Long, powerful strides take him out of the dining room and into his office. The heavy door slams behind him, locking me out of the inner sanctum that used to be like a second home.
“He doesn’t mean it,” my mother says, her eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t go again. I worry about you. I miss you.”
“He meant it, Mom.” I stand and cross around the table to pull her up and into a tight hug, knowing this may be our last one for a while. Her petite frame shakes against me while she sobs into my shirt. I swallow the emotion burning my throat and bury my nose in her hair. “He meant it, Mom, but so did I.”
33
Lennix
“There’s someone here to see you, Lenn.” Portia pokes her head into the conference room. Her smile is megawatt. I’ve known her just a few weeks, but she’s usually only this excited about donations.
“To see me?” I touch the Nighthorse Now graphic emblazoned on my chest. “You sure? Besides the team, I don’t know anybody in Oklahoma.”
“Well he knows you.” Portia purses the corners of her lips with suppressed satisfaction. “Why didn’t you tell us you knew Maxim Cade? He’s been all over the news.”
I’m in the process of packing up a box of campaign buttons. Her words stop me mid-reach. I send her a sharp glance and then shake my head. “I don’t know him and I don’t want to see him. Could you say I’m not here?”
The jubilation proclaimed all over Portia’s face fades. She folds
her arms across her chest and aims a look at me over the bottle-green rims of her glasses. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” Portia says. “But he just made a donation to the campaign, and if he wants to speak to one of our staff, our staff will be available.”
Donation. Money.
Of course. He is a Cade after all.
Without speaking, I tuck my T-shirt into the waistband of my skirt and walk past her out into the campaign headquarters lobby. Maxim sits on the shabby thrift-store couch. He makes it look like a throne, even wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans. How did I not know this man was a Cade, or some equivalent? It’s so obvious now. Men like Maxim don’t happen overnight. It takes generations to breed them.
He glances up and stands. I force myself to stay where I am. His eyes gleam bright between a dark fan of lashes. There’s concern there and probably the closest thing to an apology he can manage. And desire. Oh, yes. I recognize that quick flare of want in his expression because it’s igniting in me, too, at just the sight of him. My heart calls him the liar he is, but my body clenches, seeking a satisfaction it’s only ever found when he was inside me.
“Mister Cade,” I say, my tone brisk and businesslike.
He grimaces and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He takes a few steps forward until only inches separate us. And that tiny amount of space hums with memory and hunger, but I ignore it.
“Nix,” he says, his voice husky, rough. He reaches for my hand and I step back, warning him with a look to keep his damn hands off. With his eyes never leaving my face, he nods. “Is there somewhere we could talk? Maybe grab a coffee or something?”
“Sorry, Mister Cade.” I gesture to the half-open boxes overflowing with buttons, bumper stickers, signs and other campaign paraphernalia. “As you can see, we’re preparing to hit the trail.”
He grimaces. “I should have told you. If we can just go somewhere, I can explain.”
“Anything you have to say to me, you can say out here.”
The bell above the door heralds the entrance of two volunteers. Our scheduler sits on the floor nearby with a giant whiteboard and dry-erase markers.
“I really think we should discuss this in private,” he says, reaching for my hand again.
I cross my hands behind my back, out of reach, and just stare him down, wordlessly warning him.
“Alright.” He gives a careless shrug. “That night in the alley when we fuc—”
I clamp my hand over his mouth and drag him by the arm into the conference room. He closes the door behind us and leans against it, a smug smile on his disgustingly handsome face.
“I’m still not sure why you’re here, Mister Cade.”
“Would you stop calling me that?” He releases a frustrated breath and drags his hands through the hair that’s even longer than it was the last time I saw him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s what they were calling you on television. Did they get it wrong, too? What should I call you? Kingsman?” A humorless laugh spills out of me. “We both know that’s a lie.”
“It’s not a lie. All the men in my family have Kingsman as our middle name.”