Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (17 page)

“O’Malley, if you’re serious about a career on the Hill, more than your noble quest for the truth, this type of job requires total commitment. Are you up for the challenge? Once you’re in, there is no backdoor. Is the truth that important to you?” His condescending growl snaps me out of my brain fog.

“Absolutely! Yes, it is and yes, I am.” What am I saying? I’m spewing whatever it takes and from the smirk on Stone’s face, he’s made me. “Look Senator, I’m not a lightweight if that’s your concern. I recently graduated from BC with a master’s in communications.”

“Then perhaps we can agree to drop the judgments,” he offers, not that he’s smiling and making nice.

Fine. I can do hardball. I’ve seen Gran in action for years. “Agreed,” I say, mimicking his expression and tone.

Without missing a beat, he continues, “Are you available to work all types of hours? This isn’t like a typical internship. You won’t have a regular schedule. Not in my office. The fact that you’ve graduated is a plus.”

“Long hours aren’t a problem. And actually, I might be interested in the graduate credits, but it’s not a make or break point,” I admit and all the while it’s his eyes I’m focused on. Having been blind in accepting Spencer’s masquerade, I’m hypersensitive, especially given my attraction to this man. Deluded, I do not intend to be, not one second.

All of a sudden that familiar pressure behind my forehead creeps up on me and then the sensation of liquid streaming from my sinuses.
No. No. Please.
Senator Stone’s eyes widen, warning that it isn’t my imagination.

Atticus Stone~
Show No Weakness

Ten minutes ago.

OUTSIDE ON the curb, a black Fiat idles, and leaning against the hood, the driver is texting nonstop. I clear my throat, less than impressed.

He glances up, and immediately his brows draw together. “Senator Stone?” he says, losing his phone into his back pocket.

“Last time I checked.”
Where is the goddam intern?
If I didn’t need to ascertain the lowdown on O’Malley and her supposed connections, I’d fire her ass on principle.

The driver darts to my side, looking like he belongs in a rock band more than working as a driver and I brood over my next move. Either Nora’s plans changed or the intern is still MIA. I pull out my cell while reading his name tag. “Jon” but then it’s one of the symbols inked onto his skin that catch and hold my gaze. A spider definitively pointing upward. The flicker of a memory and I shutter my expressions.

“Just leave the luggage,” he says, not seeming to notice the direction of my recent focus and I play along.

Every cell in my body demands that I shut this last campaign stop down and return to D.C. But I can’t. The number one rule of the game is I can’t call off the dogs. By now, The Saint has put the wheels in motion. There are zero flip-flops when it comes to him giving an order to The Cleaner. It’s a matter of show and I’m all too aware that sacrifices are made. Innocent people have been dealt with to save face.
Show no weakness, no mercy, and leave no loose strings
. That’s fast turning out to be my underwritten campaign motto, not the naïve ‘get committed.’ A million years ago, I might’ve believed it; not today.

“You’re my ride to the coffee house and hotel?” I ask tersely, handing him my bag.

“Yeah, and all day tomorrow. Here, let me get that, Senator.” He’s wearing a #LeadRight2016 button. Bending forward, he almost bumps into me, but I slide to the left.

“No problem. I can get my own door. You worry about getting me to the next two stops and we’ll be square.”

“Sure. I’m down with that.”

Loosening my tie, I reach for the door handle as he pops the trunk. Somewhere close by, a truck backfires. I clench my jaw, tightening my grip on the door, and remind myself, I’m not on any political hit list.
Not yet.
I open the car door, scanning the street and taking in the people scurrying on the sidewalk as my neck muscles knot. Too much Starbucks and not enough shut-eye. Exhaling, I lower into the interior of the backseat then stop. I stare across at a woman who meets my gaze with an arched brow.

Holy hell, it’s the pair of legs from the airport corridor.
Shoes and
all
. But that isn’t the half of it. I
know
her… Know those incredible lips. I slam the door shut and can’t get word one out.

“Good evening, Senator Stone. Sorry to be running late…”

She’s O’Malley?
My brain uncharacteristically blitzes as I stare over the rim of my sunglasses.

“Senator, your ticket?” she inquires as her crystal blue eyes lock onto my gaze.

In the early evening light with her blonde hair pinned in place and hiding behind glasses—I stare at a woman who’s a contained version of the untamed girl from the dance club. The one I watched like a rabid jackal then kissed up against a wall. A coincidence? The stats have to be a million to one.

“You’re Miss O’Malley?” I bite out. “
My
intern?”

In mid-play of how I’m going to handle her to extract the truth, she licks her full bottom lip, and the memory of that night in the hall crashes into my awareness like a meteorite. I approached her that night—didn’t I? Or was it a setup I fell into? I’d been a hairsbreadth away from nailing this woman after dry humping and palming her ass and tits.

Christ, I want to pick up where we left off.

She schools me on her name. A hot button topic from the way her pupils dilate. No wonder I came on to her. And haven’t forgotten her for the last sixty-nine hours. I can smell a screaming hardcore lay a mile away, and O’Malley has all the makings that have my dick thickening and my blood boiling.

Over the weekend, I’ve woken up with a serious case of fossilized morning wood. On account of an ongoing fantasy of this nameless woman, I’ve beaten off to assuage my need for a rough ride by her. If she’s working for someone, she’s far from innocent.

For a fiasco, this little intern could prove useful in determining her connection to Harvard and if Nolan the douche has ties to the Silvers. Already seeing my next move, I commit. This firecracker is going to answer some questions.

Factoring in the danger she poses, I extrapolate the return. Her hazard quota isn’t a deterrent in wanting to get her naked and spread-eagle. I’m ravenous for retribution. If I have to spank the truth out of her, so help me, one of us is going to end up marked, bruised, and fucked into a mattress. Forget calling The Saint to deal with what an intern knows. This woman is all mine to handle. Her play of innocence is good—too good. I’m going to enjoy breaking Miss O’Malley.

Never in all my Dom days did a sphinx materialize before my eyes. Twice. Am I paranoid?
Does it matter
.

“I’ll take the ticket,” I say hoarsely. Even though it was an intern’s chore to keep track of this type of nonsense, I trust her as far as I could kiss her. I go to take it but instead, bat the envelope out of her hand. We both reach for it and end up colliding, our shoulders banging together. Skimming my fingers down her smooth calf to a pair of high heels no normal intern would wear, I admit defeat, “Okay. You go for it.”

Ms. O’Malley comes up with the envelope, victoriously waving it between us. Our faces are inches apart. So close, I can see that behind those black-framed glasses she wears, her eyes are the color of a glacier pool. So unearthly, a jab of electricity shoots through me just by looking into her translucent eyes.

“Where’d you come from?” I ask as if jacked up on truth serum.

O’Malley blasts through where she’s lived, not realizing my outpour wasn’t an actual question. I grapple over what this woman is doing next to me and cut to the chase. “How did you end up on my team?”

The driver climbs in and declares with a wide grin, “All set. Next stop Newbury.”

Nodding curtly, I dial down my scowl, refocusing to O’Malley, and meet her expectant gaze.

She holds out the ticket as if it’s a boundary between us. “Sir, you’re ticket?”

The defiant note in her ‘sir’ has my dick rearing up and at full attention. If she by chance utters ‘Master Stone,’ I could give zero shits if she’s working for the CIA or Isis, Elvis or JFK. We’ll lose the driver. Then I’ll have her face down over the back seat and silky piles of her blonde hair in my fists. I’d bury myself to the hilt in her tight body. I’d take her like she’s never been taken before.

So help me, if she’s playing me like a pro, she had better be prepared to get balled senseless as she answers my questions. In that order, before she’s shown the door.

Unequivocally, I’ve lost it! O’Malley is the femme fatale version of kryptonite to my objectives. I’ve got to crush this craving before it’s too late.

We trade the back-and-forth about her qualifications. Nothing she says dispels my desire to spread her lovely legs and spend the night making her scream my name.

“Look, Senator…” she says, trying to convince me of her earnest intentions, and I want to tell her don’t.

Don’t call me that
. For a beat, I clench my jaw, silently debating my next move. Until I watch a drop of blood smear down her porcelain skin. Followed by another. I take hold of her bicep and pull her closer to me. “Stay still. You’re bleeding.” I reach into my pocket and remove my handkerchief. “Use this.”

“I’m fine,” she says but clearly she isn’t.

“Do you have any ice?”

“No,” she whispers.

“Exit the highway,” I order the driver. “We need ice.”

Whatever argument she’s mounting, I don’t listen. I slant against her, cupping her chin, and we’re so close. Her breath is sweet and clean, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to sample her mouth again. Except blood streams out of her nose. The widening of her eyes in fear reaches inside me like a fist, punching into me bone deep.

“Step on it,” I instruct Jon
.
His eyes flash upward and our gazes intersect in the rearview mirror.

Speeding down the highway, he peers back and swears, “Holy hell! Phoenix, what’s wrong?”

Phoenix?
Did I hear him correctly? This is Phoenix Silver? The granddaughter of Grace and Michael. No wonder she seems familiar. Christ, from the fanatical press I’ve procured over the years concerning the Silvers and PanCorp, she’s barely featured. Always referred to as a Silver.
Never an O’Malley.
Martin O’Malley
,
an aluminum baron, had died in a plane crash. From what I recall this woman’s mother is quite the operator yet she didn’t profit from that billionaire marriage. The prenup must’ve been ironclad.

So, this is Ms. Phoenix Silver…
All grown up
. One of the last unmarried Silvers. Away at boarding schools. Ensconced in college. A hint of trouble. A few photos of her here and there. Last one of her that I can recall… braids and fair-trade marches. Unlike the other grandchildren with their debutant
Page 6
balls. This blonde bombshell must be the Silver sleeper. Or so pigheaded, she had refused to fall in line.

Jutting my chin toward the windshield, I bark, “Nosebleed. Find a service station and get some ice.” Fishing my hand inside my pocket, I remove and toss him my wallet.

“That’s ridiculous,” she protests. “We have a schedule.”

The driver shoots me a glance over his shoulder then to O’Malley. Under his breath he curses and nods, flooring the gas as he exits the highway. At the corner, he brakes sharp into a left turn, and parks in front of an all-night service station. Before I can bark out another order, he’s out of the car and I lean into O’Malley.

Turning to her, it’s then that I notice the ring on her third finger. Time slows. I take hold of her hand, clasping it entirely within my grasp. Between gritted teeth, I growl, “You’re engaged! Before or after we almost—”

“No-o-o,” she stammers. “It’s just a ring.”

“It’s a diamond solitaire. Don’t lie to me.” I tighten my hold on her hand.

Stark fear glitters in her incredible eyes as she solemnly nods. “I was.”

“Was? Then explain why you’re still wearing some man’s ring?”

Her eyes are wider than plates. “I didn’t want you to think I was a flake. It was a bad decision.”

“How long?”

“How long was I engaged?”

Anger chokes me. I close my eyes, fighting for control. I shouldn’t care if this woman is engaged, but I do and clarify with, “How long since you were engaged?”

“A month. I walked in on him and his lover.”

A flicker of satisfaction spears my chest and I push it down. “Where in the hell did you come from?” I demand. “I want the truth, without the song and dance details. Years and places. Got it?”
Slick—a real way with words, Tuck
.

Her brows knit. “In 1992, I was born in London but a week later came to Boston. Then in 2000, I moved to Arizona—Sedona for three months.”

“Why?” I ask sharply. “And don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes widen. Her face is stark white. “My stepfather died.”

Without breaking eye contact, I order, “And then?”

“Back to Boston for the summer. We moved to Seattle when my mom remarried…” O’Malley retells the finer details, minus the comment about being as American as apple pie.

I release her hand, aware of how soft her skin feels. “Those facts will be verified. I hope you aren’t lying.”

“Are you sure?” She lifts her brow. “Sounds as though you’d very much like to catch me in a lie.”

Is she challenging me?
Does she have a clue who she’s calling front and center in our little charade or this veil of innocence she’s trying to hide behind?

Talk about shifting gears. This woman has me seeing Technicolor Americana all right. Red—the color of my handprint on her ass. White—the color of the lingerie I’d dress her in and then rip off her body, and blue. The color of my balls ‘cause none of what I’m imagining is going to happen.

“Ice?” Jon returns with a cup filled to the brim.

I shove it in the cup holder and ask, “What about paper towels?”

“They’d scratch her face. Napkins will do.” He hands over a wad.

I take them, unfolding one, and wrap three cubes of ice within. “Here. It’s not perfect. Place it at the back of your neck.” I hold it out to O’Malley.