The Boss And His Cowgirl

Two

Georgie waited in the master bath huddled in her borrowed robe until all sounds diminished outside. She didn’t know what to do about her ruined clothes. Wrinkling her nose didn’t help dissipate the smell of smoke. She blamed her reaction on the Phobia Twins—Nycto and Claustro. When the lights had gone out in the already shadowy backstage area, she’d panicked. Like an idiot.

When the security guard found her, she’d screamed like the blonde cheerleader in a teen horror movie. She’d lost count of the times she’d fallen and scraped herself up before he arrived. Then there was that whole thing on the loading dock, in the SUV and at the hotel entrance when— She cut that thought off.

She wanted to bang her head on the nearest hard surface. Her nerves and emotions were caused by fear. Not Clay Barron holding her hand. Or carrying her. Or...nope. Clothes. She had to deal with her clothes because they reeked of smoke and stink bombs.

Checking the trash can, she found an extra folded plastic sack. She mashed the clothes into a ball and stuffed them into the bag, spinning it and tying it off. She shoved the whole thing into the trash. Georgie briefly considered digging out her bottle of spray cologne and using it to drown the odor still lingering. Considering this was Clay’s bathroom, that probably wasn’t a good idea. Then she thought about using his cologne—the signature scent of almond, cedar, bergamot and lemon that never failed to weaken her knees. Nope. That would not be a smart move, either.

She slipped out of the bathroom, pausing at the master bedroom door to listen. A sports program droned on the big screen TV in the living area and she saw shoulders and a head silhouetted over the back of the couch. Her embarrassment sent her scurrying, but she stopped when the guy spoke.

“You all right, Miss Dreyfus?”

“Y-yes.” She didn’t recognize the voice and the man didn’t turn around, for which she was grateful.

“The senator and his party went to the fund-raiser. Their return ETA is midnight. Mr. Tate moved your things into the guest room next to his on the far side of the suite.” He lifted his hand and gestured before continuing. “If you’re hungry, I’ll order room service. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know. I’m Glen.”

She clutched the lapels of her robe closer to her chest. Food was the last thing she wanted but she desperately wanted a Diet Coke. “Hi, Glen. Is there... I saw a kitchen. A Diet Coke, maybe?”

“I’ll have one sent up, miss.”

“Thanks. I’ll just be in my...room.”

She dashed across the open space and ducked into the bedroom the guard had pointed out. A lamp glowed next to the bed, on which the linens had been turned down. Her suitcase occupied a low bench. Checking the closet, she found her hang-up bag with her clothing inside. The case holding her personal care items had been tucked into the adjoining bath. While not nearly as opulent as the one in the master suite, it was far fancier than the bath in her previous room and was Architectural Digest-worthy compared to the one in her apartment back in DC. The room itself, even though it was probably the smallest bedroom in the suite, was magnificent. She needed to focus on something normal—as if brocade coverlets, silken accent rugs and needlepoint chair upholstery was normal. A hysterical giggle erupted from the back of her throat before she could stop it.

Digging through her suitcase, Georgie found her comfort jammies—worn sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Ways to win my heart...1. Buy me coffee 2. Make me coffee 3. Be coffee.” Not that she was a caffeine addict. Much. She wondered if there was a coffeemaker in the kitchen. If she couldn’t sleep—and she suspected it would be hard—she’d go look. Coffee would be a godsend.

A light tap on the bedroom door had her scrambling back into the robe. “Yes?”

“I’ve got your Coke, and the hotel doctor is here to see you.”

“Doctor?” She’d forgotten, in the midst of her mortification, that Clay had offered to send a doctor. Georgie opened the door a crack and a kindly face with wild black eyebrows peered at her over Glen’s shoulder. “Miss Dreyfus, I’m Dr. Bruce. The senator asked me to look in on you.”

“Um...sure. Come in.” Glen handed her a bottle of Diet Coke so cold it still had little bits of ice clinging to it.

“I’ll be right out here, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Ouch. She was only thirty. She pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and nodded, suddenly reminded of her dowdy looks. Stepping back, she opened the door wide enough for the doctor to enter.

He waved her toward the edge of the bed. “Do you mind sitting here, Ms. Dreyfus? I fear I’ll need to do some prodding and poking. I hear you’ve had quite a day.”

The snort escaped before she could stop it. “You could say that.”

“Are you wearing anything under the T-shirt? Perhaps a tank or bra?”

Georgie blushed. “Oh, yeah. That would probably keep both of us from being embarrassed. Just a sec.” She grabbed a spaghetti-strapped tank and dashed into the bathroom. She whipped off her sweatshirt and pulled the tank on before returning and settling on the bed once again.

She had to lift the tank so he could see her torso. Dr. Bruce tsked at the bruises staining the ribs on her right side and her cheek. He hmmed at the knot on the back of her head. “You’ve got quite a collection of injuries, young lady. Are you in discomfort?”

“Only when I laugh?” She waggled her brows and the man smiled.

“Good to have a sense of humor, Ms. Dreyfus.” He made sure her eyes were equal and reactive then checked her blood pressure, temperature and other vital signs before continuing. “You were lucky. You’ll be sore for a few days, but the bruises will fade in a week or so.” He coiled his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag before digging around in a side pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and wrote on it before retrieving a bottle of pills. He emptied six into the envelope and handed it to her. “I don’t see signs of a concussion so I’m prescribing a light sleep aid. I suggest you take two tonight and then use the others as needed. Take one at bedtime over the next few nights. I’ll also leave you some cold packs to help with the bruising and the bump. Once you get back to Washington, I want you to see your regular physician if you continue having trouble. Any questions?”

“No, sir. I’m good.”

He patted her on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Ms. Dreyfus. That’s the best thing for you.”

The doctor opened the door and Glen almost fell through. Her guard was taking his duties seriously. He ushered Dr. Bruce out, shutting the door behind him. Georgie looked at the envelope and debated the pros and cons. She hated taking medicine but suspected the doctor was right. She’d replay the day’s events—especially Clay’s actions—on an endless loop guaranteed to keep her tossing and turning all night. Clay. She had to stop thinking of him by his first name. The senator. Her boss. The unattainable symbol of every feminine fantasy she’d had since the day she’d first walked into his campaign headquarters ten years before.

“Argh!” If her head wasn’t already pounding, she might beat it against the wall. “Georgeanne Ruth Dreyfus, you are a complete and utter idiot.” In self-defense, she shook two pills into her palm, twisted the top off the Diet Coke and took her medicine. Settling in bed, she snuggled into a world-class pillow.

* * *

The song “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” invaded her dream. Over and over. Georgie fumbled for her cell phone but it wasn’t on the bedside table. The song stopped and she snuggled back under the covers, her brain as foggy as San Francisco Bay. She’d barely closed her eyes when the song played again. This time she threw off the covers and went hunting. She found the blasted phone in the side pocket of her messenger bag—the bag with the strap that broke yesterday when she tumbled off the loading dock, but was now perfect.

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She didn’t remember bringing it from the car last night and there was no way it could have been repaired. The phone stopped ringing, again, and she noticed the price tag still attached to the intact shoulder strap. This wasn’t her bag, even though it was full of her stuff. Hers was a cheap knockoff. This one was the real deal, according to the amount listed on the tag.

Before her brain could cycle through the implications, the phone sang a third time. She answered with a snarled, “What!”

“OMG, Georgie! Are you okay? I’ve been so worried and then you didn’t answer and where are you and are you all right, what happened—” Jennifer Antonelli, her best friend, paused to inhale.

“Slow down, Jen. How did you know something happened?”

“How did I know?” Jen’s voice rose in pitch. “How did I know? Georgeanne, you’re all over the morning news!”

Her stomach dropped. She found the remote control for the television and thumbed it to life. Scrolling through, she found an all-news channel. And sank to the edge of the bed, her legs no longer steady. “Oh, no. The cameras. I’m screwed.”

“Georgie! What the heck happened yesterday? And were you really rescued by the senator?”

She had to put her head between her knees and breathe to keep from hyperventilating and passing out. “Dang, dang, dang,” was all she could manage.

Jennifer had no such handicap. “What did it feel like? Is he as strong as he looks? I mean, gracious! He scooped you up and carried you away like...like...I don’t know who! Holy cannoli, girl. Clay Barron was like Kevin Costner in that movie where he rescued Whitney Houston. Georgie? Georgie, are you listening to me?”

“Shush, Jen. I’m trying to hear the commentary on TV.”

Voices droned in the background as footage played of the Tate brothers hustling her—clothes torn, knees bloody—into the rear seat of the senator’s SUV. Clay looked shocked and angry as he ducked back inside to make room for her. The scene changed to their arrival at the hotel. The guards jogged up and opened the back door. Clay emerged holding her hand. Holding her hand? Georgie couldn’t breathe for a minute and then, moments later when she stumbled and he swept her into his arms, she choked.

“Oh, God.” Panting, she resumed her head-between-knees position.

“Georgie? Georgeanne! Speak to me. Are you okay?”

“No. I need to die. Like right now. No. I would have been better off dying last night. Oh, Mother Goose, Jen. I am so screwed.”

“You keep saying that! What happened? Have you been holding out on me?”

“No. Oh, dang it, dang it, dang it.” Georgie needed coffee. Stat. There was still liquid left in her Diet Coke bottle. She gulped it down and glanced at the clock. Five-fifteen. Arizona didn’t do Daylight Savings Time so it was just after 7:00 a.m. in Washington. She rubbed her face and eyes. This was bad. Really bad. How many times had she dreamed of a romantic interlude with the senator? Way too often, but never played out in front of cameras. And reporters. On the national news.

Memories crowded in and she swayed. “He saw me, Jen,” she whispered into the phone.

“Saw you? What do you mean?”

“In my bra and panties. I...I panicked. He... I think he held me in his lap.” In full panic mode, she fled her bedroom, praying there would be a coffeemaker in the kitchen. And stationery. So she could write out her resignation letter. How in the world was she going to face Clay this morning? Sprinting through the living area, she barely noticed the bodyguard jumping to his feet. She sort of waved him back to his chair with a vague motion of her hand.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she murmured when she spotted a Keurig machine and a display of K-Cups. “Coffee, Jen. Coffee first.”

“You okay, Miss Dreyfus?” The guard watched her warily from just beyond the granite bar separating the kitchen from the dining area.

“Yeah. Yes. Coffee. I just need coffee. Sorry to have disturbed you. Um...carry on.” She wanted to head-slap herself. Carry on? Seriously? Her foot tapped a jittery rhythm as the machine performed its magic. Once she had a fresh-brewed latte in her hands she could breathe again. Almost. She drained the cup in a few gulps and brewed another.

“Who are you talking to and I’m still waiting for an explanation, missy,” Jen hissed through her phone.

“Shhh. I have to get back to my room.”

“Back to your room? Where are you?”

“I’m in the senator’s suite.”

Ducking her head, she dashed back to her room and shut the door, ignoring the guard’s grin as she ran past him. “Okay. I can think now. Maybe.”

“How in blue blazes did the senator see you in your underwear and please tell me it was the nice stuff and not the ratty granny panties you normally wear!”

“The protesters yesterday. There were smoke bombs. And...they cut the lights, Jen. I was backstage. I fell and banged my head. Tripped on the darn stairs and fell again.”

“Jiminy, girl! Are you okay?”

“I have some wicked bruises.” She touched the back of her head. The lump remained but wasn’t as tender. “And thank goodness, I have a hard head.”

Jen’s voice turned sly. “Did the senator kiss all your owies to make them better?”

“Jennifer Marie Antonelli, he did not!” Casting a worried glance at her closed door, Georgie lowered her voice. “It wasn’t like that. He was holding my hand because he was being nice. And then I tripped getting out of the car because all the camera flashes blinded me. My glasses were smeary and you know how blind I am so—”

“And the man picked you up like you were a fairy-tale princess and carried you off to his castle.”

“Well...sort of. They’re worried about security because of the protesters so I was moved into his suite. There’s lots of room. I mean serious room. Four bedrooms, five baths, all the amenities.”

“You’re stalling, Georgie. I don’t want a travelogue. I want the down and dirty.”

She inhaled and blew her breath out through puffed cheeks and pursed lips. In a resigned voice, Georgie recounted the events, ending with, “Then he left.”

“Wait. You played strip Jeopardy?”

“My boss saw me in my undies and you’re making up games? And what part of him holding me and...and...” She started to hyperventilate again. “OMG, Jen. I have to resign. I can’t face the man.”

“Breathe, Georgie. Does he have any idea how you feel?”

“You mean have I told him that I love him like crazy and have since the moment I met him? Oh, yeah, right. I definitely confessed that to him last night.”

“Your sarcasm is showing. That’s a good thing. It means you’ll be okay. But you can’t quit, Georgie. You have your dream job. Besides, if the man can’t look beyond your tighty-whities and see what a jewel you are, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Awww, Jen. Loyal to a fault. But they were red.”

“I’m serious. You’re just panicky. How many times have you had to put your head between your knees this morning?”

Laughter burst from Georgie’s mouth. “Too many.”

“See? I know you. Now, grab a shower. I’d tell you to put on something sexy but you don’t own...wait! Red? You own red panties?”

“And a red bra.”

“Are they lacy?”

“Well...um...no.”

“Just as I thought. Now go put on your business suit of armor, get more coffee and do what you do best—work. Okay?”

Georgie nodded then remembered Jen couldn’t see her. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m always right. I’m your BFF. Keep me posted. I never want to find out stuff like this from the news ever again. Capisce?”

“Capisce.”

Three

Clay stared at the press briefing folder lying front and center on his desk. He did not want to open it. He’d already seen the news coverage of yesterday’s fiasco. The file would hold hard copies of clippings and photographs from print media and the internet. Georgie would have put together a digital file of clips, too, and emailed it, but she knew his preference for paper. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled so he could look out the window. A few of the more lurid headlines made him roll his eyes.

Senator Protects Aide à la The Bodyguard

Barron Rescues Damsel in Distress

Senator Barron—Hero in Disguise

All the articles led with a photograph of him sweeping Georgie into his arms to carry her. He leaned forward, tapping two fingers on the photo. Georgie must have been up before the Arizona sunrise to cull all the stories from the New York shows and national press and prepare them, though she evidently had gone back to bed. She’d been asleep when he returned from the fund-raising dinner last night. The night guard said she’d taken some prescribed sleeping pills and went right to bed. Her door wasn’t locked so Clay had peeked in first thing this morning and she’d been curled up in a semi-fetal position under a thick pile of bedcovers. Then he’d walked into the suite’s study and found his desk set up just like every other working day.

Boone rapped his knuckles against the door and sauntered in, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. He inclined his head toward the open file. “You’ve seen the headlines.”

Nodding, Clay shuffled through the file, barely glancing at the various photos and clippings. “And the coverage on all the news channels. Your take?”

“You should have a nice bump in the next poll, especially in that all-important women’s vote. They’ll see you as heroic and dashing now. Let’s face it, you’re already the most eligible bachelor inside or outside the Beltway, and we all know you’ve got the Barron good looks.” He chuckled. “Tates are more handsome, but you Barrons aren’t bad.”

Boone reflexively caught the pen Clay tossed at him then sobered. “In all seriousness, now you have that intangible mystique that will draw women. I’m sorry Georgie got caught in the middle, but those protesters did you a huge favor.”

Clay growled under his breath. He, too, hated what had happened to Georgie. Her tears just about undid him. He couldn’t deal with tears. Hadn’t since— He cut off that thought, only to have it replaced by the memory of cradling Georgie in his arms—with very little between them. He’d wanted to take care of her. And maybe a little more. Doing so would have been taking advantage of a bad situation. He was not his father or his younger brothers. He could keep his libido in check.

The curves he discovered when he’d held her had been a surprise, and seeing her in that cute, if rather prim, red lingerie left no doubts. He halted that train of thought and reminded himself that Georgie was...Georgie. She dealt with the press, wrote his speeches and corralled a large portion of his staff. Boone was his right hand and she might as well be his left. Clay kept reminding himself of that. She was his employee, even if thoughts of her made him shift in his desk chair looking for a more comfortable position. Unlike his father, he didn’t dip his pen in company ink.

“Is she still asleep?” Clay needed to see her, talk to her.

“Don’t think so, but she’s not coming out of her room.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No.”

Was Boone fidgeting? “Spit it out, cuz.”

Boone stepped fully into the study and closed the door before dropping into a side chair. He put on what Clay called his “headmaster” face before asking, “What happened last night?”

“Happened?”

“Yeah. What went on between you and Georgie while I was packing up her stuff and replacing what had been ruined?”

“That’s none of your business, Boone.”

“It is if it affects the operation of your office. The two of you spent a lot of time in the bathroom. Alone. With the door shut.”

Leaning back in the chair, Clay studied the man he trusted maybe even more than his own brothers. He weighed the pros and cons of disclosure and finally told Boone about their encounter in the bathroom.

“Ah...okay. Yeah. I can see why she’s avoiding us this morning, especially given the publicity. Speaking of which, what in the world possessed you to pick her up?”

That was one question Clay hadn’t asked himself. “I was right there. It just seemed...prudent.”

Boone’s face scrunched into a disbelieving scowl. “Prudent? Dude, there’s not enough preplanning and money in the world to pay for that visual so I’m not complaining, but one of the security team could have caught her.” He arched a brow. “Of course, I’m still trying to figure out why you were holding her hand in the first place.”