She laughed softly.
Making his move, Remy bent his head and kissed her bare shoulder.
She shivered, gooseflesh teasing his lips.
Come on, he silently urged. Push me away. Tell me to stop.
“Remington?”
He smiled against her skin. “I thought I told you to call me Remy.”
“Right.” Her voice quivered. “Remy?”
“That’s better,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes, letting him kiss his way up the smooth curve of her neck. When she didn’t speak, he prompted, “Yes, Noelani?”
He felt her swallow.
“Are you and Zandra sleeping together?”
The question took him by surprise. He went still, then pulled back and stared at her. “What?”
She met his gaze. “I could tell by the way you were watching her this evening that you have feelings for her.”
Shit, Remy thought. He’d tried like hell not to even look at Zandra. When that failed, he’d tried not to be too obvious. But he just couldn’t help himself.
“Did you set up this date to make her jealous?” Noelani asked bluntly.
If only it were that simple.
“No,” Remy answered. But he acknowledged that the timing of his request had been fueled by Zandra’s insistence on going out with that loser.
As Noelani quietly studied him, he felt an unwelcome pang of guilt for deceiving her. For deceiving Zandra.
Turning his head, he glanced out the window. They had reached his downtown apartment building.
The driver got out and came around to open the back door for Remy.
He hesitated for a long moment, then looked at Noelani and winked. “Thanks for a great evening.”
She smiled. “My pleasure.”
As he moved to climb out of the limo, she said softly, “Remy.”
He glanced back at her.
She reached out, gently cupping his cheek in her hand. Her quiet smile was tinged with something like regret.
“I hope Zandra knows what a lucky woman she is. And if she doesn’t...you owe it to her to tell her.”
Chapter Eleven
As a young woman, Johanna Sturgill-Kennedy had spent her summers working as a hostess at a posh country club. It was there that she met and snagged her first husband, the heir to a waterproof fabric fortune. Gunther Sturgill gave Johanna all the trappings of wealth she’d always coveted—a mansion on Lake Shore Drive, a horse farm in Kentucky, fancy cars and jewelry, lavish furs to keep her warm during brutal Chicago winters. She’d had the best of everything.
When Gunther became sick, he’d entrusted his estate planning to Landis Kennedy, a shrewd, quietly intense attorney who’d piqued Johanna’s interest from the moment they met. He’d struck her as an ambitious man who was going places, and something about the way he looked at her brought a forbidden shiver to her skin.
Three days after Gunther’s funeral, she and his family had gathered in the library for the reading of the will. There were no surprises. As expected, Gunther had left his grieving widow and two children a sizable fortune.
After everyone departed, Johanna poured herself and Landis a glass of bourbon. After just two sips, they were fucking like animals on top of the antique desk. It was exhilarating, like nothing she’d ever experienced with Gunther.
Four months later, she and Landis were married. Their wedding set tongues wagging, but Johanna was used to that.
When Landis became involved in politics, she began dreaming of state dinners and gracing the covers of magazines. So she was ecstatic when Landis shared his decision to run for mayor. She had the wealth. Now she desired the prestige of ascending to the top of Chicago’s power structure. And there was no reason to stop there. If voters wanted to send another Chicago politician to the White House, let it be her husband.
But for now, she had to do whatever was necessary to help get him elected to mayor.