flag on his lapel and full-size flag propped in the corner.
Congressman Harmon Braddock, a man for the people.
Yeah, the rich people.
Malcolm lowered the picture back into the box and shifted his attention to a few DVDs labeled Dad’s Campaign. He had no intentions of doing it, had no idea whether he was ready for it, but he opened the DVD case and slipped the first disk into the player and clicked on the TV.
Images of the first Braddock’s Victory Campaign Party splashed onto the screen. Malcolm and the entire family stood proudly behind his father, waving through falling streamers, balloons and confetti to a jubilant crowd holding flags, signs and bumper stickers in the air.
The corners of Malcolm’s mouth curved, the memories of that wonderful night warming his body. When the camera zoomed in on his father’s face, he pressed Pause on the remote control and then studied the face that was so similar to his own: open, honest and intelligent were adjectives everyone used to describe Harmon Braddock.
At least in the beginning.
Malcolm rolled his eyes at the voice inside his head that was determined to play devil’s advocate and unfroze the frame. But seconds later, he paused the picture again. This time the image filling his forty-eight-inch screen was of Gloria Kingsley.
He was surprised to see her—an unexpected beaming face in the crowd. He hadn’t known that she was there that night. Gloria hadn’t started working for his father until toward the end of his second term in D.C.
She couldn’t have been more than—what?—twenty-one. Of course, he had no idea how old the golden-eyed beauty was; it was certainly not something a man asked a woman, either. If he had to guess, he’d say she was twenty-nine. One thing was clear, Gloria Kingsley was pretty when she was younger, but she was nothing less than a knockout now.
A pain-in-the-ass knockout, but a knockout all the same.
The first time he’d met the woman was during a rare political fund-raiser his father talked him into attending. Gloria entered the ballroom in an unforgettable black, backless evening gown that had every man with a pulse tripping over his tongue.
Malcolm raced to her side, swiping an extra flute of champagne in his haste. When he offered her the champagne, she shot him down by telling him she didn’t drink, that his tie was crooked, and then inquired when was the last time his suit had seen the inside of a cleaners. From then on out, Malcolm didn’t like her.
Of course, she absolutely mooned over his father and could regurgitate ad nauseam every speech, point of view and interview the man had ever made.
Malcolm made it a point to stay away from her.
Still, he thought she was a gorgeous woman.
The doorbell rang, and Malcolm groaned his irritation and considered not answering the door, but by the time his uninvited guest rang the bell a fourth time, he hopped up and stormed toward it. When he snatched it open, his vast vocabulary failed to suggest a single word for his unexpected, albeit beautiful, guest: Gloria.
Chapter 2
Momentarily thrown off guard by the sight of the smooth, muscular, toffee-colored skin peeking from the open V of Malcolm’s burgundy robe, Gloria unconsciously licked her lips and fluttered a hand to her throat. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Malcolm’s groomed brows crashed together above his probing brown eyes a second before his rumbling baritone snapped impatiently, “What are you doing here?”
Stung by the rebuff, Gloria squared her shoulders and wielded a sharp look of her own. “Well, I certainly didn’t come here to stand out in the hallway.”
They stared at each other, locked in a stalemate.
Gloria had feared this would happen, especially judging how Malcolm went out of his way to avoid her at the funeral, but she had also resolved to camp outside his door if that’s what it took to get him to see reason.
Finally, Malcolm stepped back and allowed her to enter through a narrowed space. Refusing to be intimidated, she crossed the threshold. Her breasts brushed against what felt to her like molten steel; volts of electricity surged through her body. She jumped.
“Must be static from the carpet,” Malcolm explained, confirming he’d felt the charge as well.
She moved on, glanced around and was impressed by the simple decor and surprising cleanliness of a confirmed-bachelor’s pad. When she entered the living room, she froze and stared at her own image on the television screen.
Malcolm scrambled from behind her, grabbed the remote from the couch and punched the power button. Once the screen went black, the room roared with a strained and uncomfortable silence. “I, uh, was looking at some old campaign stuff and, uh, well, paused it when you knocked.”
“I see,” she said.
He tossed the remote back on the couch and faced her. “Okay. So you’re not standing in the hallway,” he said, reclaiming his previous impatience. “What is it that you want?”
Why Gloria’s gaze tumbled from his penetrating coffee-brown eyes to his deliciously plump lips at the question was beyond her. As to why her stomach looped into knots whenever she was around him? She didn’t even want to go there.
“First,” she began, and then cleared her throat from what felt like a sack of marbles clogging her windpipe. “I wanted to extend my condolences for your terrible loss, Malcolm.”
When he gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, she trudged on. “I know the past two years—”
“Stop.” Despite the soft tone, the order held the authority of a military commander. “I appreciate your coming here and all, but, uh, if you came looking for an Oprah moment, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you.”
Slowly, Gloria tilted her head side to side and cracked the bones in her neck while she prayed for patience. What was it about Malcolm that got under her skin? From the first time they met, the sarcastic know-it-all rubbed her the wrong way.
Why had she thought tonight would be any different?
“Anything else?” he prompted.
His abhorrent rudeness forced Gloria to silently count to ten. However, Malcolm took her silence as confirmation that she was through. He grasped her by the elbow to direct her back to the front door.
The touch of his hand shot off a few more sparks, but Gloria planted her feet and jerked her arm free. “I’m not finished yet!”
Malcolm sighed, rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets, widening the V of his robe and displaying a larger swath of honey-brown skin.
Gloria licked her lips again.
“Well?” he said, staring. “I’m sure you understand I’ve had a very long day.”
“I need you,” she said. When his brows crashed together again, she realized what she’d said hadn’t come out right. “I meant, I need you to come to Harmon’s—I mean, your father’s—office and help pack up his things.”
