Save the Date (12 page)

Lucy’s steak dinner was staging a full-arsenal attack in her stomach. “I have to go.”

His sweaty hands latched on to her arms. “Just a moment more.”

“We’re done here.” She shrugged out of his grip and moved to put some much-needed distance between them. She had to find Alex. And get out of there.

“Miss Wiltshire!” One quick look back told Lucy the creep was still on her heels.

“Excuse me.” She maneuvered through a group of people wedged together.

“Miss Wiltshire!”

This was all too much. She hadn’t planned on being quizzed. On being openly judged. Being expected to comment on amendments. And
not
on hairdo violations.

She squeezed past the patrons standing in the middle of the walkway. “Pardon me.” They wouldn’t move. Didn’t even hear her.

“Lucy!” Garrett Lewis was getting closer.

She tried to force her way through the wall and a trio of men. Pushing a little harder, she was desperate to get away.

A giant of a man turned around, and his right side knocked into Lucy, sending her into the wall. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Hey, watch out for the—”

But it was too late. Lucy’s head made contact with a hanging painting. Her hands flailed. And as she came straight down to the floor,
Flowers in the Summertime
came with her. The gilded frame broke into pieces.

Lucy looked at the chaos around her. At the lobby full of rich people staring at her. And did the only mature thing she could do.

She ran.

He found her in the parking lot.

Standing between a Mercedes and an Escalade, Lucy was bent at the waist, gasping for air.

“Lucy?” He strolled over beside her. She ignored him. “Are you hyperventilating?”

Her yellow-gold curls bobbed as she nodded and breathed. Nodded and breathed. “Is this going to become a habit?”

She reared up, her eyes glimmering with fire and water. “Pick someone else.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Lucy Wiltshire just shook her head.

He had been trying to make his way to her in the cavernous lobby. The crowd seemed to have multiplied by the time intermission began, and he couldn’t get to her. He’d watched that slime-bag reporter lay his hands on her. Watched Lucy’s face go white. Alex had shoved his way past a senator and junior congressman at that point. He had wanted to rip that man’s arm from the socket no matter who saw. Fake girlfriend or not, nobody would be touching Lucy. But him.

Alex reached out and pulled her to him. She stiffened in response. “I’m sorry I dragged you here with me tonight. Maybe you’re not ready for all this yet.” But he didn’t have time to wait for her to catch up.

With her arms straight at her sides, she spoke into his shirt. “I just get so clumsy when I get nervous. And I couldn’t move. Or breathe.” Her voice hitched, and he rubbed her back, making circles with his fingers. “And then that reporter wouldn’t leave me alone. And I couldn’t squeeze through because that other man was as big as a building and wouldn’t let me by. I hit the wall.” She sniffed. “And the painting.”

“It’s gonna look great over your mantel.”

She lifted teary eyes to his. “And I don’t know what amendment seven is. I barely know the preamble to the Constitution. And some woman had eighties hair, but I shouldn’t have said anything, but I did because clearly anyone with an AquaNet dependence is just asking for it.”

He wondered if she knew she had not only wrapped her arms around his waist, but was snuggling to the point of burrowing into his chest.

“Listen to me—”

“And Clare Deveraux is a viper with a staring problem. And I can’t remember all these names of all these important people.”

The tropical storm in his arms was about to turn into a category 4 hurricane. “Lucy—”

“Important rich people who dress properly for an event, unlike
your
date tonight because
you
didn’t tell her it was fancy!”

“I’m sorry. It was a last-minute invitation, and I didn’t have all the particulars.”

She stared at him with a disdain reserved for murderers and men who kick puppies. “I don’t have one single sparkle on.”

He took her face in his hands. “I think you look beautiful tonight.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think anything with boobs is beautiful.”

“That’s not true. I don’t think Governor Trenton is especially attractive.” A weak smile appeared on Alex's cheeks, turned pink by the evening humidity. “I need you right now. In this campaign with me. By my side.” He knew she was on the edge, and he felt a small measure of panic at the thought of her backing out now. “You’re the one I chose, Lucy.” He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. Told himself to take his eyes off her parted lips. “I’ll get you up to speed, I promise.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.

“You can.” He gently rested his forehead on hers. He would have to get a game plan where she was concerned. She needed the type of help he couldn’t provide. A woman’s touch. A mentor. “Obviously you ended up back in Charleston for a reason, so it’s time to show this town who Lucy Wiltshire really is.” If Alex had learned anything on the field, it was how to target your opponent’s weak spot. “Think of your girls.”

She swiped the stray mascara beneath her eyes. “You’re right. I have to do this.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s my girl.” Pulling her to him in a hug, he told himself he was only blocking her from lurking paparazzi. “Now let’s go.”

“I can’t go back in there. Please—I just want to go home.” Her face was a desperate plea.

Alex sighed, then nodded. “I’ll take you now.”

Had he done the right thing? This woman was a walking disaster. If they were going to pull this off, Lucy needed some serious help.

Unfortunately, he knew just the person for the job.

Chapter Twelve

W
hoever was at her door was going to pay.

Lucy’s heart hammered beneath her Lord of the Rings T-shirt as she listened to the pounding on her apartment door. She stared around the sun-filled room to get her bearings. It was eight o’clock. The latest she’d slept in years. But after last night, she wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over her head and go back to sleep.

The incessant knocking continued.

Lucy threw her legs over the side of the bed, slipped on a robe, and trudged to the living room. She pressed one bleary eye to the peephole. And sucked in a breath.

Clare Deveraux stood on the other side of the door. “What do you want?” Lucy called. She was too tired to bother with nice.

“Open up. It’s an oven out here,” came Clare Deveraux’s uppity voice.

“I bet your house has a nice air conditioner.”

“I must speak with you.”

Lucy opened the door, holding out a hand to block the sun. “I’m not really prepared for company at the moment.” Besides the fact that her hair was standing on end, Lucy had nothing to say to the woman who had voted to shut down Saving Grace and sabotaged her mother’s job. She was about to close the door when she realized that Clare was not alone. Beside her stood a yawning man in outrageous lavender pants. “If you came to show off your boyfriend, you could’ve at least waited until a proper hour.”

Clare waved a gloved hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. Julian is twenty years younger than me.”

The slender man shot her a withering look. “Try forty.”

“Whatever.” Clutching Lucy’s newspaper, Clare elbowed past her and entered the living room. “Lucy Wiltshire, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh, no.” Lucy couldn’t handle one more proposition in her life. “Whatever you’ve concocted, you can just forget it. You and your boyfriend need to leave.”

Clare plopped herself on the couch. She patted the cushion beside her. With an apologetic look to Lucy, Clare’s companion walked across the Berber carpet and sat down.

Wishing she had taken the time to get her slippers, Lucy eased herself into a chair and pulled her short robe tighter around her. “What do you need?”

“Let’s have breakfast, shall we?” Clare clasped her hands together. “We can talk and eat.”

Lucy blinked. “You want to bond over a bowl of Wheaties? Because that’s all I’ve got.”

The older woman sniffed. “Of course not.” She snapped her fingers at the man. “Julian can whip up something grand from whatever is in your kitchen.”

“A rotten banana and some protein powder.” Lucy rubbed a hand over her face. “Maybe you two could go out for some waffles and then call me later.”

“I want to talk about last night,” Clare said.

“Well, I don’t.” Just the mention of it brought the awful memories shrieking back.

“You need some assistance, and I’ve decided I’m going to give it to you.”

“No, thanks.”

“But first we share breakfast. I’m old and weak and need to eat now.” Clare slapped the armrest. “Do you know what it’s like to be old? And so feeble you need a personal assistant?”

“You’re about as feeble as a Rockette,” her friend said from the couch.

Clare ignored him and continued. “Of course you don’t know what it’s like. I roam my house with nothing to do. But as of this morning, that changes. You are my new mission, Lucy Wiltshire.” She stopped talking long enough to let her eyes travel over the apartment. “Yes, I can see I have my work cut out for me.” She patted the blond man’s knee. “I hope you’re not having flashbacks, dear.” Her attention returned to Lucy. “I saved Julian from the mean streets. I don’t want him to go back there.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I was in the chorus in
The Lion King
. You didn’t save me from the streets, you old battle-ax. You saved me from my addiction to stage makeup and a nasty allergy to glue and whiskers.”

This was too weird. “I really want to go back to bed now, so if you two could take your variety show somewhere else—”

“They let men be secretaries now, did you know that?” Clare smiled at her friend. “He can update my Tweeter thing while singing ‘Seventy-Six Trombones.’ Now, where was I? Oh, yes.” Clare focused those Medusa eyes on Lucy. “I was saying without my help you are going to single-handedly destroy what little chance Alex has for securing his seat in Congress.”

Lucy closed her eyes and imagined herself taking a flying leap at the woman, clotheslining her WWE-style. Yet rude as she was, Clare was telling the truth. Who was Lucy to be running in Alex Sinclair’s circles? Just because she wasn’t seventeen anymore didn’t mean she was any more qualified to be hanging out with the monied elite than she had been in her Clearasil and hand-me-down days.

“Just hear what I have to say before you kick me out,” Clare said in her sophisticated Southern lilt.

Julian stood up. “I’ll just find the kitchen and get something going.”

Clare trailed after him, and Lucy had no choice but to follow.

“You were right.” The cabinets rattled as Julian rifled through them. “Slim pickin’s.”

“I haven’t had time to shop lately.”
I’ve been too busy selling my soul
.

Clare sat at the table and unfolded the morning paper. She read for a moment as Lucy stood useless in the kitchen like a guest in her own home.

Finally pulling her attention from the front page, Clare studied Lucy. “That hair of yours. It’s a tad unruly.” Her eyes went back to the news. “My son’s was curly like that when he was a toddler. I let it go long and natural, though my husband hated it. Said it made him look prissy.”

Julian poured juice into a wine glass. “Nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feminine side.”

It was like a bad Fox sitcom, this cozy tableau. Here was the woman who had been snippy and snooty to Lucy as long as she had known her. And now Clare was sitting in her kitchen sharing breakfast, reading
her
paper, and discussing hairdos.

“Who wants pancakes? I’ll have to make a few substitutions, but I think I’ve got all I need,” Julian said.

Clare turned another page. “He went to Cordon Bleu.”

Lucy counted to ten in Klingon before she was able to think of something civil to say. “Maybe we could eat something . . . quicker?”

“Oh, look at this blind item in the society section. It says Lady R, a certain socialite, attended Mrs. M’s tea party and left with the family silver.” She lifted her brows toward Julian. “If that isn’t Roxie Stinson, I’ll give up Botox and foot scrubs.”

“Sticky Fingers strikes again.” Julian poured the batter onto a skillet. “Remember when she tried to make off with your pearls?”

Clare scanned the rest of the article. “Just shows money cannot buy good manners.” She laid down the paper with a thud of her hands and turned those predatory eyes on Lucy. “Speaking of that, I’m here to offer you my show of support.”

“Thanks.”
Now please leave
.

“Alex contacted me this morning about mentoring you. I am a former first lady.” She fluttered a hand to her chest and let the silence hang as heavy as wet laundry. “And I’ve decided it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Lucy asked, unable to look away from the woman’s intensity.

Clare opened her mouth. Closed it. Shared a look with Julian. “Time to share what I know with the younger generation. I have a great many things I could teach you. And that’s exactly what Alex has asked me to do.”