The Proviso by Moriah Jovan

the thirty-second pitch that never came. Even the
invitation to this little get-together had no hint of political
purpose in it, but Bryce laughed when the courier delivered it. So.
This was the thirty-second pitch.
    At least now he knew Fen intended to carry his
personal philosophy of philanthropy right on into Congress with him
and Bryce had no intention of backing that with either his
checkbook or his influence. Giving away money as a private citizen
or a corporation was Bryce’s idea of generosity of spirit and
community service. Using taxpayer money to do it was bullshit.
    In addition, though Bryce didn’t know Sebastian
Taight personally, he definitely didn’t like the witch hunt Fen’s
announcement had triggered. It would’ve happened eventually, but if
Taight went down, half the extraordinarily successful entrepreneurs
in the country would go down with him. That didn’t bode well for
anyone, not to mention what it would do to the economy.
    Fen’s campaign had less to do with political
ambition and a need to protect the public from rampaging capitalist
pigs, but more to do with Taight’s takeover of OKH. Bryce wouldn’t
trust Fen Hilliard to hold his nine-iron for him.
    Bryce sighed as he returned to nursing his Perrier,
disengaged from the people who had clumped around him. The company
he kept at these inane functions was the most amusing he could
find, but some evenings, like tonight, that didn’t say much. Bored
out of his mind, he wondered if this was preferable to knocking
around a dark, silent, empty house at Christmas time.
    Absorbed in watching the play of light on the
surface of his sparkling water, Bryce thought he saw a head of
honey-colored hair in his periphery and his gut clenched.
    Only one person he had ever met had hair that color,
subtle in its blondeness and its redness at the same time. No hairdresser, no matter how talented or
expensive, could duplicate the complicated highlights of
commingling blonde and red strands.
    He turned and looked for her, unable to credit that she might be here. His breath caught in his throat when he
saw her. When she turned a bit, he realized that she went about on
Sebastian Taight’s arm and a pain struck him behind his sternum as
she chatted amiably—almost familiarly—with Fen and Trudy
Hilliard.
    First Knox, then Taight and the rest of the
Hilliards. It stood to reason that if she was fucking Knox, she
would know Taight and definitely Knox’s mother—but what kind of
typist and law student had these kinds of connections? He knew no
one in society by the name of Cox or who had ties to a Cox
family.
    Bryce drank in her appearance more fully, able to
take his time and notice small details that pleased but did not
surprise him. She had such an air of understated elegance, he had
to wonder if she had a gun strapped to her thigh.
    Her black and white dress showed off her pale
shoulders to exquisite advantage and gave her hair a subtle
brilliance. He liked the red earrings.
    The slight plump of her breasts above the black
corset caught his attention. His mind filled with images of them
bare, flushed with passion, her nipples begging him to lick and
suck them. He drew in a sharp breath and his erection strained
against his fly. She turned away from him then and he studied the
delineation of well-developed muscles in her arms and upper back.
He remembered her legs the night of Leah’s visitation.
    Collier’s Lilith was soft, round, lush.
    Giselle Cox was most definitely not.
    I notice the type of women who catch your eye:
Muscular. Solid. A woman you can throw at a bed and fuck. Hard.
    Brilliant woman . . . She’ll be a good trial
attorney. Enough ego and charm to pull anything off and the brains
and wit to back it up.
    I notice the women you like to talk to: Smart.
Edgy.
    I assure you: You have never met a woman like me,
and you never will again.
    Taight led Miss Cox away from the Hilliards and she
strolled about on his arm for a moment before they came to