DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense by Winter Renshaw Page A

again.
    “Thank you, Trey.” I hook the
strap of my bag around my shoulder.
    “For what?”
    “For a most enlightening
evening. Now go home to your wife and kids.”

 

EIGHTEEN

 
    “John”

 
    “You’re only a prisoner in your
own mind.” My brother sprays his signature cologne under his clean-shaven jaw
before recapping it.
    I’m slouched in a leather
armchair in the oversized master suite of his apartment, a half-empty bourbon
in my left hand.
    “Easy for you to say.” I take a
sip, then another to finish.
    “Come out with us just once.
You can’t spend the rest of your life locked up like some prince in an ivory
tower.” He turns to face me, slicking his palm down the lapel of his suit
jacket. “One time. Come with us. Find a hot piece of ass. Take her home. Fuck
the living shit out of her. And deal with the consequences later.”
    “This is coming from the man
who’s never met a consequence he couldn’t pay to go away.”
    “Everyone has a price.”
    I’m well aware.
    “Come on,” he says. “You look
like you could use a drink and a fuck. I swear to God, it fixes all of life’s
ailments. And I don’t mean for you to call up Camille.”
    I spent months trying to find
out who Camille was, and then after a single conversation with my brother, he
tracked her down with a single phone call to a friend of his who happened to
know her roommate.
    “Go find some shit-faced coed
in a pushup bra with fuck-me heels and give her a night she’ll never forget,”
he says. “Unless she’s too hung over to remember the next day, which is usually
the case, but that’s her problem.”
    The idea of fucking anyone who
isn’t Camille doesn’t appeal to me.
    “What? Why the face?” he stares
down his nose at me. “No one else is good enough for you?”
    “Not really,” I say, “if I’m
being honest.”
    “Oh, God. Please tell me you’re
not in love with someone.”
    “Absolutely not.” I don’t know
her yet, and it’s not my intention to fall in love. This isn’t about love. This
is about everything but love—the
sweet intoxication, the physical intimacy, the give
and take. What I have with Camille is supposed to extract all the good things
that come from loving someone and leave the bad. When it’s all said and done,
neither one of us should be walking away with battle wounds. “Love is for the
weak.”
    I remind myself of that each
and every day, and especially after spying on her little dinner with Bancroft.
I saw red. Then everything went black. I spent the rest of that evening
ruminating until I remembered what this was about: nothing more than an opulent
fantasy.
    I haven’t called her in days.
Every so often a burning, jealous sensation creeps into my veins. A few more
days, and I’ll have given myself more than enough time to cool down. I’ll meet
with Camille, and I’ll remind her that her body and her time belong to me. And
then I’ll ask her point blank if she’s still fucking the senator.
    “Smart man.” He adjusts his tie
in his mirror before checking his face from every angle. “Are you coming out
with us tonight or not? My car’s downstairs, and I’m leaving, so . . .”
    I rise, undecided. Glancing at
my watch, I realize I have no commitments tonight.
    “Just come for one drink. Maybe
two,” he says. “We’re going all over tonight, so if at any point you want to
bail, I promise I won’t try to stop you.”
    It’s been years since I truly
enjoyed myself, and if I weren’t still livid with Camille, I’d be with her tonight,
enjoying myself the best way I know how.
    “I’m telling you, once you stop
caring what everyone else thinks, your entire life changes.” He peers at his
reflection yet another time, finger combing some hair into place. “Let me get
you drunk so that you can make some bad decisions tonight.”
    I groan. “Fine, I’ll come. But
only for a little while.”

 
 
 
 

NINETEEN

 
    Camille

 
    “Do you think he dumped