скачать книгу бесплатно
Bedroom Diplomacy
Michelle Celmer
After her last politically minded suitor left her heartbroken and pregnant, Rowena has sworn off the Capitol Hill dating pool. But even she isn't immune to Colin Middlebury's British charms, and his skills extend beyond the political arena.As a diplomat, Colin has dealt with a lot of demands, but none like Senator Tate's warning to stay away from his beautiful daughter. Colin needs the senator's support, but resistance is futile where Rowena is concerned. What harm could there be in getting to know her a little better? International relations are about to become quite…intimate.
“When your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?”
Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasn’t so sure.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust?
“Your father did mention that you’ve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.”
Rowena’s father didn’t even know the half of it. “I guess it’s made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.”
“If I came on too strong, I apologize.” He paused. “That happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.”
Dear Reader,
My husband and I have something that we like to call “Mole Stories.” I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.
After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day I’m looking at my husband’s chin, and I ask, “Didn’t you used to have a mole there?” Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage he’s usually had either a full beard or goatee, so it’s not too weird that I’m just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kid—completely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to “keep an eye on it.” Eventually it started to fade, and now it’s gone.
As he’s telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the “mole story” was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadn’t heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.
Which has nothing to do with the book, but it’s kind of a cool story on its own.
Until next time,
Michelle
About the Author
MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.
Bedroom Diplomacy
Michelle Celmer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.
It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.
An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.
And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.
One
Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her father’s personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, “He said to tell you that he’s on his way over now.”
“And…?” Rowena said, knowing there was more.
“That’s it,” Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.
“You’re a worse liar than I am.”
Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, “He wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.”
Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. He’d demanded—not asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anything—that she have things in order. He’d suggested, not for the first time since she’d taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and inept—labels that he apparently would never let her live down.
She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees—about the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.
She could be in the world’s worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, she’d had little interest in children. Now she couldn’t imagine a more satisfying career choice.
And she knew, if she wasn’t careful, he would take that away from her, too.
“He’s never going to trust me, is he?”
“He put you in charge.”
“Yeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.”
“He does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
Having been her father’s assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowena’s mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senator’s protégé.
And people wondered why Rowena was so screwed up.
Was, she reminded herself. “Who is it this time?” she asked Margaret.
“A British diplomat. I don’t know much about him, other than that he’s lobbying your father to support a tech treaty with the U.K. And I think he has some sort of royal title.”
The senator probably loved that. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
“Good luck, honey.”
The buzzer sounded, announcing her father’s arrival. With a heavy sigh she pushed herself out of her chair, took off the paint-smudged vinyl smock she’d worn for the morning art project and hung it on a hook in the closet, then headed through the activity room and out to the playground to open the gate, which was kept locked at all times. To keep not only the children in, but strangers out. With a man as powerful and influential as the senator, and the day-care center on the grounds of his estate, one could never be too careful.
Her father stood on the other side, dressed for golf and wearing his plastic politician’s smile. Then her eyes settled on the man standing beside him.
Whoa.
When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere around six-three. As lean as he was, he should have looked lanky; instead, he was perfectly proportioned.
The rebel in her said, Come to mama. But the logical Rowena, the mature adult, knew from experience that powerful, sinfully attractive men were the worst kind of trouble. And unfortunately, the best kind of fun. Until they took what they wanted and moved on to greener pastures. Or, as had happened with her son, Dylan’s, father, knocked her up and abandoned her. She punched in her code, opened the gate and let them in.
“Sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Colin Middlebury,” the senator said—sweetheart being a term he only used when he was milking his family-man image. “Colin, this is my daughter, Rowena.”
The man leveled those remarkable eyes on her and flashed her a grin that was as much smirk as smile, and her heart went pitter-patter.
“Miss Tate,” he said in a silky smooth voice punctuated by a crisp accent that, if she were still the type to swoon, would have had her fanning her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me. She glanced over at her father, who was wearing his behave or else look.
“Mr. Middlebury, welcome to L.A.,” she said.
“Please, call me Colin.” His grin, the slight lift of his left brow, made it feel more like a dare. And when he shook her hand, she felt a delightful little tingle.
Wow, it had been a really long time since a man had made her tingle. Most of the men her father brought around were stodgy old politicians with clammy hands, roaming eyes and greedy smiles. The kind whose power in politics made them believe they were irresistible to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts.
“Colin will be staying here at the mansion while we iron out the details of a treaty I’m sponsoring,” her father said. “Two or three weeks.”
This was usually the worst part of being a politician’s daughter—having to play the role of the polite hostess, when on the inside she was grinding her teeth. But when the guest looked like Colin Middlebury? Well, he could be the world’s biggest jerk, but at least the view was nice.
Looking in the direction of the playground, her father asked, “Where is my grandson?”
“He’s upstairs with his speech therapist,” she said. The main floor of the building served as the day-care center, while the upper floor was set up to accommodate a variety of physical, speech and occupational therapy equipment. That way her son, Dylan, could receive all the therapy he needed and she could run the day care without interruption. Her father’s idea, of course. Only the best for his grandson.
“When will he be finished? I’d like Colin to meet him.”
She glanced at her watch. “Not for another thirty minutes. And he shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Another time,” Colin said, and asked Rowena, “Will you be joining us at Estavez for dinner tonight?”
Heck yes. She would love to. But a stern look from her father made the correct answer to that question more than obvious.
“Maybe some other time,” she told Colin.
“Colin,” her father said, “why don’t you and I take a quick tour inside.”
“Fantastic,” Colin said, and maybe it was just the accent, but he sounded genuinely excited.
“I started this project two years ago,” the senator told him proudly as they walked to the building, not mentioning—he never did—that the initial idea had been hers.
“Hey, Row!”
Rowena looked across the playground to where Patricia Adams, the assistant manager—and also her best friend—stood watching the kids on the monkey bars. She fanned her face and mouthed the word wow.
No kidding.
Only a few minutes passed before her father and Colin reemerged from the building, and she could see instantly that the senator was in a huff about something.
“It would seem that someone left paint on the edge of one of the tables and it’s gotten onto Colin’s pants,” he told her, and while his tone was reasonable, his jaw was clenched and his eyes had that if-I-get-any-angrier-I’m-going-to-pop look about them.
Colin, in contrast, seemed unfazed, despite a rather large magenta smudge on his left pant leg. “It’s really no problem,” he said.
“It’s a water-based, washable paint,” Rowena told him. “A little soap and water should take that right out. I’m sure Betty, our housekeeper, can take care of it for you. But if for whatever reason they’re ruined, I’ll replace them.”
“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Colin said.
“Well, we should let you get back to work,” her father said, flashing his plastic smile. “Colin, would you excuse me and my daughter for a moment? I just need a quick word with her.”
Oh boy, here we go.
“Of course. I’ll start back up to the house.”
She followed her father into the building, then, he turned to her and said, “Rowena, all I ask when I bring a guest in is that you have the center clean and presentable. Was it too much trouble to wipe up a paint spill? Colin is royalty, for God’s sake, an earl, not to mention a war hero. What possible reason could you have to be so rude?”
If he was a war hero, he’d probably had a lot worse than paint spill on his pants, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it.
Like so many times before, she swallowed her pride—and even managed not to gag at the bitter aftertaste— saying, “I’m sorry, we must have missed some when we cleaned up. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“If there is a next time. If you can’t manage something as simple as wiping up paint, how can you be expected to adequately care for children?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.
“After all I’ve done for you and Dylan…” He shook his head, as if he had no words to describe her audacity and selfishness. Then for dramatic effect, he stormed out in a huff.
She slumped against the wall, angry and frustrated and yes, hurt. But not defeated. He could keep knocking her down, but she would always get back up again.
“Hey, Row?”
Tricia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “You okay?”
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced what probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. “No big deal.”
“I heard what he said about the paint. That was my fault. I asked April to wipe the tables down and I guess I forget to check if she’d missed anything. I know how picky he is when he brings people in. I should have been more careful. I’m so sorry.”
“Tricia, if it hadn’t been the paint, it would have been something else. You know that he always finds something.”
“It’s not right the way he treats you.”
“I put him through a lot.”
“You’ve changed, Row. You’ve pulled your life together.”
“But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without his help. You can’t deny that he’s done a lot for me and Dylan.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. But that doesn’t make it okay for him to treat you like an indentured servant. You would manage just fine on your own.”
She wanted to believe that, but the last time she’d been on her own she had made a total mess of her life.
“You know the offer still stands. If you and Dylan want to come stay with me for a while…”
And the instant she left, he would cut off not just her but Dylan, as well. And without the money to pay for his medical care, her father would have all the ammunition he needed to take Dylan away from her. She’d been hearing that threat since the day Dylan was born. It was the ultimate punishment, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he would do it.
