Stephanie Feagan - Run For The Money

“Your face looks a little better than Ed’s.”

He grinned. “What can I say? I’m much better looking. It’s the Italian thing.”

“You know what I meant.”

“True, but I’d prefer to interpret it my own way.”

I stared at him and couldn’t help smiling. “When’s the last time you got in a fistfight?”

“Ninth grade. This kid from Australia was a foreign-exchange student, a cocky little bastard, and he told everybody he’d seen my mom in an Italian porn flick. So I beat him up—and got suspended. But it was worth it.”

“What did your mom have to say about it?”

“She gave me a lecture about being a gentleman, but I overheard her tell Dad she wished she coulda been there to see it. He said he wished he coulda seen the Italian porn flick.”

“Your mom must have been a pistol.”

“She was.” He sighed, dropped his hand and lay down on the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Sometimes, when I’m in a hurry and things get crazy, I forget that she’s dead and pick up the phone to call her. Strange, but I never do that with Lauren. I never forget that she’s gone. Maybe because I wasn’t there when Mom died, so it’s harder to get it fixed in my head.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Just over a year.” He turned and looked at me. “I think Dad’s very interested in your mother.”

“I noticed. Does that bug you, so soon after your mom died?”

“Not in the least. He deserves to be happy, and if he can be with your mother, I’m glad.”

It was my turn to stare up at the ceiling. “It’s debatable, Steve. I’ve told you before, Mom has a thing with men.”

“I’m thinking Dad can get around whatever thing she throws at him.”

“He can be pretty persuasive, can’t he?”

“Especially when it’s for something he wants. And I’ve been told I’m a chip off the old block.” He flipped to his stomach, which brought him closer. “I either have to leave, or kiss you. My mother managed to raise a gentleman, but hell if I can lie here another two seconds knowing you’re half naked under those covers.”

Maybe if he hadn’t been less than three inches from my face, and if I hadn’t had the scent of him and his subtle cologne wrapped around me, and maybe, if I’d given it ten seconds of thought, I’d have shoved him off, gotten out of bed and run like hell to get away from him. Did I mention that I’m insanely attracted to Steve? That it scares the crap out of me? And makes me wonder if I’m some kind of a ho, lusting after two different men?

Too bad for me, he was three inches from my face, and his cologne was seductive, and I didn’t give it more than a nanosecond of thought before I whispered, “Will you think I’m a tease if it’s just a kiss?”

“Yes.”

I stared up at his handsome, if slightly bruised face and tried to remember why it was a very bad idea to kiss him. Then he was kissing me and I remembered, but it was way too late by then. Kissing Steve Santorelli was a bad idea because it’s always next to impossible to stop. I have no idea why. He’s a great kisser, extremely passionate, and I’ve dated several good kissers over the years, but I never had a problem stopping with any of them. With Steve, it’s like breaking the laws of physics, floating in an antigravity field.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, except that we’re not eager teenagers, dying of curiosity about what comes next. We know what comes next, and while Steve has no problem with that, would, in fact, be pretty damn fired up about it, I have a big, gi-normous problem with what comes next. And the problem’s name is Ed. If I gave in and followed the natural progression of the crazy, insanity-causing kiss with Steve, I’d blow everything with Ed. Even if Ed never knew. I would know, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Still, I could not pull away, not even when Steve’s hand slid beneath the covers to caress my breasts. He tasted like butterscotch and felt like six feet of hard, hot male. In my mind, even while I was carried away by Senator Santorelli’s very talented lips and hands, I wondered how I was going to stop. I’ve got a lot of discipline, except when it comes to beluga caviar, Kate Spade bags…and Steve Santorelli.

Musta been my lucky day, because the decision was taken away from me when Carla knocked and said she had a tray of food. Natasha jumped from the bed and yipped at the door. I almost hated myself for the enormous sense of loss I felt when Steve pulled away and got off the bed. He looked down at the extremely noticeable bulge in his shorts.

“You’ll have to get the door.” He went into the bathroom. Natasha followed and scratched at the door until he opened it a few inches and allowed her in.

I greeted Carla, who entered and left the tray on the bed. “Do you need anything else?” she asked nicely.

Wondering what she’d say if I asked for somebody else’s conscience, I returned her smile and said, “No, thank you. This looks delicious.” I had no idea what it was.

She left, and I turned to watch Steve come out of the bathroom. I couldn’t help it, but I glanced at his shorts. He was still very turned on.

What happened next still makes me cry when I think about it. It’s like he knew where I was at, that the temptation was way off the page and I was completely torn up between loyalty to Ed and the powerful sexual attraction I felt for Steve. After he stood there at the doorway of the bathroom and stared at me for several tense moments, he crossed to the window and looked out at the street.

“Eat your dinner, Pink.”

I couldn’t move.

“Sit down and eat. Now.”

Backing up, I slowly lowered myself to the bed, but I didn’t eat.

“My assistant went by your loft a few hours ago and the media is camped out on the street outside. If you go there, you won’t have a moment’s peace. I’m also concerned for your safety. If Olga came last night to kill you, she may try again.”

“Ed says she left town.”

“I don’t believe she’s working alone, Pink. According to Dad, she’s involved with the Russian Mafia. Maybe she wasn’t able to kill you, but they may send someone else.”

“No, they won’t, because I’m almost certain Olga never intended to kill me. I think she came here to set me up, to frame me for Taylor’s murder. If I was murdered, it would follow that I couldn’t be responsible for the embezzlement, or at a minimum, I had one or more accomplices. This way, it looks like I’m the bad guy all the way around. In fact, I think she spilled that salad on purpose, so I’d have to go to the kitchen, raising the possibility that it was me who poisoned the ambassador.”

“If she only came to frame you, why did she have poison with her?”

“She’s an assassin. Maybe she had it in her backpack. I saw her leave with one.”

He drew in a deep breath and let it out, still with his back to me. “Whether she intended to kill you or not, I think the safest thing is for you to stay here, with me, at least until the preliminary hearing. By then, we should have enough evidence to get the charges dropped, which means we’ll have the evidence to point the FBI in the right direction.”

“But, Steve, I—”

“Just let me finish, Pink. You know I don’t give a damn about the media, or political bullshit—whatever gets said out there that isn’t directly related to my performance as a senator who represents California, I ignore. But it’s a double-edged sword, because when I want to use the media, or my position, for my own personal benefit, I can’t. It goes against everything I believe in.”

I wasn’t quite following him, but he was a politician, after all. He’d get to the point, eventually.