Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

“And
what about the baby, Ms. Carter? Who will protect the innocent life taken each
time an abortion is performed?” His eyes penetrate mine, ferocious in their
interest to know my answer.

I
flinch delicately, blood pounding loudly in my ears. When I answer I can barely
hear the soft whisper of my reply, “There are some instances in which neither
one would survive if not for the option. It’s in those circumstances I believe
the woman has a right to choose her own life over the beginning of another.”
The intensity of my position shows as my voice reverberates my answer,
forceful, even though the tone is low.

His
gaze is intense, but comforting in an indescribable way. Nodding, as if to
close the topic he says, “It’s very rare that someone voluntarily and so
spontaneously opposes my opinion at an event sponsored by my camp. I need to be
connected to people, even those with beliefs that differ from my own. I like
that you offer another side of the picture painted before me.”

“Is
it my opinion you seek, or my ability to write about yours?” I ask.
What is
it he wants me to do?

His
eyes light with my response, “Both. Tell me, how do you approach a topic to
present it in a fair light, and approach it from a true, unpolluted
perspective?”

I
consider his question for a moment. “I withhold all personal judgment of the
individual or subject. It’s not my job to provide a conclusion for the reader;
it’s my responsibility to share the facts as I understand them. I remain
neutral, seeking to understand and communicate that understanding thoroughly.”
I have regained my footing, comfortable in my answer. “It’s important to keep
an open mind, refrain from presumption. I learned very early on most people are
not as easily read as one would believe. I let them tell me their truth, and
listen carefully to the art of people. You would be surprised by what you
hear.”

His
gaze is steady. Raising his fingers to his mouth, he begins to pull gently on
his lower lip. After a short moment he asks, “And what if the topic is of no
interest to you?”

“There
is something interesting in everything, Senator. Life is interesting. I don’t
need to have a passion for everything in it; I have to find what’s interesting
for not only myself, but for the readers. That’s what will engage them in the
blog and the topic itself.”

I
look at Evan who has remained silent through the entire conversation, standing
against the far wall, arms folded in front of his chest. He's looking at me
with an amused smile, choosing this moment to interject. “I’ve read many of
your articles, Ms. Carter. You have an uncanny ability to understand the
workings of people and get them to open up to you. How is that?”

I
tilt my head, not certain what he’s asking. “Mr. Daugherty, I choose to find
the good in everyone. The world is a dark place when one focuses on or seeks
out the negative attributes of those surrounding them. There are few people I’m
unable to find a positive quality I can connect with. I understand human
nature—or at least, I try to. It’s that connection that allows me to capture
the true nature of my subject. They feel comfortable with me and share their
truth.”

He
nods, eyes twinkling mischievously like he’s in on a joke I’m not aware of.

I
turn back to Colin. His eyes darken and his face grows very serious, “Ms.
Carter, I’m about to embark on a tour of the United States seeking the
Republican presidential nomination. I would like for you to accompany me as I
campaign. Use your expertise to understand my motivations and connect my
beliefs and me to voters via the Internet. Will you come?”

It
takes a moment to formulate a response, and the only thing I can think to say
is “Charlie.” He looks at me quizzically, his right eyebrow lifting in
question. “Please call me Charlie. Mrs. Carter is my mom, and Charlise is so
formal; everyone calls me Charlie.”  

“Charlie,”
he says as if tasting my name, savoring it. When I don’t answer he tries again.
“Charlie,” he says softly. “I want you to contemplate my offer. Would you
consider meeting me tomorrow for breakfast?” he asks, with beseeching eyes. “It
will give you an opportunity to learn more about the campaign and more about
me.”

I’m
drawn to this man, his masculine, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, straight nose,
blue eyes and the glorious waves in his hair. This is unchartered territory,
and I’m not sure accepting his offer is the right thing to do—for him or for
me.

“I’m
leaving this afternoon. I haven’t booked a room to stay through the morning.”

He
glances over my shoulder. I turn, following his eyes to the window and the snow
that has started tumbling from the sky. Big, wet flakes fall, the roof of the
building next to ours already thick with buildup.

“Charlie,
I'll take care of the room for you this evening. Please don’t drive in this
weather.” His words are pleasant, but his tone is demanding.

I
agree with him; snow is not my favorite driving condition, especially for an
almost four-hour drive. “Okay.”

“Good,”
he says simply. He stands, staring down at me, his face unreadable. “If you
agree to work with me, Charlie, I would like for you to enter into our
agreement knowing little about me or my campaign. Base your perspective on what
you learn firsthand. Can you promise me you'll forgo any research from this
moment forward?”

I’m
surprised by his request. Most journalists engage in extensive preparation
prior to embarking on such a journey. “Will you promise to be forthright and
honest with information when I ask for it and have a need to know?” I gaze into
his eyes to determine the truthfulness of his answer.

“On
my honor,” he says with sincerity, his eyes piercing in their connection with
mine.

“I
promise.”

“Until
tomorrow then.”

Standing,
my hands unconsciously fan over my skirt to ensure it’s lying smoothly over my
rounded hips. His eyes flick quickly over the area my hands just caressed.
Lifting his hand to shake mine in farewell, the electricity pulses through me
immediately when we touch.

I
look into his eyes once more. “Good night, Senator McKenna.”

FEELING
LAZY, I
snuggle deeper into the warmth of the bed, unwilling to start the
day. Last night there were no erotic dreams of a man with deep, intense blue
eyes or nightmares from a past I can never seem to fully escape.

I
haven’t spent any time trying to decipher my reaction to Colin McKenna, pushing
thoughts of him out of my mind each time they drive forward. Lying under the
thick covers, I’m cocooned in the soft warmth of the hotel bed. Yesterday's
dream and my reaction to the real man flood into consciousness, refusing to be
repressed any longer.

The
image of his sculpted face, his lips that in one moment harden into a firm line
and in the next are soft and full, the brilliant smile and dimples that soften
the solid, and strong lines of his stunning face cause my heart to beat faster.
Blood pounds quickly, reverberating in my head, down my arms and tingling in my
fingers. Oh, my. I catch myself as my breathing changes, increasing with the
direction of my thoughts.

The
magnetic pull I feel when I look at him is beyond surprising. These unbidden
reactions scare me; this kind of physical response has never happened before. I
can’t figure out why now, why him?

Throwing
back the covers, the cool air of the room quickens my pace into the bath for a
hot shower. Turning on the water, I contemplate the day ahead. I had not
expected to stay over so I was completely unprepared for the night and even
more so for today. Taking advantage of the hotel amenities, I was not left
wanting for a toothbrush and soaps; clean clothes were the hardest part of an
unexpected stay. The hotel offered same-day laundry service, yet it was too
late in the day to send my things and have them back for an early-morning
meeting.

I’d
been completely surprised to find University of Notre Dame panties in the gift
shop, which solved one problem. I’d also bought a long-sleeved
Fighting
Irish
T-shirt I could wear underneath the slim-cut jean jacket I had in my
car, along with my skirt from yesterday. It isn’t very professional, but it
will have to do.

After
our meeting yesterday afternoon, Mr. Daugherty had made a couple of phone calls
to secure a room for me at the hotel, in addition to a reservation for the
Senator to meet me at nine this morning at Sorin’s, a restaurant within the inn
itself. After that I was alone to fend for myself throughout the evening. It
would have been the perfect opportunity to walk the campus, if the snow had let
up. It didn’t, so my only outing was the gift shop, spending the rest of the
night watching movies with room service for company.

The
bathroom is hot and steamy as I dry myself, the outline of my body vaguely
present in the foggy mirror. I sigh as the towel runs over my hips and full
breasts, standing to the side to stare, disheartened, at my stomach. I’d joined
a Pilate's class, guaranteed to strengthen and lengthen muscles, and my own
hope was it would help with my coordination. Clumsiness is a recurrent and
ongoing challenge for Charlie Carter. I laugh at my naked self—so much for
guarantees—because the reflection returned is still soft. That’s the best word
to describe the roundness of my hips into muscled thighs, the effect of many
summers spent water-skiing at my parents’ lake house. My ample breasts hover
above a flat but healthy stomach. No one would call me skinny—curvaceous maybe,
but not skinny.

My
hair has responded differently this morning, creating natural silky and smooth
loose waves cascading over my shoulders. I have limited resources when it comes
to make-up; thankfully I slept well, and there isn’t a lot of coverage needed. My
clear ivory skin is a gift, along with the light blazing auburn waves, from my
biological mother, who I barely remember.

One
last look in the mirror confirms I resemble a student of the university, not a
professional on her way to a breakfast meeting with a presidential candidate. I
smirk at the vision in the mirror; leave it to me to take business-casual to a
whole new level.  

It’s
ten to nine when I leave my room, intentionally allowing just enough time to
make the appointment. A calculated move on my part, so my nerves can’t get the
best of me while waiting for him to arrive.

The
doors to the restaurant are framed in heavy wood, and the name is written above
the entrance in the same navy and gold colors that are heavily laden throughout
the inn and conference center. The dark wood carries through the entire space;
it all looks very stuffy and
old
. Hmm . . . based on his physical
appearance and intense eyes, I would guess Colin McKenna is many things; old
and stuffy are none of them.

A
young girl managing the hostess desk, wearing a casual yet crisp white shirt
and navy pants, greets me. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,
I’m meeting Colin McKenna. Do you know if he’s arrived?”

Her
once pleasant features drop and her mouth opens and then closes before saying,
“Uh, yeah . . . yes, please follow me.” Eyeing me warily, she rounds from the
back of the desk, poorly trying to hide her scrutiny.

There
are few patrons at this hour so it’s not hard to find him, sitting at a small
table in front of the room’s only fireplace. Thankfully, his head is tipped to
read something on his phone so he misses my inspection. He is, even more so
than in my memories, striking. More relaxed than I saw yesterday, he's wearing
a dark blue cable-knit sweater with a high collar. It hangs open exposing a
thick, muscled neck and the white crew-neck T-shirt hidden underneath the heavy
knit. His stature is impressive, with wide shoulders and thick, firm forearms
visible as the sleeves of his sweater are pushed toward his elbows.

Looking
up, his eyes connect directly with mine, piercing intensity visible in their
depths. He stands in greeting, not looking at the hostess as she deposits
me at the table. “Is there anything you need, Senator McKenna?” she asks with a
hopeful draw to her tone.

“No,
thank you.” His eyes remain trained on mine as he holds his hand out to me.
“Charlie.” It’s almost a whisper from his lips.

Held
in his trance, I raise my hand to his and gasp when our fingers touch. The
electricity is so strong I pull my hand back quickly, as if it were burned. His
brow furrows momentarily and we stand silently together, unmoving for a short
moment. In time he steps to the chair next to his, pulling it out graciously
for me to sit.

“Thank
you.” It’s the only thing I can manage without giving away how appalled I am at
my reaction to him and our physical contact.

He
relaxes, sinking into his chair gracefully. “Thank you for changing your plans
and meeting with me, Charlie. I hope you slept well?”

Okay,
normal conversation. I can do this. He is, after all, a man, just like everyone
else. I inhale deeply to steady my nerves before replying, “Yes. Surprisingly I
slept very well.”

Our
waiter presents at that moment, “May I get you something to drink?” He looks to
me. The Senator already has coffee and an orange juice sitting in front of him.

“Coffee,
please.” I smile broadly with gratitude. Coffee is usually the first thing I
have when I wake up, even before showering; I feel half-awake without it this
morning. My smile remains in place as the waiter leaves. I tip my head back to
Colin, whose own face has become impassive as he gazes at me. “Did you sleep
well?”

He
considers my question thoughtfully, one side of his mouth rising. “Yes,
Charlie, I did.” I wish I knew what he is thinking. One minute he's completely
unreadable, the next his eyes are sparkling like the fire lapping next to him.
I glance to the flames, appreciating the heat on my bare legs.