The Boss and His Cowgirl (6 page)

Six

C
lay cupped Georgie's elbow with one hand while his other automatically went to the small of her back. The sidewalk was slippery. That was his excuse. She turned at the door to say good-night and he suddenly realized he didn't want her to go.

Jumping in before she could dismiss him, he said, “I'll walk you up to your apartment.”

“Senator—”

“Clay.”

Her lips parted slightly and he wondered if that was an invitation. Nope, he shouldn't go there. Just...

“Really, Senator, I'm fine. This is a secure building and you really don't want to hike up three flights.”

And she put him right back in his place. Georgie was right, of course. He was taking off in a few days to spend the holidays with Giselle. His ironclad policy was no office shenanigans. This sudden interest in the woman who'd been under his nose for years was just...an infatuation. Or something. He curled his fingers into his palms to keep from cupping her face.

“Then I'll say good night, Georgie. See you in the office tomorrow morning.”

Some emotion he couldn't quite define flickered across her expression, gone before he could capture it. He stepped back so he wouldn't do something stupid. Like kiss her while standing there on the stoop with Boone and Hunt watching from the SUV.

The lock snicked and she pushed the door open. “Good night...Senator.” Georgie slipped through the opening before he could change his mind and she shut the door behind her, locking him out. He stood in the cold, his breath fogging the glass until she turned into the stairwell and disappeared from his sight. He stepped out on the sidewalk, head craned back, waiting. A few minutes later lights illuminated a set of windows on the third floor and Georgie's shadow passed across them.

The back window of the SUV slithered down and Boone leaned out. “Yo, Clay, get in the car. It's freezing.”

With a reluctance he didn't quite understand, Clay settled into the front passenger seat. Silence reigned for about thirty seconds and then his cousins erupted in laughter.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

“Who, us?” Boone reached between the seats to slug his shoulder. “Clay, you need to ask that girl out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Isn't it obvious? She works for me, Boone.”

“No, technically she works for me.”

“And you work for me. Just...forget it. Bad idea. You're the one who pointed this out in Arizona. Besides, she doesn't—” He bit off the rest of the sentence.

“She doesn't what? Like you? Jeez, Clay. You are so freaking dense sometimes. That girl has crushed on you from the moment she walked in the door. And I only asked if you knew what you were doing in Scottsdale.”

Hunt glanced over and rolled his eyes. “Huh. Are we like in junior high now?”

“Shut up, Hunt. And you, too, Boone.” Clay held up his hand, cutting off their jibes. “In fact, I think I'll fly up to New York tomorrow. Hunt, make sure the plane is available and Boone, if you'll make arrangements at the Waldorf, I'd appreciate it.”

Hunt looked as if he was going to say something else, but closed his mouth and grimaced before saying, “I'll instruct Cash to have a security team meet you.”

“Good. I'll leave straight from home in the morning. You two can take care of the office until the winter recess.”

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of Clay's Georgetown townhouse. The gray-painted brick building was almost obscured by the snow drifting down. The red brick sidewalk was completely covered. DC would be shut down by morning.

“Crap. Boone, email the staff and tell them to stay home tomorrow. There's no way the streets will be plowed. And that means I'll delay the trip to New York by a day.”

“You realize you're running away, right?”

Hunt chimed in with chicken noises.

“Just do what I ordered.” Clay climbed out and stomped through the snow to the wrought-iron gate protecting his small yard and entrance door. The black vehicle idled at the curb while he fought the accumulated snow to get the gate open and closed. The motion detector installed with his security system lit up the interior as he approached the door, keyed in the code and entered.

He decided to ignore the juvenile antics of his cousins. This was a matter of discretion being the better part of valor. Yes, he was tempted by Georgie but she was an employee. She was also the best speechwriter on the Hill and he was
not
going to jeopardize that relationship to pursue one of a more intimate nature.

* * *

Georgie opened her door, shoved a large, steaming mug into the hands of the woman standing there and ushered her inside. The trip up from the second floor hadn't taken her best friend long.

“Why are adult snow days not near as much fun as when we were kids and got to stay home from school?” Jen groused as she shuffled in on fuzzy house shoe–clad feet. She let loose with a huge yawn before sipping the hot chocolate in her mug. “Ooh. You put cinnamon in it.”

“Of course I did. Do you want breakfast?”

“What do you have?”

Wandering into her small kitchen, Georgie checked the fridge and the cabinets. “Uhm...two boiled eggs. Instant oatmeal. And coffee.”

“Put marshmallows in my next hot chocolate and we'll call it brunch.” Jen settled on Georgie's couch, propped her feet on the coffee table and yawned again. “So talk to me.”

Georgie topped off her coffee and curled up on the opposite end of the overstuffed couch, doing her best to seem as though she was okay. “About what?”

“Why you look so bummed out. Duh.”

“I'm not bummed.”

“Oh? Really? Coulda fooled me. What's up with the Oklahoma Stud?”

Blushing furiously, Georgie kicked at Jen's thigh. “Don't call him that.”

“Then tell me what's going on between you two.”

“Nothing.” She barely avoided a sigh. “The office went to dinner last night and he walked me to the door.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“Jen! Stop it! No. He did not. We don't have a...a relationship like that.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Georgie stuck her fingers in her ears and sang, “La-la-la-la-la. Not listening to you.”

“You know you want him, girl.”

“He's my boss. And...” She pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose. “He's spending Christmas in New York. With Giselle Richards. And last night he told me he'd see me tomorrow...meaning today. Except he decided to leave early for New York and was going straight to the airport except...snow day.”

Jen's face smoothed out and sympathy filled her gaze. “Well...that sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they like...a thing?”

“He's been seeing her since...Valentine's Day.”

“Wait. Their first date was Valentine's Day? Who does that?”

“It wasn't a date. Exactly. She was his escort for some deal at the Western Heritage Center in Oklahoma City. They went to the same high school or something.”

“
Pffft
. She's got nothin' on you, Georgie.”

“Says my best friend who is loyal to a fault. But have you seen her? She's a former Miss America and she won the Tony two years ago and she's gorgeous and...and...” Georgie couldn't swallow her sigh this time. “You know he's putting together an exploratory committee, right?” At Jen's nod, she continued. “Giselle is the type of woman he needs on his arm when he runs for president. She knows what to say to people. Looks amazing. Doesn't trip and fall over her own feet. Or wear glasses.”

“I call BS.”

“Why? She's beautiful and talented and...everything I'm not.”

“And she's a total airhead. Have you ever heard her interviewed? I mean, seriously. I don't know what Senator Barron sees in her.”

Georgie stared at Jen, all but gaping. “You are so not a guy. She walks by and their tongues hang out.”

“Well, you're smart and funny and...and sweet and...and...”

“And nothing. I invited you over to cheer me up.”

“It's too early in the morning. And there's no ice cream.”

“I know. I'm a lousy hostess, which just proves my point.” Georgie curled her upper lip and rolled her eyes, which made Jen laugh, as she'd intended. “At least Christmas is almost here. I'll go home. Stuff myself on Dad's turkey and dressing and drown my sorrows in giblet gravy.”

“That's the spirit!”

* * *

Clay kicked back in the deep leather chair, his feet propped up on the matching ottoman. He negligently held a lead crystal glass with two fingers of scotch in one hand. Boone had decided to stay at the ranch with him while everyone else headed to downtown Oklahoma City to ring in the New Year.

“We didn't expect you for the holidays, cuz.”

“Yeah. Staying in New York wasn't really an option.”

“You give Giselle the boot?”

“Nope.”

“She kicked you out?” Boone perked up and leaned forward. “This'll be good.”

“Yeah, well.” Clay lifted one shoulder in a forcibly nonchalant shrug before sipping the aged whiskey in his glass. “Not smart to forget a woman's name in the middle of things.”

“You forgot Giselle's name? Oh, dude. You
are
a dog. That's what pet names are for, right?”

“Worse than that, Boone.”

The other man stared at him, eyes crinkling and his mouth curling into a smirk as he figured it out. “Oh, hell, ol' son. Please don't tell me you called her by another woman's name...”

Clay did his best to maintain a poker face, but knew he'd failed the moment Boone burst out laughing. “It's not funny.”

“Is, too.”

“Is not.”

Boone controlled his laughter but still smirked. “Whose name?” Blinking several times, the full impact hit him. “Oh, crap. Georgie.”

Clay figured he looked as miserable as he felt. “How screwed up am I, Boone?”

“I don't think you're screwed up at all, man. Georgie is a gem. Granted, she's not a supermodel, but she's got that whole sexy librarian thing, plus no one is smarter and her zingers are worth the price of admission. I mean, seriously. Why are you just now seeing what the rest of us saw from the git-go?”

“I'm a slow learner. However, I
am
seeing it now so what the hell do I do about it?”

“Simple. Ask her out.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? I mean, seriously, cuz, what's the problem?”

“I'd have to fire her. Which sucks because she's the best communications director on the Hill. And there's no guarantee we'd last longer than a fling. If she'd even go for it. Doesn't sound like a win-win for anybody.”

“I don't follow, Clay. Why would you have to fire her? And I'm not even going into fling territory.”

Draining his drink, Clay laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “The old man, Boone. Every bit of fluff he brought into the house came from his office. The side pieces, the step-monsters he dragged in—each one younger than the previous. Well, except for Helen. She wanted to be a mom. The rest? Gold diggers, every last one.”

He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, but the headache brewing behind his eyes didn't go away. “I swore I would never be him.”

“So you date supermodels and actresses and pretty women who are dumber than stumps because you don't want to follow in his footsteps? I have four names for you, starting with Tammy.”

Clay groaned. “Lord, that cost us a pretty penny to get rid of her, and she took the foreman with her. Thank goodness Chance made sure she signed the prenup. Besides, I wasn't referring to the quality of the women I date but where I meet them. I refuse to have an office romance.”

“Then fire Georgie.”

Resisting the urge to throw the now-empty glass at his cousin, Clay heaved out of the chair and went to the bar to pour another, stiffer drink. “I don't want to lose her, Boone.” He tossed back the drink, barely resisting the urge to slam the glass down on the marble bar top. “I don't know what to do.”

“I do. Just trust me on this.”

Seven

G
eorgie blinked rapidly, the seldom-worn contacts irritating her eyes. She longed to take them out and stick her glasses back on. Resisting, she used drops while managing not to smear her makeup. She had to be crazy. When Boone had called with a last-minute request, she thought,
why not?
That was before she'd dressed up. Now she stood there in panic mode.

Returning to the senate offices after the holiday break had been...interesting. Boone and Hunt intimated that Clay had cut his New York trip short and spent the holidays at the family ranch north of Oklahoma City. She was curious enough to wonder if Clay had broken up with Giselle and she tried very hard to quell any internal squee moments that thought created. He was so far out of Georgie's league that...

The notes of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” drifted in from her bedroom. She staggered on her high heels, found the impossibly small and expensive evening bag Jen had loaned her and snagged her cell phone.

“Do not have time, Jen. Go away.”

“Breathe, Georgie. Things will be fine.” Her best friend unleashed a sultry chuckle. “In fact, I bet he takes you back to his place for a nightcap.”

“Oh, sure. Right. The man is handsome enough to be a movie star, he's a gazillionaire and he always dates the most beautiful socialites and supermodels in the world. I, on the other hand, am me. I am so totally average that the political pollsters have my type on speed dial. Men like Senator Barron do not make passes at girls who wear glasses and work in their office. One, it is a huge breach of ethics and two...have you looked at me, Jen? Yes, you're my best friend in the whole world and you love me, but let's be real. I won't ever win a beauty contest.”

The buzzer sounded, alerting her that someone was at the outer door to her building, and she cut off Jen's reply. “Gotta go.”

Time was up. Smoothing the formal gown, she grabbed a warm wrap and the beaded bag.

Using the same care as a tightrope walker, she managed both the apartment building's stairs and entryway without tripping on the high heels she normally avoided wearing. Her feet would kill her before the night was over but such was the price of fashion.

Boone waited beside the limo and his eyes lit up when she emerged from the door. “Dang, sugar. You clean up real nice.”

His exaggerated accent made her laugh and relax. Boone always managed to walk the fine line between boss and friend. He kept up a running commentary on the way to the White House, but his words washed over her like a gentle waterfall. Since her first political job, she'd been on staff in one capacity or another. From campaign volunteer all the way up the ranks to communications director, she'd been Boone's protégé in all things political. She'd attended hometown rallies and national conventions. But this was her first state dinner. And she was slightly terrified. No. She was totally terrified.

Could she remember those long-ago cotillions where she'd learned place settings and greetings? Did she offer her hand or wait for the other person?

“Breathe, Georgie.”

She gulped in air and fought the urge to put her head between her knees. The gown's tight skirt didn't leave room for that. “That's easy for you to say.”

He patted her hands, which she realized were clenched on her lap. “When we arrive, your door will be opened and a military escort will offer his arm. Someone else will make sure your dress is lying correctly, whatever that means.” He winked at her. “You'll enter with your escort and everything after that will just come naturally. Trust me.”

“Ha. Just goes to show what you know!”

The limo turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Her breath caught as she focused again on the evening's events. Mainly, her escort tonight. Senator Clayton Barron. Panic choked off her breath once again and stars circled her head the way they did in the cartoons. Good thing she was the only one who could see them.

They were stopped by the guards at the gates, who checked their IDs and invitation. Moments later the big vehicle slid to a smooth stop in front of the East Doors. A man in an army dress blue uniform opened her door and handed her out, Boone tight on her heels.

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She whirled to face him. “You picked a fine time to ask me that, Boone Tate.”

The sorry son of a gun laughed. At her. And winked, his devilish grin hinting that he was up to no good. She'd been well and truly set up. Narrowing her eyes, she muttered through pinched lips, “You are so going to pay for this, Boone.”

“Smile, sugar. You'll thank me in the morning.”

Breathing deeply, Georgie lifted her chin, but the army officer offered his arm before she could reply. A female air force officer appeared beside her and twitched the back of her dress into place. Georgie managed to murmur a “thank you” under her breath. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin—and wouldn't her mother be so proud of her now?—Georgie accepted her escort's arm and stepped toward the doors. She totally ignored Boone ducking back into the limo and the vehicle pulling away—and did it without hyperventilating.

The East Entrance foyer was full of people, but she saw Clay the moment she stepped inside. His head was bent in conversation with a stylish woman who looked vaguely familiar. One of Georgie's talents was remembering names and faces. After a mental file shuffle, she placed the woman—Ramona Morris, wife of Ambassador Charles Morris. The revelation settled her nerves somewhat. This might be a state dinner, but it was a working affair for the senator. Work. She could handle that.

Clay froze, his head raised, and turned to face her. His eyes widened and he looked as though he'd smacked face-first into a closed glass door. She'd never seen him appear dazed. Her heart fluttered and she flexed her free hand to keep from rubbing it down her thigh. Even though she wore elbow gloves, her palms were damp. Her eyes remained glued on the senator as he strode toward her.

His custom-tailored tux caressed his body in ways that made her jealous. Her palms itched, wanting and needing to touch him. One side of her brain berated her for the visceral reaction she had to him, reminding in the no-nonsense voice of her socialite mother that she was just an employee with no beauty to recommend her to a man as powerful as Clayton Barron. But the part of her that read romance novels and sniffled at chick flicks craved to touch him, to feel his hands on her, his lips on hers in a deep kiss. She remembered the question Boone had asked her. She had her answer now.

“Yes, Boone. I'm sure,” she murmured, still mesmerized by the handsome man who stopped in front of her, his brown eyes hungry as he looked her up and down.

“Georgeanne.”

“Senator.” Was that her voice? She never sounded breathy. Ever.

“Tonight I'm just Clay.”

Clay offered his arm and she slipped her hand under his left elbow. With his free hand, he tugged her fingers until they curled over his forearm and he could trap her hand close to his body. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with her scent. Vanilla, with a hint of something sweeter. He needed to acknowledge the army officer who'd escorted her inside but he really wanted to punch the guy. Which was ridiculous. He had no room in his life for jealousy, especially since the man was only doing his duty. Reining in the green monster, he nodded to the man and guided her toward the East Colonnade.

He didn't speak as he shepherded her along the windowed hallway overlooking the Kennedy Garden. As they approached the White House proper, two marines in full dress uniforms opened the doors. There was another long hall to navigate before they reached the diplomatic reception room, entrance there by special invitation only.

Clay entered the room with Georgie on his arm and didn't hide his smirk at the stir they caused. Years of practice kept his gait and demeanor smooth even as his heart raced. The strength of his reaction to her was totally unexpected. Though they'd worked together for years, sometimes rather intimately in hotel rooms, the confines of his family's business jet and his office, it wasn't until recently that he caught himself thinking about her in totally inappropriate ways.

He'd seen her in formal clothes before—campaign functions ran the gamut, but he'd never seen her look like...
this.
Red was definitely her color, but he'd decided that the moment he glimpsed her in the red bra and panties in his bathroom in Scottsdale. The vision, and the feel of her in his arms, had been the subject of many a dream during the nights since.

Her gown draped her curves, leaving enough to the imagination—and his was active—to make him glad his tux jacket was buttoned. Heads bobbed in their direction, expressions curious, deferential or speculative, depending on the person. Georgie faltered a step and he tightened his arm against his side, trapping her arm. She found her footing and apologized in a soft mutter.

“What's wrong?” He'd been against this harebrained idea since Boone cooked it up. Granted, he'd planned on inviting Giselle to this soiree but after his incident of foot-in-mouth disease, escorting the star wasn't an option. Now he was worried about embarrassing Georgie. He valued her as an employee and didn't want to upset her. And honestly, he wanted her to have a good time. With him. As his date. Which was all kinds of messed up.

“Oh. Nothing. Clumsy feet.”

She glanced up at him, her lashes fluttering, eyes glistening. Clay realized she wasn't wearing her glasses and a part of him kind of missed their black-framed heaviness on her face. She must be wearing contacts—and looked extremely uncomfortable doing so.

“Do you want to take the contacts out and put your glasses back on?”

Georgie swallowed a sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“No, I'll be fine.” Her brow knit for a moment. “Why is that woman giving me the evil eye?”

With a casual twist of his head, Clay checked out the knot of people Georgie indicated by inclining her head their direction. In their midst stood a woman he knew well. Pearl Hudson, widow of the man whose seat Clay had taken in the senate, raised an eyebrow as she looked down her nose at Georgie.

And that pissed Clay off. Royally. While Mrs. Hudson was known as a Washington society maven, she was also known to be a complete snob. “Don't worry about her, Georgie. That's Pearl Hudson.”

“Senator Hudson's widow?”

“That would be her. And she's notorious for creating scenes. There are a few people here I need to speak to so we'll just stay out of her way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Georgie muttered under her breath. “She's not cutting you into bite-size pieces with her eyes.”

* * *

By the time dinner was announced, Georgie's feet were killing her. She managed to keep a smile on her face and not stumble through the receiving line. She managed protocol with the president and first lady, the secretary of state, and the Malaysian ambassador and his wife. She managed to sink halfway gracefully into the chair Clay held for her. She navigated dinner conversation and the place settings for the six-course dinner, all without incident.

After dessert, the guests were herded to the other end of the hall and into the East Room. A small orchestra from the navy occupied a dais at one end. Then the music started. Dancing. No one mentioned dancing. The Texas two-step was beyond her. How could she manage the waltz?

Clay took her hand, his fingers warm and strong as they wrapped around hers. “Relax, Georgie. This is the easy part.”

No, no it wasn't. She'd flunked this part of charm school, branded with a big, fat F for Fail. Fairly certain the whites of her eyes were showing, she reluctantly followed him toward the dance floor. The president danced with the Malaysian ambassador's wife, while the first lady danced with the ambassador. After a few measures of music, others joined the twirling couples.

Stopping and facing her, Clay gathered her right hand in his left and placed his right hand against the small of her back. In time with the music, he stepped into her and she stumbled backward, her left hand automatically bracing against his shoulder. His right arm shifted and tightened, holding her close. He stepped again, this time to the side, then he stepped back, moving her with him.

“See? Not hard. One, two, three.” He smiled and stepped forward again, forcing her back. “Right foot back, left foot to the side, right foot together. Left foot forward, right foot side, left foot together.” He dipped his face toward her ear. “And remember to breathe, Georgie. That's important.”

Was he laughing at her? She leaned back. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled like cognac in leaded crystal, but he wasn't mocking her. She breathed. And relaxed. He moved her around the room, and at one point, he leaned close again. His breath ruffled the stray strand of her hair that had escaped her careful chignon.

“It's permissible to smile, too.”

Georgie laughed—loudly enough that heads turned. She curled her lips between her teeth and bit down, fighting the urge to hide her face against Clay's starched shirt and tux jacket. When she looked up, he winked at her and twirled her out then back into his arms.

“See? Easy.”

“When one is handsome and accomplished, of course it is.”

“You think I'm handsome?”

She missed the next step but Clay was there to steady her. His expression portrayed genuine curiosity. Rather than the flippant answer hovering on the tip of her tongue, Georgie swallowed and considered. “Yes. You're handsome. When you walk into a room, people notice.
Women
notice.”
I notice
, she wanted to yell.

“What makes me handsome?” Again, she caught a sense of curiosity rather than ego.

“High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Aristocratic nose. Your hair is...” How could she tell him that her fingers itched to comb through his perfectly styled hair to mess it up and feel its thick, silky texture against her skin. She'd give almost anything to see him with bedhead. “Your hair is dark and luxurious. Rich. And your eyes. How do I explain about your eyes?”