Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (16 page)

“Err, I made a tiny amendment. Minor.”

In the middle of the aisle, doesn’t matter that I’m jostled on all sides, my focus narrows. “Eleanor, what have you done?”

“You’re also doing a cocktail reception plus dinner at the hotel.”

“Hold on, that’s the reason for a delay in my return. I’m off a day because of a goddamn dinner?”

“Christ, Tuck. You’re blazing a circuit through the northeast like a rock star. There are scads of last minute GOP supporters with VIP ticket requests. New followers blew up our FB page not to mention continually jam the switchboard downstairs. We moved the venue to accommodate the swell to your fan club and it won’t kill you to do one tiny cocktail party.”

I start walking again, counting to five, and then reply, “Fine. What else?”

“Veep called and wants to set up a meeting. Sounds mega important.”

Marching silently through the crowded corridor, I hyper focus on the cocktail glad-hand scheduled tomorrow night. Nora has the ability to squeeze blood from a rock if she smells possible voters for our upcoming VEEP campaign. Unfortunately, she also turns a blind eye to my campaign finances. Every event upgrade costs me and means in the circle of
my senate
life, I’ll be signing the receipt in political promises. Or I could open a vein and bleed out—same thing. Feeling this latest squeeze on account of the GOP, I grit my teeth. “Call Ryan back and see what she wants. Everything from her office comes with a price tag.”

“No worries. I’ll field and let ya know. You fly out in the morning after a quickie breakfast press conference. Trust me, you could do this last stop in your sleep.”

“Sleep. A commodity better enjoyed back home. I’ll be in touch.” I tuck my cell into my suit pocket and envision my empty D.C. condo. Worse my empty bed—empty and zero action but it beats hotel hopping.

“Hello, Senator Stone.” The attractive and familiar woman before me smiles, holding out her hand. “I enjoyed your speech last week in Chicago. Are you just arriving?”

“Ah, Mrs. Henderson.” Nodding, I recall her and her husband. I release her hand—the one with the platinum ice rink—but she doesn’t release mine.

“Call me Abby. Please.”

“Good to see you again,
Abby
.”

“If you have time, I have an apartment. We could have dinner. Drinks. Get to know each other. My place isn’t far and I have a limo.”

Direct.

Novel.

But no way.

“Unfortunately, I’m heading for a talk and have a late night meeting in the city. Driver is right outside.” Abby’s husband—a media mogul—is a new GOP supporter, yet this play is far from new. Matter of fuck, it’s getting old. But I’m in the game and it’s too late to get out in midstream. I give her a mild quirk of my lips, the kind that imbues intimacy and trust—thank you executive coaching. Holding her hand, I do the pump-n-pull. A slight tug of her to me while letting my gaze rove down her body as if I’m actually considering her offer. I’m not. Honest to God, I’m wondering if the minibar at the hotel is stocked with aged Scotch.

At this point, I’d gladly mainline a liter of Macallan to unwind. For now, I look back into this woman’s eyes. “I’ll be thinking of you. Can I drop you a line?” I bite my lip and she gasps as if on cue.

This is the kind of woman I could bang, walk away from, and not miss a step, or my next mundane thought. Abby is a drive-by screw and I’ve met my share. Smart. Beautiful. Rich. And top of the list, she doesn’t do
strings
. Just wants to get laid in all her vanilla, creampuff existence. I’ve crossed paths with hundreds. Thousands. Not that I fall into bed with many; well not anymore. Her story doesn’t get me hot or horny but Abby doesn’t need to know that dirty detail.

Her lips drift open, and she stares up at me. “Absolutely. Anything you want. Any time. I have a private jet.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be in touch.” Truthfully, I’ll never be in touch except in mailers, invitations to support a political function, my next PR election buzz—all via campaign volunteers. Look, I’m not cold—I’m a realist and yeah, a tad manipulative, but I’m a politician for crying out loud with a swelling fiscal budget and auditors crawling up my ass. No pretense here. Call a calculating spade a spade—I’m not arguing.

But that’s where I stop with the ‘transparency’ policy and admittance that I am what I am. Forget Washington. Sure, I’m a wolf, but in fact, I’m worse. I’m a calculating, dirty-minded prick that has nothing to do with D.C. If Abby or any like her kind step foot number one in my bedroom aka dungeon, they’d scream bloody murder. If she ever got wind of the type of ‘red room’ kink I’m into, she’d walk—no she’d sprint to the nearest exit. The popular fictional character of
Christian Grey
and who I am under my propagated Dom persona couldn’t be on opposite ends of a spectrum if we tried.

Abby grins as she replies, “I’ll be waiting.”

“Later,” I say, and give her a wink. Turning on my heel, I have an urge to take a bow as I imagine someone shouting, “Cut!”
And that’s how this campaign trail game is played, ladies and gents.
Walking away, I slip on my sunglasses, and shake my cynical—correction—my realist head.

X.S.~
Just Desserts

HOLY GUACAMOLE, I pick up the note Jon wrote.
INTIMATE STAFF ASSISTANT.
Off-kilter, I look around for a place to hide it and spot Stone. He exits the terminal and I tuck it between the seats.

I’m so nervous that I’d begged Jon to do the driving tonight. Good thing. I saw—nearly ran into Stone inside the airport and almost ditched this whole idea. Now, I’m seated—more like caged—in the backseat of my car and Jon flashes me a peace sign.

My heart is about to burst out of my throat. Worse when Stone walks up to the car and I close my eyes.
Please. Calm the hell down.
I pray that I don’t self-combust as I make myself take a deep, deep breath.

Inhale.

Hold.

Slowly release.

Jon is talking to Stone—looks like there’s no turning back. I return to holding my breath as the senator opens the car door and climbs inside. We’re sitting next to each other and the air within the backseat seems to crackle as we stare at one another.
Up close, the man is more gorgeous looking than before—his thick hair is tousled, and there’s a five o’clock shadow littering his square jaw. Over his aviators, it’s affirmative—he’s got that rock star glare and it’s trained on me. He’s the epitome of the bad boy grown up into a powerful politician. His eyes still possess a force that’s enigmatic and driven, piercing the distance between us.

My memory is spot-on. I wasn’t delusional about him—it wasn’t the alcohol playing tricks on my instincts on Friday. In short, Stone’s a walking, talking piece of sex-flavored candy. He wears another impeccably tailored suit; this one like the last accentuates his sculpted body. A body I remember all too well, exploring with my hands.

Does he remember me?
I could be one in a long line of women he’s kissed and now, he’s reacting to the surprise of a new intern
. It could happen…

Even though Jon says he doesn’t do staffers—clearly the man does do someone. He reeks of molten sex appeal. Without saying a word to me, the senator’s intractable expression comes with a clenching jaw as he slams the car door shut.

I can’t continue to stare slack-jawed and say my opening line. The one I’ve practiced for hours. “Good evening, Senator Stone. Sorry to be running late. Rental car mix-up. The Apple convention is great for Boston, even if the city is crammed. But good news, we have a car and a driver. A volunteer. I just let Nora know,” I drone on, painfully aware of the hunk sitting next to me. I’ll crumble if we touch; so instead of a handshake, I hold out the envelope. “Your plane ticket. Do you want it? Or shall I hold on to it? I have everything that Mrs. Swan sent for tomorrow’s itinerary.”

Silently, he gifts me with a heated stare for several heartbeats over the rim of his sunglasses. In the light, his eyes are the color of green glass. His brooding glare comes with the same intensity level as before, and just as cutting. It’s like he sees right through me and our nuclear powered exchange has heat flares bursting under my skin, sparks swirling in my veins, hot enough to curl my toes. I have the distinct impression that I should scoot to the door, open it, and get out.

Instinctively, I sit up straighter.
Crap
. I’m still holding the ticket as we sit there with less than a foot of padded leather separating us. Why doesn’t he just take the thing?
Is it awkward in here? Or is-it-just-me?

“Senator, your ticket?” I’m pinching it so hard that my arm starts to shake. The sound of my heartbeat floods my ears.

Stone doesn’t just look at me over his glasses, he consumes me, and it’s as if I can feel his perusal power up.

“You’re Miss O’Malley?
My
intern?” Obviously, he’s troubled. When he speaks, gone is the iceman. His simmering glance touches my skin and lights a line of fire.

He calls me ‘Miss’ with his deep voice tinged with a Southern accent and immediately I correct him.

“
Ms
. O’Malley,” I say, notching my chin upward, unable to curb my wayward need to contradict him
.
Definitely, something about this powerful man has me ready to debate each time he speaks in that smooth baritone voice.

I go to hand him his ticket, but I’m so nervous I drop the damn thing. We go for it at the same time and end up colliding shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough for me to get a whiff of his masculine cologne. That scent commandeers my memory and acts like a karate kick to my chest. His earthy fragrance ignites an erotic yearning buried inside me. Only in his presence does that idiot yearning scream to be set free. To say I vividly recall how over the edge he got me is the understatement of the year—of my life.

How can one kiss possess this much power?

I curl my fingers around the envelope—directing the last fragment of my inner strength to anchor my fast-dwindling self-control. Except as we’re scrambling for the dropped ticket, Stone grabs my ankle. His touch sends a pang of racing awareness up my calf that crash-lands between my legs. The feel of his fingers trailing over my skin has me to the edge of my seat. I’m so shocked—so turned on—I snatch up the envelope, almost smacking him in the face.

Smooth X, real smooth.

We both sit up and suddenly, Senator Stone decides to speak instead of staring holes in me and asks, “Where did you come from?”

A million possible questions and that’s the one he picks?
Handing him his ticket, I give him a rundown of where I’ve lived, skirting the truth since I’m unwilling to dive into my family history. “I spent my early childhood in Boston, but then moved out West. Then I lived in Seattle for a couple of years. Between school in Connecticut, I spent summers in Philadelphia and Nantucket. My mom moved to Miami when I began high school and I visited when I could. I’ve lived across the four points of the US and am as American as apple pie.”

Unimpressed by my vague reply, he redirects our conversation otherwise—clearly he’s the same as every other person who hears my last name. Stone proceeds to ask the pointed question of how I came to be a quasi-intern in his office.
Umm, because your staff assistant was captivated by my last name.
Repeat after me, O-M-A-L-L-E-Y.

As I rattle off why I’m looking to intern on the Hill, Jon jumps in the driver’s seat. He looks between Stone and me, and confirms Newbury is the destination. We both give him a slight nod and he gases the engine as we pull away from the curb. The tires mildly screech and I direct my focus on Stone, not on Jon’s driving skills in getting us to the coffee house.

Jesus, I’m still holding his ticket. “Sir, your ticket?” Somehow I have to prove to the senator that what we did in a dark hallway means nothing to me. Not a thing. It was a mistake—his summarization. It isn’t like I haven’t spent enough time with powerful men to gloss that one over. This should be simple, if only Stone would stop staring at me with that penetrating gaze of his. It’s so unnerving and my muscles begin to quiver.

X just focus. You’ve done this a hundred times—same drill.
Nora said her boss has a tendency to act as a team of one and might decline my quasi-internship. Hell, at this rate, he might toss me out of the car while it’s in motion. Glancing down, I hear Jon’s pep talk streaming in my head.
Charm him
. Do whatever it takes to land my posterior in the seat next to Stone on the plane come Wednesday morning. I can’t fail. Too much is riding on this job reference.

“Clearly, you’ve got experience with top names. The Gazette? Why aren’t you doing a jaunt at the
Times
or
Journal
? Wouldn’t that be a better fit given your experience and goals?” Stone’s question makes sense.

I lift my gaze not that I can spew the truth. I’ll toss out crumbs as a factoid red herring. It isn’t the moment to come clean or tell him,
guess what? I’m adopted
. Get over the fascination. How I’d love to shout, “
Sure, I’m an O’Malley in name, but I’m not part of any good ole boy clan
.” But I’ve got to be smart this time around with Atticus Stone.

“That was a college practicum.” I hedge my reply to his question, “I’ve done the newspaper desk internship at the
Globe
. But it wasn’t real-life. The practicum was overly supervised. A stifling bubble, and I want the truth. Not the spin.” Smack-dap in the middle of my mental upheaval, Stone lifts his sunglasses. Our eyes connect and it’s palpable.

“You’re searching for the truth?” he counters and trains his unwavering gaze on me. His eyes are hard, without an iota of warmth or charm.

No more trading glances over the rim of his aviators. It’s as if he’s searching, but for what? My face heats but I’ll be damned if he can get me to break our little glaring contest. “Yes, the truth. You have heard of it?”

A micro expression overtakes Stone’s chiseled features. A nonverbal and it hits me full force that he’d like to do something to me that doesn’t involve trading pleasantries about the weather. As if I’ve crossed a line and what he brings forth is a full-on-stare that cuts to the bone.