barely visible beneath the cuff of her pants. “Might be hard to keep up with us in those.”
“They’re a campaign necessity.” Since he still pumped her hand, she leaned closer until she could almost smell the oil he’d used to comb over what few strands of white hair he had left. “You see, I double as campaign security. These heels are licensed to kill in ten of the fifty states.”
“At the price you paid, they should be illegal in fifteen.” Hamilton McCloud’s widow leaned against a doorway to Rosie’s left looking just as beautiful and composed in real life as she did on television…only taller. Her gray hair was cut stylishly short to accent the classic bone structure of her face. Vivian McCloud wore a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket that showed off her statuesque figure. “Women in Jimmy Choos don’t mess around, especially when those shoes haven’t gone on sale yet this season. Let her be, Stu.”
Stu reluctantly eased the suction on Rosie’s hand.
“So this is who you brought us, Walter.” Mrs. McCloud towered over Rosie as she approached. Casey didn’t get his height solely from the McCloud men.
Rosie was determined not to think about Samuel or the handful of days they’d spent together in Paris after her college graduation, but it was hard not to when she stood beneath his portrait with his mother bearing down on her.
“Only the best for our boy,” Walter said, giving his raincoat to the receptionist. “She’s strong on strategy and a compelling speech writer.”
Grateful for the distraction, Rosie handed the receptionist Casey’s Spider-Man umbrella, smiling sheepishly. Then she was shaking hands with Casey’s grandmother. The strength of Vivian McCloud’s grip rivaled that of a lioness protecting her young. This was a woman who’d be fearless against those who inflicted injustice and deception upon the McCloud family.
And yet, the guilt must not have shown on Rosie’s face because the McCloud matriarch still spoke warmly. “Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. Rosie DeWitt, political strategist.” Rosie prided herself on her composure. She was a pro, an up-and-comer with a solid reputation in politics. And a big fat li—
She would not define herself with the L word. Nor would she allow so much as a wobble in her high heels or succumb to the overwhelming desire to pass out. As long as Rosie kept her distance, stuck to her plan and didn’t get chummy with the McClouds, she and Casey would be fine.
“Ma’am? That reference makes me feel old. You may call me Vivian. Later on you can tell me where you got those shoes.”
“Thank you…Vivian.” So much for keeping her distance.
Vivian beamed. “This looks like the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Don’t you think so, Stu?”
“Let’s see what she can do with him first,” Stu said, gesturing to a door behind him.
With enviable composure, Vivian strolled past Rosie to the remaining closed door and opened it without knocking. “Hud, darling. Come see what Walter’s brought you.”
Stu and Walter followed Vivian, unaware that Rosie hesitated behind them glancing up at Samuel’s portrait and wishing for a cup of coffee.
CHAPTER TWO
“COME IN AND SIT DOWN.” Hud’s mother held the door as the jury filed in with a verdict—salvageable candidate or not. The quality of the campaign manager Walter O’Connell selected would be telling.
Hud stood and came around his desk to shake hands with Walter, who held the fate of his family’s political legacy in his hands. Hud nodded to Stu, but didn’t see anyone behind the chairman’s large frame. His shoulders sank. So, they’d decided Hud was unmarketable. He turned back to his desk.
His mother cleared her throat, inclining her head almost imperceptibly toward the door. Hud looked around to face a pixie with big dark eyes and long, wild black curls, including one artfully arranged on her cheek.
“Rosie DeWitt.” Cheeks flaming, she thrust out her hand.
Hud took Ms. DeWitt’s hand gingerly in both of his, afraid his normal grip might crush her delicate bones. Warm and soft, her hand fit nicely between his. Despite her solid reputation, there was no way Rosie DeWitt was capable of the cutthroat behavior that Hud needed from his campaign manager. Her hands were more suited to stroking a lover than greasing palms and salvaging careers.
As if sensing his assessment, her eyes flashed. She gripped his hand as firmly as any man ever had, gave it a good shake and pulled away. “You don’t want to shake a woman’s hand like that.”
The absence of her warmth robbed him of speech.
A state his mother never experienced. “Why ever not? I think it’s a sweet gesture.”
“Women see it as something more subtle and…” Ms. DeWitt gave Hudson a sideways glance as she crossed the room to set down her slender leather briefcase. “A bit suggestive.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Ms. DeWitt cut him off, digging in her briefcase. She knew he was lying. He could tell by the lingering bloom of color on her cheeks that she’d felt the attraction between them and was as surprised as he was by it. “But not everyone else knows your touch is platonic.” She pulled out a sheaf of papers and sank into a chair, gesturing for everyone to be seated as if this was her office, not his.
“Walter, what kind of game are you playing?” Hud asked, giving the woman a wide berth on the way to his chair. If he so much as brushed up against her she’d probably accuse him of sexual harassment.
“The kind of game you should have played when you were Senator McCloud.” Ms. DeWitt looked past his shoulder in the direction of Alcatraz. “Play up your strengths, admit your mistakes and move on. Do you want me to continue?”
“No,” Hud said at the same time his mother said, “Yes,” arching her brows at him when he frowned.
Okay. Points to Mother. This was going to be painful just as she’d predicted. Hud was tired of hearing advice on what he should have done. He wanted advice to help him today. His father’s clock ticked off the seconds Hud was wasting until Ms. DeWitt spoke again.
“According to a poll conducted by the party this week, one-third of registered voters believe Hudson did the honorable thing by stepping down, one-third considered his resignation an admission of guilt and one-third couldn’t care less about him.” Ms. DeWitt spoke directly to Hud’s mother, as if she knew Hud would be annoyed that they’d conducted a poll already. It gave them ammunition he didn’t have. “Now, if you look at women, two-thirds considered what Hud did honorable. We’ll need to keep the female vote happy, but at a distance. We can’t have as much as a breath of scandal.”
That explained her aversion to his handshake. Hudson made a derisive noise and rolled his eyes. “Fortunately, I’m not the womanizer my brother Samuel was,” he said before he realized his mother might be offended by his comment. Samuel had been her favorite.
But everyone ignored his outburst, including Ms. DeWitt. “We also asked who voters would prefer sitting down to dinner with—Hudson or the president—and they chose our commander in chief. Then we gave them a choice between Hudson or Samuel—and they chose Samuel.” She seemed unexpectedly pleased that Hud had failed both questions.
“What kind of question is that?” And how had Hud lost to his irresponsible, dead brother?
“It’s a standard question we ask,” Walter explained. “If voters don’t like you, they won’t vote for you.”
“I would have chosen the president, too,” Stu inserted almost absently.
His mother shushed their family’s longtime assistant.
Ms. DeWitt nodded. “If Hudson is serious about the election, he’ll