The Best-Kept Secret. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ were followed into the elevator by a group of women each cradling a Starbucks cup. Trapped against the back wall, Rosie looked up at the small video screen playing news sound bites so she wouldn’t focus on the coffee. She’d had coffee this morning. She was prepared for the meeting—even if her hair was starting to unravel, Rosie would not. She didn’t need the prop of a coffee cup or the jolt of caffeine. But that didn’t stop Rosie from imagining the surprised look on the face of the woman next to her as Rosie plucked the cup from her hand.

      Since Walter hadn’t given up his spot by the control buttons, he exited easily at the forty-second floor, while Rosie had to fight her way through the caffeine herd and was almost scrunched by the closing elevator doors. She trotted past several clear glass entryways, struggling on her short legs to catch up with Walter.

      The doors to the McCloud offices had been replaced with paned, frosted ones so that no one in the hallway could see in. Walter marched through. Rosie’s hand hesitated on the cool, pebbled glass. Tension buzzed in her ears.

      Rosie backed up a step, her fingertips almost a memory on the door. If she left, she’d lose a chance to influence the agenda of the next president of the United States. What would she tell Casey the next time he asked about what she wanted to be when she grew up? How could she encourage him not to abandon his dreams without putting forth the effort if she didn’t do the same? All she had to do was keep her mouth closed about Roger Bartholomew, not let Hudson get to her, control Stu and not even think about…

      Don’t.

      With a deep breath, Rosie pushed the door open and stepped into an opulent, hushed reception area decorated in muted grays and deep burgundies, coming face-to-face with a large oil portrait of Hamilton and Vivian McCloud, flanked by their two grown sons, Hudson and Samuel. The men all shared a strong cleft chin. No one smiled. It was an ominous portrait, no doubt created as a legacy marker. All the wild charm had been painted out of Samuel’s expression.

      “There you are. I thought we’d lost you.” Walter stood next to an old man with a grizzled appearance, whose rumpled suit was a far cry from Walter’s fine wool one. “Rosie DeWitt, this is Stu Fenderson.”

      Rosie learned a lot about a person by the way they shook hands. Stu’s hand latched on to hers like a tentacle, trapping Rosie’s until he found a weakness.

      “You’re shorter than I expected,” Stu noted.

      It was odd how men in politics liked to throw insults. Rosie smiled, grateful her heels put her at the old man’s height. She’d bet no one ever described Stu as tall, either. She looked him up and down. “Yeah, I hear that a lot, especially from men with a twenty-eight-inch inseam.”

      Hand still pumping hers, Stu glanced down at Rosie’s shoes barely visible beneath the cuff of her pants. “Might be hard to keep up with us in those.”

      “They’re a campaign necessity.” Since he still pumped her hand, she leaned closer until she could almost smell the oil he’d used to comb over what few strands of white hair he had left. “You see, I double as campaign security. These heels are licensed to kill in ten of the fifty states.”

      “At the price you paid, they should be illegal in fifteen.” Hamilton McCloud’s widow leaned against a doorway to Rosie’s left looking just as beautiful and composed in real life as she did on television…only taller. Her gray hair was cut stylishly short to accent the classic bone structure of her face. Vivian McCloud wore a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket that showed off her statuesque figure. “Women in Jimmy Choos don’t mess around, especially when those shoes haven’t gone on sale yet this season. Let her be, Stu.”

      Stu reluctantly eased the suction on Rosie’s hand.

      “So this is who you brought us, Walter.” Mrs. McCloud towered over Rosie as she approached. Casey didn’t get his height solely from the McCloud men.

      Rosie was determined not to think about Samuel or the handful of days they’d spent together in Paris after her college graduation, but it was hard not to when she stood beneath his portrait with his mother bearing down on her.

      “Only the best for our boy,” Walter said, giving his raincoat to the receptionist. “She’s strong on strategy and a compelling speech writer.”

      Grateful for the distraction, Rosie handed the receptionist Casey’s Spider-Man umbrella, smiling sheepishly. Then she was shaking hands with Casey’s grandmother. The strength of Vivian McCloud’s grip rivaled that of a lioness protecting her young. This was a woman who’d be fearless against those who inflicted injustice and deception upon the McCloud family.

      And yet, the guilt must not have shown on Rosie’s face because the McCloud matriarch still spoke warmly. “Thank you for coming.”

      “My pleasure, ma’am. Rosie DeWitt, political strategist.” Rosie prided herself on her composure. She was a pro, an up-and-comer with a solid reputation in politics. And a big fat li—

      She would not define herself with the L word. Nor would she allow so much as a wobble in her high heels or succumb to the overwhelming desire to pass out. As long as Rosie kept her distance, stuck to her plan and didn’t get chummy with the McClouds, she and Casey would be fine.

      “Ma’am? That reference makes me feel old. You may call me Vivian. Later on you can tell me where you got those shoes.”

      “Thank you…Vivian.” So much for keeping her distance.

      Vivian beamed. “This looks like the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Don’t you think so, Stu?”

      “Let’s see what she can do with him first,” Stu said, gesturing to a door behind him.

      With enviable composure, Vivian strolled past Rosie to the remaining closed door and opened it without knocking. “Hud, darling. Come see what Walter’s brought you.”

      Stu and Walter followed Vivian, unaware that Rosie hesitated behind them glancing up at Samuel’s portrait and wishing for a cup of coffee.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “COME IN AND SIT DOWN.” Hud’s mother held the door as the jury filed in with a verdict—salvageable candidate or not. The quality of the campaign manager Walter O’Connell selected would be telling.

      Hud stood and came around his desk to shake hands with Walter, who held the fate of his family’s political legacy in his hands. Hud nodded to Stu, but didn’t see anyone behind the chairman’s large frame. His shoulders sank. So, they’d decided Hud was unmarketable. He turned back to his desk.

      His mother cleared her throat, inclining her head almost imperceptibly toward the door. Hud looked around to face a pixie with big dark eyes and long, wild black curls, including one artfully arranged on her cheek.

      “Rosie DeWitt.” Cheeks flaming, she thrust out her hand.

      Hud took Ms. DeWitt’s hand gingerly in both of his, afraid his normal grip might crush her delicate bones. Warm and soft, her hand fit nicely between his. Despite her solid reputation, there was no way Rosie DeWitt was capable of the cutthroat behavior that Hud needed from his campaign manager. Her hands were more suited to stroking a lover than greasing palms and salvaging careers.

      As if sensing his assessment, her eyes flashed. She gripped his hand as firmly as any man ever had, gave it a good shake and pulled СКАЧАТЬ