Scandals Of The Rich. Lynn Raye Harris

plan had been to protect his family from scandal—but really, was that the reason? His father had been in office for over two decades now. Would the news his son had knocked up a girl really shock anyone enough that they might not vote for him if he ran for president?

      But what if Zach knocked her up and abandoned her to raise the child alone? Yeah, that might raise some heads. But so what?

      It was his life, not his father’s. Besides, his father had people who spun these things for him. Any scandal of Zach’s, unless it involved criminal activities, wasn’t likely to touch his father’s career—or the funding for the veterans’ causes that Zach worked so hard to obtain.

      His plan, such as it was, had little to do with protecting anyone, if he were truthful.

      And everything to do with the odd pull Lia Corretti had on him.

      He wanted her, even if his brain had had trouble figuring that out at first. He’d nearly sent her away. He could hardly credit it at this moment.

      “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

      His gaze slewed her way. She was toying with the remains of her omelet. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to tell her what she wanted to know.

      But he couldn’t. How could he say the words? He’d never said them to anyone. And if he did, what would she think of him? Would she look at him with terror or pity in her expression?

      He couldn’t bear either.

      “It’s not you,” he said, because he didn’t want to see that hurt expression on her face. She had so much to be hurt about, he realized, now that he knew about her father and what he’d done to her.

      Rotten bastard. If the man was still alive, Zach would love to get his hands on him.

      He blew out a harsh breath. “It’s just … I don’t talk about what happened out there. Not to anyone.”

      “It’s okay. I understand.”

      She wasn’t looking at him. He walked over and tilted her chin up with a finger. Her eyes were liquid blue, so deep he could drown in them.

      “Do you?” he asked.

      “Yes.” Her voice was firm. “I know what it’s like to have things that hurt you. Things you can’t talk about.”

      The idea anyone had ever hurt her made him want to howl.

      She reached up and wrapped her hand around his wrist. It was a soft touch, gentle—and he felt the ricochet effect all the way down to his toes. If he kissed her now, here, would she kiss him back?

      “But if you ever want to talk about it,” she was saying, “I’m here.”

      Here. His. He lowered his mouth, brushed his lips gently across hers. Her intake of breath made a current of hot possession slide into his veins. He wanted to hold her closer, kiss her harder.

      Instead, he lifted his head and walked away.