“Fear is—” The light on his phone dimmed and he glanced at the battery indicator. He flicked off the flashlight app, but the home-screen light cast a soft glow over Georgie’s face. “Sorry. I’m down to the dregs of battery life. We can go outside, into the bedroom.”
“No. There might be monsters under the bed.”
Clay studied her face in the ghostly glow of his cell. A hint of a smile tweaked her lips. Good. This was the Georgie he knew and...liked. Yes, definitely liked. He liked Georgie. She was his employee. He was only keeping her company in his bathroom because she’d had a traumatic day.
“I promise to slay the monsters.”
“Or legislate them out of existence?”
“I can do that. I’ll introduce a bill in the Senate. And then I’ll take you dancing in the dark.”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“Springsteen.”
She blinked at him, her eyes owlish behind the lenses of her glasses. “You’re a fan of the Boss?”
“Hey, just because I grew up on Waylon, Willie and the boys, doesn’t mean I don’t have refined tastes in music.”
That elicited a giggle. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“Sort of.”
“Then yes.” He eased down to the floor, stretching his legs out. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark here—”
“Peter Sellers!”
“I’m sorry. You didn’t phrase that in the form of question.” He winked at her.
“Oh, getting technical, are we? Fine. I’ll take Dark for three hundred, Alex.”
“Hmm. Okay.” The light from his phone blinked out. Clay didn’t like Georgie’s quick inhalation. He tapped the phone, thinking it had just gone into sleep mode. Nothing happened. “Sorry, Georgie. I think the battery died.”
“O-okay. Um...can we keep playing?”
“Sure. Dark for three hundred, right?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! Got one. Michelle Pfeiffer plays the family matriarch in this—”
“What is Dark Shadows?”
Georgie laughed as he huffed in pretended frustration. “How did you know that?”
“Clay, your crush on Michelle Pfeiffer is not exactly a secret around the office.”
“It isn’t?” He did his best to sound both shocked and innocent, but damn if he didn’t like the sound of his name coming from between her lips. He couldn’t remember if she’d ever called him by his first name—at least not up close and personal like this.
“I’ll take Dark for a thousand, Alex.”
He racked his brain for an answer and when it came to him, he grinned. “Come to the dark side. We have cookies.”
A sound that was a cross between a giggle and snort erupted from Georgie. “How do you even know that?”
The next thing Clay knew, Georgie was laughing—a deep belly laugh that almost lit up the dark with its happy sound. And just like that, the lights blazed, chasing the shadows away. As she dissolved into more laughter, relieved this time, he joined her. This was a side of Georgie he appreciated—her irreverent sense of humor. Working, she was reserved, thoughtful, erudite. She had a way of boiling down an issue into sound bites. She was knowledgeable and intelligent and he thought of her as his personal... His thoughts trailed off as he stared into her eyes—eyes a shade of green he was currently trying, and failing, to describe.
With a start, he realized Georgie was no longer laughing. She’d devolved into hiccuping sobs. He hated tears. The women his father married too often resorted to them, but Georgie’s were real and earned. He gathered her close, stroking his palm down her back in long caresses.
“You’re okay, Georgie. You’re safe.”
She nodded, fighting for control. “I know. I’m...” She sniffed, looked around for a tissue, then gave up and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe. “Sorry, boss. I’m okay. Just...nerves. I hate the dark. Hate small spaces, especially in the dark.”
“Want to tell me?”
She shook her head but words tumbled out. “I was a kid. Got trapped in our old storm cellar. In the dark. Took my folks a couple of hours to find me.”
He tightened his arm around her and fought the urge to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah, that would not be fun.”
Georgie snuffled again so Clay reached for the roll of toilet paper and ripped off a strip. She took it and tried to discreetly wipe, then blow, her nose. Once she appeared composed, he disengaged and stood. “Why don’t you stay in tonight, Georgie? You deserve a night off.” When she nodded, he opened the door and edged toward it. “I’ll get out so you can shower.”
She nodded so he helped her up, made sure she was steady and once again retreated. He listened at the door until he heard the shower and then met Boone and Hunt in the living area of the suite. He gave his orders, grabbed clean clothes from his room and ducked into Boone’s room to clean up.
Georgie was still in his bathroom when he was ready to leave for the donor dinner. Part of him wanted to stay, but the practical part, the politician he’d been born, bred and raised to be, marched out of the suite led by his chief of security and trailed by his chief of staff. Georgie would be fine. She had to be. He didn’t stop to contemplate why that mattered so much.
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