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Synopsis
For two stubborn people, losing is not an option: “A high-powered romance . . . with laugh-out-loud humor.” —Publishers Weekly
Corporate mogul Shane Donovan sees the ultra-cool, collected Cecilia Riley as an ice queen—even if he can’t deny that, on the surface, she’s a work of perfection his body can’t ignore. Forced to spend two weeks in the same house with her for his sister’s upcoming wedding, Shane senses that deep down Cecilia mirrors his need. And he’s determined to draw her into a sexy game that will melt away her reserve . . .
Career-driven Cecilia has just enough free time in her schedule to head out of town for her brother’s wedding. But her agenda is thrown for a loop by the presence of Shane. Though his over-confident attitude leaves a lot to be desired, his insanely hot body has kept Cecilia up nights. Unsure what game Shane is playing, Cecilia takes the bait, bent on resisting him at all costs.
But as Shane and Cecilia discover, temptation follows no rules . . .
But as Shane and Cecilia discover, temptation follows no rules. . .
Corporate mogul Shane Donovan sees the ultra-cool, collected Cecilia Riley as an ice queen—even if he can’t deny that, on the surface, she’s a work of perfection his body can’t ignore. Forced to spend two weeks in the same house with her for his sister’s upcoming wedding, Shane senses that deep down Cecilia mirrors his need. And he’s determined to draw her into a sexy game that will melt away her reserve . . .
Career-driven Cecilia has just enough free time in her schedule to head out of town for her brother’s wedding. But her agenda is thrown for a loop by the presence of Shane. Though his over-confident attitude leaves a lot to be desired, his insanely hot body has kept Cecilia up nights. Unsure what game Shane is playing, Cecilia takes the bait, bent on resisting him at all costs.
But as Shane and Cecilia discover, temptation follows no rules . . .
But as Shane and Cecilia discover, temptation follows no rules. . .
Release date: December 1, 2014
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 368
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The Winner Takes It All
Jennifer Dawson
“We got the lead story.” Nathaniel Riley’s voice sounded over the car speaker.
The news didn’t surprise Cecilia. Reporters don’t shove a scoop like this to the back page, especially since it gave them another way to trot out the “senator recovering from a blackmail scandal” angle.
Cecilia stabbed the speaker’s volume button until it lowered to a reasonable level. “Then everything is going according to plan.”
“I trust you’re happy.” Her father’s purring tone made it clear that he, at least, was one satisfied cat.
She clenched the leather steering wheel.
Happy. Now there’s a word. When was the last time she’d been happy?
Stop. This was not the time to get philosophical. If she wanted a chance in hell at winning the congressional seat come election time, this was what needed to be done.
It was the smart move.
And she needed to win.
She’d get over the distaste curling into a knot in her stomach. She always did.
A green highway sign came into focus. Revival. Fifteen Miles. Where everything was sunshine, laughter, and genuine happiness.
Her skull throbbed.
“Cecilia?” Her father’s voice fractured her thoughts. “What did you think of the article?”
She didn’t read it. This morning, she’d thrown the unopened paper in the trash and deleted the Google alert links sitting in her e-mail. It was a fluff piece, carefully crafted by the senator’s finest. The first of many that would lead to a final press conference where she’d announce her bid for congress. It was all part of a perfectly planned public relations strategy, designed by her.
A fine sheen of sweat spread over her back. She punched down the air-conditioner button in her understated Mercedes sedan and let the cool air wash over her face.
“Paul did an excellent job.” After years avoiding the truth, the evasion was smooth as silk.
“Since you were unavailable, Miles and I had final approval,” Nathaniel Riley said in his polished politician’s voice.
“Of course.” While her tone rang with a practiced strength, her stomach rolled. What was wrong with her? She needed to get it together. This was the price her dream demanded. She wasn’t losing anything really important. Nothing that mattered.
Life in politics was all she’d ever wanted. When other little girls were pretending to be princesses in faraway lands, she played at being president in the Oval Office. It was the only dream she’d ever known.
She’d been content putting her career aside for her father’s aspirations, but that ended when his scandal broke. She’d sat at her kitchen table, reading that dreadful headline, and saw her whole world crumbling under her feet.
The young woman who’d attempted to blackmail the senator had eventually been caught and her schemes exposed, but not without damage. Cecilia had managed the fallout to perfection, minimizing the whole sordid affair, publicizing how he’d been a victim of greed. It worked, the senator was well on the road to political recovery, but she couldn’t shake the worry.
This wasn’t the first mess she’d helped him escape. At some point his bad decisions would have to come back and bite him. And where would that leave her?
It had been a slap in the face. A wake-up call delivered by a five-alarm fire truck.
“I’m proud of you, Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, and she could practically see him sitting there in his office in Washington, scotch in hand, smug in his oversized leather chair.
Six months ago she would have lapped up his approval like a grateful puppy, but now she recognized the lie. He wasn’t proud of her. This latest plan helped him. How, she wasn’t sure and didn’t care, but it had nothing to do with her.
It never did.
The truth only made her more determined.
A speed limit sign whipped past and she checked her speedometer to see the needle creeping past eighty-five. Easing her foot off the pedal, she started to say thank you for his sparse compliment but instead blurted, “Don’t you have any reservations?”
“We talked about this,” he said in a patient tone that grated on her last nerve. “This is your best shot.”
Clammy sweat broke out on her forehead, forcing her to turn the air down to arctic levels. Wasn’t thirty-three too young for a hot flash? She swallowed the taste of the bile clinging to the walls of her throat. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it?”
Because I’m your daughter? The truth pained her, causing her voice to crack. That he hadn’t even noticed she was upset made the cut that much deeper.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out from under his thumb. She squared her shoulders. “Never mind. Is there anything else?”
A momentary silence fell over the car, filled with nothing but dead air. She prayed for a dropped connection (one would expect it in farmland Illinois), but the squeak of Nathaniel’s desk chair quelled her hope.
“Are you almost there?”
Her jaw tightened and her ever-present headache beat at her temples. “I’m about fifteen minutes outside town.”
“And your mother?” The question was clipped.
Part of Cecilia still wanted to believe that under all his bluster and power trips he genuinely cared for his wife of forty years, but she had no more delusions. “She’s already there.”
The green mile marker sign came into view. Revival. Twelve Miles.
She hadn’t been to the small town since her grandma’s funeral.
A sudden, unexpected tightness welled in Cecilia’s throat and she swallowed hard.
“I see,” he said and another silence descended.
She dreaded spending the next two weeks in a house filled with strangers, watching her brother fawn all over his bride-to-be. Not that she begrudged Mitch his happiness, she didn’t, but witnessing it caused a strange yearning she didn’t want to contemplate.
She gripped the steering wheel, tight enough her knuckles turned white. “I still think a couple of days before the wedding would have been plenty.”
“Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, in his patient tone. “Voters love a wedding and we need the family solidarity. This will help your image.”
The logic couldn’t be refuted, but she tried anyway. “And two or three days doesn’t accomplish that?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but with Shane Donovan already at his sister’s side and that football player on his way, it doesn’t look good if we’re not there.”
An image of Shane snapped through her mind like the lash of a whip. He was one of Chicago’s corporate giants, and his sister’s impending marriage to the senator’s notorious son had been a hot topic on a slow news day. If it wasn’t for him, she’d be home where she belonged.
“So you get to stay in Washington but I have to play nice,” Cecilia snapped.
“I’m in committee,” her father said.
The whole situation annoyed her and she spoke without thinking. “And God forbid the voters find out your wife and son aren’t speaking to you.”
“That’s enough. I’m still your father.”
Something tightened in her chest. Was he? He didn’t feel like it. She straightened her shoulders and modulated her tone to neutral. “All I’m saying is I’m not sure it’s necessary.”
“Trust me, it’s necessary.”
She laughed, a hard, brittle sound. “Trust you? You almost ruined your career.”
“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “I’m doing what I need to do, and if you want to win, I suggest you do the same.”
She fought it—the pull that longed for his approval—but the habit was too old and her anger too new. She took a deep breath. “I understand.”
Sometimes it was best to concede the battle to win the war. Or at least that was the political spin she sold herself today.
“Good. Remember the plan.”
Ah yes, the plan. She ate, slept, and lived the plan.
Revival. Eight Miles.
Two weeks with Shane. Two weeks with his sharp, disapproving gaze. Two weeks of playing the ice queen he expected, pretending he had no effect on her.
She was exhausted just thinking about it. “I remember.”
“And on that note . . .” Nathaniel said, his voice rich and pleased.
Her stomach dropped with dread.
“I spoke with Miles and Paul this morning and we decided right after the wedding we’ll announce you’re running for office.”
She frowned. “What do you mean, ‘right after’?”
“At the reception. We’d call in a few reporters to cover the wedding. You could let it slip and have a press conference the next day.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Was nothing sacred to him? “It’s Mitch’s day. Let him have it.”
“The timing—”
She cut him off. “No. This is my campaign, and I’m putting my foot down.”
She might not be close to Mitch, or have the slightest clue what to say to him, but she respected what he’d done and how he’d turned his life around after the senator had gone and fucked it all up. She wasn’t about to ruin his wedding to gain a few points in the polls.
“Cecilia, let’s be frank. You’re a long shot.”
Yes, the factors working against her were endless, but she was sick of him pretending he wasn’t part of the problem. Venom filled her tone as she spit out, “Thanks to you and that little intern I told you not to hire.”
He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to believe, but we both know your image needs work.”
Nausea roiled in her belly. “I didn’t get blackmailed, you did.”
“The voters forgave me. After all, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ha! You didn’t get caught. There’s a difference.”
“Perception is reality, my dear. You know that better than anyone.”
What did he mean by that? He sounded smug, as though he knew something she didn’t. “I’ll build my own perception.”
As soon as she figured out what she wanted that perception to be.
A long, put-upon sigh. “You can’t connect. You’re logical and pragmatic, which can be a benefit, but it doesn’t win votes. People don’t love you. You don’t inspire them to act, or empower them to believe that government is within their grasp. You have no voice. No vision.”
The truth. It was like a stab to the heart, but she refused, absolutely refused to give in to the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. She did not cry. Ever. Instead, she steeled her spine and said sweetly, “Awww, you always give the best pep talks.”
Never show weakness. Never break.
“It’s up to me to tell you the truth.”
A cocktail of riotous emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but she pushed them back down. “I will not let you ruin Mitch’s wedding so you can play father of the year in front of a few reporters.” Her training had served her well, because there wasn’t even a hint of a quaver in her voice. Her hurt was hidden down deep where it belonged.
And since he was so keen on truth, she’d dole out some of her own. “As your adviser, let me return the favor. If you want a chance in hell at winning your wife back before the next election, you’d better stop using your son to gain points in the opinion polls. You’re losing her. She’s starting to loathe you. Maybe because you had sex with an intern younger than your daughter?”
“Watch your mouth.” His voice filled with outrage. Unlike her, he’d never been a pro at hiding anything unless he had an audience. “I did not sleep with that woman.”
She laughed, the sound filled with rough, bitter edges. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You think I didn’t see how you fawned over her? How you preened at her ego-stroking?”
Fifteen seconds must have ticked by before he spoke. “Have you told your mother this?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. This was so like him. All he cared about was covering his ass. Another mile marker sign flew by. “Good-bye, Father.”
He hung up without a word.
She exhaled a slow, steady breath.
Well, that was ugly.
She’d held her own and scored her point, but the victory was hollow.
Revival. Next Exit.
She slowed to fifty-five and changed into the right lane. She had to block out this noise—her family crisis, Shane Donovan, the wedding—everything, and concentrate on what was important.
Winning the election.
It was the only dream she’d ever had and she couldn’t let it die along with everything else.
Cecilia had been banging on the front door of her brother’s farmhouse for five minutes and still no one answered. She glanced around the front yard filled with large oaks and weeping willows from her past, but where her grandma had planted shrubs, her future sister-in-law had lush hydrangea bushes in vibrant pinks, lavenders, and greens.
It was like stepping into an alternate universe where time stopped and reality altered just enough to make the familiar, foreign.
The breeze blew gently, sending the old porch swing swaying, and a burst of nostalgia filled her chest. How many summer nights had she sat there as a little girl, smelling of Off! and the river, curled up to her grandma’s side reading James and the Giant Peach?
She could still see her grandma sitting there in her housedress, looking like she was part of the earth. A tightness grew in her chest at the memory.
Would her grandma even like the woman she’d become?
She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Where was all this emotion coming from? She needed to shake it off and get it together. She turned away from the past and rang the bell, then rapped hard against the panes of glass.
Met with nothing but silence, she twisted the handle and found it unlocked. Since they expected her, she took a cautious step inside. Her heels clicked against original hardwood floors that gleamed with a richness that spoke of the care someone had put into restoring the wood.
“Hello?” she called out, peering around the empty foyer. The walls were different. The rose-patterned paper had been replaced with a soft, dark gray paint she’d never have picked because of the dark wood moldings, but it looked exactly right.
She called out again, “Hello?”
A distant male voice yelled back, “In the kitchen.”
Why on earth hadn’t he answered the door? She tossed her bag on the bench and walked down the narrow hallway leading to the swinging kitchen door that had been in this house since its creation.
The kitchen told another story, thrusting her out of the past and into the future. It gleamed with newness. With gorgeous, industrial stainless steel appliances, distressed white cabinets, and polished granite countertops in various shades of cream, gold, and brown.
Under the extra-deep double sink, a man sprawled across the floor, his head under the cabinet. “Can you hand me that wrench?”
That voice. It never failed to send an irritating trail of tingles racing down her spine. She ground her back teeth until her temples gave a sharp stab of protest. Of course, Shane Donovan had to be the first person she ran into.
He bent one knee, pulling the worn fabric of his jeans across powerful thighs. Her throat went dry as her pulse sped.
Why him? Out of every man she’d ever encountered—and in her line of work, she encountered plenty—why did it have to be him? For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to the wrong political party. She shuddered.
It was all so . . . embarrassing.
But her body didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the first time she’d met him at Mitch and Maddie’s engagement party. The second her palm had slid into Shane’s, a disconcerting jolt of electricity traveled through her fingertips and up her arm. She’d had to force herself not to yank away, to keep her face impassive.
It was a good thing he didn’t like her. It was the one thing working in her favor. If she stuck to her current strategy of nurturing his disdain, he’d stay away, and her exposure would be minimal.
She walked over to the box of tools and stood over him.
Half hidden under the sink, he fiddled with her brother’s plumbing. Annoyed at his pure perfection, she wrinkled her nose.
At six-four, his frame stretched beautifully across the hardwood. His hips were lean. His stomach flat. Shoulders ridiculously broad. Most of the times she’d seen him he’d been dressed in a suit, but today he wore a pair of beat-up construction boots, faded jeans, and a thin white T-shirt. It was a crime against nature that a man who spent most of his time in boardrooms had muscles like his.
She’d analyzed her attraction, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Sure, he was good-looking, but so what? Good-looking men weren’t impossible to find. He was nothing like the men she dated. She preferred, well, men like her. Men who were more interested in politics and strategy than carnal pleasures. She enjoyed a relationship where sex was secondary to their intellectual connection. Not that she had a problem with sex—she didn’t. Her past encounters were all pleasant and civilized.
But nothing about Shane Donovan was civilized. And somehow she doubted sex with him was pleasant.
She shouldn’t be attracted to him. Period. End of story. Only her libido didn’t agree.
A loud clang sounded under the cabinet followed by a grunted curse. He stretched out his hand. “The wrench.”
Without a word she reached down, grabbed the tool, and plopped it in his palm with far more force than necessary.
“Easy there, honey.” The warm tone of his voice clearly not meant for her.
Who was ‘honey’? A moment of panic washed over her. Oh no. Was she going to be tortured by watching him with another woman?
The thought bothered her so much, she blurted, “I’m not your honey.”
He stilled for a fraction of a second, before sliding out from under the sink like the teasing reveal in bad porn. His strong jaw tightened as his piercing green eyes met hers. “If it isn’t the ice queen herself.”
His favorite name for her. He’d never called her honey, not even once.
The fine hairs along her neck bristled as something she refused to name sat in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t matter. Even if he tried, she’d have to put him in his place on principle alone. Endearments were dismissive, every good feminist knew that.
She slipped into the role he expected, ignoring the jab to ask coolly, “Where’s the happy couple?”
He got up from the floor with much more grace than a man weighing at least two hundred pounds should, turned, and flicked on the faucet with the touch of his fingers. “Your brother’s out back.”
The muscles under his thin T-shirt flexed as he washed his hands.
She squared her shoulders. Good thing broad shoulders, muscular backs, and lean hips didn’t affect her. She was a sane, rational woman, not driven by hormones.
Her eyes locked on his ass.
Good thing she was above all that.
When the water ceased she snapped her gaze away and smoothed her expression into her most remote mask.
He turned and gave her an assessing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show until the rehearsal dinner.”
A muscle under her eye twitched. “I was invited. Mitch is my brother. Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“You Rileys aren’t much for family support.” He assessed her with a shrewd gaze. “So there must be another motive.”
Her spine bristled and she had the sudden urge to smack him across his smug face. Of course she didn’t, because that would be revealing and out of character. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”
He scooped up a beer bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow drink while watching her in that predatory way he had.
How could someone’s eyes be that green? So sharp and clear, it felt as though they pierced right through her.
The continued scrutiny gave her the urge to tug at her navy suit jacket and smooth her knee-length skirt, but she refused to fidget. “Is my mother here?”
“She went to the store with Maddie.” He placed the bottle back on the counter and rested his palms on the ledge of the granite that replaced the linoleum she remembered. “We’re out of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”
She planted her hands on her hips and returned one of his long, disdainful glances. Her gaze settled meaningfully on his flat-as-a-board stomach. “Ah, that explains it. I’ve heard after thirty-five things go south rather quickly.”
His expression flashed with what looked like amusement. He straightened from the counter and took a step toward her.
The urge to retreat rose in her chest but she didn’t dare step back.
Never show weakness. Never break.
His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I turned thirty-five?”
Damn it. See, this was why she ignored his barbs; she always said something far too telling. She shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I hear things.”
“Investigating my background? How sweet. I didn’t know you cared.”
Of course they’d investigated all the Donovans when her brother became involved with Maddie. Just like Shane had investigated all of them, when his sister ran away to Revival. That’s the way it worked. Everyone knew that. Maybe she’d spent a little too much time on the oldest Donovan brother, but only because he was the most dangerous.
So yes, she knew all about Shane. Had a list of stats she could rattle off in her head in her sleep.
Occupation—CEO and owner of The Donovan Corporation.
Last significant relationship—one year ago with some tech genius.
High school grade point average—an abysmal 1.65.
College degree—none.
Arrests—one at sixteen, for underage drinking.
The list went on, and as many times as she went over the facts, the essence of him was missing. How did he beat such impossible odds? Overcome such dire straits?
All by his thirty-fifth birthday.
Which she should not know was three months ago.
One week after hers to the day.
At the memory of her own birthday, she frowned. It hadn’t been a good day.
She’d spent her birthday in strategy meetings concentrating on repairing her father’s tattered image. Other than a small fifteen-minute work break, when the interns shoved a cake under her nose, her mother had been the only person to call.
That night she’d sat alone in her Gold Coast town house eating Chinese takeout by herself. After a bottle of wine, she’d contemplated her accomplishments, trying in vain to pat herself on her back.
Only to realize the things she’d listed had nothing to do with her.
She’d done nothing for her own life.
Not a single damn thing.
Was that emotion on the ice queen’s face?
A frown curved the corners of Cecilia’s mouth downward, as she seemed to drift off and forget Shane was there. He’d never seen her look anything but distant and remote and the flicker of feeling transformed her classically beautiful face into something stunning.
He didn’t like it.
He preferred her inhuman. It helped cool the stab of irrational lust that kicked him in the gut every time he got within fifty feet of her. A lust he sure as hell didn’t understand but couldn’t seem to control. She was fast becoming an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, annoying as hell and impossible to ignore.
Those mysterious, blue-gray eyes of hers darkened. Her expression was tight, highlighting her high cheekbones and the hollows of her cheeks. Twin lines formed over her normally smooth brow. Wherever she’d gone, her thoughts were distressing enough that her customary mask slipped away.
Why was she unhappy?
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have anything to do with him.
He didn’t even like her. He liked his women smart, soft, and warm. While she was plenty smart, nothing about Cecilia Riley—from her patrician bone structure to her severe suits—spoke of softness or warmth.
Except for her mouth.
That mouth had been designed for a different woman. His gaze dipped to her full, pink lips. Lush and bitable, they looked like sex. Raw, dirty sex. The kind he was positive she didn’t have.
The back door banged opened and Cecilia’s expression jerked back into focus. She blinked, those stormy eyes of hers shuttering closed before he could decipher the emotions lurking in their depths. And just like that, the mask was back in place, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.
She raised one elegant brow, crossing her arms and closing herself off.
He wanted to ask what she’d been thinking, but Gracie Roberts called out in a singsong voice, “Oh Shane, where are you?”
Cecilia’s porn-star lips tightened.
“In here,” he called back, his gaze never leaving her face. That was twice now. When they’d first met he’d tried to rattle her and there hadn’t even been a flicker of awareness. But today, he’d seen more emotion on her face in the last ten minutes than in their entire acquaintance.
What was going on in that brain of hers? And why the fuck did he care? She wasn’t his business.
Mitch and Maddie’s neighbor waltzed into the kitchen, a stark contrast to the woman across from him. Unlike Cecilia’s golden-brown hair, cut razor sharp and falling in perfect place at her shoulders, Gracie’s curly blond hair was wild and carefree. Just like the woman. With a pretty face, dancing cornflower-blue eyes, and a body out of a teenage boy’s wet dream, she was a walking, talking fantasy come to life.
He couldn’t work up even the slightest interest.
Why couldn’t he be like any sensible red-blooded man and have the hots for Gracie? It was irritating as hell. He tried. Hell, so had she. And while they flirted like mad, there wasn’t a lick of heat between them.
Fucking annoying.
When Gracie saw Cecilia, she jumped, sending her Playboy-worthy breasts jiggling in a red tank top. “Ce-ce!”
Ce-ce?
Cecilia’s chin tilted to a regal angle, but she overplayed her hand when she ran a smoothing palm over her sharply cut navy business suit. A prim, contained nod. “Hello, Gracie, it’s been a long time. You’re all grown up.”
Gracie beamed, and in her normal exuberance, opened her arms and ran to Cecilia. Gracie locked. . .
The news didn’t surprise Cecilia. Reporters don’t shove a scoop like this to the back page, especially since it gave them another way to trot out the “senator recovering from a blackmail scandal” angle.
Cecilia stabbed the speaker’s volume button until it lowered to a reasonable level. “Then everything is going according to plan.”
“I trust you’re happy.” Her father’s purring tone made it clear that he, at least, was one satisfied cat.
She clenched the leather steering wheel.
Happy. Now there’s a word. When was the last time she’d been happy?
Stop. This was not the time to get philosophical. If she wanted a chance in hell at winning the congressional seat come election time, this was what needed to be done.
It was the smart move.
And she needed to win.
She’d get over the distaste curling into a knot in her stomach. She always did.
A green highway sign came into focus. Revival. Fifteen Miles. Where everything was sunshine, laughter, and genuine happiness.
Her skull throbbed.
“Cecilia?” Her father’s voice fractured her thoughts. “What did you think of the article?”
She didn’t read it. This morning, she’d thrown the unopened paper in the trash and deleted the Google alert links sitting in her e-mail. It was a fluff piece, carefully crafted by the senator’s finest. The first of many that would lead to a final press conference where she’d announce her bid for congress. It was all part of a perfectly planned public relations strategy, designed by her.
A fine sheen of sweat spread over her back. She punched down the air-conditioner button in her understated Mercedes sedan and let the cool air wash over her face.
“Paul did an excellent job.” After years avoiding the truth, the evasion was smooth as silk.
“Since you were unavailable, Miles and I had final approval,” Nathaniel Riley said in his polished politician’s voice.
“Of course.” While her tone rang with a practiced strength, her stomach rolled. What was wrong with her? She needed to get it together. This was the price her dream demanded. She wasn’t losing anything really important. Nothing that mattered.
Life in politics was all she’d ever wanted. When other little girls were pretending to be princesses in faraway lands, she played at being president in the Oval Office. It was the only dream she’d ever known.
She’d been content putting her career aside for her father’s aspirations, but that ended when his scandal broke. She’d sat at her kitchen table, reading that dreadful headline, and saw her whole world crumbling under her feet.
The young woman who’d attempted to blackmail the senator had eventually been caught and her schemes exposed, but not without damage. Cecilia had managed the fallout to perfection, minimizing the whole sordid affair, publicizing how he’d been a victim of greed. It worked, the senator was well on the road to political recovery, but she couldn’t shake the worry.
This wasn’t the first mess she’d helped him escape. At some point his bad decisions would have to come back and bite him. And where would that leave her?
It had been a slap in the face. A wake-up call delivered by a five-alarm fire truck.
“I’m proud of you, Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, and she could practically see him sitting there in his office in Washington, scotch in hand, smug in his oversized leather chair.
Six months ago she would have lapped up his approval like a grateful puppy, but now she recognized the lie. He wasn’t proud of her. This latest plan helped him. How, she wasn’t sure and didn’t care, but it had nothing to do with her.
It never did.
The truth only made her more determined.
A speed limit sign whipped past and she checked her speedometer to see the needle creeping past eighty-five. Easing her foot off the pedal, she started to say thank you for his sparse compliment but instead blurted, “Don’t you have any reservations?”
“We talked about this,” he said in a patient tone that grated on her last nerve. “This is your best shot.”
Clammy sweat broke out on her forehead, forcing her to turn the air down to arctic levels. Wasn’t thirty-three too young for a hot flash? She swallowed the taste of the bile clinging to the walls of her throat. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it?”
Because I’m your daughter? The truth pained her, causing her voice to crack. That he hadn’t even noticed she was upset made the cut that much deeper.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out from under his thumb. She squared her shoulders. “Never mind. Is there anything else?”
A momentary silence fell over the car, filled with nothing but dead air. She prayed for a dropped connection (one would expect it in farmland Illinois), but the squeak of Nathaniel’s desk chair quelled her hope.
“Are you almost there?”
Her jaw tightened and her ever-present headache beat at her temples. “I’m about fifteen minutes outside town.”
“And your mother?” The question was clipped.
Part of Cecilia still wanted to believe that under all his bluster and power trips he genuinely cared for his wife of forty years, but she had no more delusions. “She’s already there.”
The green mile marker sign came into view. Revival. Twelve Miles.
She hadn’t been to the small town since her grandma’s funeral.
A sudden, unexpected tightness welled in Cecilia’s throat and she swallowed hard.
“I see,” he said and another silence descended.
She dreaded spending the next two weeks in a house filled with strangers, watching her brother fawn all over his bride-to-be. Not that she begrudged Mitch his happiness, she didn’t, but witnessing it caused a strange yearning she didn’t want to contemplate.
She gripped the steering wheel, tight enough her knuckles turned white. “I still think a couple of days before the wedding would have been plenty.”
“Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, in his patient tone. “Voters love a wedding and we need the family solidarity. This will help your image.”
The logic couldn’t be refuted, but she tried anyway. “And two or three days doesn’t accomplish that?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but with Shane Donovan already at his sister’s side and that football player on his way, it doesn’t look good if we’re not there.”
An image of Shane snapped through her mind like the lash of a whip. He was one of Chicago’s corporate giants, and his sister’s impending marriage to the senator’s notorious son had been a hot topic on a slow news day. If it wasn’t for him, she’d be home where she belonged.
“So you get to stay in Washington but I have to play nice,” Cecilia snapped.
“I’m in committee,” her father said.
The whole situation annoyed her and she spoke without thinking. “And God forbid the voters find out your wife and son aren’t speaking to you.”
“That’s enough. I’m still your father.”
Something tightened in her chest. Was he? He didn’t feel like it. She straightened her shoulders and modulated her tone to neutral. “All I’m saying is I’m not sure it’s necessary.”
“Trust me, it’s necessary.”
She laughed, a hard, brittle sound. “Trust you? You almost ruined your career.”
“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “I’m doing what I need to do, and if you want to win, I suggest you do the same.”
She fought it—the pull that longed for his approval—but the habit was too old and her anger too new. She took a deep breath. “I understand.”
Sometimes it was best to concede the battle to win the war. Or at least that was the political spin she sold herself today.
“Good. Remember the plan.”
Ah yes, the plan. She ate, slept, and lived the plan.
Revival. Eight Miles.
Two weeks with Shane. Two weeks with his sharp, disapproving gaze. Two weeks of playing the ice queen he expected, pretending he had no effect on her.
She was exhausted just thinking about it. “I remember.”
“And on that note . . .” Nathaniel said, his voice rich and pleased.
Her stomach dropped with dread.
“I spoke with Miles and Paul this morning and we decided right after the wedding we’ll announce you’re running for office.”
She frowned. “What do you mean, ‘right after’?”
“At the reception. We’d call in a few reporters to cover the wedding. You could let it slip and have a press conference the next day.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Was nothing sacred to him? “It’s Mitch’s day. Let him have it.”
“The timing—”
She cut him off. “No. This is my campaign, and I’m putting my foot down.”
She might not be close to Mitch, or have the slightest clue what to say to him, but she respected what he’d done and how he’d turned his life around after the senator had gone and fucked it all up. She wasn’t about to ruin his wedding to gain a few points in the polls.
“Cecilia, let’s be frank. You’re a long shot.”
Yes, the factors working against her were endless, but she was sick of him pretending he wasn’t part of the problem. Venom filled her tone as she spit out, “Thanks to you and that little intern I told you not to hire.”
He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to believe, but we both know your image needs work.”
Nausea roiled in her belly. “I didn’t get blackmailed, you did.”
“The voters forgave me. After all, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ha! You didn’t get caught. There’s a difference.”
“Perception is reality, my dear. You know that better than anyone.”
What did he mean by that? He sounded smug, as though he knew something she didn’t. “I’ll build my own perception.”
As soon as she figured out what she wanted that perception to be.
A long, put-upon sigh. “You can’t connect. You’re logical and pragmatic, which can be a benefit, but it doesn’t win votes. People don’t love you. You don’t inspire them to act, or empower them to believe that government is within their grasp. You have no voice. No vision.”
The truth. It was like a stab to the heart, but she refused, absolutely refused to give in to the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. She did not cry. Ever. Instead, she steeled her spine and said sweetly, “Awww, you always give the best pep talks.”
Never show weakness. Never break.
“It’s up to me to tell you the truth.”
A cocktail of riotous emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but she pushed them back down. “I will not let you ruin Mitch’s wedding so you can play father of the year in front of a few reporters.” Her training had served her well, because there wasn’t even a hint of a quaver in her voice. Her hurt was hidden down deep where it belonged.
And since he was so keen on truth, she’d dole out some of her own. “As your adviser, let me return the favor. If you want a chance in hell at winning your wife back before the next election, you’d better stop using your son to gain points in the opinion polls. You’re losing her. She’s starting to loathe you. Maybe because you had sex with an intern younger than your daughter?”
“Watch your mouth.” His voice filled with outrage. Unlike her, he’d never been a pro at hiding anything unless he had an audience. “I did not sleep with that woman.”
She laughed, the sound filled with rough, bitter edges. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You think I didn’t see how you fawned over her? How you preened at her ego-stroking?”
Fifteen seconds must have ticked by before he spoke. “Have you told your mother this?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. This was so like him. All he cared about was covering his ass. Another mile marker sign flew by. “Good-bye, Father.”
He hung up without a word.
She exhaled a slow, steady breath.
Well, that was ugly.
She’d held her own and scored her point, but the victory was hollow.
Revival. Next Exit.
She slowed to fifty-five and changed into the right lane. She had to block out this noise—her family crisis, Shane Donovan, the wedding—everything, and concentrate on what was important.
Winning the election.
It was the only dream she’d ever had and she couldn’t let it die along with everything else.
Cecilia had been banging on the front door of her brother’s farmhouse for five minutes and still no one answered. She glanced around the front yard filled with large oaks and weeping willows from her past, but where her grandma had planted shrubs, her future sister-in-law had lush hydrangea bushes in vibrant pinks, lavenders, and greens.
It was like stepping into an alternate universe where time stopped and reality altered just enough to make the familiar, foreign.
The breeze blew gently, sending the old porch swing swaying, and a burst of nostalgia filled her chest. How many summer nights had she sat there as a little girl, smelling of Off! and the river, curled up to her grandma’s side reading James and the Giant Peach?
She could still see her grandma sitting there in her housedress, looking like she was part of the earth. A tightness grew in her chest at the memory.
Would her grandma even like the woman she’d become?
She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Where was all this emotion coming from? She needed to shake it off and get it together. She turned away from the past and rang the bell, then rapped hard against the panes of glass.
Met with nothing but silence, she twisted the handle and found it unlocked. Since they expected her, she took a cautious step inside. Her heels clicked against original hardwood floors that gleamed with a richness that spoke of the care someone had put into restoring the wood.
“Hello?” she called out, peering around the empty foyer. The walls were different. The rose-patterned paper had been replaced with a soft, dark gray paint she’d never have picked because of the dark wood moldings, but it looked exactly right.
She called out again, “Hello?”
A distant male voice yelled back, “In the kitchen.”
Why on earth hadn’t he answered the door? She tossed her bag on the bench and walked down the narrow hallway leading to the swinging kitchen door that had been in this house since its creation.
The kitchen told another story, thrusting her out of the past and into the future. It gleamed with newness. With gorgeous, industrial stainless steel appliances, distressed white cabinets, and polished granite countertops in various shades of cream, gold, and brown.
Under the extra-deep double sink, a man sprawled across the floor, his head under the cabinet. “Can you hand me that wrench?”
That voice. It never failed to send an irritating trail of tingles racing down her spine. She ground her back teeth until her temples gave a sharp stab of protest. Of course, Shane Donovan had to be the first person she ran into.
He bent one knee, pulling the worn fabric of his jeans across powerful thighs. Her throat went dry as her pulse sped.
Why him? Out of every man she’d ever encountered—and in her line of work, she encountered plenty—why did it have to be him? For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to the wrong political party. She shuddered.
It was all so . . . embarrassing.
But her body didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the first time she’d met him at Mitch and Maddie’s engagement party. The second her palm had slid into Shane’s, a disconcerting jolt of electricity traveled through her fingertips and up her arm. She’d had to force herself not to yank away, to keep her face impassive.
It was a good thing he didn’t like her. It was the one thing working in her favor. If she stuck to her current strategy of nurturing his disdain, he’d stay away, and her exposure would be minimal.
She walked over to the box of tools and stood over him.
Half hidden under the sink, he fiddled with her brother’s plumbing. Annoyed at his pure perfection, she wrinkled her nose.
At six-four, his frame stretched beautifully across the hardwood. His hips were lean. His stomach flat. Shoulders ridiculously broad. Most of the times she’d seen him he’d been dressed in a suit, but today he wore a pair of beat-up construction boots, faded jeans, and a thin white T-shirt. It was a crime against nature that a man who spent most of his time in boardrooms had muscles like his.
She’d analyzed her attraction, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Sure, he was good-looking, but so what? Good-looking men weren’t impossible to find. He was nothing like the men she dated. She preferred, well, men like her. Men who were more interested in politics and strategy than carnal pleasures. She enjoyed a relationship where sex was secondary to their intellectual connection. Not that she had a problem with sex—she didn’t. Her past encounters were all pleasant and civilized.
But nothing about Shane Donovan was civilized. And somehow she doubted sex with him was pleasant.
She shouldn’t be attracted to him. Period. End of story. Only her libido didn’t agree.
A loud clang sounded under the cabinet followed by a grunted curse. He stretched out his hand. “The wrench.”
Without a word she reached down, grabbed the tool, and plopped it in his palm with far more force than necessary.
“Easy there, honey.” The warm tone of his voice clearly not meant for her.
Who was ‘honey’? A moment of panic washed over her. Oh no. Was she going to be tortured by watching him with another woman?
The thought bothered her so much, she blurted, “I’m not your honey.”
He stilled for a fraction of a second, before sliding out from under the sink like the teasing reveal in bad porn. His strong jaw tightened as his piercing green eyes met hers. “If it isn’t the ice queen herself.”
His favorite name for her. He’d never called her honey, not even once.
The fine hairs along her neck bristled as something she refused to name sat in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t matter. Even if he tried, she’d have to put him in his place on principle alone. Endearments were dismissive, every good feminist knew that.
She slipped into the role he expected, ignoring the jab to ask coolly, “Where’s the happy couple?”
He got up from the floor with much more grace than a man weighing at least two hundred pounds should, turned, and flicked on the faucet with the touch of his fingers. “Your brother’s out back.”
The muscles under his thin T-shirt flexed as he washed his hands.
She squared her shoulders. Good thing broad shoulders, muscular backs, and lean hips didn’t affect her. She was a sane, rational woman, not driven by hormones.
Her eyes locked on his ass.
Good thing she was above all that.
When the water ceased she snapped her gaze away and smoothed her expression into her most remote mask.
He turned and gave her an assessing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show until the rehearsal dinner.”
A muscle under her eye twitched. “I was invited. Mitch is my brother. Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“You Rileys aren’t much for family support.” He assessed her with a shrewd gaze. “So there must be another motive.”
Her spine bristled and she had the sudden urge to smack him across his smug face. Of course she didn’t, because that would be revealing and out of character. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”
He scooped up a beer bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow drink while watching her in that predatory way he had.
How could someone’s eyes be that green? So sharp and clear, it felt as though they pierced right through her.
The continued scrutiny gave her the urge to tug at her navy suit jacket and smooth her knee-length skirt, but she refused to fidget. “Is my mother here?”
“She went to the store with Maddie.” He placed the bottle back on the counter and rested his palms on the ledge of the granite that replaced the linoleum she remembered. “We’re out of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”
She planted her hands on her hips and returned one of his long, disdainful glances. Her gaze settled meaningfully on his flat-as-a-board stomach. “Ah, that explains it. I’ve heard after thirty-five things go south rather quickly.”
His expression flashed with what looked like amusement. He straightened from the counter and took a step toward her.
The urge to retreat rose in her chest but she didn’t dare step back.
Never show weakness. Never break.
His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I turned thirty-five?”
Damn it. See, this was why she ignored his barbs; she always said something far too telling. She shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I hear things.”
“Investigating my background? How sweet. I didn’t know you cared.”
Of course they’d investigated all the Donovans when her brother became involved with Maddie. Just like Shane had investigated all of them, when his sister ran away to Revival. That’s the way it worked. Everyone knew that. Maybe she’d spent a little too much time on the oldest Donovan brother, but only because he was the most dangerous.
So yes, she knew all about Shane. Had a list of stats she could rattle off in her head in her sleep.
Occupation—CEO and owner of The Donovan Corporation.
Last significant relationship—one year ago with some tech genius.
High school grade point average—an abysmal 1.65.
College degree—none.
Arrests—one at sixteen, for underage drinking.
The list went on, and as many times as she went over the facts, the essence of him was missing. How did he beat such impossible odds? Overcome such dire straits?
All by his thirty-fifth birthday.
Which she should not know was three months ago.
One week after hers to the day.
At the memory of her own birthday, she frowned. It hadn’t been a good day.
She’d spent her birthday in strategy meetings concentrating on repairing her father’s tattered image. Other than a small fifteen-minute work break, when the interns shoved a cake under her nose, her mother had been the only person to call.
That night she’d sat alone in her Gold Coast town house eating Chinese takeout by herself. After a bottle of wine, she’d contemplated her accomplishments, trying in vain to pat herself on her back.
Only to realize the things she’d listed had nothing to do with her.
She’d done nothing for her own life.
Not a single damn thing.
Was that emotion on the ice queen’s face?
A frown curved the corners of Cecilia’s mouth downward, as she seemed to drift off and forget Shane was there. He’d never seen her look anything but distant and remote and the flicker of feeling transformed her classically beautiful face into something stunning.
He didn’t like it.
He preferred her inhuman. It helped cool the stab of irrational lust that kicked him in the gut every time he got within fifty feet of her. A lust he sure as hell didn’t understand but couldn’t seem to control. She was fast becoming an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, annoying as hell and impossible to ignore.
Those mysterious, blue-gray eyes of hers darkened. Her expression was tight, highlighting her high cheekbones and the hollows of her cheeks. Twin lines formed over her normally smooth brow. Wherever she’d gone, her thoughts were distressing enough that her customary mask slipped away.
Why was she unhappy?
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have anything to do with him.
He didn’t even like her. He liked his women smart, soft, and warm. While she was plenty smart, nothing about Cecilia Riley—from her patrician bone structure to her severe suits—spoke of softness or warmth.
Except for her mouth.
That mouth had been designed for a different woman. His gaze dipped to her full, pink lips. Lush and bitable, they looked like sex. Raw, dirty sex. The kind he was positive she didn’t have.
The back door banged opened and Cecilia’s expression jerked back into focus. She blinked, those stormy eyes of hers shuttering closed before he could decipher the emotions lurking in their depths. And just like that, the mask was back in place, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.
She raised one elegant brow, crossing her arms and closing herself off.
He wanted to ask what she’d been thinking, but Gracie Roberts called out in a singsong voice, “Oh Shane, where are you?”
Cecilia’s porn-star lips tightened.
“In here,” he called back, his gaze never leaving her face. That was twice now. When they’d first met he’d tried to rattle her and there hadn’t even been a flicker of awareness. But today, he’d seen more emotion on her face in the last ten minutes than in their entire acquaintance.
What was going on in that brain of hers? And why the fuck did he care? She wasn’t his business.
Mitch and Maddie’s neighbor waltzed into the kitchen, a stark contrast to the woman across from him. Unlike Cecilia’s golden-brown hair, cut razor sharp and falling in perfect place at her shoulders, Gracie’s curly blond hair was wild and carefree. Just like the woman. With a pretty face, dancing cornflower-blue eyes, and a body out of a teenage boy’s wet dream, she was a walking, talking fantasy come to life.
He couldn’t work up even the slightest interest.
Why couldn’t he be like any sensible red-blooded man and have the hots for Gracie? It was irritating as hell. He tried. Hell, so had she. And while they flirted like mad, there wasn’t a lick of heat between them.
Fucking annoying.
When Gracie saw Cecilia, she jumped, sending her Playboy-worthy breasts jiggling in a red tank top. “Ce-ce!”
Ce-ce?
Cecilia’s chin tilted to a regal angle, but she overplayed her hand when she ran a smoothing palm over her sharply cut navy business suit. A prim, contained nod. “Hello, Gracie, it’s been a long time. You’re all grown up.”
Gracie beamed, and in her normal exuberance, opened her arms and ran to Cecilia. Gracie locked. . .
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The Winner Takes It All
Jennifer Dawson
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