The Winner Takes It All (A Something New Novel) (2 page)

An image of Shane snapped through her mind like the lash of a whip. He was one of Chicago’s corporate giants, and his sister’s impending marriage to the senator’s notorious son had been a hot topic on a slow news day. If it wasn’t for him, she’d be home where she belonged.

“So you get to stay in Washington but I have to play nice,” Cecilia snapped.

“I’m in committee,” her father said.

The whole situation annoyed her and she spoke without thinking. “And God forbid the voters find out your wife and son aren’t speaking to you.”

“That’s enough. I’m still your father.”

Something tightened in her chest. Was he? He didn’t feel like it. She straightened her shoulders and modulated her tone to neutral. “All I’m saying is I’m not sure it’s necessary.”

“Trust me, it’s necessary.”

She laughed, a hard, brittle sound. “Trust you? You almost ruined your career.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “I’m doing what I need to do, and if you want to win, I suggest you do the same.”

She fought it—the pull that longed for his approval—but the habit was too old and her anger too new. She took a deep breath. “I understand.”

Sometimes it was best to concede the battle to win the war. Or at least that was the political spin she sold herself today.

“Good. Remember the plan.”

Ah yes, the plan. She ate, slept, and lived the plan.

Revival. Eight Miles.

Two weeks with Shane. Two weeks with his sharp, disapproving gaze. Two weeks of playing the ice queen he expected, pretending he had no effect on her.

She was exhausted just thinking about it. “I remember.”

“And on that note . . .” Nathaniel said, his voice rich and pleased.

Her stomach dropped with dread.

“I spoke with Miles and Paul this morning and we decided right after the wedding we’ll announce you’re running for office.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, ‘right after’?”

“At the reception. We’d call in a few reporters to cover the wedding. You could let it slip and have a press conference the next day.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Was
nothing
sacred to him? “It’s Mitch’s day. Let him have it.”

“The timing—”

She cut him off. “No. This is
my
campaign, and I’m putting my foot down.”

She might not be close to Mitch, or have the slightest clue what to say to him, but she respected what he’d done and how he’d turned his life around after the senator had gone and fucked it all up. She wasn’t about to ruin his wedding to gain a few points in the polls.

“Cecilia, let’s be frank. You’re a long shot.”

Yes, the factors working against her were endless, but she was sick of him pretending he wasn’t part of the problem. Venom filled her tone as she spit out, “Thanks to you and that little intern
I
told you not to hire.”

He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to believe, but we both know your image needs work.”

Nausea roiled in her belly. “I didn’t get blackmailed, you did.”

“The voters forgave me. After all, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Ha! You didn’t get caught. There’s a difference.”

“Perception is reality, my dear. You know that better than anyone.”

What did he mean by that? He sounded smug, as though he knew something she didn’t. “I’ll build my own perception.”

As soon as she figured out what she wanted that perception to be.

A long, put-upon sigh. “You can’t connect. You’re logical and pragmatic, which can be a benefit, but it doesn’t win votes. People don’t love you. You don’t inspire them to act, or empower them to believe that government is within their grasp. You have no voice. No vision.”

The truth. It was like a stab to the heart, but she refused, absolutely refused to give in to the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. She did not cry. Ever. Instead, she steeled her spine and said sweetly, “Awww, you always give the best pep talks.”

Never show weakness. Never break.

“It’s up to me to tell you the truth.”

A cocktail of riotous emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but she pushed them back down. “I will not let you ruin Mitch’s wedding so you can play father of the year in front of a few reporters.” Her training had served her well, because there wasn’t even a hint of a quaver in her voice. Her hurt was hidden down deep where it belonged.

And since he was so keen on truth, she’d dole out some of her own. “As
your
adviser, let me return the favor. If you want a chance in hell at winning your wife back before the next election, you’d better stop using your son to gain points in the opinion polls. You’re losing her. She’s starting to loathe you. Maybe because you had sex with an intern younger than your daughter?”

“Watch your mouth.” His voice filled with outrage. Unlike her, he’d never been a pro at hiding anything unless he had an audience. “I did not sleep with that woman.”

She laughed, the sound filled with rough, bitter edges. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You think I didn’t see how you fawned over her? How you preened at her ego-stroking?”

Fifteen seconds must have ticked by before he spoke. “Have you told your mother this?”

She scoffed, shaking her head. This was so like him. All he cared about was covering his ass. Another mile marker sign flew by. “Good-bye, Father.”

He hung up without a word.

She exhaled a slow, steady breath.

Well, that was ugly.

She’d held her own and scored her point, but the victory was hollow.

Revival. Next Exit.

She slowed to fifty-five and changed into the right lane. She had to block out this noise—her family crisis, Shane Donovan, the wedding—everything, and concentrate on what was important.

Winning the election.

It was the only dream she’d ever had and she couldn’t let it die along with everything else.

Cecilia had been banging on the front door of her brother’s farmhouse for five minutes and still no one answered. She glanced around the front yard filled with large oaks and weeping willows from her past, but where her grandma had planted shrubs, her future sister-in-law had lush hydrangea bushes in vibrant pinks, lavenders, and greens.

It was like stepping into an alternate universe where time stopped and reality altered just enough to make the familiar, foreign.

The breeze blew gently, sending the old porch swing swaying, and a burst of nostalgia filled her chest. How many summer nights had she sat there as a little girl, smelling of Off! and the river, curled up to her grandma’s side reading
James and the Giant Peach
?

She could still see her grandma sitting there in her housedress, looking like she was part of the earth. A tightness grew in her chest at the memory.

Would her grandma even like the woman she’d become?

She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Where was all this emotion coming from? She needed to shake it off and get it together. She turned away from the past and rang the bell, then rapped hard against the panes of glass.

Met with nothing but silence, she twisted the handle and found it unlocked. Since they expected her, she took a cautious step inside. Her heels clicked against original hardwood floors that gleamed with a richness that spoke of the care someone had put into restoring the wood.

“Hello?” she called out, peering around the empty foyer. The walls were different. The rose-patterned paper had been replaced with a soft, dark gray paint she’d never have picked because of the dark wood moldings, but it looked exactly right.

She called out again, “Hello?”

A distant male voice yelled back, “In the kitchen.”

Why on earth hadn’t he answered the door? She tossed her bag on the bench and walked down the narrow hallway leading to the swinging kitchen door that had been in this house since its creation.

The kitchen told another story, thrusting her out of the past and into the future. It gleamed with newness. With gorgeous, industrial stainless steel appliances, distressed white cabinets, and polished granite countertops in various shades of cream, gold, and brown.

Under the extra-deep double sink, a man sprawled across the floor, his head under the cabinet. “Can you hand me that wrench?”

That voice. It never failed to send an irritating trail of tingles racing down her spine. She ground her back teeth until her temples gave a sharp stab of protest. Of course, Shane Donovan had to be the first person she ran into.

He bent one knee, pulling the worn fabric of his jeans across powerful thighs. Her throat went dry as her pulse sped.

Why him? Out of every man she’d ever encountered—and in her line of work, she encountered plenty—why did it have to be him? For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to the wrong political party. She shuddered.

It was all so . . . embarrassing.

But her body didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the first time she’d met him at Mitch and Maddie’s engagement party. The second her palm had slid into Shane’s, a disconcerting jolt of electricity traveled through her fingertips and up her arm. She’d had to force herself not to yank away, to keep her face impassive.

It was a good thing he didn’t like her. It was the one thing working in her favor. If she stuck to her current strategy of nurturing his disdain, he’d stay away, and her exposure would be minimal.

She walked over to the box of tools and stood over him.

Half hidden under the sink, he fiddled with her brother’s plumbing. Annoyed at his pure perfection, she wrinkled her nose.

At six-four, his frame stretched beautifully across the hardwood. His hips were lean. His stomach flat. Shoulders ridiculously broad. Most of the times she’d seen him he’d been dressed in a suit, but today he wore a pair of beat-up construction boots, faded jeans, and a thin white T-shirt. It was a crime against nature that a man who spent most of his time in boardrooms had muscles like his.

She’d analyzed her attraction, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Sure, he was good-looking, but so what? Good-looking men weren’t impossible to find. He was nothing like the men she dated. She preferred, well, men like her. Men who were more interested in politics and strategy than carnal pleasures. She enjoyed a relationship where sex was secondary to their intellectual connection. Not that she had a problem with sex—she didn’t. Her past encounters were all pleasant and civilized.

But nothing about Shane Donovan was civilized. And somehow she doubted sex with him was
pleasant
.

She shouldn’t be attracted to him. Period. End of story. Only her libido didn’t agree.

A loud
clang
sounded under the cabinet followed by a grunted curse. He stretched out his hand. “The wrench.”

Without a word she reached down, grabbed the tool, and plopped it in his palm with far more force than necessary.

“Easy there, honey.” The warm tone of his voice clearly not meant for her.

Who was ‘honey’? A moment of panic washed over her. Oh no. Was she going to be tortured by watching him with another woman?

The thought bothered her so much, she blurted, “I’m not your honey.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second, before sliding out from under the sink like the teasing reveal in bad porn. His strong jaw tightened as his piercing green eyes met hers. “If it isn’t the ice queen herself.”

His favorite name for her. He’d never called
her
honey, not even once.

The fine hairs along her neck bristled as something she refused to name sat in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t matter. Even if he tried, she’d have to put him in his place on principle alone. Endearments were dismissive, every good feminist knew that.

She slipped into the role he expected, ignoring the jab to ask coolly, “Where’s the happy couple?”

He got up from the floor with much more grace than a man weighing at least two hundred pounds should, turned, and flicked on the faucet with the touch of his fingers. “Your brother’s out back.”

The muscles under his thin T-shirt flexed as he washed his hands.

She squared her shoulders. Good thing broad shoulders, muscular backs, and lean hips didn’t affect her. She was a sane, rational woman, not driven by hormones.

Her eyes locked on his ass.

Good thing she was above all that.

When the water ceased she snapped her gaze away and smoothed her expression into her most remote mask.

He turned and gave her an assessing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show until the rehearsal dinner.”

A muscle under her eye twitched. “I was invited. Mitch is my brother. Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You Rileys aren’t much for family support.” He assessed her with a shrewd gaze. “So there must be another motive.”

Her spine bristled and she had the sudden urge to smack him across his smug face. Of course she didn’t, because that would be revealing and out of character. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

He scooped up a beer bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow drink while watching her in that predatory way he had.

How could someone’s eyes be that green? So sharp and clear, it felt as though they pierced right through her.

The continued scrutiny gave her the urge to tug at her navy suit jacket and smooth her knee-length skirt, but she refused to fidget. “Is my mother here?”

“She went to the store with Maddie.” He placed the bottle back on the counter and rested his palms on the ledge of the granite that replaced the linoleum she remembered. “We’re out of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”

She planted her hands on her hips and returned one of his long, disdainful glances. Her gaze settled meaningfully on his flat-as-a-board stomach. “Ah, that explains it. I’ve heard after thirty-five things go south rather quickly.”

His expression flashed with what looked like amusement. He straightened from the counter and took a step toward her.

The urge to retreat rose in her chest but she didn’t dare step back.

Never show weakness. Never break.

His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I turned thirty-five?”