“Ever see photos of the senator’s oldest daughter?”
Chase shook his head. “Just a glimpse of the twins or a grainy background shot. Why?”
Roman laughed. “I just think you’ll like what you see. Elevator’s this way.” He pointed left.
“From a professional standpoint, I like everything about the Carlisles.” Because barring scandal or stupidity, the high-profile, good-looking senator was on his way to the presidency. And Chase intended to use his local connection to make one helluva journalistic splash.
Roman laughed. “You do realize that when I asked about Carlisle’s daughter, I wasn’t talking about work?” He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. You’re always on top of things, always the professional.” He sobered. “You know, I learned from you.”
The pride in his voice made Chase feel like a fraud. Roman had accomplished more in his lifetime than Chase ever had.
“And you’re right,” Roman said, oblivious to Chase’s inner thoughts. “This story gives you the perfect opportunity to break out of small-town coverage. With the right angle, you could get picked up by one of the bigger papers.”
At his brother’s words, Chase’s adrenaline began pumping in a way he couldn’t remember experiencing, not since he’d stood at his father’s funeral and buried his dreams. But patience and family loyalty had paid off. Chase’s time had finally come.
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The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. “It just so happens, I have that right angle. The one that’ll put you ahead of the other guys following Carlisle’s scent. Want to know what I didn’t tell you on the phone?” Roman asked.
“Sure.” Chase dropped his duffel to the floor and glanced at his brother, his body humming with anticipation.
“Charlotte is friendly with Madeline Carlisle. She was a customer in her lingerie store here in D.C., but they’ve become friends. Good friends. Madeline doesn’t give many interviews, but I can get you an exclusive, one-on-one with the senator’s wife.”
Roman’s eyes gleamed with excitement and Chase’s anticipation heightened, the thrill of a big story tantalizing him, arousing and heightening all his instincts. “Roman?”
His brother glanced up. “Yeah?”
Chase wasn’t a man comfortable or good at expressing his feelings. His brothers were used to his long silences. They understood him better than anyone. He inclined his head. “Thanks.”
Roman studied him through hooded eyes. “I’d say I owe you this one, but you’d probably haul off and deck me. Let’s just say you’re damn good, you deserve it, and leave it at that.”
Chase nodded. “Fine by me.”
“Last thing,” Roman said as the elevator door reopened and the dark parking garage appeared. “D.C.
isn’t just good for political intrigue. It’s got its share of willing women as well.”
Chase frowned. “I thought you were happily married.”
“I am. But you, big brother, aren’t.”
Sloane Carlisle attempted to pair her beloved fuchsia minidress with a staid black jacket, then cringed at the result. A Betsey Johnson original was meant to be seen, not covered. With regret, she relegated the outfit to the back of her closet along with the rest of her retro wear. She couldn’t possibly put on such an outrageous color, short skirt, or bared-back halter. Not tomorrow, the day her senator father would announce his decision to accept the presidential candidate’s offer to be his running mate in the next election.
She sighed and pulled out a powder blue Chanel suit and laid it on her bed. Though not her preference, the conservative choice was much more appropriate for Senator Carlisle’s oldest daughter. Although Sloane often felt like the odd sibling out in a political family that enjoyed the spotlight, she understood the necessity for thinking before she dressed, spoke, or acted, just in case the press was sniffing out a story.
And Sloane always performed as her family expected.
Twenty minutes later and half an hour early, she stood outside her father’s hotel suite. Her parents had set up temporary residence in the D.C. hotel, leaving their home in New York State behind. And now they planned one last intimate family gathering before the media frenzy began.
She was about to knock when the sound of angry whispers carried toward her.
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“I will not stand by and see twenty years of hard work disintegrate before my eyes.” She recognized the voice of Franklin Page, her father’s campaign manager, right-hand man, and longtime friend.
Frank frequently overreacted in order to prevent a crisis, and his bellowing didn’t frighten her now. She raised her hand to knock on the door, which had been left open a sliver, when Frank’s assistant, Robert Stone, spoke, preventing her from intruding.
“You say this Samson man claims to be Sloane’s father?” He snorted, his disbelief evident.
“He more than claims.”
Sloane sucked in a startled breath and clenched her fists. His words couldn’t possibly be true.
Jacqueline and Michael Carlisle were her biological parents. She had no reason to believe otherwise. But her stomach rolled and nausea threatened.
“Does he have proof?” Robert asked in a voice so low Sloane had to strain to hear and she missed Frank’s reply.
“Doesn’t need any. Michael verified it.” Frank spoke, this time loud enough for her to hear. “He just refuses to act in his own best interest and do anything about this Samson person.” A brief pause followed. “Dammit, don’t you know better than to leave the door open? Michael and Madeline will be back from shopping any minute. He can’t hear what we have planned.”
“Which is?”
“Give us some privacy and I’ll explain everything. This man Samson is a threat to the campaign. And any threat has to be eliminated.”
Frank bellowed, but he never made idle threats. Sloane swallowed hard just as the door slammed shut in her face, leaving her on the outside of her father’s suite and, if Frank’s words were true, on the outside of her own life.
By the time dinner finally ended, Chase had had more of his brother and sister-in-law’s matrimonial happiness than he could stomach in one sitting. While Roman took a tired Charlotte home, Chase decided to check out the D.C. nightlife and the singles scene. After some asking around, he found the perfect hole-in-the-wall bar around the corner from his hotel where he could kick back and relax.
He ordered a Miller Genuine Draft and took in the scenery, which consisted of a pool table, a small, scarred dance floor, varied beer signs hanging on old paneled walls, and not much else. Until the door opened and she walked inside, a vision in a dress so pink, so short, so bare, it ought to be illegal.
No matter what his brother thought, Chase wasn’t a monk. He’d just kept his social life discreet in deference to his fatherlike status, and over the years, the habit stuck. Most recently he’d hooked up with Cindy Dixon, who lived in Hampshire, the next town over. They were friends who’d begun sleeping together when the whim struck, neither wanting to be indiscriminate in this day and age. The arrangement satisfied Chase physically, but no longer inspired him, so he wasn’t surprised when this sexy siren captured his attention.
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Russet-colored hair cascaded past her shoulders in thick waves, making him itch to run his fingers through the unruly strands. Chase tightened his grip around the bottle and let out a slow groan. One glance and he wanted to know her. All of her.
“She’s a hot number, all right.” The bartender swiped the counter down with his rag. “Don’t think I’ve seen her in here before. I’d remember if I had.”