She lifted one shoulder in an awkward shrug. It was fair to say he was surprising her. He’d cooked a nice meal and was treating her like a dinner companion and not a hostage. She wasn’t tied up. He hadn’t abused her—for the most part. It was bewildering. They ate in silence. She was even hungrier than she realized. She ate quickly, beating even him.
He lifted an eyebrow as he took a pull on his beer. “I wish I could offer you more but we ate it all.”
She took a sip of beer and managed not to wince at the bitter taste. She’d never developed an affinity for the stuff.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “It really was good.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up and for a moment she thought he might smile. Wrong. “Thanks.” Standing, he took both their plates.
“Can I help you—”
“No. I got this,” he said abruptly.
Probably for the best. The kitchen was a tight space and she didn’t relish being in such close quarters with him. They might have to touch.
Dishes clacked in the sink as he started washing. He cooked and did the dishes. That was more than Charles had ever done for her. Most nights they went to whatever trendy new restaurant he wanted to try. Wherever they could get their photo taken and eat something that looked like tiny little spheres topped with edible flowers.
She quickly stifled the thought. She was not in a relationship with Reid. Hardly. She should not be comparing the two men. Or if she did, the comparison should be along the lines of: escaped con versus Harvard grad touted on the Hill as the Hottest Under Forty. Charles was kind. If he could cook, she was sure he would and he’d do it for her.
Crossing her arms, she moved into the living room. Hugging herself to the sound of him washing dishes, she strolled over to an old television propped up on an old trunk. It was square like a box. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen one like it. “Does the TV work?” she called.
“It should,” he replied.
She glanced back at him as he dried dishes. She smoothed her hands down her sides nervously, over the fabric of her too big sweatpants. “You mind if I turn it on?”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she knew he was considering the pros and cons of what she would see. Undoubtedly, if she found a news channel there would be coverage about her. Clearly, he was considering how that could play out . . . if there were any negative scenarios that he could stop from happening by preventing her from watching.
He came to a decision and shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead.”
She flipped on the TV. The reception wasn’t the best. The picture was fuzzy and she could only pick up a few channels.
“Don’t suppose you have a laptop? Wi-Fi?”
He looked at her blankly.
“’Course not,” she muttered beneath her breath and went back to fiddling with the TV. His laptop was probably right next to where he kept the coconut water. “What I wouldn’t give for Netflix right now.”
“What’s Netflix?” he asked, leaning a hip against the counter.
She looked away from the old television set and met his gaze. Again with the impassive stare. He wasn’t joking.
Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the dial. He’d been imprisoned eleven years. Of course he didn’t know about Netflix. She’d bet money that he never even heard of Sons of Anarchy, Daredevil, Broadchurch—all her favorites. The shows she watched alone in her bedroom or in hotel suites. She and Charles watched Doctor Who faithfully. It gave them something to talk about. But Reid probably wouldn’t need the common ground of a television series to talk to a woman. No, she could imagine how he would spend his time when he was with a woman he liked.
Her cheeks burned as she fiddled with the knob.
One channel finally came through. It happened to be the evening news.
Her heart locked in her chest at the sudden image on the screen. It was the White House, only not as she had ever seen it before. Hundreds, maybe thousands of flowers lined the front gate. Teddy bears with notes pinned to their chests. A banner fluttered with the words: BRING GRACE HOME.
A dull roaring filled her ears as a voice spoke over the scene in a crisp monotone: “. . . concerned citizens continue to leave flowers in front of the White House in support of First Daughter Grace Reeves. The White House has officially issued a statement putting to rest speculation that Grace left of her own accord. There is no doubt that the First Daughter was taken, but where this leaves the Secret Service and FBI on locating the missing woman still remains to be seen. Earlier today, upon returning from a private mass with the First Lady at St. Matthew’s, President Reeves made the following statement.”
The panorama of the flower-riddled White House disappeared, and it was suddenly her father standing behind the podium in the press room, handsome as ever in his impeccable suit, gray hair perfectly coiffed. Mom stood one step to the side of him, her exotic beauty not marred in the least by her red-rimmed eyes.
Her father cleared his throat several times before speaking. It was the first time she ever heard hesitation from him. Her heart gave a little pang. He was always perfect in speech and manner. Never hesitation. Business, in this case the running of the country, came first. Everything else came before her. Maybe now, for the first time, she came first. Her fingers drifted to her lips as she sucked in a breath. Maybe she mattered.
When he lifted his gaze, he looked tired. “The outpouring of support my wife and I have received from all around the world has been humbling and a great comfort to us in our time of distress.”
Grace gave a little start and released her breath. He was still the politician—seizing this opportunity to his political advantage. She heard it in his choice of words, in the careful tenor of his voice, in the steady way he stared at everyone in the room. She was missing—abducted!—and however much he worried for her, he still worried about his office. About winning.
Giving her head a small shake, she tried to clear the rushing sound of blood in her ears and to focus. She tuned back in to the rest of the speech. “. . . right now, I am addressing this country, the world . . . as a father.” Here he paused, and she knew that moment was calculated. “A father who wants his daughter back . . .”
Studying him closely, she didn’t blink, too afraid she would miss something. She knew this man so well, his tics, his moods. She’d seen him rehearse in front of the mirror. She knew all the behind-the-scenes details that went into every speech her father ever gave. He never spoke in front of the camera without a thorough prepping. This time was no different. Even with her abduction hanging over him, even distraught, this was rehearsed. At the moment, he wasn’t speaking from a place of fear or loss or panic. He was being a politician.
She stood up and flicked the TV off, unable to watch him. She knew who her father was. She knew she did not rank at the top of his priorities, but she thought this would have been different. This would have caused a shifting of priorities. Anything could have happened to her . . . anything could be happening to her right now. Even with that fear running through his head he was still campaigning.
She was breathing hard, her chest lifting like she’d just run a great distance. She dragged a hand over her face as though that would somehow help her pull herself together.
A floorboard creaked and she recalled that she wasn’t alone. She dropped her hand and looked up.
Her gaze flickered over Reid, an unwanted audience witnessing her little meltdown.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded once, hard, and then swiftly shook her head from side to side. “No. No, I’m not,” she admitted, her hands trembling.
“I promise you’ll get back to your family. I know what I say doesn’t amount to much to you, but I promise you that.”
He thought she was emotional because of her father’s plea? “Ha,” she got out, the sound strangled. She swallowed to clear her throat. “Don’t tell me you bought into that little drama.”
He angled his head, clearly unsure what to say.
/>
She continued, her words flying out in a rush. “That’s what he does, you know. He lies.” She rounded the couch and grabbed the beer Reid had opened and left on the counter. She took a deep swig, forgetting that she hated the taste of the stuff. She was letting her emotions get the best of her. Her father wasn’t lying precisely. She knew that. But she wished, for once, he would just be a parent and not that polished public servant.
Reid watched her uncertainly. “I’m sure he’s worried and wants you home safely. He’s your father—”
She laughed hoarsely. “Oh, I suppose he’s worried about me. I know he wants me to be okay. But it’s a toss-up whether he’s worried about the polls more. About his re-election more.” She sobered and drummed her fingers against her lips. “He’s spinning this in his favor. Maybe I should show up dead. That’s sure to get him reelected—” Her voice broke. It was a terrible thing to say . . . and even more terrible to think.
Reid was in front of her now. His hands closed around her arms, warmly clasping her as he gave her a small shake. “Don’t talk like that. You’re upset—”
“You have no idea.” She wrenched her arms free and took another pull from his beer. “Why did your friends kidnap me?” she demanded, leveling her gaze on him.
His look turned wary at the sudden change in subject. “They’re not my friends.”
She snorted before taking another drink. “Whatever.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m guessing they took me because they want to get to my father, hurt him in some way? I would have thought they wanted ransom money, but since they’ve made no efforts there—at least I think they haven’t.” She sent him a questioning look, took his blank stare as confirmation. “Didn’t think so. So clearly my father pissed off the wrong person . . .” She let her voice fade deliberately, waiting for him to fill in the silence with an explanation.
Nothing. That was telling enough as he stared at her, his expression even more wary than moments before. That muscle ticking in his jaw showed he wasn’t unaffected.
She finished the bottle and then moved to the refrigerator. Grabbing another beer, she faced him again. “No comment?”
He watched her like she had sprouted a second head or was simply crazy—and maybe she was. She just declared to her abductor that he could kill her and no one would care. Well, much. Probably not the smartest thing to tell the guy holding you hostage. “Hey, I’m worthless and it doesn’t really matter what you do to me” probably wasn’t the best thing to say.
Still. She couldn’t stop vomiting words. Tears burned the backs of her eyes and it was either this or break down and cry. She’d never been big into letting people see her cry, so there was only this over sharing.
She leaned forward as though about to impart something confidential, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial pitch. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. My father is not the perfect man that forty-seven percent of the country think he is.”
Reid angled his head. “Only forty-seven percent?”
She nodded. “Last polling. Horrible, right? Especially heading into re-election. Although I’m guessing he’s rating higher right now. Personal tragedy wins empathy.” She waved her bottle in a little circle. “This is probably doing wonders for his campaign. Bet there is a lot of back-clapping the moment he gets behind closed doors.”
“Stop it, Grace. Your mother looked wrecked.”
Grace looked away as she took another drink, shrugging. Her mother loved her but not as much as she loved her husband. No, her mother would love no one more than she loved him. Secretly, Grace had always thought that’s why she never had more children. She suspected her mother never felt enough of a connection to her to have another child.
The reminder of her relationship with her mother only fueled her self-pity. “Suffice to say, you don’t know shit about me or my life.” She tilted her head and took another drink, gulping in an unladylike way that would have horrified her mother.
Something passed over Reid’s features before a wall slammed down on his face, killing any sympathy that might have been there for her. “I can see what’s in front of me well enough.”
“Yes? And what do you see, Yoda?”
His nostrils flared. “A spoiled little princess who didn’t like what she just saw. Daddy wasn’t crying enough for you and now you need petting.” He waved an arm at the TV. “The whole fucking country is leaving roses for you, but that’s not enough—”
She hissed a deep breath. Her eyes stung at his razor-sharp words and the kernel of truth they held. “Shut up—”
“You still want more. Being the center of the universe isn’t enough? Your ego needs more—”
“You don’t get it . . .” He didn’t. Ego was the last thing she possessed. She didn’t need or want to be the center of the universe. Every time Charles dragged them out to dinner, she wished they could have just stayed in and ordered pizza. Reid was wrong. She wasn’t that vain creature he was describing. The only thing she wanted was acceptance from her parents. Love. She’d done everything they ever wanted, shelved her own dreams, hoping to have that from them.
The world couldn’t mourn her? They didn’t know her. This was the same world that voted her unlikable in the polls last month. So what if they were leaving flowers for her now? They weren’t her family. Her father was supposed to love her. Above anyone else, a girl’s father should want to tear the earth apart to get her back safely. He should care about her life above all else, right? She was his daughter. He shouldn’t expect her to marry someone for the sake of his campaign. And he should be wrecked that she was missing.
Staring at Reid, she imagined that felon or not, he would care if someone close to him was in trouble. If someone belonged to him, he wouldn’t quit until that person was safe. The idea was faintly compelling. And dangerous. Her gaze skimmed the strong line of his shoulders, the way his biceps pushed against his snug thermal shirt. She remembered the strength in those arms. The power. This guy would move heaven and earth for—
She crushed the thought. She would never be that person to him.
“That’s right, princess. I don’t know you. You know who would leave flowers for me? Fucking no one.”
She stifled a flinch. No. She would not feel sorry for him. “Big shock there,” she flung out instead, reaching for the memory of him chasing her down and slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. No hugs for him.
“Oh, that’s right.” He advanced a step, his lips moving, spitting out words like arrows. Doubtlessly trying to use his size to intimidate her. She wouldn’t let him. She stood her ground. “I’m just a dirty felon.”
“That’s right. An escaped convict that belongs behind bars.”
“Yeah, well sorry, sweetheart, but this dirty con isn’t buying into your little pity party—”
“Stop it!”
“If Daddy doesn’t love you enough, maybe you need to take a hard look in the mirror and figure some things out about yourself.”
Her fist rocketed out and struck him in the jaw. Hard. Hard enough to hurt her hand. Hard enough to force him back a step.
She stared, shocked at herself. She had struck him. No measly girly slap either. She full-fledged hit him with her fist, and her knuckles throbbed for it. She’d never done that before.
Her chest lifted with savage breaths. His words echoed through her, accusing her of the very thing that had hidden in her heart ever since childhood. There was something inherently unlovable about her.
She couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away from his face. That muscle was alive and kicking in his jaw again. He looked fierce—like some Viking walking into battle . . . or emerging from battle. All that was missing was his battle-axe.
Too late she realized her mistake.
She’d forgotten herself. She forgot who she was. Simply a captive. And more importantly, she forgot who he was. A merciless criminal who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. So what if he wounded her with some ugly words? He could
hurt her in far worse ways.
There was no sound save the crash of their breaths filling the space between them. She started sliding back a step, but his hand shot out. She squeaked and lifted her fists, prepared to fight him, however hopeless it would be against his greater strength.
His hand closed around the back of her neck, hauling her closer until all of her pushed against the lean length of him. It was like being pressed up against a living, breathing wall. A wall that radiated heat. Their angry breaths collided, mingled. Their gazes devoured each other. His cheek burned an angry red from her fist.
She realized his intent the moment before his head swooped down. His mouth crashed over her own.
Her hands were lost, crushed between their bodies. She couldn’t move. His other arm stole around her, pulling her in tight, wrapping her up in him. It was impossible to break his iron hold.
Of course, there was the question of whether she wanted to.
His kiss was firm and demanding, punishing and yet seductive. Her head swam as his mouth softened slightly against her lips. His fingers curled into her hair, fisting the heavy mass and pulling her head back, forcing her chin up.
Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue slid along her bottom lip in a sinuous move. Her blood sang, everything in her melting. She opened her mouth wider, inviting him in. Their tongues touched and it felt like a bolt of electricity shot through her.
The sparks they talked about in movies and books, but she never felt? What she hoped to find with Charles? This was it. She’d found it at last, and it was with a criminal. Her mother would be outraged.
That single thought gave her the final push. The idea of her mother’s disapproval, her horror, broke any fleeting resistance.
All tentativeness fled. She leaned forward, diving into the kiss, into him like she was dehydrated and he her last chance for water.
He growled, deepening the kiss, gripping her hair harder, angling her head so that her mouth was in a position to his liking. He took. He claimed, and that only made the need pulse harder inside her.
She struggled to free her hands, but it wasn’t because she wanted to push him away or fight him. No, not anymore. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and climb inside him. There was no such thing as too close. No such thing as too much or too far.