A Night of Southern Comfort (3 page)

Chapter Two

One month later

Was it possible to hate an entire room?

Michaela observed the perfectly coordinated objects placed by her father’s interior decorator in the study of his Richmond, Virginia, mansion. Books, photographs, and awards lined the walls and shelves of the outer office, each piece calculated to present the perfect image to those Governor Eastland deemed important—or more accurately, useful to his ambition.

When she’d walked out a month ago and moved to rural Elliott, she’d intended to never return. Her relationship with her father had never been close. After her mother passed, both she and her brother, Jeff, had been cared for by a series of well-paid nannies and trotted out like little trophies at political events.

Her father was old-school ambitious in the tradition of the dynasties now sexily romping through history on the cable channels. Everyone and everything was kept or discarded in accordance with what would best support his perfect image. Her school, clothes, friends, and even her lovers were part of the machine. She’d had little to no control over her life. But since she refused to give speeches, Michaela had finally reached the stage of her life when she wasn’t useful on the campaign trail. She’d seen her chance to break free and struck a deal—she’d live a quiet life and do nothing to embarrass him or hurt his plans, and he’d leave her alone. The governor had agreed. When it came down to it, he didn’t give a shit about her and she was okay with that.

The day she’d walked out of this house had been the best day of her life.

After years of planning, hoping, and praying for the day when she could be her own person, Michaela feared the mere act of walking through the front door would place her back under his control, however temporary. But when
he’d
called—not a staffer on his payroll—and told her it was a matter of safety, she couldn’t refuse.

For a public figure, death threats were a serious fact of life. So, in spite of her better judgment, Michaela canceled the appointments her physician’s assistant couldn’t cover and made the three-hour trip to Richmond.

She wiped her sweaty hands on her dress pants and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The air was stifling but she felt cold. The mash-up of emotions curdling in her gut made her gag at the overbearing smell of furniture polish.

Pull yourself together. Don’t let him smell blood in the water.

Both the double doors to the inner office and the door to the hallway opened simultaneously. Through one set, her father and his assistant emerged, dressed in identical black power suits with red ties—clearly the uniform for up-and-coming assholes. Swiveling she turned toward the three unknown men who entered from the hallway.

Her heart stopped in her chest.

James.

She didn’t recognize the tall, handsome blond or the older, heavy man, but she’d know James anywhere. Her body flushed with heat, her most intimate places recalling his touch in vivid detail.

Michaela knew the moment James realized she was there. Surprise flickered across his face for the briefest moment before he schooled his features into a blank expression. Her heart pounded as he lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry. In spite of her anxiety, it was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

Her father’s voice boomed out across the room. “Michaela, you’re late.”

She took a deep breath and straightened her spine before facing him. “I’m here now. What do you want?”

“There’s no need to be rude in front of our guests.”

“I had to cancel half of my appointments today. This isn’t a social call.”

Her father turned and gestured for the others to sit. Good Southern manners dictated that they remain standing until she sat down. She crossed her arms and stayed on her feet. Proper etiquette be damned.

“Gentlemen, forgive my daughter’s rudeness.” With his best political smile, her father made the introductions. “This is Dr. Michaela Eastland and my assistant, Mitchell Rhodes.

“My name is Dr. Roarke.” The words flew out of her mouth with the force of a rifle shot and the venom of a copperhead. Snapping her mouth shut, she clenched her teeth, the grinding sound reverberating through her head, threatening a migraine for later if she didn’t get her temper under control and pace herself. This show was just beginning.

“Michaela, this is Director Burris from the FBI, and Detectives Cantrell and Landon from the Roanoke PD.”

Burris and Landon walked forward and shook her hand while she offered them a practiced smile. James was the last to greet her and she trembled slightly at the warmth flowing from his palm as it closed over hers. He squeezed lightly and raised the eyebrow again in a silent question. She stared, hoping he understood the message in the minute shake of her head.
Act like we don’t know each other.
Relieved, she relaxed the white-knuckle grip on his hand when he spoke.

“Jackson Cantrell. You can call me Jack. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Roarke,” he murmured.

His name was Jackson

“Nice to meet you, Detective.” Michaela turned to her father, desperately hoping her irritation masked her inner turmoil. Seeing Jackson rattled her and she needed to bring her A-game. “What’s this all about?”

“We had a deal, Michaela,” he replied.

The gloves were off.

“I don’t understand.” She matched his tone, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

“Maybe these will explain.” Mitchell held out a large folder. His lip curled in a smirk when he forced her to wrench the bundle out of his hand.

Biting back the urge to say something ugly, she turned her attention to the folder and opened it. Photos. They were dark and poorly taken, but she understood the subject matter. Her breath caught in her throat and she struggled to maintain her look of cool nonchalance under the pressing weight of humiliation.

In the first photo, she was in a bar, kissing a man in a tuxedo. Subsequent pictures showed more of the same in graphic, sexual detail. The final one was taken just before the doors to the elevator closed, clearly demonstrating what their intentions were as they headed up to one of their rooms. While her face was clear, Jackson was in shadow and unrecognizable.
They don’t know who he is.

Her hands shook as she handed the folder back to Mitchell. He wore a smug expression that she itched to slap right into next week.

“I don’t understand what my sex life has to do with the FBI.” Michaela directed her comment to Burris as the other men looked at the photos. Jackson paused at the first one, surreptitiously glancing her way. She ignored him, afraid she’d give him away. “Unless it’s a federal crime for two adults to agree to have consensual sex in the privacy of a hotel room?”

“Only if you pay for it,” Detective Landon interjected with clear amusement.

“Shut up.” Jackson nudged him with his elbow.

Burris ignored them both as he handed the photos back to the governor. “You called me asking about a protection detail. While someone taking photos of your daughter is unfortunate and unsettling, it doesn’t necessarily warrant a security team. Is there more?”

“There is this.” The governor handed over a piece of paper to Burris.

Burris opened the folded note and read aloud. “
Your daughter is a slut. Get her under control. [Proverbs 22:15]
.”

Jackson looked around the group. “Anybody know what the verse says?”

Michaela answered automatically. “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.”

Jackson nodded in understanding. “Spare the rod. Spoil the child.”

“Very good, Detective.” The governor perched on the edge of his long table. “Someone thinks I’ve neglected my parenting duties and wishes to make it an issue just as the political season is about to begin.”

Jackson bristled. “I’m confused. Are you more concerned with your daughter or your career?”

“Cantrell.” Burris’ voiced held a warning.

“Ah, I see I’ve offended you, Detective.” The governor laughed but his amusement didn’t reach his eyes or the tone of his voice. Anyone with any sense would back off and take cover.

Jackson clearly had no sense. He advanced on her father, hands clenched at his side. “I’m afraid you have. I would think your sole concern would be your daughter. Someone, a pretty sick someone, is following her around and I bet these aren’t the only pictures.”

“My daughter”—her father stood and faced off with Jackson—“shouldn’t be doing anything worth photographing.” He turned his attention back to Michaela. “We had a deal.”

“I’ve done nothing to break our agreement.”

“Acting like a common whore in public is in direct violation of our terms.” His eyes narrowed with anger and she fought the instinct to take a step back. “You said you would do nothing to jeopardize my plans.”

“And I haven’t. I’ve kept my end of the barg—” Michaela stalled when she realized what was going on.
You’re so stupid.
Disgust rolled through her gut at being played so easily, at believing that he’d actually keep his end of the deal.

“I can’t believe this bullshit,” she fumed.

“Michaela, watch your language.”

She grabbed her purse and stalked over to where her father leaned against the table. When she raised her hand to poke his chest, it was steady.

“Governor, you must think I’m stupid.” She stood taller and peered down at him, tamping down the disappointment over what she didn’t see in him.
At what age did you stop hoping your father would love you?
“We had a deal. I lie low and you leave me alone. I don’t know what you paid for those pictures but it won’t work. The jerk who took them is probably on your payroll. I can’t believe you wasted everyone’s time. I’m going home.”

She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. “I did not arrange for those filthy pictures.” Her father’s voiced roared right behind her. “Come back here!”

His grip on her arm was like a vise and she gasped at the pain that shot through her. She struggled to break free, but he was strong when angry.

“Let her go.”

Michaela and her father both jumped at the deep, threatening voice booming behind them. Over her shoulder unfurled a scene straight out of a movie of the week, Jackson looming over the governor, his features cold, unforgiving, and lethal.

“Governor, Dr. Roarke would like to leave.” Jackson’s voice was low and steady and promised he would back up his unspoken threat. “I suggest you let her go.”

When her father loosened his grip, Michaela scrabbled for the doorknob and ran into the hallway on wobbly knees. Grasping the wall for balance, she leaned over, struggling to catch her breath before she hyperventilated.
Not here. Not here.

She was worse than a fool. She still expected Governor Jefferson Eastland to act like her father.

“Dr. Roarke, are you okay?”

Jackson’s voice was as warm and gentle as the caresses he pressed up and down her back. She turned and he enveloped her in his arms. Unashamed, Michaela buried her face in his shoulder and hung onto his reassuring bulk, loving how his hand burrowed into her hair and cradled her head in his warm palm.

“Michaela.” Jackson’s voice was heavy with unspoken questions.

She wasn’t answering them now. Not ever.

“No.” She stepped back from the temporary security he offered. “No, Jackson. There’s no threat. No one is following me. My fath—” she swallowed hard and wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “The governor set me up. He has to control everything around him and he’s mad that I actually followed through with my plan to have my own life. This is his attempt to bully me into doing what he wants. If I let him, I’ll never be free of him.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Jackson traced her cheekbone with his finger before moving down to cup her face with his hand.

Michaela leaned into his touch, allowing herself this indulgence. His caress brought back memories of their night together, the night she’d thought about often in the last month and longed to repeat. But for his own good, she had to stay away from him.

Her father wouldn’t let her live her own life—it was a compulsion that had made her mother miserable and forced her brother to move across an ocean. The governor didn’t care about what she wanted or needed, and that included a lover of her own choice. Every man in her life either sold their soul to gain what the governor offered or suffered the devastating consequences of refusing him. She wouldn’t let it happen to Jackson. The last five minutes had proven that he was just crazy or noble enough to take on her father and ignore the cost to himself.

“Jackson.” She looked at him, touched by the concern and determination in his face. Yes, he’d play the hero for her. But, it had to end now. Michaela stepped out of his embrace and backed away toward the front door. “Forget about me. Don’t call, don’t come see me, and
do not
let
him know you’re the man in those photos.”

He tried to follow, his expression confused but stubborn. She held her hand up to halt his progress. Michaela looked at his handsome face and once again regretted who she was.