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“Let me show you to your wing.”
“My wing?”
I followed her on autopilot, telling myself—no, promising myself—that this was all temporary. I just needed to gather my wits and formulate a plan.
This was the twenty-first century. I would be next to a cell phone and a laptop and a police station soon enough, and this nightmare would be over before it could even begin.
And then what?
You’ll defy your father and risk death?
“Yes, dear, wing. I was pleasantly surprised by how old-fashioned Mr. Keaton was in regards to his new bride. No sharing a bed before marriage.”
A ghost of a smile passed her lips. She was obviously a fan of the idea. That made the two of us. I’d rather scratch my own eyeballs out than share a bed with the devil.
The marbled white landing presented two separate stairways leading left and right. The portrait-adorned mint-green walls of former presidents, high, elaborate ceilings, fireplaces, and lavish courtyards peeking through the tall windows all blurred together.
I gasped when we passed by open double doors with a constructed Steinway piano surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and what looked like thousands of books. The entire room was accented in cream and black.
“You seem young.”
“That’s an observation, not a question…your point?” I said unkindly.
“I was under the impression he liked his female companion older.”
“Perhaps he should start by liking his female companion willing.”
Jesus. I actually said that.
I slapped a hand over my mouth.
“Senator Keaton never had an issue attracting women. Quite the contrary,” Ms. Sterling blabbed as we made our way to the eastern side of the house. “Too many women and too much variety made him jaded. I was beginning to worry.”
She shook her head, a reminiscing smile on her thin lips.
So on top of everything else, he was a playboy.
I cringed. Angelo, for all his life experience and ruthless upbringing, was a true gentleman. Not a virginal one—I knew—but not a skirt chaser, either.
“Then, perhaps, I should be the one worried now since I’m expected to share a bed with him,” I bit out.
I’d apparently checked my manners at the door, along with my freedom.
When we got to my room, I didn’t stop to appreciate the canopy four-poster bed, rich velvet purple curtains, vast walk-in closet, large vanity, or even the carved oak desk and leather chair overlooking the garden.
It was pushed against the window, and I had no doubt the view was mesmerizing. But I didn’t care for the best view in Chicago.
I wanted to be back in my childhood home, dreaming of my wedding to Angelo.
“Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Keaton had to fly out to Springfield. He’s on his way home now.” She smoothed the hem of her dress.
So he was a US senator.
And I didn’t have to ask—I knew he had purchased a private jet prior to his political gig. I knew the Members’ Representational Allowance by heart because my father talked about rules often.
He said that in order to break them, you had to know them by heart, too. Father had paid off a lot of political figures in his lifetime.
For some reason, his having a private jet made me even more bitter. Going to work alone left a carbon footprint that would require planting a medium-sized forest to rectify.
