It was a difficult thought to grow accustomed to. He was always sure of his choices, always in charge of his actions. Even when he didn’t want to do a thing, like stand in front of a crowd and make a patriotic speech about his time in the service, he did it. And he did it because he’d made a choice. There was an end goal. Always. What was his end goal now? He ran a hand over his face and tried to focus on the computer in front of him. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been at the Lattimores’ cocktail party, mingling and schmoozing the guests for contributions to his causes. Now he was on a jet to Hawaii, having taken a side trip to Las Vegas where he’d stood in a seedy little chapel and pledged to love, honor and cherish Lia Corretti until death do them part. Which, of course, was a lie. They would not be together until death. There was a purpose for this match, a reason they had to join forces. He was protecting her from her family’s wrath, first of all. Second, he was avoiding a media scandal that would be troublesome and inconvenient were it to erupt.
