Bedroom Diplomacy

“When your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?”

Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasn’t so sure.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust?

“Your father did mention that you’ve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.”

Rowena’s father didn’t even know the half of it. “I guess it’s made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.”

“If I came on too strong, I apologize.” He paused. “That happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.”

Dear Reader,

My husband and I have something that we like to call “Mole Stories.” I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.

After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day I’m looking at my husband’s chin, and I ask, “Didn’t you used to have a mole there?” Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage he’s usually had either a full beard or goatee, so it’s not too weird that I’m just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kid—completely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to “keep an eye on it.” Eventually it started to fade, and now it’s gone.

As he’s telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the “mole story” was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadn’t heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.

Which has nothing to do with the book, but it’s kind of a cool story on its own.

Until next time,

Michelle

About the Author

MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When she’s not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.

Bedroom Diplomacy

Michelle Celmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.

It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.

An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.

And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.

One

Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her father’s personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, “He said to tell you that he’s on his way over now.”

“And…?” Rowena said, knowing there was more.

“That’s it,” Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.

“You’re a worse liar than I am.”

Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, “He wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.”

Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. He’d demanded—not asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anything—that she have things in order. He’d suggested, not for the first time since she’d taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and inept—labels that he apparently would never let her live down.

She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degrees—about the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.

She could be in the world’s worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, she’d had little interest in children. Now she couldn’t imagine a more satisfying career choice.

And she knew, if she wasn’t careful, he would take that away from her, too.

“He’s never going to trust me, is he?”

“He put you in charge.”

“Yeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.”

“He does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

Having been her father’s assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowena’s mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senator’s protégé.

And people wondered why Rowena was so screwed up.

Was, she reminded herself. “Who is it this time?” she asked Margaret.

“A British diplomat. I don’t know much about him, other than that he’s lobbying your father to support a tech treaty with the U.K. And I think he has some sort of royal title.”

The senator probably loved that. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

“Good luck, honey.”

The buzzer sounded, announcing her father’s arrival. With a heavy sigh she pushed herself out of her chair, took off the paint-smudged vinyl smock she’d worn for the morning art project and hung it on a hook in the closet, then headed through the activity room and out to the playground to open the gate, which was kept locked at all times. To keep not only the children in, but strangers out. With a man as powerful and influential as the senator, and the day-care center on the grounds of his estate, one could never be too careful.

Her father stood on the other side, dressed for golf and wearing his plastic politician’s smile. Then her eyes settled on the man standing beside him.

Whoa.

When Margaret said British diplomat, Rowena had pictured a stuffy, balding, forty-something elitist with an ego to match his bulging Swiss bank accounts. This man was her age or close to it, and there was nothing stuffy about him. His hair was the color of dried wheat, closely cropped and stylishly spiky. His eyes were a piercing, almost eerie shade of blue that had to be tinted contacts, and were curtained with thick dark lashes that any woman would sell her soul for. And though he might have been a royal in title, the shadow of neatly trimmed blond stubble and a small scar bisecting his left brow gave him an edgy look. He was several inches taller than the senator, which put him somewhere around six-three. As lean as he was, he should have looked lanky; instead, he was perfectly proportioned.

The rebel in her said, Come to mama. But the logical Rowena, the mature adult, knew from experience that powerful, sinfully attractive men were the worst kind of trouble. And unfortunately, the best kind of fun. Until they took what they wanted and moved on to greener pastures. Or, as had happened with her son, Dylan’s, father, knocked her up and abandoned her. She punched in her code, opened the gate and let them in.

“Sweetheart, I’d like you to meet Colin Middlebury,” the senator said—sweetheart being a term he only used when he was milking his family-man image. “Colin, this is my daughter, Rowena.”

The man leveled those remarkable eyes on her and flashed her a grin that was as much smirk as smile, and her heart went pitter-patter.

“Miss Tate,” he said in a silky smooth voice punctuated by a crisp accent that, if she were still the type to swoon, would have had her fanning her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Oh, the pleasure is all mine, believe me. She glanced over at her father, who was wearing his behave or else look.

“Mr. Middlebury, welcome to L.A.,” she said.

“Please, call me Colin.” His grin, the slight lift of his left brow, made it feel more like a dare. And when he shook her hand, she felt a delightful little tingle.

Wow, it had been a really long time since a man had made her tingle. Most of the men her father brought around were stodgy old politicians with clammy hands, roaming eyes and greedy smiles. The kind whose power in politics made them believe they were irresistible to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts.

“Colin will be staying here at the mansion while we iron out the details of a treaty I’m sponsoring,” her father said. “Two or three weeks.”

This was usually the worst part of being a politician’s daughter—having to play the role of the polite hostess, when on the inside she was grinding her teeth. But when the guest looked like Colin Middlebury? Well, he could be the world’s biggest jerk, but at least the view was nice.

Looking in the direction of the playground, her father asked, “Where is my grandson?”

“He’s upstairs with his speech therapist,” she said. The main floor of the building served as the day-care center, while the upper floor was set up to accommodate a variety of physical, speech and occupational therapy equipment. That way her son, Dylan, could receive all the therapy he needed and she could run the day care without interruption. Her father’s idea, of course. Only the best for his grandson.

“When will he be finished? I’d like Colin to meet him.”

She glanced at her watch. “Not for another thirty minutes. And he shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Another time,” Colin said, and asked Rowena, “Will you be joining us at Estavez for dinner tonight?”

Heck yes. She would love to. But a stern look from her father made the correct answer to that question more than obvious.

“Maybe some other time,” she told Colin.

“Colin,” her father said, “why don’t you and I take a quick tour inside.”

“Fantastic,” Colin said, and maybe it was just the accent, but he sounded genuinely excited.

“I started this project two years ago,” the senator told him proudly as they walked to the building, not mentioning—he never did—that the initial idea had been hers.

“Hey, Row!”

Rowena looked across the playground to where Patricia Adams, the assistant manager—and also her best friend—stood watching the kids on the monkey bars. She fanned her face and mouthed the word wow.

No kidding.

Only a few minutes passed before her father and Colin reemerged from the building, and she could see instantly that the senator was in a huff about something.

“It would seem that someone left paint on the edge of one of the tables and it’s gotten onto Colin’s pants,” he told her, and while his tone was reasonable, his jaw was clenched and his eyes had that if-I-get-any-angrier-I’m-going-to-pop look about them.

Colin, in contrast, seemed unfazed, despite a rather large magenta smudge on his left pant leg. “It’s really no problem,” he said.

“It’s a water-based, washable paint,” Rowena told him. “A little soap and water should take that right out. I’m sure Betty, our housekeeper, can take care of it for you. But if for whatever reason they’re ruined, I’ll replace them.”

“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Colin said.

“Well, we should let you get back to work,” her father said, flashing his plastic smile. “Colin, would you excuse me and my daughter for a moment? I just need a quick word with her.”

Oh boy, here we go.

“Of course. I’ll start back up to the house.”

She followed her father into the building, then, he turned to her and said, “Rowena, all I ask when I bring a guest in is that you have the center clean and presentable. Was it too much trouble to wipe up a paint spill? Colin is royalty, for God’s sake, an earl, not to mention a war hero. What possible reason could you have to be so rude?”

If he was a war hero, he’d probably had a lot worse than paint spill on his pants, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it.

Like so many times before, she swallowed her pride—and even managed not to gag at the bitter aftertaste— saying, “I’m sorry, we must have missed some when we cleaned up. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“If there is a next time. If you can’t manage something as simple as wiping up paint, how can you be expected to adequately care for children?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

“After all I’ve done for you and Dylan…” He shook his head, as if he had no words to describe her audacity and selfishness. Then for dramatic effect, he stormed out in a huff.

She slumped against the wall, angry and frustrated and yes, hurt. But not defeated. He could keep knocking her down, but she would always get back up again.

“Hey, Row?”

Tricia stood in the doorway, looking concerned. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced what probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. “No big deal.”

“I heard what he said about the paint. That was my fault. I asked April to wipe the tables down and I guess I forget to check if she’d missed anything. I know how picky he is when he brings people in. I should have been more careful. I’m so sorry.”

“Tricia, if it hadn’t been the paint, it would have been something else. You know that he always finds something.”

“It’s not right the way he treats you.”

“I put him through a lot.”

“You’ve changed, Row. You’ve pulled your life together.”

“But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without his help. You can’t deny that he’s done a lot for me and Dylan.”

“That’s what he wants you to think. But that doesn’t make it okay for him to treat you like an indentured servant. You would manage just fine on your own.”

She wanted to believe that, but the last time she’d been on her own she had made a total mess of her life.

“You know the offer still stands. If you and Dylan want to come stay with me for a while…”

And the instant she left, he would cut off not just her but Dylan, as well. And without the money to pay for his medical care, her father would have all the ammunition he needed to take Dylan away from her. She’d been hearing that threat since the day Dylan was born. It was the ultimate punishment, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he would do it.

“I can’t, Tricia, but I love you for offering.”

Her own irresponsibility and carelessness were what had gotten her into this mess, and she was the only one who could get herself out.

Colin had never put much stock in rumors. In a royal family, even on the outermost fringes, gossip spread like a disease. Which was why, when he heard the speculation about the senator’s daughter, out of fairness and respect, he reserved judgment. And maybe he was missing something, but she’d seemed all right to him. Of course, she could have had two heads and hooves for feet and he would have been perfectly gracious.

This assignment was Colin’s first go as a diplomat, and certainly not somewhere he had intended to be at this point in his life—or ever, for that matter—but he was making the best of an unfortunate situation. He had been warned that when dealing with American politicians, especially one as powerful and influential as Senator Tate, he would be wise to watch his back. The senator was a man who got things done. When he put the weight of his office behind legislation, his colleagues naturally fell in line. The royal family was counting on Colin to ensure that the tech treaty, a crucial piece of legislation for both the U.K. and the U.S., became law.

Too many high-profile instances of phone and internet hacking had been occurring in both the U.K. and the U.S. A tech treaty would give international law enforcement the tools to see that the guilty parties were brought to justice.

Due to illegal hacking, President Morrow had been outed as having an illegitimate daughter by the press at his own inaugural ball in front of family, friends and celebrities. Even worse, his supposed illegitimate daughter, Ariella Winthrop, had been standing a few feet away from him when the news broke and was taken by complete surprise herself.

The U.S. was finally willing to negotiate. It was up to Colin to see it through.

He’d made it nearly halfway up the bricked trail to the mansion when Senator Tate caught up to him, saying, “Again, my apologies.”

“As I said, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s no secret that Rowena had problems in the past,” the senator said. “She has worked hard to overcome them.”

Still, the senator seemed to keep her on a very short leash. It was silly to get so upset over something as simple as spilled paint.

“I think we’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

The senator was quiet for several seconds, then, looking troubled, said, “Can I be direct with you, Colin?”

“Of course.”

“I understand that you have something of a reputation as a womanizer.”

“I do?”

“I don’t mean to imply that I would hold that against you,” the senator said. “How you lead your life is your business.”

Colin wouldn’t deny that he had dated his share of women, but he was no cad. He never dated a woman without first making it absolutely clear that he was in no hurry to settle down, and he never promised exclusivity.

“Sir, this so-called reputation of mine sounds a bit hyperbolic.”

“You’re young, in your prime, and I don’t fault you for playing the field.”

Colin sensed an unspoken “however” at the end of that sentence.

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even bring it up, but I’ve welcomed you into my home for an extended stay, and I should make it clear that there are certain ground rules I expect you to follow.”

Ground rules?

“My daughter can be very… impulsive and in the past has been a target for unscrupulous men who think they can use her to get to me. Or simply just use her.”

“Sir, let me assure you—”

He held up a hand to stop him. “It’s not an accusation.”

It certainly felt like one.

“That said, I must insist that as long as you’re staying in my home, you are to consider my daughter off-limits.”

Well, it didn’t get much more direct than that.

“Can I count on you to do the right thing, son?”

“Of course,” Colin said, unsure if he should feel slighted or amused or if he should pity the senator. “I’m here to work on the treaty.”

“Well, then,” the senator said, “Let’s get to work.”

Two

After a long day of collaboration with the senator that was encouragingly productive, and dinner out with him and several of his friends, Colin found a quiet, dark corner by the pool to relax. It was blessedly out of view of the mansion, and the only place that he felt truly alone on the estate. And he needed his alone time. He stretched out in a lounge chair and gazed up at a clear, star-filled sky while he sipped a glass of the senator’s finest scotch.

When his phone rang he was surprised to see his sister’s number flash across the screen. It was only 5:30 a.m. in London.

“You’re up early,” he said in lieu of a hello.

“Mother’s having a rough night,” she told him, “so I was up watching television. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re enjoying your stay there.”

“It’s been… interesting.”

He told her about the senator’s warning, and at first she was convinced he was joking.

“It’s the God’s honest truth,” he assured her.

“Her father actually told you that she’s off-limits?”

“In those exact words.”

“How unbelievably rude and tactless!”

“Apparently I have a reputation with the ladies.”

With Rowena’s flame-red hair and striking, emerald-green bedroom eyes, he couldn’t deny that under different circumstances he would have been interested. Very interested. But he was more than capable of resisting a beautiful woman.

“Maybe you should come home,” Matty said.

She meant to London, of course, and though he’d spent most of his recovery there, it hadn’t felt like home any more than it had when he was a child. Home to him was boarding school, then later whichever country he’d been stationed in.

“You’ve been through so much, and you’re still healing,” Matilda insisted. Twenty years his senior, she had always been more of a parent than a sibling. But more so after the helicopter crash. Yes, he was lucky to be alive, but dwelling on the past was counterproductive. The worst of his wounds had healed and he needed to get on with his life. Not that he could ever expect to forget completely, nor would he want to. He was proud of his service and honored to defend his country. Deep down he would always be a warrior.

“I know you’re doing this for the family’s sake,” Matilda said, “but, Colin, politics? It’s so… beneath you.”

Having spent most of her life distanced from the royal family and isolated from the real world, Matilda couldn’t truly grasp the need for the treaty. “I need to do this. The family’s privacy has been violated countless times, our reputation damaged. This has to stop. We need the treaty.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she said. “Are you staying warm?”

He laughed. “I’m in Southern California, Matty. It doesn’t get cold here.” Unlike Washington, where he’d made a brief stop before flying to the West Coast. There the bitter wind and subzero temperatures seeped into his bones, reminding him, with aches and twinges, that he had a while to go before he was fully recovered.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Matilda started to yawn.

“You should try to get some more sleep,” he told her.

“Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise. Love you, Matty, and give my best to Mother.”

“Love you, too.”

He disconnected, slid his phone back into his pants pocket and closed his eyes, going over in his head all that they had covered this afternoon, and how much more work they had ahead of them. Thorough as the senator was, he insisted they pick the treaty apart, section by section, line by line. It would be a slow and agonizing process. And it would be given the same scrutiny in the U.K. before anything was set in stone.

At some point he must have drifted off, because he was startled awake by a loud splash. He jerked up in the chair, blinking furiously, briefly disoriented by his surroundings. He’d lived so many places that at times they all blurred together, and when he woke from a deep sleep it took him a moment to get his bearings.