Page 8 of Where There's Smoke

We held each other’s gazes for a moment, and something sank in my gut. An actress and a politician, and we still couldn’t lie enough to convince each other of anything. Well, she’d managed to fool movie cameras and film critics into believing she really felt every emotion she portrayed on the screen. Maybe together we could persuade the voting public we were as happily married as we claimed to be.

She cleared her throat and gestured over her shoulder toward the front of the house. “I’m…going to go out for a little while.”

“Okay.” I nodded toward the veranda. “I guess I’d better go talk to him.”

With a smile that was a little less forced, she said, “Good luck.”

I laughed quietly. “Thanks.”

She hugged me gently. I closed my eyes and held on to her for a second, pretending not to notice that she felt smaller in my arms than she had in a long time.

God, please, don’t let her be losing weight again.

Simone pulled back, and when she smiled, I was less concerned with the fact that her eyes didn’t reflect it and more worried about the hint of gauntness in her cheeks.

I brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m fine.” She put up a hand. “This is stressful for both of us, Jess, but I’m fine.”

I swallowed. “Okay. Just, if you’re not…”

“I know.” The smile tried to come back to life. She nodded toward the veranda again. “Anyway. Go talk to him. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

There was no point in arguing with her, and I did still need to talk to Anthony, so she left while I went outside.

On the veranda, Anthony sat in one of the chairs at the table beside the pool, his legs crossed at the knees and a stemmed glass of iced tea cradled between his fingers like a brandy snifter. He’d fixed his gaze on the ocean far below us, and offered little more than a flick of his eyes in my direction as I approached.

A stainless steel Zippo lighter sat on the table beside a pack of cigarettes, but the air was clean and clear. Even the wind off the coast wouldn’t have carried away the scent of smoke this quickly, and the ashtray was still bare.

I sat opposite him and picked up the glass Ranya had left for me. The condensation on the side added to the moisture on my sweaty palm, and the cool liquid only served to remind me how uncomfortably flustered I was just being in Anthony’s presence.

“Your assistant, she—” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “Ranya? That’s her name, right?”

“Ranya, yes.”

“Will she continue as your assistant on the campaign?”

I nodded.

“Good. She seems to have her head screwed on straight.”

Maybe I was just paranoid and nervous, but I swore there was an undercurrent of sarcasm in the statement. An unspokenat leastsomeonearound here does. Not that I could necessarily disagree. Ranya could keep it together like no one else.

Anthony picked up the pack of Camels and freed one cigarette. He set the pack down, and I couldn’t help watching his hands as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and picked up his lighter. He had long, slim fingers, like a pianist’s hands, and every motion was controlled and flawless. Calculated. He cupped one hand around the end of the cigarette and, with the other, flipped open the lighter. Theclinkmade me jump. It wasn’t like I’d never heard someone flick a Zippo before, but in Anthony’s hands, the motion was somehow more pronounced, the sound sharper. I swore I could feel the heat off the flame even from here, but it was just the rush of warmth to my cheeks.

I gulped. Just what I needed. This guy was going to run my campaign, and he could make the act of lighting a cigarette intimidating. And fascinating. And distracting.

He set the lighter on the table with a quiet metallic sound and sat back, looking intently at me as he took a drag. For a long moment, he smoked while I tried not to let my nerves get the best of me. Even his smoking seemed calculated and choreographed, from the shadows it cast under his pronounced cheekbones to the way he elegantly lowered the cigarette as he released the stream of smoke. He tapped the ashes into the tray, then rested his wrist on the edge of the table.

“Your uncle wants me to get you elected.” His tone was as even and collected as his movements, though a hint of gravel had been burned into the very edges of his otherwise smooth voice.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, he told me you were the best campaign manager out there.”

Anthony gave a quiet chuckle that could have been either arrogant or self-deprecating. I guessed the former, especially as he firmly held my gaze while he brought his smoldering cigarette back to his lips. “Why should I get you elected, Jesse?”

“I…I beg your pardon?”

The end of the cigarette glowed. When it darkened, he lowered it, and though he turned his head slightly to exhale the smoke, his eyes were locked on mine. “You heard me.”

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