Rules of Re-engagement. Лорет Энн Уайт
When she’d been with him, she felt plugged in to the very rhythms of the universe, in tune with the resonance of life itself. It was absurd.
Maybe what she’d had with Jack was abnormal. Perhaps it was normal to be like this, sort of even and numb. But the fact that she’d tasted something exotic had ruined everything else. Because she knew it was possible. She knew it was out there—true love, raw passion.
But not with Grayson.
A sudden nausea swooped through her stomach. Guilt swamped her chest. Her hands felt clammy. “Grayson I…I’m sorry, I need some time. I need to think about this. We haven’t—” she lowered her voice, conscious of staff “—we haven’t even slept together in months. I thought that maybe—”
“That maybe I was losing interest?” He laughed easily, lightly, but she could see in his eyes that he was anything but taking this easily. He grasped her hands, a little too tightly. “Look, Olivia, no one said dating a vice president was easy. We have no privacy, no real time to ourselves, no policy book to follow. We’re writing our own rules here. But we’re right for each other. We always have been.” He reached up, moved a lock of hair off her face and looped it gently behind her ear. “And that other thing—” he smiled “—I’ve arranged for a room tonight.”
Panic kicked at her heart. She knew in this very instant how wrong this was. She could not sleep with him again. She’d allowed this to go too far. Her association with Grayson had been pleasant. He’d been good company during her deeply lonely times. He’d helped her see some of her major UN projects through the power halls of Washington. He’d given her causes audience before Congress and the Senate. With Grayson’s alliance, she’d been able to help the less privileged people of the world—refugees, political prisoners held without cause, human rights abuse victims. Her work was her life and he’d smoothed roads for her.
She wasn’t going to lie about it—Grayson Forbes had helped her help others. And that was partly why she’d kept on seeing him, partly why she’d slipped so easily into the convenience of the relationship, the friendship.
But she should not have allowed this to happen.
She honestly hadn’t seen it coming. She’d been about to end it.
Olivia looked into his eyes, her heart twisting. She didn’t want to hurt this man. And she didn’t want to turn him down in front of all these people. It would humiliate him. It would make him furious. And fury in Grayson was a terrifying thing. He couldn’t hide it as well as her father could.
“Grayson,” she said firmly, “this is really bad timing for me.”
His eyelids flickered sharply, and his fist curled over a napkin. She covered his hand gently with hers. “Please, give me a bit of time. I…I’ve been under incredible stress at work, with this refugee project, and the trial in the Hague. And—”
“You’re making excuses, Olivia.” There was a new hardness in his voice, an edge born of hurt. “The timing is perfect. All those things you mentioned have just been wrapped up. I know this. That’s why—”
“That’s why I need a holiday, a break. Out of town. Just to get my thoughts together. I haven’t been feeling myself lately.”
His mouth flattened, and the light left his eyes. Her guilt deepened.
“Can we wait until after the election to talk about this?” she said softly. “When things have calmed down, when you leave office, maybe we can go away together, like normal people, away from the cameras, the press, the politics, bodyguards. We can talk about things.” Her eyes pleaded with his. “Why now? Why the rush?”
“There is no rush. I’ve wanted this for a long time, Olivia. Much too long.”
She took the ring off, her hands beginning to shake. She held it out to him. “It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful, the restaurant, the music. You. But I’m not ready.”
He glared at the ring. Then he closed her hand so tightly around it she could feel the stones cut into her palm. His eyes burned into hers. “Keep it. Call it a thinking ring. Mull it over for a few days, and I’ll give you another when you say yes.” He smiled suddenly, falsely, reached for the bottle of wine, poured a glass for her and then himself. “Because I know you’re not going to turn me down, Olivia.”
She stared at the burgundy liquid still swirling in her glass. “I…I really think I should go, Grayson. I—”
“Come on, sweetheart, we’ve been together far too long for games like that. You’re here now, share a meal with me. Please.” He raised his glass. “And let’s have a drink—” His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over the crystal rim. “To our future…and to your answer.” He sipped, his eyes locked on hers.
Olivia reached for her glass and took a deep swallow—too deep.
22:58 Romeo. Olivia Killinger’s apartment.
Manhattan. Tuesday, October 7.
Jacques lifted the edge of the drape slightly with the backs of his fingers and watched the black SUV come to a stop down in the street outside her building. The agent opened the door, and Olivia climbed out.
His heart thudded quietly in the dark.
Another vehicle, some distance behind the SUV, pulled into a parking space behind a sedan that had been stationed across from her building since he arrived. Changing of the guards—there was more than one outfit watching Olivia tonight.
Whoever was in that sedan would have seen him enter her building. They would not, however, know that he’d been heading for her apartment.
He watched the way the row of yellow lights under the portico caught auburn glints in Olivia’s hair. Then she disappeared. She’d be up any minute.
He dropped the drape, moved into position near the door, waited.
The elevator bell clanged softly down the hall. He timed it mentally, how long it would take her to walk down the hall. A key slotted into the lock, turned. His body tensed.
After sixteen years, he was going to hear her voice again.
Olivia paused. Something didn’t feel right. It was as if there’d been a subtle shift in the chemistry of the air. She leaned toward her door, listened, but could hear nothing. She frowned, shrugged it off. It was her; it had to be. Her whole world had shifted on its axis tonight and she was just feeling off-kilter, that’s all. She pushed the door open, stepped into her apartment and reached for the hall light switch—
A hand grabbed hers. She opened her mouth to scream, but another clamped down hard over her lips. She was twisted around sharply, dragged into the apartment. The door slammed shut—and all was dark. Panic punched her heart. She struggled maniacally, but the grip on her only tightened. Her attacker was male, huge and incredibly strong. His limbs felt like iron.
“It’s all right, Livie,” he whispered against her ear, “hold still, I’m not going to hurt you.”
She froze. Livie? Only one person in this world had ever called her that, and he was dead.
“Relax.” He spoke low, quietly, his breath warm against her neck. She could detect the scent of expensive aftershave. She could feel his coat was made of wool. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m going to let you go. Promise me you won’t scream, okay?”
The man had an accent. French—not Canadian French, continental French. Yet there was something familiar about the timbre of the voice, the way it curled through her, stirring something dark and forbidden in the depths of her soul. Her chest constricted like a vise over her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred.
“Did you hear me?” he whispered.
She nodded her head. He released her mouth cautiously, waiting to see if she would scream. She didn’t. He turned her slowly round to face him, and he flicked the light on.
And her heart stopped.