Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(91)

And now her heart was threatening to come crashing out of her chest for a whole new reason, because she could think of only one explanation for the lack of inflection.

Don’t! she wanted to scream at him. Don’t say it didn’t mean anything to you! Don’t say you weren’t moved!

She opened her mouth to do just that. But, thankfully, she was saved from making a colossal ass out of herself, from being dubbed Queen of the Needy Bitches, when Ghost, dressed in a tuxedo and looking very dapper indeed, knocked on the doorjamb.

“Sorry to disturb, folks,” he said, his black eyes taking in the scene, taking in her heated cheeks and Rock’s blank stare.

“Non,” Rock shook his head, setting aside his guitar, “it’s okay. Is it time?”

“Yup.” Ghost nodded. “Squeeze into that penguin suit, my friend. We’re about to saddle up.”

“Be down in two,” Rock said, and Ghost nodded before turning away, his black patent-leather shoes making no sound on the hall floor.

“Rock, I—”

“Chere,” he cut her off, “now’s not the time for this.”

And, yeah, she knew that, but she just couldn’t help herself. She needed to know what he was feeling, what he was thinking in that stubborn, denial-prone head of his.

“I know, but I—”

“Rock!” This time it was Boss hollering from below who interrupted Vanessa. “Get your ass down here. Time’s wasting!”

One corner of Rock’s goatee lifted as he shook his head. “Becky accuses the man of bellowing like a bull. I think she’s right.”

Watching him push up from the bed, she decided to bite her tongue—for now.

But once this thing was over?

Oh, boy, you better believe she intended to call him on the carpet. She was done being patient and sweet. They were going to settle this thing between them, one way or another…





Chapter Twenty-four


The Peninsula Hotel, Chicago…

Cracking the bathroom window, Donna Ward kicked off her killer pumps—killer as in they looked killer, and killer as in they were total foot assassins—before she boosted herself up on the wide, peach-tiled windowsill and fished out the lone cigarette and the tiny BIC lighter she stored in her clutch.

And, yeah, yeah, medical degree or not, she knew she shouldn’t smoke. But nothing soothed her like a long drag on a Marlboro, so she allowed herself this one teeny, tiny vice. Slipping the filtered end between her lips, she glanced at the door, assuring herself she was alone, before flicking the wheel on the lighter. Orange flame shot up, and then?

Heaven…

That first puff, that initial drag was always the best, the smoky taste of tobacco, the little buzz at the back of her head. She inhaled slowly, savoring every second, stretching her neck from side-to-side to work out the kinks.

Marcus did well tonight.

And he’d looked very handsome up there giving his speech, so wholesome and all-American. That’s what had initially attracted her to him all those years ago, that choir-boy face and perfect politician hair. Of course what kept her attracted was his ambition and determination to leave his mark on the world.

The only other person she knew who was more driven than herself was Marcus. And she liked to think she’d helped him get to where he was today. Liked to think he’d help her, too, once he made it to the Oval Office. Marcus had believed in the viability and necessity of The Project when she’d written that thesis. And he’d been just as dejected as she’d been when the CIA withdrew the funding for it.

Of course, he’d never approve of her going it alone all these years, but what Marcus didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He’d have been especially furious to find out she’d used some of the funds she’d…appropriated—she didn’t care for the word “stolen.” It had a criminal connotation and she was certainly no criminal—in order to fund his campaigns, but Rock’s and Billingsworth’s deaths assured her he’d never find out.

And yes, she thought as she took another drag on the cigarette, it’s terrible it had to come to that. But the lives of those two men when compared to the lives I’ll save once Marcus is in power and reinstates The Project are immaterial. It’s for the greater good.

After her brother’s death, she’d done everything for the greater good. Everything she planned to do in the future would be for the greater good. But first, she needed to help get Marcus into office. And without the funds from The Project to bolster his bid for the Party nomination, Marcus needed to shine brighter than ever to in order to drum up financial support. And, as his wife, she needed to shine with him. Which meant she probably shouldn’t get caught smoking in the bathroom like some high school delinquent.

Allowing herself one last, long drag, she held the smoke in her lungs, luxuriating in the sensation, before she blew it out the window. Hopping down from the windowsill, she stubbed the cigarette in the sink and ran cold water over the tip before tossing it in the trash. Frowning, she slipped back into her pumps, checked her hair in the fancy gilt mirror above the long line of sinks, spritzed some Binaca onto her tongue, and turned for the door.

She was in the process of tossing the little tube of breath freshener into her clutch when she pushed into the long hall. Which was probably why she didn’t see the man who stepped up behind her, throwing a baseball glove-sized hand over her mouth.