Free Campaigning for Christopher by Katy Regnery

naïveté of a callow candidate, he had promised to pull out all the stops and win. “Anything ethical,” he’d said. And yet someone dirty dealing and corrupt had trapped him into this fresh hell. And now she—the living, breathing virago of his destruction—was also his only salvation.
    “Do it for us, Chris,” said Simon softly. “We’ve come too far.”
    Christopher inhaled sharply and looked at . . . who? Who was she?
    “What’s your name again?” he said and the words, which were the same he’d asked flirtatiously of her on Saturday night, made him wince.
    “Julianne Crow.”
    He nodded. “Is there a paper trail for the money you took to drug and frame me? A check? A bank transfer?”
    “No,” she responded, two patches of pink highlighting her tan, high cheeks. “I didn’t . . . No, there’s nothing like that.”
    Good , he thought, staring at her blush with surprise. At least she has some shame and decency.
    “Why’d you do it?” he asked.
    She took a deep breath, staring at him, her back and neck ramrod straight, her chin high. “None of your business.”
    “ Fuuuuuck !” he exclaimed, his cooling temper zipping back up to blistering as his eyes blazed with fury. “It goddamn well is my business.”
    “No,” she said, shaking her head, which made her pitch-black hair sway lightly around her shoulders in a way that was decadent and sensual. “It’s not. The p-past is done, and I am here offering amends. You can reject them or accept them, but you are not entitled to m-my secrets.”
    If he didn’t hate her to the depths of his soul and the ends of time, he would have taken a moment to truly admire her composure and the quiet strength of her response. She was right. He didn’t have a right to her secrets, but damn if it didn’t bother the fuck out of him that she’d tried to destroy him. He wanted to know why, even if it wasn’t his right.
    The crowd outside was getting rowdier, and faced with no choice, he nodded. At least she’d dressed for the part of politician’s girlfriend, in a simple dark blue dress that hugged her Christina Hendricks–style curves, a simple silver necklace, and heeled shoes. She looked beautiful and classy, and if she wasn’t such a calculating bitch, Christopher would have been honored—and incredibly turned-on—to stand beside her.
    As it was? He’d do his damndest to ignore the turned-on bit.
    “Fine. We’ll do it. You’re comfortable doing the talking?”
    She flinched noticeably before nodding. “Yes.”
    “This doesn’t change what you did,” snarled Christopher, watching as her eyes hardened to black onyx.
    “I am well aware of that.”
    He reached for the doorknob. “After you.”
    ***
    Faced with hundreds of eyes staring back at her, Julianne recited Oun she la yea, Oun she la yea over and over again in her head. Have compassion on me. Have compassion on me.
    For someone with a light stutter that got markedly worse when she was nervous or upset, the thought of speaking in public was an unadulterated horror. But after she spoke to Ina , she had promised herself that she would make amends to the best of her ability, and if that meant giving an impromptu speech to a sea of reporters, so be it.
    She stepped out onto the narrow stoop, moving to the side so that Christopher could stand next to her. As the door to his headquarters clicked shut, she felt his arm slip around her waist, and she battled the sharp desire to lean into him and try to find some comfort in his closeness. He was intensely, incredibly handsome, but his hatred of her surrounded him like an implacable shield, and she knew there would be no comfort in his eyes, no warmth in his touch.
    He leaned down close to her as the cameras flashed like crazy. With his breath kissing her ear, he growled, “Fucking smile. This was your idea.”
    She swallowed, lifting her chin and plastering the warmest, most engaging smile on her face that she could muster, despite the fact that she