High Octane by Lisa Renée Jones Page B

in the military for fourteen years,” he murmured to himself. She most definitely had some control issues. It was going to be interesting to see who played the submissive in bed. Maybe they’d take turns.
    With that thought in mind, Ryan made a fast return to the living room. Instantly, Ryan noted the cracklingsilence in the air, coupled with the look on Sabrina’s face as she appeared absorbed in the pages of what looked like a photo album or perhaps a scrapbook.
    Ryan hesitated to approach, pausing, taken aback by more than her mood. She was beautiful, classy and elegant in a way that defied her Harley T-shirt and jeans. The type of woman who comfortably rubbed shoulders with Washington types—the types who sent guys like himself out into the scary places of the world to swim through blood and death.
    Seeming to sense his attention, she glanced up from the book. “It’s from my father,” she said, a distinct tinge of bitterness to her tone. “A scrapbook of highlights of my career.”
    Ryan joined her but said nothing, watching her thumb through stories. She laughed at one and showed him the photo of a man with a pie in his face. “I got in a lot of trouble for this one.”
    â€œYou threw the pie?” he teased, hoping to coax a smile. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
    She granted him the smile he’d hoped for. “No. I didn’t throw the pie. But I did suggest that anyone who voted for a certain bill—I won’t bore you with its content—had pie in their face and would feel the effects at the voting booths. My father showed up at the newspaper the morning it ran.”
    Realization hit Ryan. “He voted for the bill.”
    She nodded and he asked, “And you knew?”
    Her smile faded. “I knew. He had his reasons. We disagreed on those reasons being valid. He hada problem with me voicing that disagreement. Said it was a personal attack when it wasn’t. The fight that ensued was hurtful and got as much attention as the article itself.”
    Ryan studied her carefully. “So why exactly did your father send you a copy of that particular column?”
    She grabbed the note lying on the couch and read, “Together we can show the world the beauty of disagreeing. We can cross party lines and change the world. Come home. You are missed and needed.” She dropped the card. “He changed his vote after all was said and done.”
    â€œBecause of you?”
    â€œBecause of public opinion,” she said. “Which I helped rally, but that’s not the point. The point now is someone on his campaign team has decided I can somehow help him win the election rather than the opposite. Or perhaps that my silence can be used for ammunition as easily as my speaking out. That’s the only way to explain the sudden support.”
    â€œHe could really miss you,” he said.
    She looked at the front and back of the note. “Don’t see that anywhere on the paper. Not from my father or my mother, who was quick to approve of me leaving the Prime .”
    Ryan questioned her a little about her mother, learning about her job as a professor, her support of her husband’s White House vision, before she added. “Don’t get me wrong. My parents love me. I know that. It’s just…the White House comes first. It’s bigger than me.” Sheshut the book. “This package is about strategy.” She set the book on the table and turned to him. “I’m so glad to be away from that world.” Her hand slid to his leg. “I really need to be away from it. I need to forget it.”
    Her hand inched up his leg. Turbulent emotions splintered off her like shattered glass, spreading through the room with prickly warning. Anything she did right now was born of that emotion, not of sound judgment.
    Ryan stared at her as she inched closer, her hand creeping farther up his leg, the floral scent of