Sway (Landry Family #1)(3)

"In this world, everything can be a big deal. Trust me. You probably just saved my brother a couple of votes."

"Just doing my part," I laugh.

She smiles again, her chic sky-blue dress matching her eyes and heels. "Well, on behalf of the mayor, thank you. He seems . . . occupied, at the moment."

I wink. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn't see a thing."

She nods, looking a touch relieved, and thanks me again before turning away and greeting the older lady from earlier, the one that spilled her dinner all over me. Camilla takes her hand and helps her into a chair.

Her elegance is breathtaking and she has a charm about her, an easiness even though she’s clearly blue-blood, that I’ve never seen before. It’s exactly what the kitchen is buzzing about with Barrett—a charisma you can’t quite put your finger on.





Barrett

"I'M WET FOR YOU, BARRETT."

"I'm sure you are."

I wrap my arm around Daphne's narrow waist, letting my fingers splay against the red satin fabric covering her body. She moans at the contact, her eyelashes fluttering closed, and her head resting against my shoulder.

"How could I not be? You are so sexy," Daphne purrs, grabbing the lapels of my jacket and trying to jerk me towards her. "Please, Mayor Landry. Fuck me."

Squeezing her hips to hold her steady, I'm afraid she's going to get sick before I can get her out of here.

"Take me home with you, sugar. Take me to the bathroom for all I care, just take me," Daphne thinks she whispers as I guide her to the foyer of the Savannah Room.

Her not-so-quiet request gains the attention of the men in suits lining the marble walls. They look at us, the Mayor of Savannah and the daughter of a United States Senator, over their tumblers of gin. A few crack a grin, but most just nod and turn back to their discussions about oil or the stock market.

Not one man with the requisite American flag pin on his suit jacket is appalled. This may be the South, where people like to think it's all gentility and manners, but it's also politics, and it has its own code of conduct that morality has no place in. Politics equals power, but it also equals fortune, a bit of fame, and a lot of pussy, and these men take full advantage of it all.

And so have I.

But these days, with the gubernatorial election on the horizon and my campaign numbers strong but not enough to make me a shoo-in, I have been more selective in my extracurricular activities. My eligible bachelor title earlier this year, along with some pesky pictures of me with a couple of models at a party in Atlanta, didn’t help my campaign. My adversary, a bastard named Homer Hobbs, has taken the angle that I’m just some spoiled little rich kid that can’t be trusted with the keys to the Governor’s Mansion. That’s one angle. There are others.

“Are you coming home with me?” Daphne slurs against my shoulder.

“You know I can’t do that,” I say, pausing while she catches her balance. “I have to stay here and entertain the masses.”

She giggles. “Why don’t you come entertain my ass instead?”

Fighting to hide my frustration, I hurry her along as best I can towards the exit.

“So many people came to see you,” she gushes.

“Let’s hope that translates to votes.”

“You need my daddy’s vote, Barrett?”

Her tone, a babyish whimper, makes me roll my eyes. I know exactly what she’s on her way to pointing out.

Yeah, I’ve fucked her and I’m not saying I won’t replay that. But I’m not fucking her tonight for her daddy’s endorsement. It wouldn’t be a sexual transaction tonight; it would be an implication of power, of necessity, and I’m not about to step into that.

The oversized door is pushed open by a man in a green-vested suit. He tips his hat. "Mr. Mayor, may I summon your ride?"

"No, thank you, I'll be staying for a while. Can you please see that Ms. Monroe gets home safely?"

I slide my arm from around her waist and watch her teeter on her heels. Her black hair is a mess, her dress wrinkled and clinging haphazardly to her body. She's starting to nod off, and I'm embarrassed for her. The daughter of Miles Monroe, she should know better than to publicly embarrass her family. It's the political Golden Rule, a rule that's simply not broken without severe consequences.

I slide a hundred dollar bill into the valet's palm. "Please get her out of here immediately."

"No problem, sir. I have a car waiting. Anything else?"

"That'll be all."

I turn on my heel to see my father across the hall. He winks, running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and excuses himself from the conversation that's taking place around him.

He falls in step beside me as I make my way into the banquet. I spy my mother, Vivian Landry, in conversation with a judge on the Georgia Supreme Court.

"Nice move, son," Dad drawls, patting me on the shoulder as we walk. "We're going to need Monroe’s support. Your numbers are solid, but Monroe's endorsement would make sure you win. That precinct—"

"I know, Dad."

He shakes his head. "I know you know. I'm just saying I know he'll be appreciative of you getting her out of here. What in the hell was she thinking?”