Reese: The Untamed. Susan Connell

Kelsey Gates couldn’t find proof that that cowboy, Lucas Caldwell, was Harrison’s son.” Lifting the worn material from the cot, she held it up to the light to see if the sheet was worth mending. Her gaze darted to the man next to her. “Eugene, don’t look at me that way. I’ve known Kelsey since our days at Northwestern, and if there was anything of substance to sink her teeth into, she wouldn’t have let go until she had her story on the front page of the Los Angeles Times.”

      Pursing his lips and shaking his head, Eugene Sprague stared alternately at the sheet and the woman holding it. Bundling up the sheet, Beth tossed it in the discard pile before turning her full attention to the man dogging her. “And don’t try intimidating me with your patronizing expression. I do care about getting President Pierson reelected and you know it.”

      “I’m not questioning your dedication. But if you think sorting sheets in a shelter is the best you can do to help your country…well, you’re not living up to your potential. Besides, how can you stand working so many hours in this place?” He leaned forward again, this time pushing aside her shoulder-length curtain of curly hair. “It stinks in here.”

      Taking a quick look down the rows of cots, she concluded that none of the people who occupied them had heard him. “Don’t you think I know that?” she asked, grabbing him by the lapel. “Don’t you think they know that?”

      “All right, all right,” he said, avoiding her boiling gaze. “You shouldn’t take things so personally, Beth.”

      “Somebody has to take this personally,” she said as the sense of injustice burned in her stomach. “And before you trip over that glib tongue of yours again, I think you should know that I spent a part of my childhood in places like this. They didn’t smell any better then, either.”

      “I know all about your childhood,” he said, peeling her fingers from his suit. “I also know about your life now. And you can spare the time for what needs to be done.”

      Eugene Sprague’s practiced smile and relentless attitude got him in and out of problem situations with the majority of women on President Tyler Pierson’s reelection staff. But not with Beth. She gave him a look that would have leveled most men.

      Smoothing his lapel, Eugene shrugged. “You knew when you came to work for us that your life would be under scrutiny. The security of the president comes first.”

      Planting her fists on her hips, she stared at the president’s campaign manager. “I understand the need for the initial checks into my background, but what’s snooping into my private life now got to do with President Pierson’s security?”

      “Calm down. We tried checking into your private life,” he said evenly as he looked around the cavernous room. “But you don’t have one.”

      She shoved a hand into the soft tangle of curls touching.her shoulder and shifted her stare up to the rafters. Just when she thought she’d come to terms with her past, she felt the shame creeping back in. Why couldn’t she manage to put the memories of her childhood behind her and make a life for herself? Dammit, she’d been in her Bethesda apartment for six months and she was still living out of boxes. Here she was, a college-educated, twenty-seven-year-old, reasonably attractive woman making a respectable salary in a much-sought-after position on Pierson’s reelection staff. Yet her goal of stability still eluded her. What was wrong? Why couldn’t she bring herself to take a step toward greater permanency in her life?

      “Beth? Are you with me?”

      Working a stiff smile onto her face, she lowered her hand as she turned to the man in the three-piece Armani suit.

      “Get real, Eugene,” she said, tucking her T-shirt into her jeans. “What’s flying me off to the French Riviera to chase after some playboy going to accomplish?”

      “I don’t believe he’s just some playboy. Ever since your reporter friend got us excited over her cowboy, my people have been working day and night on the old rumor about Montgomery and his French mistress. Beth, if this rumor is true and you can prove Reese Marchand is Montgomery’s bastard…”

      Beth winced. “And just how would I do that?”

      “You’re an intelligent woman. You figure it out,” he said, sliding a glance over her body. “Montgomery was crazy for blondes.” He shrugged. “Maybe…like father, like son?”

      “I’d do just about anything to keep the president in office, but what you’re suggesting amounts to—”

      “I’m not suggesting anything, Beth. All I’m saying is go to the Riviera and check this guy out.”

      “Check this guy out?” She slapped a hand over the political slogan on her T-shirt. “And who do I look like? Jessica Fletcher? Forget it. I have work to do right here in Washington.” She made a move to pass him, but he sidestepped with her.

      “Let’s not be hasty.”

      “Send someone else,” she said, pushing him aside and moving down the aisle to the next cot. “Like I said, my schedule is full with my responsibilities at campaign headquarters and the hands-on work I do at this shelter. And need I remind you that that’s exactly what President Pierson’s been asking for,” she said, pulling off the sheet and shaking it in his face. “A little hand-son work.”

      They both waited until a man in a tattered shirt and shabby pants walked by on his way out of the shelter. Beth glared when Eugene pressed his precisely folded handkerchief to his nostrils.

      “Consider what you’re being asked to do as a different kind of hands-on work,” he said, his thinning patience evident in his tilted head and tightened voice. Raising his handkerchief to silence her retort, he continued, his lips barely moving as he scanned the immediate area. “Look, Beth, I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but President Pierson doesn’t have time to press for passage of that housing bill you’re so fond of quoting from.”

      “But he’ll make time,” she said, tugging at the mattress until she’d turned it over. “Just this morning his press secretary announced—”

      “Pierson’s got to get himself elected to another four years in the Oval Office first. And we’ve got to do our part to ensure that that happens. If we fail, then you can spend all the time you like volunteering in places like this.”

      Laughing softly, she tsked and shook her head. “You’re putting too much stock in last night’s CNN poll,” she said with a confidence she was finding harder to hold on to by the minute. “Remember what you told me when Harrison Montgomery got the nomination? You said, ‘This campaign is no longer a sailing cruise. We’ll be riding a roller coaster. But never fear. We’ll arrive at the end the way we started out, in the first car. All you have to do is hold on and—’”

      Eugene Sprague dropped his pricey leather case to the cot and took hold of her elbows. “Listen, do I have to spell it out for you? The campaign’s in trouble. Big trouble. And if we don’t turn up something substantial on golden boy Montgomery soon, you can kiss that housing bill goodbye, because he sure as hell isn’t going to come through for it.”

      The weight of his words had her weak at the knees. Fluctuating opinion polls were one thing, but when the head of the reelection campaign smelled imminent defeat, it made her head spin. Her entire life had led to this job. Every indignity she’d ever suffered, every embarrassment she’d ever endured, every leftover doubt she had about herself would be exorcised once she saw that housing bill signed into law. She lifted her gaze to meet Eugene’s. He let go of her, and reached to smooth his hair, then straighten his tie.

      “What the president’s asking you to do isn’t so different from what you’re dealing with here,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the pile of sheets. “Instead of some nameless nobody’s dirty linen, it’ll be Harrison Montgomery’s.”

      Taking a step backward, she bumped into a cot. Shock coupled with momentum sent her downward to the bare mattress. The only words that registered were Eugene’s first seven. “Are