The Scandal and Carter O'Neill (11 page)

He believed her. He believed her because she looked like a woman with her back against the wall.

“It’s okay. Stay,” he said. “Unless you’re cheating.”

Her laugh was a dry empty rustle. “The pit boss would kill me.”

She crushed her smoke into the ashtray.

“That reporter was giving Zoe a hard time out here,” Vanessa said, and Carter’s body went tight.

“He’s a nuisance,” Carter said.

“Is it possible she’s spying on you for him?”

“No!” The thought actually made him laugh. Zoe? A spy? It was like asking a kitten to be a tiger.

“Don’t be so sure,” she said, watching him through ancient eyes. “She’s already sold you out for a thousand dollars.”

“She didn’t know me,” he said, and then realized that the more she knew him, and the more he treated her the way he had been, the more likely she’d sell him out for a nickel.

“Well, he’s gunning for you. You got a plan?”

“It will be easier if you stay out of trouble.”

Vanessa laughed. “Me? I’m just a woman making a paycheck, Carter. Nothing wrong with that.”

He felt himself smile. “Somewhere pigs are flying,” he said, trying to make a joke, which was so strange. Joking with his mother—pigs really were flying.

“Well,” Vanessa finally said. “You better go catch up with Zoe, before she decides you’re not worth the trouble.”

“I think she already has,” he said, a cool wind slipping up his back.

Vanessa stood, the wrought iron chair scraping against the bricks. “Not yet,” she said. “You still have a chance, trust me. That girl can’t hide her emotions for shit.”

He knew. It was why he liked her, why every hidden emotion he had reached out for the total honesty in her.

“Night,” he said, stepping into the shadows.

“Good night, Carter,” Vanessa said, her voice warm with an emotion he’d never heard before.

Inside the party, he found Zoe and Eric at a cocktail table, eating their way through what looked like a mountain of fried catfish.

“Butter-flavored Crisco,” Eric was saying, his fingers greasy from the fish but his eyes warm, no doubt from a few minutes spent with Zoe.

Jealousy pulled at Carter, which was stupid, but it was. He never got jealous, and it only proved how important she was to him. How different.

“That’s the secret,” Eric said.

“You’re kidding!” she cried, staring down at the fish with a mix of horror and love. Carter smiled—her feelings about food were so complicated.

Eric caught sight of Carter first and he turned, graciously opening up their small circle to include him. Zoe, on the other hand, shut down, all that warmth suddenly banked at the sight of him.

No, he thought, no no no.

“You’ll never guess, Carter,” Eric said, “but we got the catfish from this soul food place on River—”

“Mama’s?” Carter asked Zoe.

She nodded. “Apparently, Eric and I have similar taste.” She wiped her hands off on a napkin and sighed. “Thank you, Eric. I appreciate your time and the soul food education.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing you next week. Call Janet at my office and we’ll get something lined up. Your academy sounds like something Baton Rouge needs.”

She did it, Carter thought, sparks of pride shooting through his body. He couldn’t help but grin at her, at the beauty and wonder of her. And he knew, not that it was ever in question—but he knew that Zoe was different from anyone else in his life, and not just because she was pregnant and stood on chairs and accused him of being a deadbeat daddy.

Zoe was different because he felt differently about her. He liked her and craved her. He wanted to know her better and let her know him.

He wanted to stop being a damn pixel picture.

“I will,” she said, her smile bright and clean. “Thank you.”

She nodded at Carter, her eyes shuttered, and he realized that he was losing his chance with Zoe before he fully knew how much he wanted it.

“Good night,” Zoe said, and then she left, the sheen of her dress attracting all the light and every male eye in the room.

“That’s quite a woman there, O’Neill,” Eric said, his voice filled with a low-level warning. A don’t-blow-this-chance alarm that Carter heard loud and clear.

“I know,” he said.

He thought of his mother at that table outside, so totally alone, and he took a step after Zoe. And then another.

He didn’t want to be that alone. Not anymore.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE a graceful exit when saddled with too-big stripper shoes. Just outside the glass-and-marble lobby of the Hilton she tripped on the edge of her dress, and the shoe slipped right off her foot.

“Cinderella.”

Carter came up behind her and her whole body, already electrified by the night’s success, went into overload at the sight of him.

All hands on deck, her hormones screamed.

This man is too much, she tried to tell herself. Too unpredictable. Too hot and cold. He’s not right for you. For any reason.

But he held her shoe, which looked totally ridiculous in his hand, and when she reached for it, he pulled it back.

“Let me,” he said, and before she could stop him, he was crouched in front of her, brushing aside her dress, lifting her foot.

She put quivering fingertips on his shoulder.

It was the most intimate thing she’d ever felt. Ever been a part of.

His fingers on her ankles, brushing her toes, sent pulses of light and heat under her skin. As she watched, numb, all of her anger, every bit of confusion, was eradicated by the sight of him on his knee in front of her, concentrating on her ankle strap.

Without the confusion or anger, all that was left was desire. And it was a storm in her, growing out of control.

“I don’t think Cinderella’s shoes were this complicated,” he joked, working the tiny strap at her ankle.

“They were glass slippers,” she said, staring up at the stars wishing a lightning bolt would just come down and take her out of her misery. “They had their own problems.”

“These don’t even fit you.”

“They belong to a gay drag queen,” she blurted.

“Oh,” he said, and she slapped her head, glad he wasn’t looking at her. His finger trailed up her instep as he stood, leaving fireflies dancing along her spine, the nape of her neck. “That explains it then.”

His smile was so sweet. Tender. As if the scene in the ballroom with the dealer had never happened. Suddenly she couldn’t stand it, the way her body stayed warm for this man, no matter what he did.

He was close, so close that she could lean against him and all that heat would be hers. All that electricity would blast through her, obliterating her better sense, her concerns and doubts.

She could just feel. For the first time in a year, she could lean back into a man’s arms and just feel.

The temptation was intense, like standing in front of a blast furnace in a fur coat.

But she took a step away, refusing to follow his lure like some dumb fish, attracted to shiny objects. She was better than that.

“Who is she?” she asked. “The dealer.”

Carter’s face turned to stone, and she knew that if he didn’t answer her, she’d leave and never think of him again. Never want him. Never dream of his hands and those lips—ever again.

This ill-conceived affair would be over before it really began.

“My mother,” he breathed.

Shock rippled through her. Over her and around her. It was hard, actually, not to laugh in sheer nervous reaction.

“Your mo—” Carter put his finger against her lips, a touch that gathered and pulled between her legs, nearly knocking her to her knees.

“Please,” he whispered, looking somehow pained and lost, as if saying the word mother had ripped the skin off an old wound. “Not here. I’ll tell you, just not here. I’m sorry for the way I acted in there. It was a shock…I guess…to see her. I reacted badly.”

Zoe ran a trembling hand over her hair.

It was one thing to desire him. Another to like him. But this…this new river of sneaky, dangerous emotion that began to swirl through her needed to be avoided. She would not care. No. She couldn’t. Caring would be a disaster.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, apparently reading her sudden misgivings.

He lifted his finger to summon a cab as if the usually elusive creature were simply a dog waiting for a command.

Quickly, she reached up and pulled down his arm. She wouldn’t care about him, but she didn’t want to go home. Her home was sad. Empty.

His eyes flared as if thinking what she was thinking. That this night, despite its wild ups and downs of surprise and success, was too lonely.

“You want to go celebrate?” he asked. “The beginning of your academy? We could go get some pie.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“I think hell just got chilly.”

She smirked and shook out her hands, flooded with nervous energy. The excitement of the night, being with this man, made her feel a little too alive in her skin. As if she’d had too much coffee. “I would walk, though.”

“In those shoes?”

“I’ve got sneakers in my car,” she said, leading him toward her station wagon up the street.

A walk was safe. She wouldn’t have to worry about cozy alcoves or him touching her feet. She could cool down, get her hormones back under control.

But he tucked her hand into his arm and the tension of his muscles under the fine fabric of his jacket felt anything but safe.

“AMELIA?” HE ASKED AN HOUR later as they walked along the river. “Are you giving birth to an old woman?”

“What’s wrong with Amelia?”

“Nothing. If you’re eighty years old.”

“It’s a lovely name,” she said, feeling as if the night had taken a magical turn and had suddenly been dipped in sugar. Within the first ten minutes of their walk down Third Street, she’d given up any notion of feeling safe with this man. They walked side by side, his hip rubbing hers, his muscles under her hands, and now she was charged with power.

A humming desire churned through her, and every time he turned, putting his hand to the small of her back, she felt like she could light up the night.

“You know for sure you’re having a girl?”

“The doctors haven’t told me, but I know.”

“Feminine intuition?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not. I have great respect for feminine intuition.” His grin was boyish, and she was so intrigued, so beguiled it was hard not to curl herself into his arms and push back the wind-tousled hair over his forehead.

“I just feel like I know this little person and I know she’s a girl. Like I understand her and she understands me and we’re making our way through this together.”

She honestly didn’t understand why she was talking to him like this, as if these little secrets, these details about the way her brain worked, were nothing. Small talk. Flirtation even. She kept laying herself out there like it didn’t matter.

His fingers feathered through her hair, brushing it off her face, and she nearly sighed with pleasure. But then his fingers were gone and she awkwardly turned away, staring at the city decked out in its Christmas finery.

White lights on the trees, the old state building lit up in red and green.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he said.

“It is,” she agreed, surprised he thought so. “You like Christmas?”

He shrugged. “I did, you know, as a kid. I suppose now it’s just another day.”

“My mother goes overboard,” Zoe said. “Starts shoving Christmas down my throat right after Halloween. I’ve started to like Easter just to be contrary.”

His lip kicked up, but his eyes were still on the city. “I envy you,” he said. “With the baby. You have a reason to love the holidays again. So many traditions to pass on. When I was a kid, my grandmother used to make us wait on the stairs until she’d showered and done her hair and put on her makeup.” He smiled, shaking his head. “It was torture. I can’t wait to do that to my kids.”

She laughed, her heart pounding as she imagined a bunch of little blond kids groaning on the stairs while some lucky woman watched Carter shave very slowly.

“That’s a good tradition,” she whispered and turned, staring down at the river, the wind cooling her cheeks.

“It looks clean, doesn’t it?” she asked, looking down at the churning black waters below them.

“It’s dark,” he said. “Clean, dirty, everything looks the same in the dark.”

“That’s a pretty pessimistic view from a politician.”

Carter laughed, turning his back to the water to face the buildings behind them. The Christmas lights of the city reflected in his eyes. “Maybe it is,” he said, his voice dark with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Have you always wanted to be a politician?”

“No.” He laughed. “I wanted to be a skateboarder, remember?”

“Of course, such a natural progression from skater boy to mayor.”

Carter was quiet for a long time, and Zoe found a huge wealth of patience inside of her for this man. She would wait for him to talk, no matter how long it took.

“My family is…unorthodox.”

“Your mother?”

“The tip of the iceberg, sadly. My mother has spent most of her life as a petty crook. She did some time a dozen years ago, but for the most part has managed to be good enough to stay out of trouble, but not good enough to ever be able to leave the game. She left us on my grandmother’s doorstep when we were kids and Margot raised us.”

“Your grandmother? That doesn’t sound too illicit.”

Carter laughed. “In her heyday, Margot was the paid companion of mobsters and musicians and politicians. She taught us how to play poker and handicap horse races. By the time I was fifteen, I could cheat at cards and hold my gin better than a man twice my age.”

She wasn’t sure that laughter was the right reaction to this news, so she bit her tongue.

Carter glanced over at her, his face tight. “I’ve never told anyone this.”

A warm sun rose inside of her, a sense of pride that she was the one to receive this kind of trust. This kind of intimacy. “You’re ashamed?” she asked.

He pursed his lips as if weighing his answer. “Yeah, I guess. In a way. I think going into law and politics was my way of rebelling. As ridiculous as that sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.”

“My brother is, or was actually, a big deal poker player, before he married a cop. My sister married the son of a gem thief who used to work with my father—”

“And you want to do good.”

“Right, it does sound ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t,” she breathed. He didn’t look at her and she could see his discomfort, the tension in his muscles.

“I don’t actually know if I would be a good mayor,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, stunned to see such doubt in him.

He glanced at her askance. “Come on, you saw me at Jimmie Simpson. Those women hated me and I couldn’t…” He sighed. “I couldn’t win them over.”

She licked her lips, wondering if she was about to overstep some boundary, but he’d made fun of her baby’s name, so fair was fair.

“First of all,” she said. “Those women are tough and no one has an easy time winning them over. I’ve gone up against Tootie Vogler in the past and she made mincemeat out of me.”

He turned to face her fully, a smile playing about his lips. “But?”

“But you were being patronizing,” she said, and winced, waiting for him to snap.

He simply stared at her.

“You mad?”

“No,” he said. “I think you’re right. I think…” His eyes roved over her face and she was suddenly spellbound. Breathless. “You’re amazing,” he whispered.

She cupped his face in her hands, his skin warm against her flesh, the beginning of a beard rough in her palms. She wished she could hold all of him this way, every wounded and taut inch of him.

She turned his head so he had no choice but to meet her eyes.

“I think, despite your family, you’re a good man.”

“If you knew—” He shook his head.

“If I knew what?”

He stared into her eyes and she couldn’t breathe. Her heart hammered in her chest. His fingers touched her cheek, the glittery barrette in her hair. “I think maybe I’ve said enough tonight,” he said. “What is it about you, Zoe? You make a mess of me.”

As compliments went, it was a pretty mixed message, but she understood what he was saying and her heart swelled.

“It’s late,” he whispered.

“It is,” she agreed, not moving. She couldn’t have, not for the life of her. He’d said they were in this together, and the look in his eyes when he’d said it had made her believe him.

It might be a mistake, but she wasn’t going home. Not alone. Not after this night.

Her weight shifted onto her toes and she tilted, swayed right against his chest.

“Take me to your house,” she whispered, hoping that was all she would have to say.

He groaned as the fireworks exploded between their bodies. Her skin transmitted the slick cool feel of his tux to the rest of her body.

“You sure, Zoe? I don’t want to rush—”

“I do,” she said. “I really want to rush into this.”

They turned, his arm a mantle around her shoulders as they stepped to the curb where he got a cab in record time.

He was a magician, she thought, and couldn’t wait until he got those magic hands on her.