Meg stepped confidently toward the rail, grasped the ornate wrought iron and searched the crowd for Arkdone. She had to avoid him entirely or risk being found out by him sensing her psychic push before she had completed her task. He was surrounded by people, but Meg knew they had to be expendable votes. She focused on everyone except the black hole that was Arkdone’s signature and a ten-foot radius from him. Then she bowed her head, readying herself for her task.
Time was a steamroller squeezing the breath from her. She only had a matter of minutes to do what she’d never done before.
She focused on the signatures around her.
In her mind, she visualized all the delegates holding their ballots in one hand and pens in the other. She focused on them and muttered the thoughts she needed to plant in their minds:
“Not Arkdone. He’s not worthy of my vote. He’s not the best choice for our party, for our country. Not Arkdone.”
She watched the delegates in her mind hesitate; their pens poised over their ballots and watched them check the box beside names other than Donovan Arkdone’s.
“Do not vote for Senator Arkdone.” She pushed her will wider, imagining herself a fog rolling delicately over the room, blanketing the vast majority of the hundreds of people there. She kept repeating her will, “Not Arkdone. Do not vote for Arkdone,” as she pushed herself even harder desperately trying to impart her will on as many people as possible.
Gideon watched Meg as she began her work. He saw her breathing slow, deep breaths at first then watched her lips move as she muttered words. Two minutes into her efforts, her whole body began shaking. Blood began to drip from her nose soaking into the dress of the same color.
He resisted gathering her up right then and rushing her out of that place. He knew she had work to do and she would tell him to respect her wishes, no matter what.
A minute later, when her knees began to buckle, Gideon caught her easily before she collapsed completely. He held her reverently, watching her face as he carried her back to an unoccupied leather sofa against the far wall.
Thinking quickly, he grabbed an abandoned glass of wine left on the sofa’s side table. Knowing he needed to hide her condition from the Senator, he discreetly spilled the wine all down her neck and chest, watching the aromatic liquid wet her red gown. Trying not to panic at the sight of her bloody face, he just curled her into his arms and held her.
“Please wake up, Meg,” he whispered to her ear. “What did you do to yourself?” he groaned softly, and he carefully buried her face against himself, hiding her condition from the few people who walked past their relatively private little corner.
He didn’t care that her blood was staining his white tuxedo shirt. He didn’t notice the wine soaking into his jacket. He simply marveled at the beauty that looked as delicate as a flower but fought like a beast. Into her unconscious ear, he leaned down and whispered three words he’d never spoken to anyone, ever.
“I can’t help myself, Meg. I love you.” He sat up searching her face for some hint that she may have heard his confession. Her long, dark lashes lay in beautiful arches against her smooth, pale skin. She was as still as a painting; a timeless beauty. Gideon couldn’t stop staring at the piece of living art in his arms.
He didn’t bother to listen to the voice that came from the musician’s microphone announcing Joe Hawthorne as the candidate chosen as the party’s presidential nominee. Nothing but the girl mattered to him.
It took Ermos fifteen minutes before his frantic face came searching for them, taking in the sight of the girl who looked and smelled drunk.
“What an embarrassment,” the usually mild-tempered manservant scolded. “You should have taken better care of Miss Meg.” Gideon wasn’t listening to the words, but he did carefully gather Meg in his arms and followed Ermos down the back stairwell so as not to cause a scene.
Within minutes, Gideon was seated in the back of Arkdone’s limousine with the unconscious girl still curled in his arms.
Arkdone was on the phone with Adrian Roth, his campaign manager, barking angry orders and demanding explanations from him. He didn’t even seem to notice Gideon and Meg at first.
By the time they’d arrived at the small, private airport, Arkdone’s face was beet red with fury. His tirade at losing the presidential nomination had lasted the entire forty-minute drive, and it sounded as though he was just getting started when he slammed the phone down, surely jarring Roth’s ear.
“What the hell happened to her?” he screamed at Gideon, his sweaty handprint still clear on the glossy black surface of his discarded cell phone.