Free Campaigning for Christopher by Katy Regnery Page B

it was covered in frost, and she felt his fingers curl almost painfully into her hip.
    Keep it together, Julianne. Finish it up.
    She lifted her chin, taking a shaky breath.
    “Christopher d-didn’t want me to, um, to speak today. He said that he would, um, figure out a way to explain what had, um, happened, without involving me. B-but, I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him stand out here, um . . . alone,” she said, turning to him and hoping he could see that she was speaking the truth. “We should have been m-more, um, more discreet.”
    His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened for a moment, before he grinned and turned to the mic. “But that’s young love for you!”
    The crowd chuckled with enthusiasm, and Julianne heard light applause.
    “We’ll take a couple of questions,” said Christopher, easing the clench of his fingers. He nodded to a reporter in the back. “Max, go ahead.”
    “Max Klein from the Philadelphia Sentinel . Miss Crow, are you—as the reports have indicated—Native American?”
    “Yes,” she said, finally turning away from Christopher’s handsome profile, carved in granite for all the warmth he offered her. “I am a m-member of the, um, the Oglala Lakota Nation.”
    “Johnny,” said Christopher crisply, adroit at dealing with the press. “You next.”
    “Why were you waitressing at Jessica Winslow—pardon me—Jessica English’s wedding?”
    “I, um, I m-model. I mean, m-modeling is my real job. I just waitress to, um, m-make ends meet.”
    “You’re dating a millionaire, Jules! Let him foot some of your bills!” yelled someone in the back.
    “This is one independent lady. She wouldn’t hear of it,” said Chris, who paused to graze her cheek with his lips and whisper with contempt, “She makes her own money . . . any way she can. Doesn’t she?”
    Refusing to rise to his bait or let him derail them, she turned to face him with her warmest grin.
    His gaze darted away from her fast, like it hurt him to look at her. Or disgusted him. Which she knew it did.
    “Two more questions,” he said. “Yes. Belinda.”
    “What about the allegations that you have a drinking problem, Mr. Winslow?”
    Julianne’s eyes shot with vengeance from Christopher’s face to the reporter’s, nailing the genesis of the question with an unforgiving glare.
    “He isn’t an alcoholic. Not even a little bit. We were p-playing with those, um, those liquor bottles. I told him I wanted to do an, um, ‘intoxicated with l-love’ photo shoot with m-my new lipstick, and . . . and . . . that’s all we were d-doing. He was staging a silly photo shoot for his, um, his m-model girlfriend. That’s all it was!”
    “Did you say ‘intoxicated with love’?” asked a reporter in the front row.
    Julianne shifted her gaze from the offensive woman in the back to the reporter, nodding sadly. “We were just having fun.”
    “Christopher,” said the journalist, winking at Julianne, “would you say you’re intoxicated with love?”
    “Oh, Cliff. I would say, beyond any shadow of doubt, this woman is one of a kind.”
    Before she could think, Christopher had grabbed her far hand and laced his fingers through hers, turning her to face him. And for just a moment, his eyes held the same searching newness they’d held on Saturday night.
    The heavens and a million stars.
    “So that’s a yes?” confirmed Cliff.
    “Beyond any shadow of doubt,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes.
    “Then how about a kiss?” pushed the reporter.
    “Kiss her!” yelled another.
    “Go ahead and kiss her, you lucky bastard!” cried another from the back.
    She saw the warm mask slip away, then the horror of his expression as his eyes darted to her lips with revulsion. Julianne bit her bottom lip, trying to telegraph to him with her eyes that they needed to just kiss and get it over with before going back inside, but she could see he was frozen with disgust.
    So she did what she had to do.
    Leaning forward,