“When your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?”
Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasn’t so sure.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust?
“Your father did mention that you’ve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.”
Rowena’s father didn’t even know the half of it. “I guess it’s made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.”
“If I came on too strong, I apologize.” He paused. “That happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.”
Dear Reader,
My husband and I have something that we like to call “Mole Stories.” I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.
After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day I’m looking at my husband’s chin, and I ask, “Didn’t you used to have a mole there?” Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage he’s usually had either a full beard or goatee, so it’s not too weird that I’m just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kid—completely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to “keep an eye on it.” Eventually it started to fade, and now it’s gone.
As he’s telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the “mole story” was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadn’t heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.
Which has nothing to do with the book, but it’s kind of a cool story on its own.
Until next time,
Michelle
About the Author
MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.
Bedroom Diplomacy
Michelle Celmer
To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.
It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.
An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.
And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.
One
Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her father’s personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, “He said to tell you that he’s on his way over now.”
“And…?” Rowena said, knowing there was more.
“That’s it,” Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.
“You’re a worse liar than I am.”
Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, “He wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.”
Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. He’d demanded—not asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anything—that she have things in order. He’d suggested, not for the first time since she’d taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and inept—labels that he apparently would never let her live down.
She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees—about the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.
She could be in the world’s worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, she’d had little interest in children. Now she couldn’t imagine a more satisfying career choice.
And she knew, if she wasn’t careful, he would take that away from her, too.
“He’s never going to trust me, is he?”
“He put you in charge.”
“Yeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.”
“He does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
Having been her father’s assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowena’s mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senator’s protégé.
And people wondered why Rowena was so screwed up.
Was, she reminded herself. “Who is it this time?” she asked Margaret.
“A British diplomat. I don’t know much about him, other than that he’s lobbying your father to support a tech treaty with the U.K. And I think he has some sort of royal title.”
The senator probably loved that. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
“Good luck, honey.”
The buzzer sounded, announcing her father’s arrival. With a heavy sigh she pushed herself out of her chair, took off the paint-smudged vinyl smock she’d worn for the morning art project and hung it on a hook in the closet, then headed through the activity room and out to the playground to open the gate, which was kept locked at all times. To keep not only the children in, but strangers out. With a man as powerful and influential as the senator, and the day-care center on the grounds of his estate, one could never be too careful.
Her father stood on the other side, dressed for golf and wearing his plastic politician’s smile. Then her eyes settled on the man standing beside him.
Whoa.
When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere