Praise for Kimberly Lang:

‘This enjoyable tale about a pair who think they’re embarking on a sexy fling that soon turns serious treats readers to all the emotions, and all the highs and lows, that love entails.’

—RT Book Reviews on THE SECRET MISTRESS ARRANGEMENT

‘A sizzling tale of lust developing into love …’

—Cataromance on MAGNATE’S MISTRESS … ACCIDENTALLY PREGNANT!

‘Talented author Kimberly Lang delivers a fresh, up-to-date story filled with strong characters and enough sexual tension to set hearts a-twitter. Entertains with witty repartee and sizzling passion.’ —Cataromance on THE MILLIONAIRE’S MISBEHAVING MISTRESS

About the Author

KIMBERLY LANG hid romance novels behind her textbooks in junior high, and even a Master’s programme in English couldn’t break her obsession with dashing heroes and happily ever after. A ballet dancer turned English teacher, Kimberly married an electrical engineer and turned her life into an ongoing episode of When Dilbert Met Frasier. She and her Darling Geek live in beautiful North Alabama, with their one Amazing Child—who, unfortunately, shows an aptitude for sports.

Visit Kimberly at www.booksbykimberly.com for the latest news—and don’t forget to say hi while you’re there!

Also by Kimberly Lang:

THE PRIVILEGED AND THE DAMNED

GIRLS’ GUIDE TO FLIRTING WITH DANGER

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS …

BOARDROOM RIVALS, BEDROOM FIREWORKS!

MAGNATE’S MISTRESS … ACCIDENTALLY PREGNANT!

THE MILLIONAIRE’S MISBEHAVING MISTRESS

THE SECRET MISTRESS ARRANGEMENT

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Power

and the Glory

Kimberly Lang

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Marilyn Shoemaker, a true romance fan and vocal advocate of the genre. You are the kind of reader I always hoped to have.

And I must give special thanks to my friend Frank Adams, who took time to answer my questions about the workings of Congress while en route to a meeting with the Speaker of the House.

For that display of awesomeness, I guess I will now forgive him for not asking me to prom.

CHAPTER ONE

“VIVE la Révolution.Again.”

Brady Marshall looked up from the text he was sending to see his father’s chief of staff standing at the window overlooking Constitution Avenue. “What now?”

“A protest, but at least it’s a small one. Maybe fifty people or so.” Nathan shook his head. “Don’t they have something better to do on a Friday morning?”

Nathan was a pessimist, a victim of too many years of D.C. politics. He was a good chief of staff in that Senator Marshall’s office ran efficiently and smoothly, but he’d lost sight of the mission long ago. After this election, Brady would have to have a long talk with his father about the possibility of some fresh blood. “Maybe they paid attention to that ‘engaged citizenry’ part of their high school Civics class and decided to use this beautiful fall day to exercise their First Amendment rights to show their displeasure with …” Any number of things. “What’s the protest about, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Brady moved to the window, too. He couldn’t hear the crowd, of course, but even from here he could see they were animated and engaged. “If I’m going to run that gauntlet, I’d like to know if they’re upset over a recent policy vote or just my leather shoes.”

“Why would you go out there?” Nathan went to his desk and opened a drawer.

“I’m meeting a friend on The Mall, and the shortest path is right through the middle of that group.”

Returning to the window, Nathan lifted a small pair of binoculars to his eyes and focused on the crowd below. “I can’t really tell for certain, but I’m betting tree huggers based on the signage.”

“You keep binoculars in your desk?”

Nathan shrugged. “Came in handy today, didn’t they?”

I really don’t want to know. In this case, ignorance was most likely bliss. “Look.” He stepped away from the window and started to gather his things. “The senator needs to look all of this over before we meet with the new consultant on Wednesday. If he wants to actively involve himself with strategy, that is. Otherwise, I’ll take care of it.”

Although this was his first time to officially spearhead a campaign, he’d been stumping for candidates his entire life, it seemed. He didn’t particularly enjoy the daily grind of actual politics—and no matter what the speculations might be, he had no intention of ever running for the Senate seat his family had held for over forty years—but campaigns, on the other hand … Campaigns were a challenge.

Nathan nodded as Brady opened the door to the outer offices and waiting area. His father’s staff and interns went about their business, greeting him as he made his way past. The waiting area was mostly empty, with only a few people waiting to see various members of the staff, and they were all actively staring at the young woman standing at the reception desk and speaking earnestly to the secretary. He stopped to see what was so engaging.

“Ma’am, you have to have an appointment.” Louise’s voice hit the perfect tone of patience and understanding while firmly standing her ground at the same time.

“I know, and that’s why I’d very much like to make an appointment. I’m available at the senator’s convenience.” The woman had to be new at this. Not only did she not know there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she’d get an appointment with his father, but it was also rather hard to take her seriously, dressed as she was. The form-fitting T-shirt belted over a long, free-flowing skirt, the tribal-looking jewelry and a riot of short brown curls held back from her face with a multicolored headband … Brady would lay money she was with the tree-huggers protesting outside. But if anyone seemed meant to carry off the cute-hippie look, this woman was it. She was slightly built, without looking fragile, with a profile that fell just short of elegant. She looked wholesome, fresh and perfectly suited to that particular fashion trend—all the way down to the Birkenstocks on her feet.

A collection of bracelets on her arm jangled as she punctuated her words with her hands. “As both a constituent and a spokesperson for the People’s Planet Initiative, I’d like to offer the senator the opportunity to work with PPI and our members. Now is the perfect time for Senator Marshall to adopt a more aggressive stance toward environmental legislation and position himself as a leader in—”

Louise interrupted the torrent of words simply by holding up a hand. “Miss …?”

“Breedlove,” the woman supplied. It was a rather traditional name for someone so nontraditional. He’d been expecting her to say something like “MoonChild.”

“Miss Breedlove, this is a very busy week for the senator and his entire staff. There simply isn’t time for anyone to meet with you—regardless of the merits of your organization’s goals and mission,” Louise qualified with a patient smile. “If you would like to contact us—say next week, through the proper channels?—we’ll see about finding the appropriate member of the senator’s staff to help you.”

The woman’s lips pulled into a tight frown. She’d finally realized she wasn’t going to get much more than a polite brush-off. He felt a little bad for her. Having your passion slapped down by reality for the first time always hurt. “I see. May I leave some information for the senator to look over?”

Louise smiled now that she’d won. “Of course.” As Miss Breedlove rummaged through a battered canvas bag, Louise directed her attention to him, and the smile turned apologetic. “Brady, I’m sorry, but I won’t have my hands on the information you requested until tomorrow.”

“No problem,” he assured her. “We both know he’s not going to look that over until ten minutes before the meeting anyway.”

“Very true.” Louise took the sheets of paper from Miss Breedlove as he left the office and the door swung closed behind him.

Louise was one of the loyal staff who’d worked with Granddad before he retired and stayed on when Dad won the seat. Brady had actually been surprised by her decision, since her years working alongside his family made her privy to much of their less-than-lily-white laundry. But, in the end, she’d put aside her personal dislike of Douglas Marshall the man for the sake of Douglas Marshall the senator and the greater good.

Just like he’d done.

“Mr. Marshall! Mr. Marshall, wait, please!” He turned to see Miss Breedlove hurrying down the hallway at a near trot. Uh-oh. The elevator doors opened to an empty car, and the manners ingrained in him by Nana wouldn’t allow him to step in and let the door close in her face.

“Thank you,” she said as the doors closed and she tried to catch her breath. The quick run down the hall had added a touch of color to her cheeks and caused some of her hair to slip out of its containment to fall over her forehead. She was wearing little or no makeup, and her bright green eyes met his evenly. “Mr. Marshall,” she began, “I’m with the People’s Planet Initiative—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m the wrong person for you to talk to.”

“You’re Brady Marshall, right? Senator Marshall’s son.” “Yes, I am. But I’m not part of his office staff.” “I know. You’re his campaign manager.” Miss Breedlove had done her homework. Brady wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or slightly wary. “And as such, I have no control over his office calendar. I can’t help you get an appointment with him.” “But you could listen to me, at least.” Since his good manners had him trapped in an elevator with the woman, Brady simply didn’t know how to get around it. Not that Miss Breedlove was giving him a chance to.

“If Senator Marshall would embrace the mission of PPI, stand with us in our efforts, PPI’s members could become valuable additions to your efforts to win his reelection. Our members are active and engaged in their communities—communities all over Virginia—and have a strong Internet presence. You know how valuable grass-roots support is …”

Thankfully the doors opened on the first floor at that point, giving him the chance to dam the flood of words. “Louise has your information, and should your agenda prove—”

“We don’t really have an agenda,” she interrupted, and as he tried to move away, she trotted to keep up, talking the entire time. “We simply have a mission to make this planet a better place for all who inhabit it.”

“That’s admirable.” Be noncommittal. He pushed open the doors to the outside and blinked at the sunlight.

Miss Breedlove was right behind him. Still talking. “With Senator Marshall’s help—”

Ah, damn it. He’d walked right out in the direction of the protestors. With Miss Breedlove still talking a mile a minute in his ear about the “mission” of PPI, he watched as the protestors took note of her and then focused in on him. A second later, three broke away from the crowd and intercepted them on the steps.

Good Lord, he did not feel like dealing with this today.

“Mr. Marshall, if you’d just give me twenty minutes, I’m sure you’d agree that PPI’s goals—” Miss Breedlove began, only to be interrupted by one of her people this time.

“The planet cannot continue to be exploited by this and every other government—” a man in a green T-shirt roared.

“We cannot stand idly by—” another woman added.

Brady tried to rein in his temper and exasperation as he cut them all off. “I appreciate your passion. And I’m sure you know that Senator Marshall has long enjoyed the endorsements of several prominent environmental groups for his strong support of conservation and other ‘green’ initiatives. But as I’ve told Miss Breedlove, I’m not the person you need to be talking to.”

“I think you are,” she said quietly as she placed her hand on his arm. Those big green eyes were earnest and engaging, and something about it nearly sucked him in. “Your family—as a whole—wields great influence and could really make a difference.”

His family’s influence. Yeah. That jerked him out of the depths of her eyes. “I’m very sorry, y’all, but I’m late.”

The man in the green T-shirt stepped closer. “I’m sorry, too.”

Before he could process Green Shirt’s meaning, Brady felt something cold land on his wrist, followed immediately by the bite of metal into his skin. “What the—” He lifted his arm, only to lift Miss Breedlove’s arm as well.

They’d been handcuffed together.

Green Shirt leaped down the remaining few stairs—shouting something about a talking tree?—and was swallowed by the crowd.

“Kirby! Come back!” she shouted, pulling at the metal on her wrist and jerking his wrist painfully in the process. “Unlock these things!”

The crowd went wild at that point, chanting and singing, somehow energized by the sight of their spokesperson shackled to another human being.

This is ridiculous.

Thankfully security arrived at the moment. In their excitement, the protesters had come too close to the building and needed to be pushed back to the proper distance. One of the officers, whom Brady had known for years, laughed as he walked over and saw his predicament.

“Did you want to be handcuffed to this lady? Should I be escorting you elsewhere?”

“Very funny, Robert. Just unlock the cuffs.”

Robert leveled a stern look at Miss Breedlove. “You do understand that restraining someone against their will is a serious offence?”

Her eyes widened, and she tried again to slide her hand through the metal cuff. “I’m just as much the victim as he is. I didn’t cuff us together.”

“Can we sort out blame later?” Brady lifted their joined hands in Robert’s direction, only to lower them quickly when he noticed the gathering crowd with cameras at the ready. “Maybe inside?”

Robert nodded, and pointed them back toward the doors.

The farcical nature of the situation was only exacerbated by the way Miss Breedlove tried to put as much distance between them as the handcuffs would allow, including contorting her hand into the most uncomfortable-looking position to avoid touching his. It didn’t quite work.

Being handcuffed to this woman had at least accomplished one thing: she wasn’t talking anymore.

Aspyn chewed on the inside of her lip as she followed Brady Marshall and the police officer back into the Russell Building. Not that she had a choice, thanks to Kirby’s stupidity.

She might have to kill him for this.

Besides the obvious humiliation, Kirby’s stunt was guaranteed to sour any goodwill she’d managed to garner from Brady Marshall and destroy her chances of ever getting an appointment with his father.

There was a time for showboating and a time for quiet shows of strength—every activist who’d been around long enough knew that. Kirby was too new, too gung ho, to see that difference, and now she—and PPI—would be paying for it.

She kept her head high as the officer led them through the lobby and tried to keep as much distance as possible between herself and Mr. Marshall, who—thankfully—looked more exasperated than angry at the moment.

Chasing down Senator Marshall’s son and campaign manager had been a whim; a whim, that, for a brief moment, she thought just might pan out. Now she needed to get out of these handcuffs and see if she could salvage anything at all from her efforts.

A door emblazoned with the Capitol Hill Police Force’s emblem led to a small windowless room that looked suitable for interrogating suspects, and Aspyn wondered if she was about to get her first arrest on her record.

The officer—R. Richards from the name badge he wore—lifted their wrists and examined the cuffs. “Hmm. This is a problem.”

“Why?” she and Mr. Marshall chorused.

He pointed to the locking mechanism. “These aren’t standard handcuffs.”

Mr. Marshall sighed, but Aspyn didn’t understand the significance of the statement. “And?”

“And they don’t take a standard key.” Officer Richards gave her that stern look again, like this was all her fault or something. “Do you happen to have the key, miss?”

“No,” she gritted out, “Because they’re not my handcuffs. This was not my idea.”

“Well, then we’ll have to cut them off.”

That brought another sigh from her cocaptive. The exasperation was starting to give way to something else. “And how long will that take?”

“Only a couple of minutes once I get the bolt cutters. Finding the bolt cutters will take a little longer, though.”

Mr. Marshall finally looked at her fully—and the depths of his eyes caused flutters of something indescribable in her belly—and shook his head. He turned back to the officer and said, “I guess we don’t have a choice. Go get the bolt cutters.”

Officer Richards jerked his head in her direction. “Are you okay being left in here with her for a few minutes?”

Mr. Marshall looked her over and laughed, and she stiffened at the insult. “I think I’m safe enough.”

They both kept talking like she wasn’t even there, and Aspyn tried to keep her temper under control until the officer crossed to the door and made to leave. “Excuse me? Isn’t anyone going to ask me if I’m okay being left in a windowless room, handcuffed to a complete stranger?”

“I can vouch for Brady. You’ll be just fine.”

And then they were alone. While she’d been half-kidding with her earlier statement, the reality of the situation hit hard. It was a small room, and Brady Marshall was quite a large man—almost a full foot taller than she was with really broad shoulders filling out a suit jacket that even she could tell was custom-made. And she’d felt the muscles in his arm when she’d touched him earlier. Since she couldn’t get more than a literal arm’s length away from him, she was now very familiar with the unique scent of his aftershave and the way his skin seemed to radiate warmth. Combined with a strong jaw, dark honey-colored blond hair that kept falling rakishly over his forehead and deep, leaf-green eyes … Mercy.

The worst part of this situation wasn’t the public humiliation or even the irritation she could tell Brady Marshall was keeping in check. No, the worst part was the fact that part of her didn’t mind being handcuffed to him. He wasn’t really her usual type … But on sheer looks alone, if she’d been asked to describe the kind of man she’d like to spend some quality time handcuffed to, Brady Marshall would do nicely. And now that they were alone … Granted, he kept looking at her like she belonged in a carnival side show, but her brain kept going to inappropriate places with those handcuffs. It was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop the little tingly feeling low in her belly.

The silence was deafening. Aspyn sat on the table, letting her shoes fall off and her legs swing, and tried to relax the arm attached to his. To her surprise, Brady Marshall joined her on the table, allowing their hands to rest on the battered Formica top and releasing the strain caused by being cuffed to someone that much taller.

“How do you know it’s safe to be left alone in here with me?” she asked. “For all you know, I could be a martial arts expert or something.”

One dark blond brow went up as he took a long lazy look from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It sent heat rushing to her skin. “Are you?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted, “but you didn’t know that.”

The corner of his mouth quirked briefly. “Given the alternatives, it was a chance I was willing to take. And Robert has known me for years. He wouldn’t have left you in here otherwise. I assure you you’re in no danger from me at all.”

Why did that feel a bit like an insult? “Good to know.”

“Miss Breedlove—”

“Aspyn,” she corrected.

That got her another of those side-show-oddity looks. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t like to be called Miss Breedlove. My name is Aspyn.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Like the tree?”

She nodded. “Like the tree. Only it’s spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘e.’” He doesn’t care about the spelling, you idiot.

Understanding lit up his face, and he started to laugh. The laugh completely transformed his face, making him seem more real and less like a bureaucrat. The smile caused cute little crinkles to appear around the corners of his eyes. The complete change in demeanor was devastating to nerves already on high alert and helped blunt the force of having her name laughed at. “Now I understand why your friend was shouting something about talking to a tree as he ran off. I thought he was just crazy.”

He wasn’t laughing at me. That made her feel a little better. “He’s not my friend. And I don’t think Kirby’s officially crazy, just a little overeager.” She offered him a small smile. “I am really sorry about this, Mr. Marshall.”

“All things considered, I think you should call me Brady.” His mood seemed to be improving, and the non-frustrated, nonexasperated Brady Marshall was a completely different person.

“Okay, Brady.” She held out her hand to shake his, realizing a second too late that would be impossible for him. She let their hands rest on the table again and settled for, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too, although I wish the circumstances were bit different.” A smile seemed to be tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to let my lunch date know I’m going to be late.”

“Okay.”

“I need my phone.” There was definitely a laugh behind his voice, but she didn’t get the joke.

“I’m right-handed.” He indicated the cuffs that held them together.

She still didn’t quite understand.

“So,” he continued, “my phone is in my right pants pocket.”

Understanding dawned. He couldn’t reach it with his left hand, and if his right hand went into his pocket, her hand was going along for the ride.

“Oh.” She felt her face heat. “Well, that’s a little more personal than I thought we’d get today.”

Amazingly enough, he winked at her. “Then I guess it’s a good thing we’re on a first name basis already.”

She averted her eyes and tried to look unconcerned. Her arm brushed against his hip and her hand lightly touched his thigh as Brady slid his hand into his pocket—only to be stopped short wrist-deep by the cuffs. No amount of wiggling and maneuvering helped. The phone was deeper in his pocket than he could reach, but the pocket wasn’t wide enough for both their hands and the cuffs to fit inside.

Brady cursed under his breath. “Do you mind just reaching in there and getting it?”

“Are you serious?” He wanted her to stick her hand down his pants? No, just in his pocket, she corrected.

As if in answer, his phone started to ring.

Her face felt like it was on fire and she cleared her throat. No big deal. We’re adults. It’s a strange situation and we must work together. That’s it.

But sticking her hand in this man’s pocket …?

Brady cleared his throat as a hint and angled his body toward hers as the phone continued to ring.

It was a bit of a contortionist’s trick, causing her to twist her hand at an odd angle to slide it inside his warm pocket. She had to step close to him to accomplish the maneuver and being that close was quite overwhelming to her system.

She was careful to keep her hand as far to the outside as possible, but Aspyn couldn’t help but notice the strong ridge of muscle that ran down his thigh. What on earth did he do in his spare time to get thighs like that?

Thankfully her fingers found the phone a second later, and she pulled it out quickly before her entire body combusted from embarrassment. Or other causes.

Brady’s smile as she handed over the phone didn’t help, and she turned away as he answered in a symbolic attempt to give him privacy. She was the one, though, that really needed that time to regain her composure. It was all she could do not to fan her face.

She overheard Brady laughingly tell someone he’d been unexpectedly detained and make a promise to explain and reschedule later.

“You okay, Aspyn?” he asked, putting his phone in his left pocket this time.

Pull it together. “I’m fine.” For someone who practically—if accidentally—just got to second base. “I’m sorry to mess up your lunch plans.”

“I believe you when you say this wasn’t your idea. You might want to inform—Kirby, was it?—that the next person he handcuffs might not be as understanding.”

“Does this mean you won’t press charges?” Being arrested for trespassing or disturbing the peace—the normal charges protestors faced—was one thing. Unlawful restraint of a senator’s son was a whole new level of trouble. And there was no way a judge would believe she was just an innocent bystander.

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

Relief washed over her. “Thank you. I promise I will personally wring Kirby’s neck for this.”

“I just don’t know what he hoped to accomplish by it.”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” Brady looked at her in surprise. “Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s attention in this town? Especially when you’re not already someone important?”

“I can imagine. But that justifies handcuffing people because …”

She didn’t bother to try to hold back her frustration. “Our whole lives, we’re told to get involved, only to find out that no one really wants us to. We’re told to make our voices heard, but no one seems to be listening. And it’s not just this protest or even just this organization. Most of us have been activists for years, and we found out pretty early on that no one really wants to hear what we have to say.”

Brady nodded slowly. “I can imagine that’s frustrating.”

“Oh, it’s more than frustrating,” she snapped at his patronizing tone before she could stop herself.

“But a protest doesn’t open lines of communication, either. It disintegrates into a matter of who can shout the loudest.”

“But,” she countered, “we have to hope if we shout loud enough and long enough, someone might eventually hear us, because what we’re saying needs to be heard. Have you seen what mountaintop mining does to Appalachia? What a rain forest looks like after it’s been cleared? Have you ever cleaned oil off seabirds?” Brady shook his head. “Well, I have. I know in your mind that might not justify this—” she shook their joined hands “—but I understand Kirby’s intention. I don’t approve, but I see his rationale and what motivated him.”

He fell silent for a moment and Aspyn began to worry a little. Maybe she’d gone overboard. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Louise. It won’t get you a meeting with the senator, but it might—and I stress might—get you a meeting with someone on the staff.”

“You’d do that?” Amazed didn’t even begin to describe how she felt.

“Sure. But not because of this stunt,” he clarified. “I don’t want people thinking this is a good idea.”

“Of course not. Thank you.”

His face softened and those green eyes held dangerous warmth. “I can’t guarantee anything, but someone with your passion and sincerity deserves a chance.”

Wow. Aspyn didn’t know which was more shocking—the idea she’d managed to at least get a foot in the door or the fact Brady Marshall thought she was passionate and sincere. The compliment tickled her down to her toes.

She’d seen Brady on TV campaigning with his father, and he always seemed rather aloof and unapproachable. This man, though, was so not what she expected. When he smiled at her again, the tickle became a tingle, and the reminder she was handcuffed to him and alone in a windowless room came rushing back.

Complete with full-color visuals.

She cleared her throat. “I, um—”

Officer Richards returned then, sparing her from saying something stupid. “We get more sit-ins than handcuffing, so I don’t get to use these much.” He worked the giant handles experimentally.

Brady stood and pulled up the sleeve of his coat and unbuttoned his cuff to roll it back out of the way. “Not exactly the confidence I was hoping for. I’d like to keep my wrist attached.”

The officer just grinned. “Who’s first?”

“Ladies first.” Brady moved their arms to the center of the table. “Aspyn?”

She pushed up her sleeve and slid her bracelets up, away from the metal cuff. “I’m not sure I want to be first. I like my wrist, too.”

Despite the banter between the men, Officer Richards handled the bolt cutters with ease and soon her wrist was free. She rubbed the red mark circling her skin as another squeeze of the enormous handles let Brady pull his wrist free as well.

Brady moved on immediately, rebuttoning his cuff and shaking the officer’s hand. Whatever “moment” they’d shared, it was over now, and Brady was back to the rather stiff and aloof man she’d jumped in an elevator with. It seemed a shame, like a loss. “Thanks. Unless you need something from me …” Officer Richards shook his head. “Good. Bye, Robert. Aspyn, it’s been … interesting meeting you.”

“And you. I hope the rest of your day is uneventful.”

“That would be nice.” Then Brady was gone, and the room felt big and empty.

Aspyn grabbed her bag and inched toward the door. “Have a nice day, Officer—”

“Not so fast.”

Thirty uncomfortable minutes later, Aspyn was able to leave with Officer Richards’s warnings still ringing in her ears. The man certainly didn’t like scenes in his building or on the steps.

Most of the protestors had dispersed and only a few hard-core activists remained with Jackie, the head of the People’s Planet Initiative and the protest organizer. Even they seemed to have lost much of their energy, though. She waved as she came down the steps, and Jackie crossed the street to meet her. “I videoed the whole thing. It was brilliant. Your parents are going to be so proud.”

“You think?” That brought a smile to her face. Living up to her legacy didn’t seem quite so daunting at the moment.

“I know. I’ll upload it and you can send them the link.”

“They’re still doing recovery in Haiti. They’re not exactly in a WiFi hotspot most of the time.”

“Well, you’ll be able to show it to them eventually. Their little girl’s first time.” She held up the small video camera. “So, Aspyn Breedlove, how did it feel to leave a protest in handcuffs?”

She frowned into the camera. “It wasn’t like that, Jackie. It was a stupid stunt, and Kirby was way out of line.”

“But you got someone’s attention. That’s a great first step.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s made me hopeful. Eventually, maybe someone will start listening to us. That’s all I really want.” Jackie raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay,” Aspen corrected, “so it’s the start of what I want—what we all want. Someone to actually listen to us.”

Jackie turned off the camera. “Go on home. You’ve done enough here today.”

Aspyn thought about Brady’s offer to help. “We’ll see, I guess.” At Jackie’s confused look, she added, “I’ll explain later.” No sense getting into any of that and getting anyone’s hopes up until it came to pass.

As she headed to the Metro station, the absurdity of the day finally hit her. In all honesty, there wasn’t that much to explain—beyond the fact she’d found out that Brady Marshall was devastating up close, and she certainly wasn’t sharing that information with the public. Even if she happened to get a meeting with someone in his dad’s office, she still couldn’t share the how. Not that anyone would believe her anyway …

She settled into the seat for the trip out of the city, proud of herself for what little she might have managed to accomplish today. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. One step at a time.

The familiar sway and rattle of the train lulled her and she closed her eyes. Brady Marshall’s face was waiting for her. A little sigh escaped before she could help it. But then that warm feeling returned to her chest.

She was passionate. She was sincere.

And forty-eight hours later, she was an Internet phenomenon.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU getting handcuffed to a hippie is just priceless. I took a screen shot and made it the wallpaper on my desktop. And Finn had one of his editing guys recut and redub it and it’s hysterical. I’ll send you the video.”

Brady could barely understand Ethan through the laughter. He leaned his head against the seat back as the limo inched its way through traffic and pinched the bridge of his nose to fight back the rapidly growing headache.

This was the final straw. He wasn’t answering his phone again today. Brady had already dealt with the press, his grandparents and the chair of the party’s Senatorial Reelection Committee because some half-cracked tree-hugger decided to pull a stupid stunt. A video of the event had gone viral overnight, and the voice-over of Aspyn saying, “It’s all I want … Someone to actually listen to us,” had become a rallying cry for every frustrated activist in the country. By Monday, she was everywhere on the Internet; by Tuesday, the press had really caught on and doubled-down on their coverage. The bloggers and pundits were eating it up, and Aspyn was now the figurehead of a movement that hadn’t existed three days ago.

And he’d been dragged into it as the symbol of old-school, establishment politics. It didn’t seem to matter he wasn’t a politician; he could listen all day long and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. As a Marshall, his name alone was all they needed to make their point.

He’d be drawing on what little patience he had left just to get through the meeting with his father and the new campaign consultants. He had none to spare for his brothers—either of them. “It’s not half as interesting as the talking heads make it out to be.”

“But it’s still funny. Oh, and Lily wants me to remind you that at least she never made the handcuffed ‘walk of shame’ on the national news.”

Ethan’s fiancée had an extensive juvenile record that, for the most part, they’d managed to keep from becoming blog fodder. Not that Ethan cared one way or the other—not who knew about Lily’s past nor what trouble it might cause politically to have a former delinquent in the family. Lily was nice enough, and he was glad his brother was happy, but she’d caused more than one headache for him already. “Is there an actual purpose for your call, Ethan?”

“Not really.” Brady could almost hear Ethan’s shrug. “Just wanted to annoy you.”

“You succeeded.”

“So, out of curiosity, did you listen to her?”

“Sort of. I told her I’d try to get her a meeting with one of the staffers. She seemed happy enough with that until all this broke loose.”

“She’s tapped into something in the people’s psyche. You’re practically getting wall-to-wall coverage.”

Like he didn’t know that already. “People are frustrated with the system. What’s new about that? On an otherwise slow news day, a pretty girl riding Internet-fueled fame makes the headlines. This will pass.” Hopefully very soon.

“So you think she’s pretty?”

Sometimes Ethan could display stunning acts of immaturity strictly to try to get a rise out of him. Today was not a good day to take the bait. “Does it matter?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d go for the whole antiestablishment, counterculture type. She falls outside your norm—and you never fall outside your norm.”

The headache behind his eyes throbbed. “Must you be a complete idiot all the time?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because you’re being an idiot.” The limo pulled to a stop at his father’s town house. “And I now have to go do damage control on this. Campaign staff should not be getting more air time than the candidate.”

“Uh-oh, sounds like the senator’s a little upset about this.” Ethan didn’t bother to cloak his bitterness. “Good.”

“Maybe for you, but not for me. I’d rather not be wasting time spinning ridiculous press. I’m the one who has to get him reelected.”

“It was your choice to work for him.”

“Yes. Because I can see beyond my own petty interests and childhood issues best worked out with a therapist.”

Ethan muttered something under his breath, but Brady wasn’t interested and hung up after a terse “goodbye.” Ethan couldn’t get past his own problems with their father to see the bigger picture. Douglas Marshall might be a lousy excuse for a father, but he was a damn good senator. Granddad’s legacy, oddly enough, was in good hands.

And that’s what was important, even though Ethan couldn’t see it. The mission that drove his family was coded into his DNA. Granddad had been a lion in the Senate, a forceful voice and advocate. Their father was carrying on that tradition, and as long as that was the case, Brady would fight to keep him in that seat.

Which meant he needed to turn the attention away from Aspyn Breedlove and back to the issues that really meant something.

He climbed the steps two at a time and let himself in. To his right, the door to his father’s study stood open, and he could hear voices inside. As he entered, he was surprised to see his father, Nathan and the new consultants already seated around the shiny conference table. And from the used coffee cups, open laptops and untidy stacks of paper, they’d been there for a while.

“Am I late?”

Jane, one of the consultants he’d brought on board only last week, had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Nathan just shrugged. His father, though, looked irritated, as always.

“Your little hippie friend has created quite the stir—”

“It will pass.”

“Possibly, but I’m sick of seeing her face—and yours—every time I turn on the news.” As if to prove his point, his father grabbed the remote and turned the sound up on the television. There, on one side of a split screen, was the video of Aspyn trotting beside him as they left the building and then being handcuffed to him. On the other side was a shot of an online bulletin board railing against the deafness of Congress and organizing itself into a full-fledged protest. The perky anchorwoman delivering the commentary called it a “grassroots uprising” and mentioned the Marshalls at least five times like it was somehow their fault.

The image then switched to Aspyn giving a makeshift press conference inside of what looked like a small bookstore. “I think the reaction we’re seeing just proves I’m not the only one frustrated with the disconnect our lawmakers have from the people they’re supposed to represent. Everyone deserves to be heard.” It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the clip, and, once again, he was impressed with how natural and articulate Aspyn was on camera. She might be a little out there, but she was smart and well-spoken and could hold her own with the press.

His father muted the sound again. “Because Miss Breedlove decided to handcuff herself to you, my office is now the center of this storm. Suddenly I’m the poster child for all that is wrong in Washington.”

Jane looked up from her computer as Brady joined them at the table. “And Mack Taylor is already keying in on it,” she added. “It’s about to become a campaign issue, and with the Marshall name prominently connected to the uprising, it doesn’t reflect very well on the senator.”

If I’d just let the elevator doors close in her face … Good manners didn’t always pay off, it seemed. But, then this was also what made campaigns exciting and challenging. This, too, just needed the right spin, and his brain was churning with the challenge already.

“Don’t get comfortable, Brady.” His father interrupted the thought. “You’re going on a little field trip.”

His brain screeched to a stop. That didn’t bode well. “Where and why?”

“I need to make Miss Breedlove my friend before Mack Taylor can make her my enemy and use her against me.”

“That’s always a good plan. In fact—”

“I’m glad you agree. You’re going to hire her.”

He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Excuse me?”

“You are going to hire Miss Breedlove and make her a part of our campaign staff.”

That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Doing what, exactly? Protesting?”

“Listening.” His father smiled smugly. “Miss Breedlove is going to be my official Campaign Listener.”

No, that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not a real job.”

“It is now. Instead of calling my office, concerned and engaged citizens may contact Miss Breedlove, who will listen to their concerns and organize them so they can be presented to me.”

That headache started to throb again. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, yes, I am. That should keep Miss Breedlove busy and off the cable news networks, and it will show that I am attentive to the concerns of the people and want to give them a point person to contact.”

“And anyone with an ounce of sense will see it for the ploy it is. This isn’t a campaign issue. Listening and replying to constituents is a job for one of your staffers.”

Jane shook her head. “It’s a ploy, but it’s a ploy that will work.”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” He pinned her with a stare that had her squirming slightly before she nodded.

“Since you’re the one she handcuffed herself to, you’re the one who needs to be seen listening to her first.”

“And when the campaign is over?” he asked his father.

“Miss Breedlove can go back to whatever cause brought her to my office in the first place.”

Meaning he’s not going to listen to a single thing she has to say. This was more than just a ploy. It was a step above an empty publicity stunt. It was inherently dishonest and that bothered him. They were above this kind of trick. “I get the impression Aspyn is a true believer. She’s going to expect this to be an honest offer. When she finds out it’s not, the backlash could be staggering.”

“It is an honest offer,” his father supplied. “Of a job. Beyond that, we make no guarantees, so we’re not being dishonest in any way.”

Political splitting of hairs. “Only in spirit.”

His father sighed. “Good Lord, Brady, you sound like Ethan and his quest for truth and justice. You understand the bigger picture. Just find the girl a desk and let her channel her energies in a different direction.”

Brady tried one last attempt at reason. “If we do this, it sets a dangerous precedent and every activist in the country will find a politician to handcuff themselves to.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He nodded at Nathan, who shoved papers across the table at Brady. “Mary Aspyn Breedlove, age twenty-seven, foreign-born to American parents but raised in the U.S. in a variety of hippie-type communes. Some college work—mainly in Sociology before she dropped out to annoy people full-time—and a long history of do-gooding and activism. Miss Breedlove has no criminal record and a current address in Arlington. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.”

In other words, Aspyn was officially his problem now.

Aspyn peeked out of the blinds and groaned. Still there. She flopped back onto the futon and heard it creak ominously in protest. Ugh. She felt like a prisoner. The video had gone viral with a speed she couldn’t wrap her head around, and the nation had arrived on her doorstep shortly thereafter. Technically it was Margo’s doorstep, since she lived above Margo’s bookstore. The bookstore was hopping now, and Margo was thrilled with the free publicity and additional business Aspyn’s new notoriety brought—even if Aspyn herself had to take time off and Margo’s niece brought in to help instead. From her tiny apartment on the second floor, Aspyn could watch the crowds and the press mill around out front. A small demonstration was organizing across the street, showing support for this new “movement” she supposedly—if completely accidentally—started.

She should be proud of what she’d accomplished—especially since it had required so little effort on her part. This kind of attention was every activist’s dream, but sadly, it wasn’t quite for the reasons she’d hoped for when she chased down Brady Marshall.

She’d turned her phone off last night, put an autoreply on her email account and settled in to wait it out. Thankfully the stairs up to her apartment were in the back room of the bookstore, so at least no one was knocking on her door.

Except that someone was …

She rolled off the futon ungracefully and crossed to the door, wondering who Margo had let up. Whoever it was, she hoped they brought food with them. And, to be honest, she was a little bored and could use some company.

Confusion reigned when she opened the door to find Brady. Here. At her door. Why?

“Mr. Marsh—I mean, Brady. Hi.” She ran her hands over her hair and tried to smooth down the curls. Be casual. “What brings you here?”

“I came to talk to you.”

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? “Okay.”

Brady smiled, adding a heart stutter to her body’s strange reactions to his presence. “Could I come in?”

I’m such an idiot. “Of course. Please.” She stepped back and held the door open. As Brady moved past her, that scent that she remembered so well tickled her nose and she inhaled deeply.

He seemed relaxed and unconcerned, unlike the man she’d seen on TV the last couple of days. At the moment, he didn’t seem angry about the media firestorm raging around him, but why else would he be here? “I was a little confused to find a business at your address. I guess it’s convenient to live above where you work.”

“It is. And it’s cheap,” she added with a small laugh. “I’m sorry about the mess.” She skirted around him to grab an armful of clothes and books off the futon and tossed them into the closet. “I’ve been rather homebound.”

“Since I just fought my way through that crowd, I fully understand why you’re hiding up here.”

“I would think your arrival here would only stir them up more.”

“Oh, it did.” He didn’t elaborate, but his face showed his exasperation with the situation.

Yeesh. Did that mean she was about to get an earful?

“Please, sit. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water? Herbal tea?” Stop babbling. She just couldn’t get her head around the fact Brady was here. The only people more confused about his presence would be the reporters outside.

He looked completely out of place, sitting on her rickety futon in his impeccably tailored suit and conservative red power tie surrounded by colorful batik cushions. Slivers of sunshine peeking through the slats of the blinds refracted through the glass beads of her curtain and sent tiny rainbows dancing over his skin.

Brady declined her offers with a small shake of his head. He seemed completely relaxed, leaning back and balancing one ankle on his knee. “It’s a bit of a circus out there.”

His mild, conversational tone didn’t help her relax any as she perched on the opposite arm of the futon, as far away physically as she could be without sitting on the counter of her kitchenette. “Definitely. I mean, I’m glad people are trying to find their voices, and that the media is showing that search and desire, but I wish …”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “They’d do it somewhere else?”

“Exactly.” She sighed. “Is that terrible of me?”

“Not at all. You didn’t ask for the spotlight.”

“And I don’t want to be there. There are so many issues that deserve at least half the media attention I’m getting just because Kirby was an idiot. It’s amazing what passes for news.”

He chuckled, and the sound caught her off guard. “I told the senator you were a true believer.”

He had spoken to his father about her? Not just some random staffer, but the senator himself? Wow. But the humor in his voice put her on guard a little. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“No, not at all …” Brady trailed off, and she realized his attention had been caught by the photo on the side table.

“Those are my parents,” she supplied when he picked up the frame and stared at it, surprise on his face.

“Are they actually handcuffed to the White House fence?”

“Yes, they are. If you look over my dad’s shoulder, you can see the top of my head. He had me in a backpack.”

An eyebrow went up. “Baby’s First Protest?”

“My third, actually.”

Brady replaced the photo, shaking his head at it as he did. “So it runs in the family.”

“Oh, no. They handcuffed themselves to the fence intentionally.”

He shook his head. “I meant the activism.”

“That? Oh, yes. My parents have always been activists—antiwar, environmental issues, Civil Rights—all kinds of good causes. I don’t remember which protest that particular one was, but that time they made the papers with that photo.”

“You’re telling me they handcuffed themselves to the White House fence more than once?”

Brady’s shock was amusing, but she stifled the laugh. “Yeah. They really are what you’d call ‘true believers.’ They’ve made a difference.”

“What do they have to say about all of this?” He jerked his head toward the crowd outside.

“They were pleased to hear about it, but they don’t know how big and out of hand it’s gotten now.” At his look, she added, “Communication is sporadic at the moment. They’re in Haiti doing relief work.”

“They sound like good people.”

Pride filled her. “They are. The best, actually. I wish I had their dedication.”

“You don’t?”

No, to their everlasting shame. “My parents have devoted their lives to something much bigger than themselves. They want to make a difference, and that involves sacrifices. Surely you understand that better than most.”

A crease formed across Brady’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

“Your family is in politics. They’ve dedicated themselves to public service, to the greater good.” Brady seemed to find that amusing. “Even with all I know, I’m still an optimist at heart. That’s why I do what I do. I hope that’s also what draws people to politics—that need to try to make a difference.”

Brady paused at her words. “In theory, yes. In practice … Well, it varies.”

“Then that’s all the more reason for the people to find their voices and make themselves heard. I hope that’s what all this—” she waved her hands toward the window “—leads to. More communication—open dialogue and real listening—between the people and their elected officials.”

“And that segues nicely into why I’m here.”

Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten there had to be a purpose for his visit—a purpose she probably wasn’t going to like. Once again, she’d been sucked into conversation with Brady and forgotten to focus. That was a shame really—having to focus on a topic—because she found she really liked talking to him. She knew he found her to be odd and slightly amusing, but Brady was easy to talk to. Looking at him wasn’t bad, either, a little voice inside her piped up, but she quickly shushed it and braced herself. “Okay, I’m listening.”

The corner of Brady’s mouth quirked up. “Good. Because that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“Listen to you?”

“No. The public at large.”

She must have missed an important point somewhere. “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

Aspyn nearly fell off her perch in shock. Surely Brady was kidding. She studied his face and realized he was serious. Wow. “But I already have a job. More than one, in fact.”

“I hope you’ll consider taking a leave of absence from all of them and come to work for me.” He cleared his throat. “For the campaign, that is.”

Had Margo slipped some salvia into her coffee this morning? If this wasn’t a hallucination, then … Whoa. “I … um … I mean.” She stopped and cleared her throat. She still had a chance to salvage this situation—if she could manage to keep her wits and professionalism around her. “That’s very kind—and intriguing—but I don’t know anything about campaigns.”

“You don’t need to. That’s my job.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “And you seem very bright. I have no doubt you’ll catch on quickly.”

Why did compliments from Brady make her feel all warm and sparkly inside? “I really don’t want to work for a political campaign. That’s not the kind of activism I’m interested in.”

“I would argue that it is, in a way.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Senator Marshall would like you to listen to the people. Those that want to make their voices heard would contact you through the campaign. You’d keep track of what issues matter most to people and prepare recommendations for us on the issues you feel we should be embracing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very much so. If nothing else, this has proven to the senator and his staff that people are very frustrated and feel silenced. He wants to be the senator known for really listening to his constituents.”

That sounded good in theory, but she probably wasn’t the right person for the job. “I don’t have any experience …”

“I beg to differ. Your work in the Peace Corps, community organizing, the activism … You’ve proven you really care, and that’s what really matters. I’d say you were ideally suited for this kind of job.”

How’d he know so much about her? “Did you run a background check on me or something?” Every warning her parents had ever given about government invasion of the privacy of the citizenry echoed in her ears. Maybe they weren’t just being paranoid after all.

“Yes.”

And obviously he didn’t see that as a problem. “I don’t know—”

“It will also shut down that circus outside and refocus their attention.”

That would be nice. “How?”

“You are their cause célèbre. Once you have the ear of Senator Marshall, they can’t use you as a martyr or poster child anymore. Therefore, much of this will lose its steam. One press conference—”

“Whoa, a press conference?”

He nodded. “First thing in the morning to announce your new position.”

Aspyn couldn’t find words. Her mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. She gave herself a hard shake. “You’re not giving me much time to think about it.”

“It’s the first rule of campaigns, Aspyn. Move quickly.”

She stood and walked over to the sink for a drink of water. “I don’t know, Brady. I’m not really comfortable with the idea.” For many reasons.

The futon creaked, meaning Brady was on his feet now, too, but she didn’t expect to feel his hand on her arm. It sizzled like a brand against her skin, and the sizzle spread outward over her body like a ripple across a pond.

And that gave her another reason—a very good one—to be uncomfortable with the possibility of working for him. She could very easily develop inappropriate ideas about Brady Marshall. She already had, she reminded herself; she just hadn’t had much time to ruminate on those ideas due to the current melee of her life. But they were there, poking at the edges of her mind, springing out in full color at inopportune moments and being explored in-depth in some pretty explicit dreams involving those handcuffs.

“Why not do it?”

For a split second, she thought Brady had read her mind and meant do it. Then sanity returned. When she turned, Brady was way too close for comfort, and she found herself staring directly at that broad chest. With the counter at her back, there was no room for retreat, and she sidestepped around him for much-needed distance.

Why did this apartment have to be so small?

“Well …” She searched for a good reason, one Brady might buy. The sight of him in his suit standing beside her salt lamps and crystals gave her one. “I’m rather antiestablishment, if you can’t tell. Working for the establishment just might cause a cognitive dissonance that would make my head explode.” And give my parents a heart attack.

This time, Brady’s amusement irritated her. “Ah, well, think of it as an infiltration, then. Think about all the inside information you’ll learn that can be used against the establishment sometime in the future.”

Now she was getting suspicious as well. “You seem rather keen on me taking this job. Why?”

“I wouldn’t have offered it to you if I wasn’t.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s in it for you?”

“Me, personally?” He shrugged. “As the manager of this campaign, I want to win this election. This will help. You can help. Everyone wins, in fact—me, you, Senator Marshall and the good people of Virginia.”

Guilt about her suspicions nibbled at her. Other than the fact politics was full of professional liars, she had no real reason to distrust Brady personally. He could have made a big deal of Friday’s escapade, let her be arrested, but he didn’t. Instead he’d offered—and it seemed delivered—the chance to make her case to the senator’s office. Now he was giving her the chance to make a small difference and get this mess cleared up.

But to work for the brick wall she’d been slamming against her entire life …?

It was only a temporary position. The election was just a little over five weeks away. It wasn’t like she was selling her soul to the devil. If it didn’t work out, she hadn’t really lost anything. It wasn’t like the political establishment could ignore her more than they already were. And if it did work out like Brady said … Well, something good might be gained.

And her parents? That was going to be an awkward conversation. But they were in Haiti for the foreseeable future. All of this could be over with long before they got back and ever had to know about it. Why couldn’t she work for change from the inside for a while? If she was successful, she’d tell them all about it. If not …

“Well?” Brady prompted.

Which brought her right back to the very personal problem she had with this opportunity. Could she work with Brady and not drool over him every day? Could she avoid a silly office crush egged on by her overactive imagination? Of course, there was the distinct possibility that as low man on the campaign totem pole, she’d have little interaction with Brady at all. And while the thought made her want to stamp her foot in frustration, realistically, that might be for the best.

Seems like I’ve talked myself into it. “All right. I’ll take the job.”

Aspyn still looked at him with equal parts suspicion and amusement, which didn’t fully surprise him. What did surprise him was the brief moment when she’d let that mask slip and sized him up like a yummy treat she’d like to devour but knew she’d regret the calories later. It was the echo of that same sentiment in him, though, that had him wanting to retract the offer and look for a plan B approach out of this PR mess.

“Okay, then. Press conference tomorrow morning at ten.” He eyeballed the battered and body-hugging jeans and nubby cardigan she wore and considered discussing a dress code. Then he looked around her apartment and decided it wasn’t worth his breath. The campaign had their official granola earth-mother on staff and she would probably look the part. “I’ll send a car for you at nine.”

One eyebrow went up. “You’ll send a car? Where is this press conference going to be?”

“Campaign HQ, of course.”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “That’s less than a mile from here.”

“And?”

“And I can walk or ride my bike.” Aspyn crossed her arms over her chest. “The first issue I’d like to bring to your attention is the waste of resources that things like ‘sending a car’ are—both to the planet and the campaign.”

He bit back the sigh as Aspyn started in on an obviously often-delivered speech.

He really was going to regret this.

CHAPTER THREE

MARGO was in the process of opening the store when Aspyn came down Thursday morning, ready to tackle her first day of work—even if she still wasn’t one hundred percent clear on what she’d actually be doing.

“Good morning!” Margo sang out. “Don’t you look adorable?”

Aspyn tugged at the borrowed black skirt. “You think?”

“Definitely. And not just adorable, either. Competent. Capable. Professional. You’re going to knock ’em dead.” Margo was a proponent of dressing for the part. As the owner of a New Age bookstore, she leaned toward caftans and head scarves, even when the result was more “carnival fortune-teller,” because that’s what people expected. She’d been the driving force behind Aspyn’s wardrobe today, practically manning a phone tree to find all the appropriate pieces. “Here.” Margo passed her a travel mug with the bookstore’s logo on it. “A ginseng and kava tisane to get you going today.”

Margo mothered her unreservedly, and Aspyn was thankful for it today. She needed the cheerleading. The events of the last few days had her head spinning as it was, but yesterday … She couldn’t quite decide what had her more off balance: Brady’s offer, the fact she’d accepted it, or her disturbing reaction to Brady himself. About midnight last night, she’d finally convinced herself she’d be able to handle this job and keep her hormones under control.

The bags under her eyes rather belied that already shaky resolve.

“Now go. You don’t want to be late for your press conference.”

“I feel terrible leaving you short-handed, with no notice—”

Margo waved a hand. “Annabelle will do fine, and my sister is glad to have her doing something other than lazing around the house. This is an amazing opportunity for you, honey. Take it.” Then she leaned in with a coy smile. “And the scenery there is much better than anything you’ll get around here.”

“The scenery?”

“If you must take a job in the political machine, eye candy like Brady Marshall makes it go down much easier.” Margo fanned herself, causing an armful of bangles to jangle. “I’m considering volunteering for the campaign myself.”

“Don’t be silly.” Margo wasn’t really helping in the it’s-not-about-Brady-Marshall department. “Anyway, he’s the campaign manager, and very, very busy, I’m sure. I doubt I’ll have much interaction with him at all. Other than the press conference today, I bet I’ll rarely see him.” Bummer.

“Pity.” Margo patted her arm, adjusted her necklace and unlocked the front door. “Go. Have a great day.”

The neighborhood was awake, bustling but not too busy. After the media circus of the last few days, it was nice to see things getting back to normal. Brady had made an announcement to the media on his way out yesterday—she hadn’t heard it, but it had worked wonders. Only a few cameras were still hanging around, but she had no doubt they’d be out in full-throng at HQ.

Once she was safely around the corner and out of sight from the bookstore, Aspyn sipped carefully from her mug. Her eyes watered and she ducked into the coffee shop. Joe, the owner, held out his hand, and she handed over the mug without comment.

Joe dumped the tisane into the sink, refilled the mug with the French Roast she preferred and gave it back with a smile.

“Thanks, Joe. You’re awesome.”

“Margo means well.”

“I know. And I love her for it. Nothing beats caffeine, though.” She inhaled the steam gratefully before putting the lid back on. “And I’m going to need it today.”

Joe waved away her money. “It’s on me. Good luck.”

He turned to another customer, and she waved goodbye. She’d built in plenty of time to make the walk, but the shot of caffeine mixing with nerves already on edge had her covering the distance in half the expected time. Sure enough, there were press vans outside HQ. Not as many, she noted, as yesterday. Had the press already lost interest?

Aspyn took a deep breath to steady herself and opened the door to one place she never thought she’d go. Campaign HQ was not what she expected. They’d taken over an old storefront and filled it with nondescript desks and tables. A few had computers, but all had phones. There was a distinct red, white and blue theme in the minimalist decor, and every wall was covered in Marshall For Senate signs. It was only a little after nine, but a dozen or so people were already manning phones and stuffing envelopes, and there was a healthy buzz of energy and noise.

Brady was easy to find, standing off to one side and talking on the phone. Margo’s eye-candy comment sprang to mind. Indeed. The jacket to his suit was draped over a chair behind him, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his forearms. They were tanned to the same hue as his face, meaning he didn’t always wear long sleeves. Granted, she was hardly an expert on Brady’s wardrobe, but it was hard to picture him in anything other than a suit and tie.

That was a lie. Frankly it was rather disturbing how easily she could picture Brady in substantially less. Dear Lord, she’d had her hand on the man’s thigh; between the breadth of his shoulders—which was evident to all, even in a suit—and the firsthand knowledge she now had of his quadriceps, it was quite easy to extrapolate to an appreciation of what Brady was like under that D.C. politico uniform … ahem.

She snapped her attention back to his tie. Today, it was a different shade of red with small blue stripes. She had no business noticing anything else.

Remember that.

Even if she didn’t already know Brady was the man in charge, simply the way he filled the space and the way the activity buzzed around him made it obvious he was the boss.

Then Brady looked up and noticed her. A strange jolt of adrenaline shot through her veins, a combination of excitement and nerves and Brady’s presence. He waved her over, but she kept her steps slow and even in the hopes her pulse would calm down before she had to get too close.

A crease formed between Brady’s eyes as he ran his eyes over her, but he never paused in his conversation—something about small donors—and Aspyn shifted uncomfortably under his stare. The crisp, distant tone to his voice didn’t help, either. When he hung up the phone, one eyebrow went up as he asked, “Who died?”

That rankled her. “Good morning to you, too.”

Brady accepted the censure with an amused nod. “Good morning, Aspyn. Good to see you. Seriously, did someone die?”

“What?”

“You look like you’re on your way to a funeral. At a convent.” Irritation and disapproval colored the statement in equal amounts.

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