A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2)(48)

“Is that my mom?” Lindsay whispers, horrified. “What is she doing outside? She hates walking on sand.”

Given that the Bosworths have lived in this oceanfront estate for all of Lindsay’s life, the contradiction makes no sense.

Then again, when you understand Monica’s all about appearances, it fits.

“We need privacy, Monica.” Harry’s hand slips around her waist, the gesture intimate. Lindsay stops moving, staring at the sight with a gentle interest that breaks my heart. Harry and Monica have always struck me as a political couple, their marriage a business arrangement.

The idea that there’s any love between them – other than the love of power – is surprising.

Monica rests her head on Harry’s shoulder and laughs. “Oh, you. Mr. President.”

“Not yet.” Harry’s low voice carries on the wind. Lindsay’s watching him with rapt attention, her eyes bouncing from her mother to her father. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

I have to close my eyes and fight the memory of my own parents, so different. Mom and Dad loved each other with a public reverence I found annoying as a teen.

When I look at Lindsay, I feel the same intensity my parents had for each other.

“Can’t be any longer than the road we’ve already traveled, Harry. We have to spin this Drew mess,” Monica says.

Lindsay cuts away to me, mouthing Drew mess?

I shrug. I stroke her arm as she leans into me, her warmth calming. Soothing. I’m still ten thousand live wires on the inside, though the current’s turned down. Too much input. I need time to process everything, and hour by hour my situation worsens.

Lindsay smiles at me.

Or not.

“I’ve taken care of it,” Harry replies.

“Nolan Corning is three steps ahead of you, Harry. He’ll use Drew against us.”

Nolan Corning. There’s that damn name again.

“Let him try. Drew’s being targeted. It’s all a witch hunt. I had to fire him, but I won’t throw him under a bus.”

“Why not?” Monica asks. Lindsay’s amusement drains out of her face, lips tight.

“Oh, please, Monica. You’re not a stupid woman. It’s plain he’s in love with Lindsay and she loves him back.”

“What does Lindsay know about love, Harry? When did you become so soft?” Her tone is chiding, feminine and alluring. “I’m worried she’ll get hurt again.” Monica’s voice carries a self-righteous note. “He hurt her so much, Harry. I can’t bear to watch that again.”

Lindsay looks like she’s ready to unleash claws on her mother. Or hug her. Could go either way. Shock ripples through her face as Monica’s words of concern for Lindsay sink in.

“I made a terrible mistake last week, Monica. I have to unendorse Blaine.”

“What? Why? You can’t be viewed as a waffler. That’s political suicide.”

“Not waffling. Just...remember that briefing on the incident? About who the men in the masks were?”

Monica goes quiet.

“Yes,” she finally says, her voice filled with skepticism.

“I have confirmation it’s true.”

A sharp intake of breath ends with a breathy squeal of outrage. “That little shit! Blaine really was in on it? Nolan never said a word.”

Nolan? What the hell is going on here? Why does Harry’s party rival continue to come up?

Lindsay makes a snorting sound. Monica and Harry turn.

“We can’t let them see us,” I hiss, pulling her closer. Lindsay loses her footing and crashes sideways into a big batch of ground brush, squealing slightly as her leg disappears in the greenery.

The click of multiple weapons sighted on us, then the flurry of bodies moving not-so-covertly fills the space around us. I thrust my hands in the air, red laser dots covering my shirt like crooked constellations.

“I’m clear! No weapon!” I shout, knowing exactly how protocol works. Getting shot isn’t high on my list of priorities right now. Two agents surround Harry, two work on me, patting me down until they’re satisfied.

“He’s fine. Not a threat,” Harry announces.

Monica snorts just like Lindsay did a moment ago. “What are you doing here, Drew?” Monica shouts, her voice a hard knife blade. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

The look Lindsay gives me says, I’m sorry.

“He’s being an ass, Daddy. Following me here while I was on a run.” She points to her earbuds. “Listening to some Jane’s Addiction.” She stresses the word Jane.

Jane.

Right.

“Escort him off the grounds,” Harry says in a monotone, as if telling his personal assistant to hang the dry cleaning on the back of his office door. I’m no one. Nothing.

Not worth emotion.

It hits me.

That’s a good thing.

Because when you don’t elicit an emotional response from people, what are you?

Invisible.

I’m perp-marched off the grounds, where I find Mark Paulson leaning against the main gate, shaking his head slowly.

“Someone located your car.” He nods to a black SUV. “They’ll take you to it.” He sighs. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”