The Kingmaker (Powerplay #1) Read online

  “Darling,” she trilled. “What brings you by?”

  “Margrite.” London walked closer and kissed her on both cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d still be here. Where is Gerard?” she asked, referring to Margrite’s partner in the escort agency.

  Margrite waved a hand in the air carelessly. “One of his boys didn’t want to play as rough as the Deputy Ambassador of Latvia did, so Gerard had to go negotiate a compromise.”

  London shivered in distaste. “The boys really do have it harder, don’t they?” she asked. “No pun intended,” she quickly added.

  Margrite grimaced sympathetically.

  “And is that delicious smell coming from your bag something for me?” Margrite raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows.

  “Yes, take me to your lair and I’ll give it to you.”

  Margrite laughed, pulling London by the hand toward the back of the store where they entered a small office space carpeted in deep pile aquamarine, the walls painted a soft cream, and the entire space finished off with Louis XV furnishings.

  “First show me what you’ve baked, then tell me what’s bothering you so much that you had to bake all afternoon.”

  London removed the two loaves of Middle Eastern sweet bread from her satchel and set them on Margrite’s credenza. As she busied herself getting out the plates and knives that she knew Margrite kept in a cabinet under the espresso maker, she stayed silent, weighing the best way to explain her morning to her boss.

  “Now, to what do I owe this visit?” Margrite asked, delicately bringing a piece of sweet bread to her ruby red lips.

  “I had a little problem earlier today. Senator Melville…”

  “Oh, do tell,” Margrite deadpanned. Decades dealing with D.C.’s politicians had left her somewhat cynical when it came to the nation’s leaders.

  “We were interrupted by his campaign manager, Derek Ambrose. I’m not sure if you saw, but the Senator announced his candidacy for President a few hours after our date. Finding us in the Renaissance Hotel together was not high on his campaign manager’s list of very good things today.”

  Margrite took a sip of tea from the cup sitting on her desk. “What did he do?”

  “Yelled, insisted that I was a risk to the campaign, and paid me off.”

  Margrite raised an eyebrow. “Paid you off? To keep quiet I assume?”

  “And to leave town.”

  “And are you?” Margrite looked skeptical.

  “No! I took the money because he was hysterical and wouldn’t stop shoving it at me. You know I don’t need to leave town. I’m not going to tell anyone about Melville for heaven’s sake. And here it all is, by the way,” she added, placing a stack of cash on the desk.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tips are yours, you know that. This was simply a larger than normal tip. It also sounds as though you earned it having to deal with the horrid man.”

  London couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of what Derek Ambrose would say if he heard the owner of an escort service referring to him as ‘the horrid man’.

  “He was annoying as much as anything. You know me, I don’t like drama, and he was full of it.”

  “He always seems so stoic on TV,” Margrite observed. “He’s charming to the press, but reserved. He tries to keep the focus on the candidate.”

  London thought back to the serious way Derek had looked at her when he asked why she did what she did. Stoic. That was one way to describe him. A force of nature was another.

  “Oh dear.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” London snapped out of her reverie.

  “You liked him, didn’t you?” Margrite’s blue eyes were sharp beneath her dark brows.

  “No!” London protested a little too loudly. “Didn’t you hear the story? He was convinced that I kiss and tell. How could I like someone like that?”

  Margrite had a smug smile on her face. “I’ve seen him on TV, darling. What’s not to like?”

  London rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t go there. I don’t have time to ‘like’ anyone as you put it.”

  Margrite leaned across the desk and took London’s hand in hers. “You could make time. You know I’ve never thought this was the way for you long term. I had hoped to earn some money and give you a safe place for a couple of years at most. I always thought someone would have snapped you up by now.”

  London gave her friend’s hand a squeeze before she pulled away. “And that’s very generous of you, but I’m not interested in having someone rescue me. I do quite well on my own, and I live the way I want to. I don’t have to rely on anyone, I don’t have to bend to anyone else’s ideas about who I should be or how I should behave.”

  Margrite’s eyes turned soft. “Oh my love, someday you’re going to tell me what it was that mother of yours did to you. But until then, I wish you’d at least consider the possibility that you might want to be someone’s mistress or wife someday. There are plenty of lovely, wealthy men out there who would adore having you on their arms during the day, and in their beds at night. I’m serious when I say that a permanent paramour has many advantages over the hourly ones.”

  London shook her head and chuckled. “You can have them,” she said. “The last thing I need is some man trying to tell me what to do.”

  “Even one who looks like Derek Ambrose?”

  “Even him.” Yes, she thought, banishing the memory of those icy blue eyes. Even him.

  Derek’s fists pounded a heavy bag over and over again. Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, in rhythm—one, two, one, two. His bare chest was covered in sweat and his shoulders ached from the brutal pace he’d kept up since he arrived at Spar.

  “You’d better be careful old man, you’re going to strain something,” his brother Marcus’s voice snapped him out of the haze of frustration he’d been in for the last hour.

  He grabbed the bag as it rebounded from his last punch. Steadying it he turned to face his twenty-five-year-old kid brother, a near double for Derek, but with darker eyes and hair.

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” he told Marcus. “Get your gear on and I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Body punches only from now on,” Marcus instructed. “This face is my livelihood.”

  Derek grimaced. The kid had a point, he’d recently started as a political correspondent for WNN news, and Derek knew that while Marcus was talented as hell, his good looks didn’t hurt his career.

  “Fine, body punches only, pretty boy, now get moving.”

  Marcus smirked and loped off to the locker room to change out of the five thousand-dollar suit Derek had bought him. Derek knew he spoiled the kid, but he was so fucking proud of him he couldn’t help it. Marcus had graduated top of his class from one of the best journalism programs in the country, worked for two years as a reporter in a large market, and then snagged the political correspondent job at WNN, the biggest news network in the world.

  Derek had paid for everything his brother did since the kid was sixteen and Derek got his first good consulting gig. In the intervening years he’d put Marcus through college, grad school, and now gotten him a swank apartment and a BMW to celebrate the new job in D.C. He shook his head as he went back to punching the bag. He probably did spoil Marcus, but it gave him joy to do it, so what the hell.

  Some people might think that he ought to be spoiling a woman the same way. But he’d never met one that tempted him to do so. He thought back to earlier in the day and the escort he’d caught Melville with. Now there was the kind of woman who deserved to be spoiled by her man. He wondered if she had one—a man that is. Did prostitutes have boyfriends? He shuddered at the idea. Not if the men had any sense they didn’t. Oh he knew the cliché, the pimps were their boyfriends, but London Sharpe wasn’t some hooker with a pimp. She was far too high-end for that. She probably knew about as much about streetwalking as he did, which was to say, not much.

  The fact was, if he’d ever met a woman like London, Derek might have been tempted to spoil her. He’d want to spoil her
with protection, companionship. He’d want to have her back—and a few other parts as well. He hit the bag one more time and stopped to wipe his brow. Yes, a woman like her had no business working as an escort. She tried to act tough, but he’d seen it in her eyes. She was far too refined for that kind of life. She needed a man—her own man—to care for her, support her, do whatever she needed done. She was the kind of woman who inspired ancient tribes to go to war over her, and modern day CEOs to stop their manwhoring ways.

  Manwhore. The word brought back the vision of Melville with his hands and lips all over the inspiring Ms. Sharpe. Derek growled and hit the heavy bag so hard it nearly popped off its chain.

  “What’s crawled up your ass?” Marcus asked as he reappeared, headgear and gloves in hand.

  Derek scowled at him, but all Marcus did was laugh. “You don’t seriously think that’ll still work on me, do you?”

  “Shut up and get in the ring, junior.” Derek gestured at one of the sparring rings nearby.

  “Did you reserve it?” Marcus asked as they walked.

  “No, but Renee did.” Derek saw his brother’s eyes light up when he mentioned his secretary’s name. “And get that starry-eyed look off your face. I’ve told you more than once that my staff is off-limits to you.”

  Marcus shook his head. “And I told you, I’m not going to make a move on your secretary, even if you are out of line trying to dictate who I can and can’t date.”

  Derek seriously doubted Marcus was telling the truth. He knew how his brother operated with women. He was all about the chase and the conquest, then he was on to the next. And that was why Derek wanted to keep him away from the cute blonde who sat in his office lobby. Renee had enough pain in her life right now, she didn’t need a player adding to it. She reminded Derek so much of their younger cousin who had been killed in a rafting accident two years before. He couldn’t bear to let his womanizing wolf of a brother have at her, even though he knew they were both adults.

  As they got settled in the ring and started a slow dance around one another he changed the subject to something less inflammatory than Marcus’s love life.

  “So tell me what you heard at the office about Melville’s announcement?”

  While Marcus was a reporter and very serious about his career, he was first and foremost always Derek’s brother, and though Derek didn’t think he was ready to have his baby brother on the inside of the Powerplay club, he also knew he could count on Marcus to have his back with the press. Marcus would always give his loyalty to Derek before he gave it to a job or a source.

  “You know, when I got hired we discussed how this was going to play out—you being related to me—and management decided that as long as they didn’t put me on a story directly related to you it’d be fine. But I can see it’s making everyone else nervous.” He shrugged.

  “So you’re telling me they’re so tight-lipped around you that you’re useless to me?” Derek winked and grinned.

  Marcus jabbed a hard right at Derek’s midsection, catching him off-guard. He spun away, receiving only a glancing blow, but pissed that he hadn’t been more aware. Between the press conference he’d held earlier and the wrench that Melville’s extra-curricular activities had thrown into the mix, Derek knew he wasn’t in top form, but he couldn’t afford that. He had to be on the ball at all times.

  Marcus danced on the balls of his feet for a moment before raising his fists up in fighting stance again. “No, just saying that I don’t hear everything. But today I heard that the consensus is you’ve got ‘the one’. He’s the President’s heir in the party, and with you managing the campaign he virtually can’t lose.”

  Derek knocked Marcus upside the head with his big padded glove-encased fist. Not enough to hurt him, just a tap. Marcus shoved Derek’s arm away.

  “Damn straight he can’t,” Derek snarked.

  “Asshole.” Marcus shook his head.

  “And how about you? You figured out how to get the nightly anchor spot yet?” Derek dodged a blow to his left shoulder and planted a firm shot right in the middle of Marcus’s chest. The younger man coughed and rubbed the spot, wincing.

  “Jesus, give me a week, will ya? I barely know where the bathroom is in that place.”

  Derek checked the surrounding area. The gym was crowded, but most people there were working out on the bags or in a training session with the gym owner.

  “I had a little problem before the press conference today,” Derek said, quietly.

  “Yeah?” Marcus asked.

  Derek proceeded to describe the events in the hotel room prior to Melville’s announcement.

  Marcus stopped moving, dropped his hands to his sides and stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Derek motioned for Marcus to keep sparring. “I only wish.”

  “Jesus. What the hell was he thinking? I mean it’s one thing to have an affair, but a hooker?” He looked appalled.

  Derek felt heat rise in his face, and his chest tightened. “What?”

  Marcus’s eyes darted around the way Derek’s had a few moments earlier. “You said she was a whore, right?” he hissed.

  Derek shoved Marcus. Hard. His kid brother stumbled and cursed under his breath. “What the fuck?”

  Derek took a deep breath, his reaction surprising himself as much as it had Marcus. He rubbed the back of one glove across his forehead before he put his fists up again, indicating the spar should resume. Marcus was slow to follow, still shaking his head in disgust.

  “I didn’t teach you to talk like that,” Derek gritted out. “She’s a human being, and while I can’t agree with her career choices, that doesn’t make her unworthy of our respect.”

  Marcus mouthed something silently that looked like, “Wow.”

  “Am I right?” Derek asked, giving his favorite man in the world a hard look.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m sorry, of course you’re right.” He was silent for a moment as they continued to dance and jab at one another, taking things slow and easy as if the conversation were enough of a firestorm.

  “Have you ever…” Marcus’s voice faded away, but Derek knew damn well what he was asking.

  “No. Of course not, but I know plenty of men who have.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Yeah, I can’t see ever being that hard up.”

  “If you’d seen this woman you’d be singing a different tune,” Derek muttered.

  Marcus sliced a halfhearted uppercut at Derek’s chin, but Derek dodged and came back with a jab to Marcus’s side.

  “So she was hot—the woman?”

  Derek gave Marcus another tap on the side of the head. “She was very hot.”

  Marcus stopped his dancing around the ring, gesturing to the water bottles at the edge of the area. Both men walked to the ropes and reached out to grab their bottles.

  “Sounds like you might like to be one of her clients,” Marcus joked.

  Derek could feel himself bristle, but he knew he couldn’t blame Marcus for the question.

  “No, I’d never be a client,” Derek answered. “But if she were in a different line of work…”

  “I want to see this woman,” Marcus grinned.

  “I’m thinking there’s no way that’s going to happen,” Derek answered as they moved back to the center of the ring and began sizing each other up.

  “Famous last words.” Marcus grinned as he landed an uppercut on Derek’s jaw and did a victory dance around the ring.

  Derek rolled over and slammed his hand down on the cell phone that was chiming relentlessly. He fumbled with it, finally peeling open his eyes and running a finger across the screen to turn the alarm off.

  He groaned and reached for the remote to power up the flat screen television mounted on the wall across from his king-sized wrought iron bed. WNN filled the room and Derek sat up and adjusted his pillows. In his line of work it was essential to be on top of every piece of news out there. Years ago he’d learned never to leave the house until he’d checked
the media.

  “And in Washington this morning it might be the shortest-lived presidential campaign on record.”

  Derek’s chest felt like it was suddenly coated in ice. He clutched the remote, clicking the volume higher as he climbed out of bed and walked toward the TV.

  “Jason Melville, Senator from Pennsylvania, announced his candidacy for president yesterday in a brief press conference.” The screen cut to a clip of Melville’s press conference while the announcer continued talking and Derek swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

  “But this morning WNN has obtained information from a confidential source that may end Melville’s campaign before it even begins. Sources say that Senator Melville spent time alone in a hotel suite with a high-end D.C. call girl. Information verified by hotel records and security cameras show a woman identified as a popular D.C. prostitute visiting Melville’s hotel suite at the Renaissance yesterday afternoon, only hours before he announced his candidacy.”

  “Fuck!” Derek yelled in the early dawn gray of his bedroom. “No fucking way!”

  “Sources tell us that the as yet unnamed woman, shown here in the elevator of the Renaissance, was sequestered in Melville’s suite for about ninety minutes. No word yet from the Melville campaign, but no one can deny that this must come as a huge blow to well-known political strategist Derek Ambrose who has been guiding Melville’s presidential plans.”

  Derek ran a hand harshly through his hair and threw the remote at the wall, shattering it and disconnecting the television.

  He picked up his phone and clicked on speed dial number seven.

  “Derek,” Jason said as he answered.

  “She won’t tell anyone?” Derek growled. “She’s discreet? She’ll never say a word? Well, goddammit she said something. It didn’t even take twenty-four bloody hours, Jason. Not even twenty-four.”

  Jason sighed. “I don’t understand it, I really have no idea how this happened, but right now I’ve got bigger problems. Angela’s not awake yet, but my father-in-law, Vandermeer is, and he’s seen the news. He’s going to tear me to pieces, Derek.”