Ace in the Hole
The bar had more of an S&M vibe than he’d anticipated, with lots of black leather and chrome, and was about three-quarters full.
Not even 6:00 p.m. yet. Must be a happening joint by ten. More to the point, it had whiskey, and lots of it. He bellied up to the bar and got ready to make out with a Jack on the rocks.
Another man swung onto the barstool beside him. Ordered some drink called a Derby. Stone watched the bartender mix it in minor disbelief. Who the hell paired whiskey with lime juice? And Grand Marnier and vermouth? The customer, a stupidly good-looking preppie type, sipped it in appreciation.
Stone shook his head. “My granddaddy would take you out back and shoot you for doing that to perfectly fine sour mash whiskey.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” the guy popped off.
Stone’s grin widened as he assessed the newcomer. Quick on the comeback. Bit of a smartass. Had the whole Captain America thing going, though. Clean-cut, close-shaven, square-jawed, and blue-eyed… a walking milk commercial missing only the white mustache. Totally not his type.
Cap surprised him by ordering two more Derbies and pushing one down the mirrored bar at him. “Go ahead. I dare you. Live dangerously.”
Stone grunted in wry humor. Bastard had no idea how dangerously he usually lived.
“Don’t touch anything. Don’t move. We’ll be there in sixty seconds.”
By Ava Drake
A Wild Cards Novel
Surveillance, seduction, and extra-dirty politics.
Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis has a problem. A huge one. The U.S. senator he works for has run away with his latest mistress on the eve of a make-or-break fund-raising event, and it’s up to him to cover his boss’s irresponsible tracks.
Stone Jackson, the senator’s new bodyguard, looks enough like the senator that, with some extensive grooming, he might pass for Senator Lacey. Christian and Stone hatch a plan to fool everyone by substituting Stone for the senator, but Miami madness and the incendiary heat between them are throwing obstacles in their way. It’s a race to find the senator and pull off the con of the century before the attraction between them spins completely out of control.
STONE
Jackson ducked into the aggressive air-conditioning of the Miami Imperium Hotel and felt his skin tighten in the sudden cold. He’d been warned, of course, but holy hot plate, it was a cooker out there.
“Welcome to the Imperium, sir. Is this your first time with us?” a busty, Jayne Mansfield blonde purred at him, her chestular region exploding from the confines of a hotel employee blazer. He searched the ample acreage for a nametag. Brittnay? Were all the hot girls named that?
“Hi, Brittnay. What gave me away?”
“Nobody wears wool in South Beach. Not in July.”
“Just got in from a job in London. Haven’t had time to change into my luau shirt and Bermudas.”
“Oooh. Sounds yummy.”
“Registration desk?” he asked, tiring of the game.
“To your left, just beyond the fountain and palm trees.”
Because all hotels needed thirty-foot-tall live palm trees in their lobbies. He strolled toward them…. Jesus. Live parrots squawked among the palm fronds. He opted to go around the whole disaster and spied a registration desk.
A blessedly more demure college coed checked him into his suite on the executive floor, and he tuned out while she explained how to use his keycard to gain access to the restricted floor. This was not his first rodeo.
Credit card recovered and key in his pocket, he headed upstairs. Good Lord willing, his trunk had preceded him to the room. The specialized gear he traveled with required a crap-ton of paperwork and Customs preapproval and had to be shipped ahead to most of his jobs.
The first thing he saw when he stepped into his room was the big brushed-aluminum trunk parked in a corner of the living room. Praise the Lord and pass the potatoes.
Surprisingly, the suite wasn’t a cesspool of overstarched linens and stains that made a person imagine all manner of depravity. In fact, it had a sleek, modern sensibility. Smart up-lighting and indirect down-lighting created sexy pools of light and shadow. Dark gray slate, frosted glass, pale blue upholstery. All in all, not bad. Although the wet bar in the living room was pitifully stocked. He would have to get
that
fixed at the earliest opportunity.
He shed his Savile Row suit and unbuckled the leather shoulder holster. After peeling down to his spandex trunks, he unpacked quickly and donned the promised Bermuda shorts. Holster back on, then a custom-tailored Hawaiian-print shirt made to fit over both the weapon and his muscular shoulders.
Without warning, jet lag slammed into him, and he felt like hell on broken wheels. He probably ought to shave. He fingered his jaw and felt rough stubble on it. But damn, he needed a stiff drink.
Jack Daniels, come be my bitch.
Scooping up his room key, he headed downstairs to the bar he’d spotted on the way in.
It had more of an S&M vibe than he’d anticipated, with lots of black leather and chrome, and was about three-quarters full. Not even 6:00 p.m. yet. Must be a happening joint by ten. More to the point, it had whiskey, and lots of it. He bellied up to the bar and got ready to make out with a Jack on the rocks.
Another man swung onto the barstool beside him. Ordered some drink called a Derby. Stone watched the bartender mix it in minor disbelief. Who the hell paired whiskey with lime juice? And Grand Marnier and vermouth? The customer, a stupidly good-looking preppie type, sipped it in appreciation.
Stone shook his head. “My granddaddy would take you out back and shoot you for doing that to perfectly fine sour mash whiskey.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” the guy popped off.
Stone’s grin widened as he assessed the newcomer. Quick on the comeback. Bit of a smartass. Had the whole Captain America thing going, though. Clean-cut, close-shaven, square-jawed, and blue-eyed… a walking milk commercial missing only the white mustache. Totally not his type.
Cap surprised him by ordering two more Derbies and pushing one down the mirrored bar at him. “Go ahead. I dare you. Live dangerously.”
Stone grunted in wry humor. Bastard had no idea how dangerously he usually lived. “Thanks for the drink. What’s your name?”
“Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis.”
“Jesus. Were you born with a poker up your ass to go along with that name?”
To his credit, the guy laughed. “Pretty much. Where do you hail from? A cattle ranch in Texas?”
“It was a dairy farm. Georgia.”
“My condolences.”
“For what?”
“Losing the war?” prep school offered.
“Hey. The War of Northern Aggression is only at half time. Whenever you lily-white Yankee sissies are ready to go for round two, bring it.”
“Want another Derby?”
“Nah. I’ll stick with my Jack on the rocks. But thanks for broadening my horizons.”
“You got a name?”
“Stone Jackson.”
“Wow. And you picked on my name?”
“Dad’s a Civil War history buff. We lived near Atlanta. Last name Jackson. Mom wouldn’t let him name me Stonewall. Stone was as close as she’d let him go.”
“Were you this big as a kid, or did you get beat up a lot?”
He shrugged. He’d gotten beat up a lot but not because of his name.
They nursed another round of drinks in silence. Somewhere near the bottom of the third Jack on the rocks, it occurred to Stone that he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours or slept in a solid thirty-six. Tossing back a bunch of booze maybe hadn’t been the smartest thing he could’ve done. High body mass would only buy him so much relief from the alcohol. “Shit. I need to get something to eat.”
“Can’t hold your booze, Georgia? Big, beefy guy like you? Tsk-tsk.”
He told Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis precisely what he could do with himself. And without slurring his syllables, thank you very much.
“You staying in the hotel?” Christian asked, grinning.
“Yeah. Key’s here somewhere.” He fumbled in his pocket.
“Bartender, I’d like room service to send two porterhouse steaks and a bottle of your best Jack Daniels up to—what’s your room number?”
“Room 2306,” Stone supplied.
“To room 2306. All the trimmings. Salad, baked potatoes, and garlic bread. Double bread.”
“I thought no one ate carbs anymore,” he commented.
“Helps soak up the booze.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re gonna be if you don’t get some food in you soon.”
“Look. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Never said you did. Just helping out a fellow traveler.”
A fellow traveler, huh? They walked across the lobby and waited for an elevator. “Where are you visiting from?” he asked Christian.
“Washington, DC. You?”
He frowned. “Nowhere, actually. I travel from job to job pretty much nonstop.”
“What do you do?”
He shrugged. “Consultant. Follow around a lot of guys in suits. Don’t do anything most of the time. You?”
“Aide to an important person who shall remain nameless.”
“Like a secretary?”
Christian pulled a face. “It’s a little more involved than that. I advise on various decisions, interface with media outlets, write speeches, solve crises, whatever my boss needs.”
“You wipe his ass too?”
“Play nice. Speaking of asses, let’s get you to your room before you make one of yourself.”
He’d had just enough liquor to lose that thin patina of civilization his new boss had worked so hard to paint onto him after he got out of the military. “Are you propositioning me, Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis, aide and ass-wiper extraordinaire?”
The elevator arrived, dinged, and slid open, and Christian gestured politely for him to go first. But old habits died hard. While the other man reached for the button for the twenty-third floor, Stone moved to block the doorway with his big frame. Christian was tall and obviously worked out, but he lacked the bulk of someone who’d relied on his muscles to stay alive for a long damned time.
As the elevator slowed for the twenty-third floor, Christian leaned forward from behind him and murmured in his ear, “For the record, I don’t wipe anyone’s ass after I’m done with it.”
Something hot and hungry leaped in his gut. It had been a long time. A very long time. His job required total concentration, and his clients paid for no less. But the new gig didn’t start for another day. He’d come in early to get the lay of the land and sleep off the jet lag so he’d be on his A game tomorrow. But he could go for a game with Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis—
“You just going to stand there, or are we getting out?” Christian asked. Bastard sounded amused. He knew he’d thrown Stone off-balance with that totally un-milk-commercial comment.
“Was just checking the hall to make sure it was clear.”
“Are you afraid to be seen with me? This is Miami, dude. And South Beach, to boot. No one thinks twice about that sort of thing around here.”
Stone frowned impatiently. “That’s not it.” It was just that he’d been in the personal-security business for so long he couldn’t get off an elevator any other way.
CHRISTIAN
enjoyed the view as Stone exited ahead of him. The man was built like a gladiator. Even better, he didn’t seem to have a dumb-jock mentality to go with all those muscles.
They stepped into Stone’s suite, and the first thing Christian noticed was a big aluminum trunk standing in the corner. “What’s all that?”
“My equipment.”
“You in a rock band?”
“Nope.”
“Major S&M dungeon master?”
“Wishful thinking?” Stone shot back.
Christian grinned. He wasn’t opposed to kink, but if anyone was going to be in charge, it would be him. Stone didn’t strike him as the type to give up control, and Lord knew he wasn’t.
The steaks arrived quickly, and a waiter batted his eyes at Stone as he wheeled in the table and set it up. Christian mentally snorted. Jackson was way too much man for that kid to handle.
They ate mostly in silence. Stone didn’t seem inclined to talk about himself, and Christian had little success drawing him out. Which was unusual. His smooth blue-blooded manners usually worked on everyone.
Near the end of the meal, he finally came right out and asked, “Why don’t you want to talk about yourself? I’m curious to know more about you.”
Stone laid down his knife and fork and stared at him intensely enough to actually make him uncomfortable. He finally growled, “Be careful what you ask for.”
“Why? Are you an axe murderer?”
A shrug. “An axe would not be my weapon of first choice. Too much blood spatter. Hard to clean up after.”
Oh. Kay. Was this guy really that dangerous or just putting on a tough-guy act? Posers tended to piss him off. He leaned back, laying his napkin down. “You gonna show me your gun?”
“You wanna see it?”
“Sure.”