Blood Red

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DAPHNE

I’m going to kill the President of the United States.

Okay, I wouldn’t really kill my dad, but after tonight, it’s tempting. I’ve done so many favors for him, but coercing me into a freaking date is a new low.

There’s no way to track the countless hours I’ve wasted at galas, charity drives, and political networking events.

I’ve sat in dunk tanks and painted kids’ faces.

Hell, I’ve even been puked on by a senator after he ate a rotten oyster.

But setting me up on a date with a Congressman’s son? It’s beyond the pale, even for Dad.

And the President’s done some crooked shit.

“So, Daphne, enough about me.” Connor McArthur flashes a whitened smile that screams, ‘I spend more money at the dentist than most people do on their mortgage.’ We’ve crossed paths at events, but this is the first time conversing one-on-one. Hopefully, it’ll be the last.

Connor clears his throat. “Dad says you went to school for communications?”

“That was my major,” I admit. “But I don’t think it helped.”

“You work for Senator Furt, right?”

Unfortunately.

“I’m one of his schedulers.” It’s a fancy title for someone who manages the senator’s press conferences and arranges travel for the uptight prick who should have retired when President Bush was in office. The first Bush.

As I sip the last of my appletini, Connor nods in approval. “Nice. Where’d you go to school?” He pauses, waiting for me to name some Ivy League university.

Instead of answering, I slam back the last drops of sickly green liquid. For such a swanky cocktail bar, could they not have skimped on the booze? How else am I supposed to survive at least another hour with Connor?

The President of the United States thinks that matching his daughter with the son of his ally will push some bill through the House of Representatives quicker so it lands on his fancy desk. The same desk where President Clinton allegedly did not have sexual relations with that woman.

“Does it matter which school I went to?” I ask. Thank God I didn’t attend Harvard, or Connor might think we have something in common. He didn’t shut up about his alma mater for twenty freaking minutes.

“You’re joking, right? ‘Which school?’ Dad said you had a sense of humor.” He winks at me with a fake smile that hasn’t reached his eyes all evening.

Though his eyes do light up when our size-six waitress walks past.

I flag her down for another drink, but she must have missed me because her eyes lock on Connor like a Navy missile. She shoots him a coy smile before sauntering off with an extra sway in her hips.

Honey, he’s all yours in an hour. Right now, I need to pivot this conversation to business.

“I went to Georgetown. Say, didn’t your dad go there for law school?” I ask.

“He did. So did my grandfather. And my great-grandfather.” Connor’s smile softens as he rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Please, no. I know enough secrets to pose a serious threat to national security. Well, not really. Dad wouldn’t trust me with the passcode to the pool house, but from what I overhear daily in the senator’s office, well… I hear a lot.

I fake excitement the same way I fake orgasms—like a pro—and pretend to be super-duper excited for what he has to say. Bobbing my head and widening my eyes, I lean in.

“Dad was furious that I chose Harvard over Georgetown,” he says.

“You know, family legacy and all of that.” Connor hasn’t shut up about who he knows from his good old Harvard days—like he didn’t graduate five years ago.

He’s like a sixty-year-old stretched into a twenty-seven-year-old’s body.

“At least it wasn’t Yale.” He laughs like it’s some sort of inside joke.

If I break his Rolex, would the watch hands fit far enough into my ear canals to puncture my eardrums? Maybe then I won’t have to listen to him anymore.

“Excuse me, I need to use the little boy’s room.” Connor shuffles out of the booth, not a single wrinkle in his bespoke Tom Ford suit as he saunters off toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.

My lungs expand like I’ve held my breath underwater, waiting for him to go away.

God, I wish I had a Secret Service agent with me tonight.

One hand gesture and they’d get me out of here.

But no, Dad only provides me with a security detail whenever I travel outside of D.C.

Otherwise, security is someone driving by my house every hour and sometimes staying parked out front when there’s a terrorist threat or international relations are strained.

Shame I don’t have any real friends to get me out of a situation like this.

Isn’t that what most women do—have a built-in backup who can swoop in with a fake emergency?

Someone who calls in a fake panic and says, “Hey, Daph. Grandma just died. Ditch Harvard Boy and come over so we can spill the tea.”

Alas, when your Dad has always been in the spotlight, people don’t care about you.

They only want to get close to me to get to my father.

Growing up, I never knew who to trust, so I built a wall around my heart.

Really, it’s more of a fortress, and it’s epic and totally impenetrable—complete with a drawbridge, moat and crocodile.

It’s like I’m in that bubble scene in Labyrinth, desperate to get out as the clock of my life ticks away in this political hellhole. Only there are no chairs to throw, and my Goblin King isn’t real. It’s just masks and that hazy feeling that something’s not right.

“Miss?” The waitress stops at our table with a frown as she rests a red and orange glass in front of me. “This was sent over from the blond man at the bar.” I turn around to notice a man gazing at me from across the restaurant. He lifts his beer glass with a friendly smile.

I hold back the urge to ask if it’s really for me. I’m not the type of woman that men pick up at a bar. I’m the secret Tinder hookup they don’t talk about—the invisible fat friend around my old sorority sisters—the means to an end.

All the men in my past made me feel like I’m only marginally better than their hand. Disposable Daphne.

I’m not entirely convinced the blond man is looking at me and not our waitress’ ass.

The waitress darts away, and without her hips obstructing my view, there’s a clear line of sight to the man rising from his seat.

He buttons his jacket, then retrieves his beer and beelines straight for me.

His brown eyes lock onto mine. It’s impossible not to notice his nineties-heartthrob vibes with tousled hair that has a rolled-out-of-bed look.

The bar’s warm light glints off his horn-rimmed glasses as he halts in front of me.

He resembles those rare, golden-haired heroes who pop up in the romance novels I read. Why are they always tall, dark, and handsome shadow daddies? Give me a well-built blond man with a friendly smile and dimples any day of the week.

“Hello.” His gravelly voice sends a rolling wave of goosebumps on my arms.

“Hi.”

“I hope I’m not being too forward.” His eyes brighten like he knows he is, but he doesn’t give a damn. “I noticed you from across the room, and you seem uncomfortable with your date. If you’re looking for better company, I’m available.”

Blondie’s attractive with his carved cheekbones and easygoing smile. He’s the kind of guy who swipes right on Tinder but leaves before I’m truly satisfied. The one who says he has an early meeting, so he can kick me out that night rather than confront his mistake in the daylight.

“You know,” I say, “of all the pickup lines I’ve heard, that’s not the worst.”

“Well, if you need an excuse to escape, you could give me your number, and I’ll call you when Abercrombie gets back from the bathroom. I’m happy to play your knight in shining armor.” He winks, and damn, that’s somehow more charming than his smile.

But I’m not a damsel in distress. White knight kinks aren’t my thing, but maybe they’re his.

“Tempting. But it’s not that easy to get my number.”

“Oh, really? I like a challenge.” The man taps the rim of his beer glass against my drink on the table. “Hope you don’t mind a tequila sunrise.”

“I haven’t had one in years. But thank you.” Taking the glass, I lift it to my lips. It’s not half-bad. At least it’s freshly squeezed orange juice, and there’s not a sickly amount of grenadine pooled in the bottom.

He rolls his shoulders back as he pushes away one side of his jacket to slide his hand in his pocket. His Breguet watch flashes in the chandelier light. Probably a knockoff, judging by his scuffed shoes that look like they’re from Target.

Nothing wrong with Target. Hell, I shop there. But when you’re wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar watch on your wrist and fifty-dollar shoes on your feet, the math isn’t mathing.

“So, what’s your poison of choice? I’ve always been a beer guy myself.”

“I can see that.” Does this guy think I’m blind? He’s cute, but Blondie gets more annoying the more he talks.

“Daphne?” Connor’s voice drifts back over to the table.

Great, now I’m cornered by two pricks in suits.

Connor slides into his seat, eyeing our unwelcome guest with suspicion. “Friend of yours?”

Before I can speak, Blondie jumps in. “Apologies. I thought she was alone.”

“Well, she’s not.” Connor huffs in annoyance, like his presence should be known, even if he’s not in the room.

Blondie’s chocolate brown eyes spark with amusement as he tugs his hand free from his pocket and rests it over his chest. “I didn’t realize you were on a date. Mea culpa.”

The liar!

His smile never falters as he returns to the bar, his cheeky grin reflected in the mirrors.

“You didn’t tell him you were on a date?” Connor’s disapproving frown makes my drink swirl around my stomach like a sugary hurricane.

“He was over here for, like, less than a minute.” Short enough for me to suspect Connor didn’t wash his hands. I chug most of my tequila sunrise, the cocktail coating my tongue in a film—but it’s still not strong enough to make this date any better.

Connor glances back over his shoulder at Blondie, whose attention is no longer on us. Instead, he sets his beer glass on the bar and retreats to the bathroom.

“Anyway, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” Connor asks with annoyance still thick in his voice.

“I was asking about your plans for the rest of the summer,” I lie. “Perhaps arranging a golf weekend with you and our dads in the Hamptons?” That’s not even close to what we were talking about, but I need to steer this towards Dad’s bill.

“Ah, right.” Connor’s smile widens, and I’m not sure if it’s from the thought of golfing or of rubbing elbows with the President. He’s shaken my dad’s hand numerous times at public events, but never at something as intimately casual as a golf outing.

Because golf courses are where the sausage gets made, and sure, Dad doesn’t need Connor’s meat to add to the mix, but he needs Connor’s dad—Representative Jerry McArthur—to push for this bill.

“I’ll have my girl set it up with our dads’ secretaries.” His girl? Jesus, does he think this is Mad Men or something? Someone please time-warp this guy’s mindset into the twenty-first century.

But something about that sounds… funny. And I giggle.

Connor arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me in confusion. “Are you alright?”

I wave my hand at him, like it’s fine. “Sorry, sometimes I get the giggles if I drink. I’ve always been a happy drunk.” Happy drunk? I’ve had two drinks. Maybe the bartender can make a strong drink.

My words make Connor’s smile meet his eyes—finally. “Well, in that case, I’ll get us another round.”

I giggle again as I chug the last of my cocktail. My tongue is a little numb, but I can still taste that fresh orange juice and tequila.

My head spins, like I stepped off a tilt-o-whirl at a charity carnival event. “Hey, Connor. Do you even like golf? I mean, like like it. Not like it because everyone on the Hill plays it?”

Connor shakes his head with a laugh, flashing a perfectly sculpted smile that would give an orthodontist a boner.

“Daph, you must be buzzed.”

I know I’m nodding because everything’s bouncing up and down, but I don’t feel my head moving. Numbness coats my skin, my muscles relaxing like I’m half a bottle of tequila deep, and not two weak cocktails.

“Hold that thought.” I raise a finger in the air as I wobble out of the booth and stagger towards the hallway to get to the restroom.

All I need is a bit of cold water on my face and a finger down my throat to get whatever alcohol I can out of my system. It’s not ideal, but that should clear my head enough to finish this date.

Maybe I should order a plate of truffle fries or something so there’s food in my stomach to soak up the booze. Mom would be pissed if I had a plate of fries all to myself. Maybe that’s all the more reason to order them.

Slamming my hand to the hallway wall, I guide myself toward the bathroom doors.

“Daphne, was it?”

Stumbling in my Louboutin heels, I spin to face the rough voice of a man standing behind me. A sparkling pair of brown eyes glint at me.

Then Blondie shoves me into the men’s bathroom.