Dirty Little Secrets: A tempting friends to lovers romance

Exclusive: The scandal that will rock the White House to its very core.

Ben McCoy is the Vice-Presidential candidate with the backing of the entire nation. His wife, Megan, is as close as she’ll ever be to living the American Dream – from inside the White House.

Until investigative reporter, James Emerson, comes looking for a story, determined to expose the ruthless ambition, power struggles and sex-scandals rife in Washington DC.

It seems that no matter how careful you are, secrets always leak out. And so now, Megan has a choice: she can do as many First Ladies have done before her, and stand by her man; or she can opt for full disclosure. On the edge of a scandal so sensational it will whip the press into a political frenzy, Megan, for the first time, holds all the cards.

They say all that glitters isn’t gold – but what happens when you realise everything you’ve ever dreamed of isn’t all you hoped it would be...?

Also by Kierney Scott

Twice in a Lifetime

Dirty Little Secrets

Kierney Scott

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Kierney Scott 2013

Kierney Scott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472074300

Version date: 2018-07-23

KIERNEY SCOTT

is originally from California, but moved to Scotland to enrol in the PhD programme in Educational Research at the University of Edinburgh. Four days after she arrived, she met her husband, who persuaded her it would be more fun to get married than to write a thesis. After the birth of her daughter she decided it was time to go back to school, but soon she discovered all she wanted to write was romance novels. She admitted her literary proclivities to her husband, who promptly bought her a laptop and told her to start writing her book.

When she is not writing, you will probably find her at a spinning class or baking (read eating) cupcakes. Her butter-cream icing is legendary, if only in her mind. If you want her recipe, or you just want to chat, you can contact her at KierneyScott@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter at Kierney Scott @Kierney_S

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

For Alistair because you never seem to mind that I can be a lot like hard work.

And for my Dad because you have taught me so much about integrity.

A special thanks to Shelby Alberts for answering all my legal questions. The accused of Placer County are lucky to have such a brilliant and tenacious person on their side.

Chapter One

Megan McCoy threw her briefcase down on the marble floor of her entryway and swore under her breath as the leather case opened and spilled files across the black and white tiles.

She scrunched her eyes together and pretended not to see the paper avalanche covering her entryway. “Screw it.” She was too tired and annoyed to deal with the mess now. She needed food and drink and lots of it.

She slid out of the torture devices kids these days were calling shoes and went in search of her husband. “Ben, where are you?” She made a beeline for the kitchen. “Why do I not smell roast beef?” she demanded of no one in particular. She opened the oven only to find it empty and cold. “For goodness sake.” That was her night ruined. Thursday was roast beef night; she adhered to a positively virtuous diet six days a week, but Thursdays were for red meat and carbohydrates.

From the living room she heard the whining strings of violins followed by the rich alto of Etta James. “Damn it.” Ben was listening to ‘At Last’ again, his break-up song, his life-is-not-worth-living-I-will-never-find-love song. And she had to deal with it without roast beef. The prospect of dinner was the only thing that had got her through her day in court. Beef and roast potatoes covered in artery-clogging gravy were all that had kept her from climbing into the witness box and punching the defendant in his tattooed throat.

She took a deep breath and fought the urge to call for a pizza before she went in to comfort Ben; it was a close call but her conscience beat her stomach. She opened the pocket doors to the study. Ben was holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a full glass in the other as he stared into the open flames of the fire.

“Bad day?” Megan asked. She took the bottle off him and took a swig from his glass. If she didn’t have the dinner she wanted, she was definitely going to fill her belly with the drink she wanted.

“He doesn’t want to be…friends any more,” Ben said. He hung his head in his hands. His shoulders rose and fell and he silently wept.

Instantly her annoyance melted away. She climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms around her husband of five years and best friend of nearly fourteen. He was so different to the man he presented to the world. No one outside their brick house in Georgetown ever got to see this Ben McCoy. To the world, Ben was as in control as any man could hope to be. Some would even say he was vicious and cut-throat, and they would not be wrong; his politics certainly were, but one did not become the frontrunner for Vice-Presidential pick without a certain hardness.

That was public Ben, but private Ben was something entirely different, something entirely hers.

“Oh Ben, I’m sorry. I know how much his…friendship meant to you.” Megan tried to console him but it was hard to know where to start. It was an unwritten rule that they never acknowledged the nature of the two men’s friendship. And they never discussed Ben’s sexuality. It was enough that they both knew.

Ben shook his head. “No, not this time. He wants us to be open. Can you imagine? He wants me to throw away my entire career.” His voice cracked under the strain.

Megan kissed him gently on the cheek. No, she could not imagine it. For other men she could, but not for Ben. His sole focus since he was a child had been the White House. And, rightly or wrongly, be believed he could not aspire to it as an openly gay man. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. He means a lot to me.” Ben wiped his face as tears welled up in the corners of his brown eyes.

“I know. But you always have me. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you did forget to put on dinner and completely ruined roast beef Thursday.” She took another swig from the bottle. The wine wasn’t dulling the hunger any but it was making her more able to tolerate it with a smile.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to text you. I got a message from James Emerson. He wants to do a piece on us. Some shit about the all-American family. Little does he know.” Ben laughed bitterly.

Megan shook her head. She recognised the name but could not place the context. As a politician’s wife, she met hundreds of people every year. “Who’s that again?”

“James Emerson – the owner of Global Media Network. You know the one. The Australian guy you said looks like an underwear model. Has a new blonde on his arm at every event.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Oh him? I hate him.”

“How can you hate him? You don’t even know him.”

“He is a journalist, what else do I need to know? He belongs in prison with his father. His company should have been dismantled and sold off into thousands of tiny pieces. He has far too much power.” Just the idea of him made her skin crawl. The motto for one of his networks was “always unbiased”. Bullshit was what it was. His father had bankrolled politics for a quarter of a century. There was nothing unbiased about him or his company.

“Are you OK? I haven’t seen you this angry in a long time.”

She took another long sip. “I’m fine.”

“Fine huh? That good?”

Megan shrugged her shoulders. “I am hungry. I am working on the case from hell and then you mentioned a journalist. You know I hate them.”

“Some people hate lawyers,” he reminded her.

“Those would be people that have never needed them,” she retorted. She slid off his lap and grabbed a crystal goblet from the sideboard and poured herself a proper glass of wine.

“People need journalists too.”

“Oh shut up. Don’t argue the opposite side with me, just to make a point.” She wagged her finger at him.

“I would never do that.”

“Bullshit, you live to do that.”

“You are hungry. You only swear when you’re hungry or pissed.”

“I’m both. Your lucky day.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. “I’m going to call for a pizza. If you’re nice I will share.”

“No carbs for me.”

“Stop being a stereotype and have dinner,” she said. Megan reached for the phone and began to dial. She didn’t want to think what it said for her culinary skills that she had memorised the numbers for at least a dozen take-out places.

“I have a favour to ask.”

“Yes I will get your half without cheese.”

“No not that, but thanks. I need you to do the Emerson interview on your own.”

Megan’s head snapped up. She put the phone down before the call went through. “No. I am starving. I will probably end up stabbing him in the throat with a ballpoint pen. That is the kind of day I’ve had.”

“Just smile and play nice. He’ll just want to talk about how my career has impacted your life.”

“No,” she said again. She had reached her threshold for stupid men today.

“Please, Megan. I can’t face an interview tonight.” Ben put his arms around her and hugged her to his chest. “I need you, Megs. Do this one for me.” His voice faltered.

She sighed. Her day was already shit so she may as well just write the whole thing off. “Fine,” she muttered. She would do anything for Ben, and he knew it.

“That’s my girl.” Ben kissed the top of her head.

“What time will he be here?” She was going to order double cheese on the pizza, only saturated fat could get her through a torture of this magnitude.

Ben glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle. “Two minutes ago.”

“Seriously Ben?! That is not time to stuff my inner bitch back into her cave. I will end up stabbing him. Just be warned. And then it’ll be in all the papers. Because he owns all the damn papers in this country. And two television networks. Stupid man.”

The doorbell rang. She wasn’t finished ranting, but it would have to wait. Now was the time to straighten her public mask, and face James Emerson.

Megan stood behind the door and counted to ten. She summoned her public persona, the person everyone thought she was. She could do this; she could do anything for Ben. She exhaled slowly as she opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Emerson? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

James Emerson reached for her hand. His palm was hot and strangely calloused, not the smooth hand she had expected. “Please call me James.” He smiled and small lines fanned out around his moss-coloured eyes. She had never seen a colour so peculiar and intense, a deep green with golden flecks that caught the light.

“Please call me Megan.”

James moved up from the bottom step and she could see how tall he was, probably about 6’4”. She wondered why she had not noticed his height before. Maybe because she had always seen him seated at charity dinners and when he was standing, it was always beside the leggy model type, so his large frame was in proportion to his date.

“Thank you, Megan. Do you mind if I come in and we get started? I know how busy you and your husband must be with all the campaigning.”

His voice was unfathomably low, simultaneously rich and menacing. His Australian accent was more pronounced than she expected. His broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway. His body was lean and muscular, no spare fat was wasted on him; even his cheeks had a hard edge. Apart from his smile, there was nothing comforting about his appearance. Suddenly she felt small and vulnerable, uncomfortable in her own home, in her own skin. Years had passed since she’d felt like that. Subconsciously she stroked the pepper spray on her key ring with the pad of her thumb. She never left home without it. Inexplicably her heart began to race, beating hard against her ribs, but it wasn’t because she felt unsafe; the worst this man would do was write a nasty article about her. Clearly her current case had gotten to her. She needed to move on from domestic violence, maybe move to murder. Murder was always straightforward, and the complaining witnesses never changed their story because, well, because they were dead.

“I’m afraid it will just be us tonight. Ben has a migraine. I’m really sorry I didn’t have time to phone you.” She lied with the fluidity of the Ivy League-trained lawyer she was.

James’ eyes darkened. For a fleeting moment there was an expression of disappointment or perhaps anger on his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, but she had seen it, because nothing escaped her.

“Right. Shall we go out for a cup of coffee then? I wouldn’t want to disturb him.” His question sounded more like a challenge. Perhaps she was not as skilled a liar as she originally thought.

Megan shifted from one foot to the other. Her mind was suddenly blank. She searched for excuses as to why she could not do the interview. James was far too big a presence for her to deal with tonight. Normally she did not back down from any adversary, but there was something about him that made her feel off balance. She was painfully aware of his proximity, his scent, his gaze scrutinising her. She fought the urge to run, but her feet remained nailed to the floor because she had stopped running from her problems a long time ago.

“I passed a diner on the way,” James pressed.

Wordlessly Megan nodded.

“Shall I drive?” he asked.

Megan’s thumb slid up and down the cool metal container of her pepper spray. She narrowed her eyes to scrutinise him. He was beautiful, in a rugged, raw sort of way. She could practically smell the testosterone under the subtle scent of his aftershave. He looked like the kind of man women threw themselves at, the kind of man who could bend women to his will. She hated those kinds of men. Even had he not been a journalist, she would have taken an instant dislike to him. He was too polished and his smile too ready. No one should smile that much.

“Sure. Let me grab my bag.” She would give him an hour of her time, it was the least she could do for Ben. She could keep things light for an hour, especially if she was eating.

James opened the passenger door of a silver Range Rover Sport. Megan was temporarily back-footed. It occurred to her that no one had ever opened a car door for her. None of the guys she dated back in Mississippi would know chivalry if it had bit them in the ass. And Ben, well, Ben was just Ben. “Thanks.”

“Have you eaten yet? Cause I haven’t had time. Do you mind if we go somewhere for dinner?”

Sharing a meal with him was not her idea of a good night, but at this point she would dine with Kim Jong Un if it meant she could get a steak and potato. “That would be great. I wouldn’t recommend that diner though; all meals come with a side of food poisoning.”

He smiled. His teeth were straight and impossibly white. “I know a good steak place, not too far from here. You OK with red meat?”

She bit back a smile. “Yeah, I am good with red meat.”

“Thank God. I was worried you were vegan like every other woman I’ve met in DC. That would be a great way to start the interview, with me offering you flesh.”

The idea sounded strangely sexual and flirtatious, though she was certain it was unintentional. Why would he flirt with her? Her radar must be way off, too long spent as the cover for a closeted gay man maybe. Or maybe it was because the only men she spent time with were the ones she was cross examining. And those men usually wanted to shoot her, not flirt with her.

“No, definitely not vegan. Funny you mention it, my secretary is but she has a massive shoe collection, all leather. Totally bullshit, if you are going to stand for something, then commit.” She realised too late that she had sworn. The wives of future Vice Presidential candidates don’t have mouths like sailors on shore leave. Shit, he would probably put that in the piece, and blow her image. “Sorry about my language. I only swear when I’m hungry.”

He smiled again. “Don’t apologise, I’m Australian, I just swear.”

“So you won’t put that in your article?”

“That you said bullshit?”

She nodded.

“No, I’ll leave that out, as fascinating as that is.”

He was teasing her. Her cheeks tingled under the heat of her flush. He was flirting with her. What was he playing at? A tactic to get her onside and divulge more information? No doubt the strategy worked for him with other women. But Megan McCoy did not let men get the upper hand. Ever.

Megan McCoy was not what he expected. She looked softer in person, less harsh, almost vulnerable. Her bio had her age at thirty-two but she looked mid-twenties. There was a dusting of cinnamon-coloured freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her dark blonde hair fell below her shoulders, curling at the ends. She had blue eyes that narrowed when she was thinking, and a full mouth. She was not the typical DC trophy wife. She was pleasant enough to look at but she was miles away from being beautiful by anyone’s standards.

James needed to reconsider his position. He really needed to speak to Ben McCoy if he was going to get to the bottom of the situation regarding Seth Blair’s car accident. The reporter had been dead for less than forty-eight hours, and there had not been a mention of it anywhere in the press. There wouldn’t be if James could not prove foul play. The police would not touch it based on the circumstantial evidence he had so far, but James knew Ben McCoy was somehow involved. He felt it in his gut and he was going to prove it.

James pulled in to Albi’s Steakhouse. He offered Megan his hand, and she hesitated before allowing him to help her out of the car. She looked more like a scared mouse than the take-no-prisoners Assistant District Attorney she was reported to be. He found it hard to believe this was the Ice Queen defence attorneys hated go up against. She had a reputation for being a tenacious ball breaker. Even judges did not want to get on the wrong side of her, apparently she was whip smart and knew case law better than anyone practising in the District and she was not afraid to tell people when they were wrong. Those were the rumours, but they did not square with the nervous woman in front of him.

A waiter seated them at a table overlooking the river.

“So what drew you to a career in law? Why are you a prosecutor?” he asked once the waiter had taken their order. Admittedly it was a lame question, but he had not prepared to speak to her. He’d only gone through with the meeting so he did not throw up any suspicion with Ben.

Megan took a long sip of her iced water and eyed him dubiously. “Really, you want to know why I work for the DA?” She tapped her fingers on the white linen table cloth. “I suppose I want to put bad guys away.”

“Why do you specialise in domestic violence cases?”

She turned to look out the picture window. Slender fingers touched her neck as she cleared her throat. “Off the record?” she asked, turning back to him.

He nodded. None of this was going in a story anyhow, but now he was interested.

“I like taking down men who prey on vulnerable people. I would be just as happy to try a man who abuses his position, let’s say, by tapping phones, intimidating witnesses and failing miserably to cover it all up,” she said pointedly.

There was no question she was talking about his father. His jaw clenched. No matter where he went he could not get away from the fact that Conrad Emerson had violated every ethics law known and paid for it with his freedom. His father’s actions had brought GMN to the brink of collapse only a few years ago, but James had worked his ass off to bring the company back stronger than ever. Shame some people could not see past his father’s sins.

“Most people just think that, they don’t actually say it.”

“I was thinking worse,” she said.

“Well then, congratulations on your restraint. But don’t hold back on my account. Tell me what you really think.”

“Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure? Cause I’m Southern, I have to be absolutely certain you want to hear the truth. It’s what passes as manners where I come from.”

“Tell me.”

“I think journalists are vultures. They violate people’s privacy and are more interested in titillation than news. They pretend to be providing a public service but more often than not they are just appealing to the lowest common denominator. I’m glad your father went to prison. It proved that no one is above the law.”

James took a drink of his iced tea and wished he had something stronger. She might look sweet but she had an edge. Perhaps he had underestimated her. “I doubt you’re as happy as I am about his incarceration.”

Megan blinked. She looked around the room, presumably to make sure no one was within earshot. “Is this the part where you tell me all about your integrity? It was all daddy. You didn’t benefit at all from his felonious actions. But oh wait you did. You are now the sole owner of a multibillion dollar corporation. You came out quite well in the deal.”

“Did I? My reputation was in tatters. There are still ignorant people far too eager to tar me with the same brush.”

“I prefer my insults indirect. If you want to call me ignorant, say it,” she challenged. Her tone was sweet, in direct opposition to her message.

“Trust me, if I’d wanted to insult you, you’d know all about it. I don’t think you’re ignorant by the way. Wound a bit too tight, yes. Quite possibly a bitch, but not ignorant.”

She smiled like he had just complimented her. He had indeed underestimated her.