Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (13 page)

“Can we talk about it later?” I reply, baffled by her reference. Out of character for my grandmother to discuss health in public.

“We’ll talk over lunch. I’d like you to come down during the week. Just you, me, and your grandfather.”

Is she fishing and using my health as a smoke screen to troll for bigger subjects? I don’t answer her nor am I about to feed her information about having a job interview with Senator Stone.

Instead on redirect, I ask Gran, “You remember Jon?”

“Hello, Mrs. Silver. Great party. The clams are delicious,” he says amicably. Jon’s so smooth and why not. He comes in contact with every type of political and business bigwig.

“Thank you, Mr. Richter,” Gran says and pauses, giving him her little stare. She believes that Jon and I secretly dated in high school, and secrets don’t sit well with my grandmother unless they’re hers. “Still working in D.C. at the
Post
?” she asks him icily.

“I am. Happily,” he supplies.

The tension is palpable and I won’t have Gran browbeating one of my best friends, so I opt for the offensive defense, posing a tremulous question. One sure to displease. “Where’s Aunt Bridget? I saw her heading upstairs. Is she all right?”

I don’t like going dark to off-balance Gran. But it is a necessary evil. Fight fire with fire. And my aunt’s an easy target.

“Oh you know Bridget. Doesn’t like the sun or the heat,” Gran replies stoically, casting a worried look toward the upper balcony.

If my aunt is inside, she’s more than likely banging the hell out of one of the waitstaff as she does every year. Aunt Bridget’s libido is the bane of my grandparents’ Nantucket colony life. Each summer, a huge chunk of change is exchanged along with whispered messages from their attorneys in settling house staff complaints. Bridget stirs up the gossip—I’ll give her that. We’ve all heard Gran preach that Silvers don’t do scandal. They certainly pay enough to ensure the truth is locked away.

“Princess. Congratulations to the graduate,” Pop calls out, approaching our huddle with a drink in hand as he smiles and waves to the guests around us.

The ice from my grandfather’s glass tinkles and he motions to a waiter for a refill. Hugging me, he laughs out a rumble. I’m surrounded by his spicy aftershave as the whiskers of his waxed handlebar mustache tickle my cheek. I can smell he’s well into his third bourbon and coke, at least.

Pulling away from me, he glances over to Gran and lowers his voice. “Grace, the president and his chief of staff just arrived. Along with several candidates not on the guest list.”

I stiffen at the mention of more Hill folk, but Gran’s face lights up and she laughs—or snickers really.

“Gabriel and his entourage. This might be more than a social call.” Her attention falls on me.

Zero is how many snits I could give that the president is here. Well, at least that explains the dark cloud of Secret Service agents.

“I suspect something is brewing,” Pop answers.

“Michael, I’ll go greet them and pave the way. Please join us in two minutes. Two minutes, my good man,” she repeats her direction.

“Yes, Commandant.” He clicks his heels as he salutes her and winks at me.

“Phoenix, come find me in a bit. We need to chat.” She gives me her semi-stern grandmother face, then squeezes my arm, and she’s off.

What has she got up her sleeve? I exchange looks with Jon as a waiter brings him a beer and mentally roll my eyes as Gran scurries away. Turning, I scour the guests for tall, dark, hot.

“Having a good time?” Pop inquires, taking out a handkerchief. He wipes the beads of sweat off his face and down his neck. “It’s hotter than last year. El Niño. Am I right?”

“Yes and yes,” I reply, less frantic at not seeing Stone.

“Mr. Silver.” Jon smiles as he shakes Pop’s hand. “Get any fishing in this year?”

My grandfather looks momentarily perplexed, and thoughtfully frowns. “Not a bite. Well, nothing worth remembering.”

“There’s always next year,” Jon concedes, holding the bottle of beer to his lips.

Pop swirls the ice in his glass. “That there is, Mr. Richter,” he agrees vaguely and pats my arm. “I’d better get going on my mission. Can’t keep your grandmother waiting. Someone will want to stop and talk as I make my way. You know how it is.” For once, I see a glimmer of dissatisfaction in my grandfather’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just the heat. His skin flushed and he’s sweating profusely.

“Pop, are you feeling okay?” I ask suddenly.

“Right as rain. Except for this blasted heatwave.” He tweaks my ear and raises an eyebrow. “Your cousins are here. Go over and talk to them. Let them tell you about their recent moves and wedding bell news. You’re no longer hitting the books, and need to start thinking about a career path as well. Princess, promise me on this you won’t delay.”

“Sure thing,” I say unnerved by his tone. Into my grandfather’s questioning eyes, I find myself nodding my head, but all the while, I can’t ignore the sirens blaring
abort
!

My stomach twists as I spot my cousins across the pool. The ones who have fallen in line, earning six figures while working at PanCorp headquarters. The same two who live in Midtown and Monica is engaged to some hard-hitting CEO with a rock the size of a boulder on her finger. I highly doubt her fiancé is boning every available gay bachelor in sight. Sure, I should be happy for them but, I’m too strung out to pretend.

Nice, charming, well-ordered lives: I could hurl. As I scan the crowd, my gaze hits upon another
cousin.
Dr. Colin Silver
. Not the exact role model Pop referred to. Talk about the blackest of sheep. Colin graduated as a shining star from Yale medical school then three years ago burned out. Currently, he’s summa cum laude with a specialty in geriatric freeloading so it seems. After completing an exhaustive Johns Hopkins residency, he up and decided to open a private practice with two exclusive patients: Grace and Michael Silver. Dr. Suck Up lives wherever my grandparents tell him, proving he’s more leech than sheep.

Midtown plastic cousins or Dr. Parasite—they’re all a no-go. I could rock the boat and point that out, but why? I’m ready to dive into the bay beyond the stone seawall. Strip naked and swim so far, so fast as to be free of this charmed and caged life everyone here leads.

Pop disappears in the throng of pastel-colored people and I turn to Jon, irritation souring my tongue. He has his beer tipped back, and empties it. Standing six-foot, he’s no wisp of a man. He’s housed in a lean swimmer’s body with inked arms. His tats run from his knuckles and disappear under the sleeves of his white polo. Plenty of the women around us give him the eye in that
we can tell you’re gay but hot
. Like maybe in their bed, he might just decide to bat for the other team.

“What are you drinking?” He pushes a wayward strand behind my ear as only he can do when I’m steaming, not from the heat but being around my family for more than six minutes.

“Not enough,” I reply when I snag a waiter. “Pardon me.”

Jon gives him his order, “Heineken and she’ll have…”

I look down at the waiter’s tray, surveying my choices. I lift a tumbler and sniff. “This is fine.”

The waiter bows and Jon shakes his head. “Why do you care what anyone here thinks? Your eyes keep ogling the champagne.”

“Because,” I say, “I refuse to fit in.” I smile and raise my glass. I’ve never had the pleasure of Scotch before. Plenty of the men are drinking it, so I knock back a gulp. A nasty gulp I’m discovering. It tastes like lighter fluid and I shiver as the liquor sits idly on my tongue.

“What’s wrong?” Jon eyes me with concern.

Okay, either I can spit this aged kerosene out or down it. My gaze flits around the party, at all the pretty, pretty people who talk genteelly with their summer whites and boat shoes on. Spitting out the Scotch is a faux pas to the extreme and I force my throat muscles work. But swallowing is no better, and I gasp, convinced my throat is melting from the inside out. I start to hack as Jon claps me on the back.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asks.

With tears in my eyes, I follow up with, “Heck no. I’m ticked, but I’ll take another of those.”

X.S.~
Poor POTUS

TWO HOURS later, I’m scrounging through my purse, blindly looking for my keys. I’ve done my duty and stayed the perfunctory time. As I meander, weaving around people without making eye contact, my sandals slap across the patio pavers until I see Jon talking with a tall lanky man clad in a tight pair of Nantucket Reds.

A Secret Service agent cuts in front of me. “Excuse me, Phoenix O’Malley.”

“Yes,” I reply, looking over his shoulder. Both Jon and the other man laugh, their heads bowed together for a beat. I recognize Jon’s companion as one of the execs from Manhattan. Some high-powered PanCorp attorney I believe. The more my memory starts to reconnect, I also recall said attorney has a wife and kids.

“The president would like a word with you, Ms. O’Malley.”

“With me?” I swing my gaze to the agent, wondering what President Gabriel North wants with me. This has to be Gran’s doing. Ten to one, she’s twisting North’s presidential arm, seeking some favor.
Ah, yes and oh no.

“The president is waiting in the library.” He torques his chin over toward the house. “Please follow me.” He turns to leave as if I’ll just happily totter along.

“Pardon me, agent.” I cross my arms over my chest, killing time.

The man stops talking into his cell, telling someone to ‘hold positions.’ “Yes, Miss?”

“I can’t at the moment. Please tell the president, I’ll catch him later.” I arch my brow, pressing my lips together, and nod.

The agent peers over his glasses, his dark eyes widen, and he looks like he’s thinking what to do. Well, while he’s trying to figure out how to keep his job, I’m done playing games, and walk past him with a stony, “Good evening, agent.”

I march to Jon and his buddy. Both guys glance at me and then exchange a look between them—protracted—and I understand. I’ve invaded their private microcosm where Jon’s flirting hard-n-heavy.

In my giddyap-I’m-leaving state, I semi-shout his name to grab his attention, “Jon! Time to split.”

“More like splitting from the Secret Service. For the love of God, what was that about?” Jon demands. “Who’d you piss off now?” Clearly even flirting, my friend doesn’t miss a detail.

“Just Gran plotting,” I scoff. “Poor POTUS. Lame ducks are such easy marks.”

“Phoenix, nice seeing you again. It’s been a while,” the tall-blond-and-married attorney says, extending his arm to me.

I still can’t recall his name, but I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Same. Sorry to greet and run, but I’m heading off calamity. Don’t want the ferry to get an order to stand down.”

“No problem,” he replies.

I smile at both of them, then focus on Jon. “So, are you up for leaving?”

“More than ready.” He grins over at his new friend. “Mitch, what about you?”

I try to catch Jon’s eye, and nonverbally ask if Mitch is coming with us. But he’s so hung up on the blond hunk in front of him, he ignores my intense stare.

“Need a lift back to the city?” I ask Mitch, taking the bull by the horns.

Jon slants my way and whispers, “I’m riding back with him. He has a plane.”

“You aren’t seri—”

He jerks my arm, squeezing, and I want to laugh and ask him if he’s bonkers. Is he really contemplating hooking up with a married man? But he gives me an I’ll-kill-you-in-your-sleep stare to silence my unwelcomed imitation of a dumbbell. Stiffening, I feel a tendril of something foreign tighten around my throat—and wonder what’s come over me? I don’t want him to leave with Mitch.

Am I jealous of Jon? Of the blond hunk? Of them together… In a bed?

Uhh, yep, I think I am. The realization has the distinct unsettling impression that takes up residence in my core.

Jon gestures to Mitch. “I’m ready to call it a night, if you are.”

Mitch’s smile widens. “Good idea. It’s been great, but looks like storm clouds are rolling in.”

“We’ll walk you to your car,” Jon says to me.

They both set their drinks down, and we start to trek toward the front of the house. I want to bolt and I hate feeling like this. I bypass leaving through the gargantuan downstairs hall, intersecting where I’m sure Gran is holding court. I brake and head around a corner. Past the airy living room filled with antiques, guests, and insipid conversation. I patter onto the side walkway, one thought and it’s to get away.

“Wait up, Phoenix,” Jon calls and I realize that I’m practically fleeing like my feet are on fire.

I slow my gallop, stepping off the walkway and onto the grass. Taking a breath, I glance over my shoulder to Jon, and our eyes meet. I force a smile to my lips for his benefit when he and his friend catch up.

“X, what’s the hurry?” Jon’s eyes are wide with concern.

My stomach pitches. I’m acting selfishly. “You know how it is. Seeing the exit, I can’t leave fast enough.”

“Yeah, then call Nora. It’s all set. She’s waiting to hear from you,” he whispers, canting close to me. Our gazes fuse and he asks, “Okay?”

I inhale, peering into his dark eyes. “I promised, didn’t I?”

He gives me an abridged nod, before he steps back next to Mitch. Together,
we all
resume walking around the side of Gran’s home, toward the garden entrance in silence. We stride over the pavers, in between the manicured lawn, and neatly trimmed hedges. I head our team as Jon and Mitch whisper. Flanked by their low chatter and secret laughs, I feel alone and wrap my arms around my middle.

I follow the lit walk until we come to the circular drive, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation but all the while, I can’t wait to escape being the third wheel. Once outside and facing the winding row of cars down the driveway, I shrug. “Hey, I’m going to go get my car. The queue is too long.”

There are several other couples waiting along the front steps for the two valets huffing it back and forth.

Jon places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you good to drive?”

My cheeks feel numb as I try to keep up the pretense of smiling. I assess my level of intoxication—not too bad. “Yep, I’m fine, just hot. Pop was right about the heat.”