of one night stands to know quite what to do next.

  His thumb tugs my lower lip from my teeth. “That’s my job,” he says. His mouth lowers toward mine, head tilts, and I close my eyes, waiting for the kiss to come.

  It doesn’t.

  My eyes snap open and meet his, dark and intense, like he’s looking through me for an answer. I move my hands up his back, testing the muscles beneath his shirt, tracing the smooth column of spine.

  He takes a step closer, one foot between mine, our bodies aligned to press chest to chest, so I can feel the length of him. The hardness. The tightly wound coil within him.

  His hand traces my jaw, then it slides to the back of my neck and plunges into the long, dark curls at my nape. His stubble tickles my cheek as his lips explore my jaw line: not kissing exactly, just brushing his lips.

  He inhales, his chest expanding against mine. His touch makes me throb and shiver, but I can’t get out of my own head. We are consenting adults. We are consenting adults. Doubts creep in.

  “Stop it.” His voice is low and ragged, his lips vibrating against the side of my neck where he tastes me. “Stop overthinking this, Grace.”

  I sigh and try to force my doubts away, but it only makes them stronger, makes my body more rigid. Jared drops his hands and pulls back, putting a couple of feet between us.

  This is awkward. “What?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He turns to the fridge, pours a mini of bourbon in a glass and then sits in the lone club chair in the hotel room. Now I’m standing, stupidly, ten feet from him.

  He crosses his legs. “Take off the dress.”

  “Here?”

  “Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but it gets my hackles up. I hate being told what to do. “Slowly.”

  I close my eyes, debating whether to run from this room while I still have my clothes on and wits about me, or follow his command and see where it leads. Loneliness slams into my chest, the knowledge of what’s waiting back at my condo, and my hesitant hand pushes a sleeve off my shoulder, exposing the top edge of my strapless bra.

  Jared takes a drink, his eyes burning into me. “Keep going.”

  I’ve never in my life stripped for a man. My hand shakes as I push the other sleeve off my shoulder and then the stretchy material down my chest, to my waist. I grip the roll of material with both hands and turn around, trying for a bit of modesty.

  “Don’t overthink it, Grace,” Jared repeats. “Just be here with me.”

  Be here with me. Not on the House floor. Not in my past. Not weighing the pros and cons of every action. Just here. Now.

  I slide my dress down over my hips, back still to him, revealing barely-there panties. I turn and his controlled expression is taut, as if he’s at war with himself. His eyes drop to the carpet.

  “Kneel.”

  What the fuck? This game we’re playing is almost a war of wills—maybe I liked him better when he was sweet and crinkly-eyed and kissing my neck, but maybe I like him better now, his intensity liquefying my insides the same way he did when he grabbed my hips in the bar and told me no stories, no strings, and no regrets.

  Fuck regret. A whole boatload of regret and a dollar won’t buy anything but a lottery ticket.

  “I won’t repeat myself, Grace.” Jared’s tone is warning.

  And so, in my heels and underwear, I kneel.

  “Crawl to me.”

  Every warning bell goes off in my head, a five-alarm fire, but my body is electrified, not horrified, by his command. For once in my life, I listen to it, rather than parsing out the logic in my head. The rational part of me would still be sipping her pinot gris at the bar.

  I lower my hands to the carpet but never let my gaze leave his. Jared uncrosses his legs as I crawl toward him, my eyes precisely even with the bulge in his jeans.

  I stop at the chair, my head even with his knees.

  “Take my belt off.” I straighten, still on my knees, the
toes of my heels digging into the hotel room’s plush carpet. My fingers work his belt open and I trail a hand down the fly of his jeans, making him hiss.

  I pull his belt free and drop it, and I release the top button of his jeans. I draw down the zipper until I can pull his white button-down shirt free and the jeans lay open to reveal black boxer briefs.

  Jared is watching me from beneath lowered lids fringed with dark lashes, one hand gripping the arm of the club chair, the other holding his glass. He’s giving me no signals to continue—or to stop—but my chest rises with eager breaths. I want more.

  I unbutton his shirt, exposing a smooth chest with just the right amount of dark, curling hair. I trace my hands over his stomach, over the material of his boxer briefs, and I relish the satisfying moan I get as I stroke the length of him.

  “What do you want now?” I ask, not quite chickening out of taking the next step, but close.

  “I want you, Grace. I just needed to know if you were here with me, or off somewhere with other thoughts.” He sits forward and brings his face so close to mine that I can smell the bourbon on his breath. “I don’t do anything half-assed or halfway.”

  Chapter Three

  He moves in a blur—glass on the side table, arm around my waist, and he hauls me up on my feet as he stands, pressing our bodies together. His hands move down to cup my ass as his lips find my neck again.

  This time, his teeth come out.

  Nipping, sucking, biting. He hasn’t even kissed my lips yet, but he’s devouring me from earlobe to collarbone, one hand still full of the cheek of my ass, the other now full of my hair so he can pull my head to the side and expose my neck more fully to his mouth.

  He walks me backward toward the bed like we’re dancing, then I feel his hand flick against my spine. My bra falls away, and my breasts brush the hair on his chest.

  Oh, hell, yes. In my heels, I’m still several inches shorter than him. I rub myself against his chest, the hardness of it suggesting a man who sweats outside, doing physical labor, rather than a gym rat.