Jennifer Greene: Conquer the Memories

Dear Reader,

This story is especially dear to my heart-partly because it involves a theme I don’t think we explore often in the romance genre.

Anyone who loves romance could likely easily define what they love and want in a hero. The heroes in our books define what a Good Man is-on our feminine terms.

We tend to define “the alpha man” as one who’s always strong, who never breaks, who always stands up for what matters to him, who’s honorable to the core. My hero in this story is definitely a man on these terms…but that is precisely what creates his conflict…because when the woman he loves is attacked, his perception is that he failed to protect her.

Our gender roles today are complex, aren’t they? But the strength of real love is universal and eternal…or I believe it is. Hope you do, too.

I have to share my excitement over all Carina Press is doing to bring readers both classic and fresh stories-stories we all might not have had a chance to read, if this new publishing medium weren’t available to us.

I very much hope you like the story-and feel free to contact me anytime, either through my website (www.jennifergreene.com) or my Jennifer Greene author page on Facebook.

Jennifer Greene

“I’m telling you, Craig, you could make it in politics. Energy is still the public’s favorite subject, particularly since the latest crisis in the Middle East. With the handle you’ve got on oil shale…”

“I hear you, sir.” Above the elderly ex-senator’s shoulder, Craig Hamilton spotted his wife. For an instant, all he could see was a single splash of bright emerald through a zigzag path of dark business suits and broad shoulders. That particular shade of green was not his favorite color. “You’ll like the dress when you see it on,” Sonia had told him.

Actually, he didn’t. As he got a better view of Sonia, Craig decided that the neck of the dress annoyed him-there wasn’t any. Sonia had a beautiful throat, long and white, her delicate collarbones framing the hollow that always pulsed when she was excited. So vulnerable, that ivory flesh. And just above the silky green fabric, anyone could see the rise of her breasts.

She laughed suddenly, her springy black curls dancing around her cheeks. Three men from the press surrounded her, but Craig could still catch the sparkle of her animated aquamarine eyes from two dozen feet away.

Now that he thought about it, the whole dress annoyed him. The gown was just a little too much like a game of show-and-tell. The way the sneaky little slit showed off her legs every time she took a step, for instance. And no, not another soul in the room could conceivably tell from the design of the dress that she was braless, but Craig knew. He happened to have…been there when she was dressing.

“You’ve got the money,” former senator Rafe Bradford continued, “and, more important, you’ve got the power. People listen to you, Craig. Why, in my day, I’d have sold my soul to get the kind of public support you already have.”

Craig snagged a glass of champagne for the older man from a passing waiter. He didn’t bother to contradict anything Bradford said, although privately Craig knew he’d prefer digging ditches to a political career any day. But the ex-senator had once been a friend of his family’s, and the man was old and lonely.

“Everyone in this room knows you were the principal adviser to the Senate subcommittee on shale oil…”

The sash on that damn dress drew in her waist, accenting its tiny proportions. And Sonia had a way with her eyes that captivated everyone, including the press. Craig’s mouth twitched as he watched her effortlessly charm Andrew Roth, the most cynical of national news commentators. Roth had called this national conference defining the new relationship between energy and ecology a scam; he claimed the “relationship” was a contradiction in terms and always would be. Sonia was setting him straight. Roth’s bald head was bobbing up and down…

“Not that it’s any of my business, but you have that little ranch-and people do love a man with a feeling for the land. A self-made man. Oil shale always had a bad press until you tackled it with that new extraction process of yours. We’re all hungry for a way to get out of our dependency on foreign oil, as long as it’s not at our own expense. And you could use that expertise of yours to help us do just that, son.”

The four long tables covered with white linen where the conference dinner had been served stood empty now. The featured event of the evening had been Craig’s keynote speech. But this type of gathering didn’t wear well on him. Not that he wasn’t committed to the subject matter. Having found an ecologically acceptable method of extracting oil from shale, he was more than willing to share his ideas, if not his trade secrets. The three-day conference had been well attended by political figures and bankers and oil people, and that pleased him, too. The purpose of the gathering was to draw members of opposing factions together-but he hadn’t anticipated the political machinations that were going on. Financial games, power plays, people using the conference to serve their own ends…manipulation of that sort made him grit his teeth.

Sonia would have chided him for his characteristic lack of patience, if she’d seen him. At the moment, she was giving a hug and kiss to Warren Radley, a senator who could use his strong influence to persuade the government to fund shale-oil research. Warren’s eyes soulfully followed the sway of Sonia’s emerald hips as she wandered away from him. Next, Sonia offered a quick, chilly handshake to Barker Cole, an oil man notorious for raping the land. She didn’t like him. Cole was certainly the more prominent of the two men, but that cut no ice with Sonia. She liked Warren because he was sensitive about being only five foot four and because he raised Irish setters. Cole, she’d told Craig often enough, could sink himself into the nearest pit.

“Use of power, son. Use of power is everything!” Rafe Bradford exhorted. But Craig’s thoughts were still on his wife.

A hand whipped around Sonia’s waist, dragging her close for a friendly peck. Her aquamarine eyes turned the identical shade of emerald of her dress. Sonia was made on affectionate lines, and affection offered freely was one thing; a stolen touch was another. She treated Ferrel Romnay to a stare that would have frozen Popsicles on a ninety-degree day, and to hell with Romnay’s banking influence.

Craig did his best to smother a grin, as well as to swallow the urge to turn the man’s nose inside out. Sonia could take care of herself. She’d told him so a thousand times.

Craig controlled an inner wince as John Smith and his wife crossed Sonia’s path. Perhaps they would discuss the weather? But no, Sonia had taken Ferona Smith’s March For Clean Air as a personal attack on Craig. Sonia had a low tolerance for professional do-gooders who took up causes without doing their homework on them first. As she warmed up to the subject, her skin took on the flush of coral, and her chin tilted just that little bit upward.

His wife, Craig thought idly, certainly wasn’t shy. She undoubtedly knew more of the people at the conference than he did-because of her bubbly friendliness in most instances. She had to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful women…

“Hamilton?”

Craig’s eyes pivoted directly back to the former senator’s. “I’m sorry. Sir?”