Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (19 page)

“Then what?” I demand, wondering if he already knows about the probate case and my trust fund fiasco.

The muscle along his jaw flexes. “On your own admission, you stated that this was last minute. I don’t need the headache of training you on the fly only to have you disappear instead of boarding a plane to D.C. So far, you’re lily white or so you purport. Not one dirty little secret. I find that strange.”

“What about you?”

His eyes narrow. “What I’m about is structured chaos and that requires absolute commitment. There is no operating by the seat of my pants or yours going forward.”

I feel my face heat as my heart jackhammers erratically against my ribs. What is it with this pompous prig? Does he think I’m a twit?
“Nice recap but unnecessary.” I laugh, but inside my emotions are a molten mess. I’m oh so ready to flip him off.
No. Big no.
Valiantly, I seek to recoup my IQ. Foremost, I remind myself,
I’m the one who needs to ingratiate myself to this man
—
not the other way around
. He needs me like a third armpit. “What gives you the impression I’d jump ship? I’ll stay through thick and thin. I’m not looking for a cushy position. I’m here to learn and not afraid of hard work. A lot of it, if it’s required.”

Stone vaults right back, “All right, Ms. O’Malley. Off the top of your head, explain one thing you’ve mastered as a result of hard work?”

“Plenty. And generally, it’s the type that’s frequently overlooked. Invisible to the public-at-large. Operating under the wire, isn’t as easy as it looks to outsiders. I’m not the only one with a dynasty family. Correct, Senator?” I tilt my head to the side and watch him.

“What do you know about my family?” His voice is so sharp it could cut paper.

“You’re from Atlanta. Your father, Grant Stone, was from an old Southern family with bloodlines that extend for generations—like mine. Stone & Sons Brokerage House was established prior to the Civil War. It closed due to your father’s untimely death.” His father died in a carjacking and the assailants were never caught. With the economy in a nosedive, his father’s family’s business didn’t survive.

Unlike most dynasty firstborn, Stone didn’t fall in line but busted out and cut his ties. He went into law, not banking. Does he understand how important this job is or will he use it against me? I can’t tell and can’t risk giving him the means to control me.

“And my mother?”

The dossier didn’t say much about his mom. A stay at home…I can’t recall her maiden name.
Alde
— I’m staring upward and drawing a blank. “Uhhh…I’m sorry. Your mother is a homemaker and—”

“And?” he prompts me.

Besides Jon giving me a dossier to study, I’ve read plenty on the senator. Just not on his family. What a dolt I am! “I don’t recall Mrs. Stone’s maiden name. But you both call Rearden home. It was renovated a few years back due to a fire.”

His exhale comes out faster than gunfire and I pause, not sure if I should continue.

“Please, don’t stop,” he directs me with an icy glare.

“The plantation has been your family’s since it was built at the turn of the century, across from the Governor’s mansion on Ferry Road. I imagine it’s stunning, with gardens and land. A large property, requiring much time on the part of your mom, to oversee.” I stop rambling, and own up to the truth. “Frankly, I didn’t delve into your mother’s history. From what I’ve googled, not much has been reported about your mom. You both must guard her privacy. Being a D.C. internship, I don’t expect to have much contact with your family. If that is a requirement, of course, I’ll be interested.”

“Are you that committed, Ms. O’Malley?” Stone asks yet now he’s devoid of any emotion. It’s uncanny how he turns on this veneer that’s as if he’s encased in…
stone
.

“Isn’t it part of your platform and why so many people flock to your camp versus your opponent’s?
Get committed
,” I supply, and on my roll I follow up with, “Let me assure you, Senator, I am.”

Well, that shut Stone up. I bet not too many people stand up to him. Not on the super ego trip he’s on. It’s no secret that he hired a powerful cutting edge PR team—the same one North used. Earlier this year, a
CNN
reporter shadowed him for a month.

Stone studied psychology at Princeton. He not only went to law school at Harvard, he double majored in law and poly-sci. Served as an editor for
Law Review
and graduated second in his class. Played soccer—goalie. Worked for the U.S. Attorney in Beantown. Then he must’ve gotten the seven-year itch and went private—a top law firm. He specialized in white-collar crime but offered pro bono to some high profile cases, giving him access to courting the press. And court he did. Within a year of being in the private sector, he’d launched his platform as a serious political candidate. Youngest senator elected. Atticus Stone marches to his own drum—then and now.

I’m snapped out of my mental ramblings when he replies, “You do well under pressure.” We regard each other for a protracted beat. “Can you stand the heat if it’s ongoing, savage, relentless? Politics isn’t for the faint of heart. Most people don’t understand, it’s sparring minus the gloves, or a referee. What goes on behind closed doors is just that. On the Hill, it’s not what you know; it’s whose secrets are you carrying.” A muscle along his jaw pulses. Stone’s voice is low, smooth as velvet and edged in steel.

Everything about him makes me think of mind-blowing sex. We gaze at one another and I can’t shake my impression of Stone. So blistering and far reaching, it’s just as the research indicates: first impressions instantly formed are hard to shake. All my instincts don’t whisper; they scream ‘back away.’ He’s trouble. He’s a wolf in political trappings and the type of man, a woman can’t forget.
And after one kiss, this woman hasn’t.

Seated next to him, this raw sexual chemistry he unleashes inside me expands and expands. If I’m not careful, I’ll come off as a congressional groupie. A fangirl he kissed and solidify his impression of me as a mistake
and
a ditz. Never mind D.C., I won’t make it past tonight if I don’t get serious and fast.

“I can stand whatever you throw my way,” I reply coolly, stowing his monogrammed handkerchief. Note to self, dry clean ASAP and return to him.

“I don’t recall getting a copy of your transcript,” he replies with a cutting stare. “What have you got in there? Those locks are pretty impressive.”

Stone lifts my case onto the seat between us and my head is back in the game. He’s over-the-top but he’s also the doorway to career connections independent of my family. It isn’t immoral to be turned on by the man. As long as I remember he’s molten glass. A sinfully alpha congressman. Acknowledging the potential danger, I reel in my attraction, stow it, and vow to do what needs to be done.

With my newfound sense of competence in place, I reply, “Paperwork. My laptop. And it just so happens, I have a copy of my transcript.” Smiling, I bring my case to my lap and thumb the tumblers of the locks into the correct sequence for the combination. I snap the locks and notice Stone’s focus is directed to my fingers.

“‘
X-S-O
.’ Isn’t it supposed to be P-O-S? Where did your first name come from?” he asks. His observation floors me.

For a crazy millisecond, I actually imagined that he was interested in learning the combination to the locks when all he’s doing is picking up on a detail few notice.

XS
.
The initials are a play on ‘excess
.
’
Should I admit my high school nickname after he’s raked me over the coals about being south of steadfast? It was so long ago. Ancient history.

Really?
A voice inside my head mocks. Suddenly, my mind is filled with the memory of Stone pressing against me not but three nights ago.

“Generally, yes. But this was a gift,” I quickly amend. “My given name is Phoenix, but to my friends, I go by ‘X.’”

Stowing the memory of Stone’s hands on my body, I can’t help myself as I rub my tongue piercing, a small nude ball, against the roof of my mouth. Nope, better not relay the truth. He doesn’t need to know my past preoccupation with partying hard.

X.S.~
Call me Alice

FUMBLING WITH my computer case, I open it and remove a neatly stapled packet. Thank you obsessive-compulsive tendencies—something both Jon and I share. Besides a copy of my Capitol Hill intern application, updated résumé, and a writing sample ready to go, I have three copies of my transcript. Handing Stone one, I observe him from under my lashes. He reads it, noting aloud with a smirk that my GPA is 3.99.

Abruptly, the smirk is gone and he targets me with a smoldering glare. “Any courses taken elsewhere? Outside the U.S.?”

“Not a one,” I retort. Gran would’ve had a cow if I’d slipped from the fold. I don’t fill him in on that factoid.

“Nora, we’ve got a change in plans,” Stone barks into his cell, which miraculously is back in his hand. “We’re stopping for dinner. Get us a reservation at Pastiche and Porter. Make certain they have a bottle of chilled
Domaine des Comtes Lafon, Charmes 1er Cru
, preferably a 2009 vintage or 2010. If not, call Grill 311, and have them shuttle one over.”

Not some hamburger joint
. And the way Stone orders Nora to virtually fetch a bottle of wine, supports my opinion that he’s truly in a tightly wound league, upper tier. Christ, he’d give Gran a run for her money.

From the rearview mirror, Jon flicks me a look and I can see the rise of his brows in question. Without being told, he taps his cell. Probably his GPS app for the address.

In less than fifteen minutes, we’re parked in front. A doorman opens the senator’s door. Stone climbs out, buttoning his jacket, and says something to him. In reply the doorman laughs, bobs his head, and shifts his gaze to me. The doorman rapidly steps back from Stone, snapping his fingers for a valet. A young man scurries up to the car and opens the driver’s door.

“Join us,” Stone says to Jon.

“I’m good,” he replies, playing his part as driver. Clearly the breach of him cursing and yelling my name wasn’t lost on the senator.

Stone holds out his hand to me and I take it, unprepared for the zing of static electricity discharged. If only I weren’t painfully aware of clasping his large, strong hand. Warm palm against warm palm, with a tug, I’m up and out of the car. I release my hold on him but not fast enough. This close and diffused in the humid summer evening air, I inhale another whiff of his woody masculine cologne. An aching reminder of my mouth on his neck, his jaw, his lips.

To halt a revisit to fantasyland, I swivel around and zone in on the valet. He points, giving Jon directions where to park. I’m torn but can’t say anything to him. Do I need to? He was the one who first alerted me to the tuck-n-roll style of Atticus Stone.

We’re ushered inside and seated in an alcove. A bottle of wine arrives corked and chilling in an ice bucket. A waiter appears, speaks in an animated tone as the senator asks something. They converse in what sounds like Russian. I feel my brow crinkle. We weren’t given menus and Stone proceeds to order our dinner. The waiter thanks him and disappears.

He drops his gaze and recommences flipping through my transcript. “Do you have a passport?”

Like what?
I’m a magnet for control freaks. “
Nice that you’re well-versed in the menu but I’m not.”

“We don’t have much time.” His overzealous authority irritates me.

“What if I’m vegan?” I spout.

He gifts me with a smile—it isn’t the friendly sort. “You aren’t. I asked about a passport. Do you have one?”

I nod, and then remember my case is out in the car. I look toward the restaurant entrance. Is it imperative that he see it?

Stone sighs. The sound reminds me of distant thunder and pricks my awareness. I shuffle my focus to the other side of the table and stop fiddling with my napkin. Meeting his steely eyes, I stiffen.

Leaning back in his chair, Stone’s body language might appear relaxed, yet it’s a by-product of his contained arrogance. “O’Malley, I prefer answers that are articulated. For the record and for expediency. Understand?”

I’m about to nod but forego it with a hasty, “Yes. And yes I have a passport. It’s in the car.”

A waiter arrives with soup and bread. I take a moment to collect my thoughts by scanning the interior of the restaurant; however, my visual walkabout is curtailed. Stone laughs and says something in Italian. Entranced, I refocus on him and wonder how many languages does he speak. He’s on his cell, but of course, he shifts his ever-seeing eyes and catches me gawking.

Stone hangs up and I hastily throw out, “Is this gazpacho?”

“Similar. It’s
Okróshka
.”

“
Okróshka
?” I try out the term and sample the soup.

His unflappable gaze targets me. “Have you had it before?”

It tastes familiar and I sample another spoonful. I murmur, “No.” But as I’m eating it, the crunchy vegetables and spices seem faintly familiar.

Stone taps out a text on his phone. He’s constantly on that thing. In between sipping his wine and eating his soup, he peppers me with questions, scans my transcript, then switches to my résumé. From what he remarks on, I follow where his interest detours. He comments on my running track and being president of the thespian club; but I can’t tell if he thinks those are noteworthy or not. I feel like I’m sitting in front of my family, having my life picked apart.

The waiter arrives with our food, and Stone reaches for his wine glass. Before drinking, he says, “You act? On stage?”

“Past tense. I’ve done my share of plays.” I’m three snaps away from slapping that smug smirk off his arresting face as he dissects me. Not helping that I also long to climb onto his lap and shush him.

The less he knows about me the better yet he doesn’t relent in combing through my life. He doesn’t just stick to what’s on the page. He leapfrogs into things like my favorite restaurants, then zeroes in on specific dishes. Places I’ve visited and my favorite shops are up for grabs. He even asks about my favorite brand of chocolate, perfume, and liquor. The man isn’t just panty-dropping gorgeous, he’s intense. His curiosity feels like a razor taking small nicks and nips each time he asks a question and my answer doesn’t come quick enough or he believes my reply is lacking. I gather his concentrated inquiry—akin to an inquisition—is fueled by his level of confidence.