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The one in the red with the fuck-me tits hanging out.
They don’t make ‘ em like that around here.”
    There’s a reason DC is known as
the Hollywood-for-the-ugly. The overwhelming majority of women in the area are
too bookish, waifish, nerdy, or socially awkward. The physically desirable ones
are busy yachting in the Maldives or summering in the Hamptons, and women like
those tend to be too cultured, too moneyed. Most of the ones in my
family’s circle fall into the latter category.
    “She’s not from around here,” I
say.
    “How do you know?”
    “Because it’s fifty degrees out
and her dress barely covers her ass. My money’s on Arizona. She doesn’t own any
cool weather clothes. Maybe Minnesota. They’re immune to the cold. I hear they
wear shorts in January.”
    “Or she just wanted to look
hot?” He takes a sip. “Ever think that maybe people aren’t as complicated as
you make them out to be?”
    My jaw flexes. “Never.
Everyone’s complicated. Show me someone who isn’t, and I’ll show you a liar.”
    “Even Camille?” he asks. Oliver
is my number one. He’s my driver, my assigned Secret Service agent, and the
closest thing I have to a best friend. There isn’t anything about me he doesn’t
know.
    “Especially Camille.”
    Oliver’s lips twitch. If she
were any other woman, I imagine he’d be prodding me for the down and dirty
details. But he knows better with this one. He knows how hard I searched for
her and how much work it took to free her from Senator Bancroft’s tight grip. He
saw my preoccupation with the mysterious beauty grow into an inexplicable
fixation, and he stood by like the loyal bastard he is as the obsession
consumed me.
    “It’s too bad you couldn’t take
her on a real date,” he says. “Show her off. A girl like Camille needs to be
paraded around.”
    Why, so someone else can spot
her? So the poacher can get poached?
    “She’s not a fucking show pony,
Oliver.”
    I glance at the girls to our
right. They point and smile, mess with their hair, fidget with their drinks.
Their beauty is instantly overshadowed by their insecurities and they fade into
the background.
    “I think they’ve figured out
who you are,” Oliver says.
    It never fails, and it makes no
difference that we’re in one of the darkest, hole-in-the-wall bars in the city.
    The girls whisper in each
other’s ears and flash me flirty smiles as if they share a goddamned brain.
    “All right.” I throw a cash tip
on the table. “Give the brunette your number and take me home.”

 
 

SEVEN

 
    Camille

 
    I’m breathless, sprawled across
the bed at the Melrose as my body floats back to earth. Three times in less
than a week. I’m not sure what I ever did to get so lucky, but I won’t
complain.
    The bed shifts, and
John–or Keir Montgomery in my mind–moves
to my side. I miss his warmth already, his grounding weight. The way he
worships and devours me makes me feel sexy, worthy of receiving the kinds of
pleasure I’ve only ever given.
    I reach for his face, tracing
the outline with my fingertips. I take a detour to his mouth, grazing his soft
lips until I can picture their shape, and then I move on to his cheek.
    “Smile,” I say. “I want to feel
your dimples again.”
    He sighs, giving in to my silly
demand.
    “Thank you, John .”
    The bed shifts once more. I
stay silent, listening as he moves around the room, makes his way to the
bathroom, and then returns a minute later.
    “Leaving?” I ask.
    I find my answer in his
hesitation. He never stays.
    “I’ve been trying to figure out
where we would’ve met before,” I say, sensually drawing my knees into my chest
as I sit up. I’m not sure where to look or where he’s standing, so I face
forward when I speak.
    “Surely you have better ways to
spend your time.”
    “You shouldn’t have challenged
me,” I tease. “If you stuck around more, you might know me better, and then
you’d know I can’t resist a good mystery. The