Capitol Promises (The Presidential Promises Duet ) Read online

  Capitol Promises

  Rebecca Gallo

  Capitol Promises

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Gallo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Capitol Promises is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design—Letitia Hasser/RBA Design: Romantic Book Affairs

  Editing—Jenny Sims/Editing4Indies

  Proofreading— Franci Neill

  Interior Formatting—T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  For my Honey Bunny and my Peanut–

  You let me chase my dreams so that we can live ours

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Rebecca Gallo

  Jameson

  “He’s taking a fucking deal?” I roared into the phone at my lawyer who was probably cowering in his office. I didn’t lose control often, but when he called to tell me that Russell Hunt accepted a plea deal rather than face a trial … well, I exploded. I glanced behind me at Georgie, who sat stoically on our bed. Her blank expression revealed nothing.

  I turned away because watching Georgie, who turned into an emotionless robot the moment Russell Hunt dropped his bomb after the arraignment, gutted me. She hadn’t left the bed in days. We watched the press conference together, and when it was over, she collapsed in a heap. I carried her upstairs to the bedroom, where she remained.

  “Take some time to think about this, James,” my lawyer, Ron Engle, urged. “Think about what a trial might entail once you’re elected. Think about what Georgie might go through.”

  Ron was right. As president, a trial would be extremely complicated and messy. Not to mention, Georgie had been through enough. Did I want to put her in a courtroom with the asshole who not only sexually assaulted her but also tried to kill her? I didn’t think it would be possible for me to be in the same room with him. Every time I think about what he did, what he tried to do, my hands flexed with rage.

  And the fact he was unapologetic about it? Russell Hunt should be grateful that the firing squad was no longer an acceptable form of punishment.

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” I said, my voice low. The call ended, and I set my phone on the dresser. Gathering my thoughts, I steadied myself before turning to face Georgie.

  I approached her slowly, fearful she might retreat and shut me out completely. She stared out the bay window at the gray and rain-splattered morning, totally oblivious to me or anything else. I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hands, grasping them lightly. I lifted the left hand in a familiar and comforting gesture, kissing her ring finger. The emerald was still there, but like her eyes, its shine was gone.

  “Georgie,” I said softly. She finally turned her head and looked at me. Dark circles dominated her face. Her creamy skin had lost its glow, and her golden waves lacked their luster.

  My own personal guilt started to creep over me. I bore some of this responsibility because I’d wanted to be president so badly, I was willing to pay someone to become my fiancée. DeWayne West, my running mate, doubted me but still went along with my plan. I was too cocky to think our secret would never be revealed. Then once we fell in love, I figured the way we met wouldn’t even matter. God, I was such an arrogant asshole.

  “I have to go to the campaign offices today. The Republicans are meeting today, and we need to start working on a plan for whoever they pick.”

  Our gazes connected, and I was positive she was listening, but she didn’t say a word in response.

  “Georgie, are you going to be okay? I hate leaving you alone.” Letting go of her hands, I reached up to cup her cheek. She nuzzled her face into my palm, which gave me some encouragement.

  I leaned forward and brushed my lips gently across hers. When Georgie came back for a second-helping of kisses, I knew that my feisty girl was still inside; she just needed some time.

  “My mom will be over in a little while. She’s going to teach you how to make her top-secret lobster chowder.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, Jameson,” Georgie finally said, her voice thick and heavy. Two steps forward, one step back.

  I leaned back to give her some space. I should have known better. When it came to Georgie, I was completely transparent.

  “I know you don’t, Georgie. But I hate leaving you here by yourself. I just …” I didn’t know what else to say. My phone started ringing, and I stood to silence it. I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her. I returned to the edge of the bed and slid my hand across her cheek, threading my fingers into her hair.

  “I love you so much, little darling,” I finally finished.

  “I know, and I love you too,” she replied.

  I stood and kissed the top of her head. I grabbed my suit jacket from the gray chair in the corner and slipped it on before leaving the bedroom.

  Downstairs, I paused at the front door. Once I opened it, I would be unsealing the cocoon we’d been wrapped up inside since the announcement was made. While Georgie remained in her self-imposed exile, I’d conducted all campaign business from home. But today, my business required me to leave the house.

  I took a deep breath before gripping the doorknob, then I stepped into the alcove. One more set of doors separated me from the hungry wolves who waited with their questions.

  The shouting started as soon as I opened the doors. It was a deafening roar. My Secret Service agents were there, waiting to clear the walkways for me. Keep your head down, I told myself.

  I started forward, ignoring their questions, keeping my eyes trained on the black SUV idling at the curb.

  “Senator, is five-million dollars the going rate for pussy these days?” I stopped and turned, glaring at the gaggle of reporters who now fell silent.

  My Secret Service agents stepped between me and the reporters.

  “Do not engage, sir,” one of them muttered under his breath.

  I wanted to engage. I wanted to engage so fucking badly. My nostrils flared as I huffed out a breath, and my fists flexed instinctively. I felt hands urging
me toward the car. The back door opened, and I reluctantly climbed inside.

  “You’re lucky,” I said to the empty car. “Whoever the fuck you are, you’re lucky.”

  I looked up at the house through the heavily tinted windows. Georgie stood in one of the windows on the top floor, looking down, watching the scene below. I wondered if the reporter’s question had been loud enough to penetrate the walls of the house. I closed my eyes and hoped she hadn’t heard.

  I was starting to regret asking her to agree to such a ridiculous bargain.

  Georgie

  I watched Jameson react to the shouted question. The vileness and audacity of it made me sick to my stomach. Based on the reactions of the Secret Service agents who stepped in front of Jameson, he wanted to murder whoever asked. The reporters all fell quiet as they looked at each other with questioning glances. They too were shocked. Whoever asked such a terrible question had the guts to shout it, but they didn’t have the balls to admit it.

  I stepped away from the window and into the hallway of the third floor. This was the first time I had gotten out of bed in days. Jameson was wonderfully patient with me, working from home, watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to … just be me again. That started today. I never acted like this. Not even when my parents died. This kind of defeat was unnerving, unsettling, and unfamiliar.

  I marched down to the kitchen, my stomach growling in protest. How long had it been since I last ate? I opened the doors of the massive refrigerator and immediately smiled. There, on the middle shelf, sat a pink pastry box with a note attached. I plucked the piece of paper from beneath the twine and scanned Jameson’s familiar scrawl.

  “I knew you’d come around sooner or later. Hopefully, it’ll be before this tiramisu grows mold. I love you – J.”

  I cradled the box in one hand and closed the door with the other. I walked over to the massive island and pulled out a fork, setting it next to the box. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. It was time, I told myself. I once told Jameson that I didn’t want to be manipulated; I didn’t want to be some political pawn. And here I sat, locked away, letting someone move me around the game board.

  Now that Jameson wasn’t hovering, I opened my laptop and checked the headlines. Since Russell Hunt’s press conference, he was driving the narrative. No one talked about the Secret Service agents who were murdered or the twenty kindergarteners who were now traumatized because their safe space, a school, had been ambushed. Instead, they were talking about me. I was still a gold digger, but now they added “whore” to that title. I had to take charge of this.

  I picked up my cell phone and dialed a number I rarely used—Jameson’s lawyer.

  “Ms. Washington?” Ron Engle was justifiably confused. We had interacted only a handful of times over the past few months, so the fact I was calling him must have caught him off guard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Engle. I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to release a statement.”

  “Certainly. I’ll call the senator, and we will figure out the appropriate time for that to happen.”

  “I want to make it now.”

  “B-but there’s no time!” he stuttered. “We have to announce it, and then your statement has to be written and reviewed by us.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll write it myself. And I want to give it myself, not just release a copy.” I looked up at the digital clock on the microwave and calculated how much time I needed to not only write the statement, but also get ready. “You have four hours.”

  And then I hung up.

  I stepped from the alcove of the townhouse, and immediately, the reporters surged toward me. They smelled blood as soon as the doors opened. My newly assigned agents were there to step in and keep them back, preventing them from breaching some invisible perimeter.

  I dressed simply for this announcement because this wasn’t about me. I wore jeans and a navy blue cashmere sweater. My face was bare, and my hair was left down. I wanted America to see me, not the version the media was trying to suggest. Whore. Prostitute. Slut. All those names echoed in my mind, rattling my own self-confidence, but I ignored them. Today, I wasn’t a victim.

  “Good afternoon. You’re all in for quite the scoop this afternoon, so your dedication to remaining outside my home is about to pay off.” I was nervous, and I hoped that my little joke would erase some of those butterflies. It didn’t because the small group that was gathered just stared at me with blank faces. I cleared my throat and continued.

  “This morning, Senator Martin and I received a phone call from our lawyer, telling us that the man responsible for the murder of two Secret Service agents has accepted a plea bargain. I cannot begin to express my disappointment in the prosecutors handling this case because that is not justice. More importantly, however, is my profound regret that the media has focused on one thing: an agreement between myself and Senator Martin. So let me set the record straight once and for all.”

  I stopped and took a breath. Courageous enough to finally look up, I realized that everyone was dead silent. I had their complete attention.

  “Yes, Senator Martin asked me to pose as his fiancée. And yes, I agreed. I could sit here and explain every reason I accepted his offer and it wouldn’t matter because somewhere, someone would still call me a gold-digging whore. The agreement that once existed doesn’t matter anymore because what started out as pretense turned into a relationship that is very, very real. If you don’t believe me, that’s your prerogative. Additionally, I never received the negotiated payment. My lawyer will happily supply my bank statements as proof. I’m currently overdrawn and face the embarrassing task of asking my fiancé to help me out.”

  My nerves dissolved the longer I spoke, and I became more confident, even making eye contact with reporters. I felt myself stand taller and heard my voice grow louder. This was the girl who was missing, the one who refused to be a gimmick. She was coming back.

  “With that out of the way, I hope we can now focus on the real story here. Two agents were murdered. Agent David Hanna was a twenty-year veteran of the Secret Service, who was married and left behind two daughters. Agent Alex Myers was a brand-new agent. I was his first assignment. He was a newlywed, and his wife is currently expecting their first child. Twenty kindergarteners were also present and traumatized by the event. Little boys and girls who showed up to hear me read them a story. Their school was supposed to be a place for them to dream, but now, it’s a place of nightmares. Russell Hunt’s need for petty vengeance is responsible for this. The families of Agent Hanna and Agent Myers deserve justice. The families of those children deserve justice. They do not deserve a plea bargain.”

  I crumpled the paper with my handwritten statement in my hand and took a breath. “Listen, I know you’re all out here to do a job, but my relationship with Senator Martin isn’t the story here. You should be reporting on the real victims, telling their stories, fighting for their justice. Every day that they aren’t mentioned, every day that Russell Hunt isn’t being held accountable for his actions, is an injustice. Thank you.”

  I turned my back on them, prepared to return to my safety. Naturally, they began shouting questions, none of which I was going to answer. But over the deafening sound of the reporters, I still managed to hear someone yell, “Whore!”

  I stopped and turned, curious. Was it the same person who shouted out earlier this morning? The same gutless person who angered Jameson? Everyone else heard it too because the only sound came from the clicking shutters of cameras.

  I smirked. “I’ve been called worse by teenagers.”

  And then I left, ending my impromptu press conference.

  Jameson

  We all stood around the television screen in the conference room and watched, completely silent, as Georgie spoke. One of my aides, Nick, had burst into my office a few minutes earlier, interrupting a semi-important strategy meeting. His face was red, and his eyes
were large. “You’re going to want to see this,” he said, before rushing out of my office. We followed him into the conference room where a television had already been set up.

  My first reaction was to be angry. Why hadn’t my lawyer called me? Why hadn’t Georgie called me? I didn’t like being uninformed. After a moment of anger, I felt relieved because Georgie was back. Standing defiantly in front of our home, speaking out for the people who couldn’t, was the woman I fell in love with. The woman who boldly asked to pick my Secretary of Education before she agreed to anything. And then I felt ashamed of myself. I was only worried about Georgie and the fallout this would have on my campaign, on the election, on my chances of winning. Once again, Georgie showed me the error of my ways; she pointed out my own blindness.

  When it was over, when she disappeared behind the front door, I was so fucking proud of her. “Get Engle on the line,” I commanded, before returning to my office.

  I picked up the phone on my desk once my lawyer was on the line.

  “I’m so sorry, Jameson. Ms. Washington was insistent that this be done today,” he stammered.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ron.” My tone was reassuring, but I was still pissed. How hard was it to pick up the phone and call my office to warn us?

  “I’m calling because I want you to reach out to the families of the two agents who were killed. If they want to pursue a civil case against Russell Hunt and Governor Huntley, then I want you to help them find the best legal representation.”