Presidential Bargain (The Presidential Promises Duet Book 1) Read online

  Presidential Bargain

  Rebecca Gallo

  Presidential Bargain

  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.

  Presidential Bargain 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 by Kellie Dennis of Book Cover by Design

  Editing by Jenn Wood of All About the Edits

  Proofreading by Emily Lawrence of Lawrence Editing

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

  For my Honey Bunny and my Peanut –

  Thank you for the incredible gift of time

  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

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  CAPITOL PROMISES

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” I asked, probably for the fifth time.

  There were three men sitting in front of me. Two were named Lewis and Jenkins. It was hard to tell them apart because they looked identical in their black suits, slim ties, shiny black loafers, and mirrored looks of exasperation. Therefore, I had no idea who was who. I didn’t even know if Lewis and Jenkins were their first or last names. They were political spin doctors hired to fix a problem.

  The third man was DeWayne West, the running mate of the current Democratic presidential nominee. He was a tall, African-American man who had gorgeously dark skin and mischievous golden brown eyes. He was a good ol’ Southern boy who greeted me warmly with his too-large hands and blindingly white smile. He made me feel at ease, while Lewis and Jenkins made me anxious.

  “Listen, the Republican candidate is a family man. He has like eleventy billion kids that he and his wife adopted. This is crushing us in the polls because the public loves it. They’re eating it up,” one of the spin doctors informed me.

  I looked beyond them, toward the tall figure at the far end of the hotel suite who stood resolutely near a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. He was listening in on our conversation but wasn’t taking part.

  “And you don’t think the sudden appearance of a fiancée will look suspicious?” It was hard to believe no one had thought of this. That no one inside a presidential campaign would speak up and say, “The American public won’t buy it.” But what did I know? I was just a high school teacher from a tiny town in New Hampshire.

  “We will handle that. We can spin anything to our advantage.”

  I diverted my gaze between the three men who sat on the couch.

  “Well, apparently, you can’t spin a bachelor as the next President of the United States of America.” I was giving them too much grief, I knew it. I don’t know why I was being so incredulous when, in reality, this would be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  “Do you want the fucking money or not?” The man who had seemed so patient, who had listened attentively as they questioned me, now roared. Jameson Martin, the Democratic presidential candidate, had officially lost his shit. His deep, raspy voice boomed in the nearly empty suite and I could feel his heated glare on me.

  Money. Did I want the money? Of course I wanted the money. But I could survive without it. I knew what it was like to live with five million dollars and I knew what it was like to live without. I didn’t need it to live a happy life, but I did need it if I wanted to continue living in my childhood home, with things like heat, electricity, and water. And if I wanted to eat more than just ramen noodles and spaghetti. I needed it to pay off a mortgage and credit card debt and medical bills.

  But…I wasn’t finished negotiating. I looked in his direction, fixed my gaze right on him, and with one raised eyebrow, said, “I have one request before I agree.”

  “What is it?” The spin doctors were all too eager for me to acquiesce. If I asked for ten million, I was sure they would have found a way for Jameson Martin to agree.

  “If you win—”

  “When I win,” Jameson cut in coolly.

  I conceded, rolling my eyes. “Fine. When you win, I want to pick the Secretary of Education.”

  “Absolutely not!” He snorted and then gave me a condescending smirk. “We pay a lot of money for the very best education experts to advise us on our policy. I’m not going to leave the decision to pick the next Secretary of Education up to a…” He stopped when he saw the look of shock on my face. I knew exactly what he was going to say next.

  “You’re not going to leave the decision to whom? To a teacher? Why? Because heaven forbid, I pick someone who has actually spent time in the classroom?”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “That’s exactly what you were going to say! Education is something I’m very passionate about and if you’re going to pretend to be my fiancé, don’t you think you should know that about me? Every First Lady has a platform, so it’s likely that mine will be education.”

  I sat back on the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest defensively, and looked at each one of them. They all had the same expression on their faces. Like I was bat-shit crazy. Like they didn’t expect me to actually be the First Lady. Clearly, this was not something they had discussed.

  “You really didn’t think this through, did you?” I smirked, astonished by their lack of foresight. That was why they thought I was insane. They didn’t think whomever they picked would actually become the First Lady! I burst out laughing. Crazy, maniacal laughter, because it was truly hilarious.

  “What?” all of them asked simultaneously.

  “Did you really think, once you were elected, you could just break up with me? Or whomever you chose?” The laughter continued to bubble out of me. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  I grabbed my purse, which sat at my feet, and stood. “Good luck with the campaign, Senator Martin.”

  I stormed through the suite, my eyes firmly set on the door, when a strong hand latched onto my bicep, bringing me to a halt. A large mass of broad chest appeared in front of me and I looked up into an icy blue gaze that was filled with a white-hot heat. />
  “I’m not a very good man. I don’t have very much patience for anyone or anything. I’ve screwed around and I’m well-aware of what my opponent is saying about me. It’s all pretty much true. However, I do love my country. I have dedicated over half of my life to serving it, and I’ll be damned if I let something like a wife stand in my way.”

  “Then you should find someone else. Goodbye.” I pulled my arm free of his vice-like grip and left, slamming the door behind me. I paused in the hallway to calm my trembling nerves and shaking legs.

  Did I really just give up the chance to be the First Lady of the United States of America?

  “FUCK!” I roared as soon as she left. No doubt she was still in the hallway and could hear my outburst.

  It didn’t matter that my own party had chosen me as their candidate two weeks ago without as much as a girlfriend, or that my body bore the physical and emotional scars of my dedication and service to my country. What suddenly mattered was that I didn’t have a wife. Or a family. My running mate had a family. Wasn’t that good enough? DeWayne and Avon West were the epitome of Southern charm and grace. That should’ve been sufficient but sadly, it wasn’t.

  “There are other candidates, other women to consider,” Lewis said, but I could hear the anxiety in his voice. He wasn’t confident in this plan anymore. I looked over at Jenkins and he wore a similar expression.

  I made eye contact with DeWayne, but he just sat back in the armchair he occupied, crossing one long leg over the other. The look on his face said, “You’re fucked, dude.” He wasn’t totally on board with this plan from the start, but I wanted the Oval badly. Picking DeWayne as my running mate had been a calculated move. I knew how my base would respond to picking a man of color as my running mate. When I announced him, my poll numbers went through the roof. DeWayne was a well-respected senator from the state of Georgia. His constituents loved him and he worked just as hard as I did to make a difference. The only problem I had with him? He had shitty taste in music.

  I didn’t blame them for being worried. There were other women who had applied to fill this “position”, but they weren’t her. She was the best. I chuckled to myself. Georgie Washington. That was her name. Seriously.

  Georgie was smart and passionate. I could see it in her eyes. And so unbelievably gorgeous that I felt myself grow hard the moment she walked in the room. Long, silky, honey-amber hair waiting for me to wrap around my fist and pull while I devoured every inch of her. Full, lush lips made for sucking my cock. And bright green eyes that instantly saw through this bullshit plan. No, there wasn’t another woman. She was going to be the next First Lady.

  “We need her. We’ll just have to come up with a way to get her on board,” I told them definitively. I felt it deep in my bones; there was just something about her. She had a hint of desperation but still had enough conviction to walk away. I knew plenty of women who wouldn’t turn down five million dollars. They were all greedy. Georgie Washington didn’t have a greedy bone in her body. She was definitely the one.

  I sat down on the couch in the same exact spot where she had been sitting. It was still warm from her body and her scent lingered; something clean and fresh with a hint of strawberry.

  “Give me her file again.” I closed my eyes and waited for either Lewis or Jenkins to bring me the thick manila folder. The difference between her and all the other candidates was that she didn’t apply for this. She had been recommended to us by my father’s friend, Paul Danville, and we approached her.

  Asking a woman to pretend to be your fiancée wasn’t easy. We interviewed the women extensively, giving them the impression that the job was for a future position in my administration. So far, Georgie was the only woman who knew the truth.

  Jenkins handed me the folder that contained her entire life story. Georgie grew up an only child to wealthy parents. She attended the best schools and lived in the same house her entire life. She had an idyllic upbringing. But when the recession came, her father’s business crumbled because his money was tied up in an elaborate Ponzi scheme. After her father lost their family’s fortune, her mother became ill. Then fate sucker punched her when Georgie’s parents were killed by a drunk driver on their way home from a doctor’s appointment.

  “Dude, you don’t need a fiancée to win this,” DeWayne said.

  I peered up at him over the top of my glasses. He hated political gamesmanship.

  “That’s not what the polls say, DeWayne.”

  “Fuck the polls! You have me and Avon out there, reaching out to families. The numbers will go up. You just have to give us time.”

  “That’s not good enough for me. I want that Oval, DeWayne. I want it bad.”

  DeWayne rolled his eyes at me like I was a crazy son-of-a-bitch, and I was. DeWayne could never understand my drive, my ambition. If he had, maybe I wouldn’t have kicked his ass in the primaries.

  I turned my attention back to the file and began looking through her financials, which revealed another layer of her life. Georgie was swimming in debt and her modest salary barely paid the mortgage on her family’s home. I closed the file, knowing what I had to do. She had seen right through me, right through the flaw in my plan, which both intrigued and terrified me. It was refreshing to find someone who wasn’t afraid to be honest and confront me. Very few people had the nerve to do what Georgie had done. I didn’t allow many people to get close; everyone was kept at least an arm’s length away. She had the potential to get closer, if I let her.

  Georgie wasn’t buying what my well-paid team of strategists were selling and I knew the only way she’d agree would be to return her honesty. She needed a glimpse of the real me, which I was willing to give her because I wanted to win this election. I waited a few hours, spending the time strategizing with Lewis and Jenkins, before going after her.

  The never-ending pile of bills greeted me when I returned home. I added three more envelopes, urgently marked “FINAL NOTICE” to the stack. I walked to the fridge and opened it, finding it seriously lacking in the two things I needed the most: alcohol and chocolate. The fridge, as well as my kitchen cupboards and the pantry, were depleted as well. Shit.

  As if some guardian angel sensed my desperation, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, the seemingly cool and aloof Jameson Martin stood in front of me looking contrite. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag filled with what smelled like Italian food dangled from the fingers of another.

  “We need to talk,” he said plainly.

  “Well, that depends.” I eyed the bag he carried. The smell of garlic hit my nose and, like Pavlov’s dog, my mouth began to water.

  “On what?” His eyebrow shot up skeptically.

  “Is there dessert in that bag?”

  “Of course.” Jameson flashed me a cocky grin, as if he knew the way to my heart was paved with baked goods.

  “What kind?”

  “Tiramisu.”

  God, this could be a match made in heaven.

  “And cheesecake.”

  Dead. I was dead. Not only was Jameson handsome, but he brought two desserts. I seriously contemplated whether he’d get a bite of either.

  “I’ll grab the plates.”

  Jameson followed me to the kitchen where he dropped the bags on the counter and proceeded to take over. I didn’t get the plates or the silverware or even the glasses; he did. He moved with great efficiency around my kitchen, like he had been there before. Having him in my home should have made me nervous but it didn’t. It felt…right.

  Within minutes of his arrival, the small kitchen table was set and we were seated with an Italian feast spread out before us.

  “This is a gorgeous house. I can see why you want to keep it.”

  I stopped eating, set my fork down, and looked up at him.

  Jameson was right. The house was gorgeous. My great-grandfather had built this house and it was hard to let it go.

  It was a large brick and stucco Tudor that had a long tree-lined drive and a
creek that bordered the back of the property. It was a coveted house, in a coveted neighborhood. Soon after my parents’ deaths, I received multiple offers to sell, some even worth millions. But I could never bring myself to part with it, no matter how desperate my financial situation. This was my home and my heart. My parents raised me here; my mother had been raised here too. There were countless memories that were priceless, and selling it would break my heart. But it might be my only option now.

  The kitchen where Jameson and I sat was my favorite part of the house. It needed updating, badly, but it was so warm and inviting. I looked around and could see everything it could be, and I dreamed of the possibilities.

  “I know it’s stubborn to keep it when selling it could solve all of my problems. But it’s all I have left.”

  “I understand. I don’t think you should sell it, ever. But it must be lonely living with all of these ghosts.”

  He had me. It was lonely, coming home night after night to this big house. I had sold much of the furniture and paintings that had once adorned the rooms and walls to pay for funeral expenses. My parents deserved something grand and I didn’t mind parting with things. The house itself held the memories of my parents and grandparents, not the things that were in it.

  “I know a contractor who specializes in restoring old homes like this. I’ll have him call you.”