Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (22 page)

And
boom
. She flashes her eyes to mine as if she feels my heated stare. Each and every time, I feel a current of electricity rip through my awareness. I could spend the night watching her.

Applause starts, then ramps up, and I force my focus to the front as I walk forward. Stepping up to the mic, I look around the coffee house. “We’re living in a time of unsurpassed possibility as well as uncertainty. After being on the road campaigning both in Georgia and for the GOP, I’ve come to view neighborhood communities as microcosms and a metaphor for what we should be doing as a nation in the 21
^st
century. Exemplified by what the Back Bay Business Association has done here in Boston. Your campaign support is phenomenal and your involvement in shaping this community deserves recognition.” I raise my cup to several of the Newbury high rollers I see in front of me…until my eyes touch upon O’Malley’s face and my mind blanks for a second. A groan threads up my throat, and I stifle it, hurling myself into a speech I’ve given countless times over the last month. At the end, I thank everyone for coming out tonight, then removing the mic on my lapel, I nod to the man on my left as I meet O’Malley’s gaze.

As if magnetically drawn, I move to her side. “Any thoughts or suggestions for improvement?” I ask her, smiling at those who clap my back as I give rote responses to congratulations floating around us.

“Everyone is thrilled that you’re here.” She smiles at me and then shifts her eyes at the people milling about.

Not everyone
. People keep entering the coffee house. Phoenix has GOP buttons and pamphlets that I learn my Hill team had overnighted here. Nora is correct—I have no idea what goes on behind the scenes.

Shaking my head, I concentrate on doing this meet-and-greet but I find myself intrigued by my intern. Folks
continue to come up, some form a casual line and others by way of Ms. O’Malley’s introduction.
During a lull, I lean over and tell her, “You’re good at working the crowd.”

She refocuses on me and with a shrug offers, “I’ve had experience at flashy events.”

Every time I glance at her, she’s doing something that has me to the point of hauling her to the back restroom and pushing her against a wall, demanding to know what’s her game or if she’s the slightest bit interested in letting me do her. If the inside of the Fiat was torture, this is no reprieve, and I can’t wait to get out of here.

An hour later, I’m practically sprinting out the door as I take her elbow, piloting her to the waiting Fiat at the curb. “Goodnight,” I say to those standing around us.

“Senator Stone?” A couple at the curb walks over. “We can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. Not just here tonight, but all over.”

“Good evening. What are your names?” I smile and hold out my hand.

They introduce themselves, a husband and wife and owners of a bookstore nearby. I gesture to Phoenix. “My personal assistant, Ms. O’Malley. It’s a pleasure and I appreciate you both coming out tonight.”

For a few minutes, we all talk and I get the full-on Phoenix impact. A mega dose of her feminine charisma, until the man tugs on his wife’s arm. “Don’t want to talk your ear off.”

I blink and realize, I’ve been staring at O’Malley. Shifting my focus, I speak to the couple, “Might be the other way around.” We all laugh and exchange another round of handshakes. As they walk away, I redirect my gaze to the girl standing next to me and I’m the one who asks, “Ready?”

In a quiet voice, she replies, “Yes, sir.”

The sultry sound of ‘sir’ rolling off her tongue makes my cock twitch. Under the glow of moonlight and gentle sweep of the summer breeze, I’m tempted to pull her into my arms, press into her, and resume where we’d left off Friday night.
Phoenix
,
come to me
, I silently order her. What I’d give to have the freedom to follow this craving; an adrenaline rush in the mystery of unchartered terrain.

Instead, I guide her to the car, and we climb in to the backseat. “Jon, get us to the hotel,” I order in a clipped voice, observing the minx who almost brought me to my knees.

Atticus Stone~
Set Me Up Again

OUT ON the sidewalk in front of the hotel, I wait until Jon is dealing with my suitcase, and out of earshot. Suddenly O’Malley seems nervous as though she has something important to relay. “Do you want the driver to stay?” I ask as a way to define our plans.

“My apartment isn’t far,” she replies, following me to the rear of our ride.

“The one we discussed. Or another?” I retort drily. Is she about to bow out after trying to convince me how much she’s a team player? Typical trust fund princess bait-n-switch, not that I’ll allow her that freedom. But it is interesting to see how she contrives her moves.

“I provided my address. All of them. And I can stay here if they have an open bed.” The term ‘bed’ glides off her tongue.

It lands like a bomb, imploding inside my head. I refuse to react to her well-timed reference to a bed that will contain her tight little body for the night. Looking up, I meet her eyes, and grind my back molars. That comment can go south in so many ways. Jon—a volunteer from
ShitifIknow—
might tweet or post this snippet. Or I might lose it in the elevator, forget needing a bed.

“The hotel doesn’t look that crowded,” she supplies when I don’t reply. “They assured me they have a top-notch business center and all-night room service. They serve Starbucks.”

“When did you inquire?”

“After you mentioned wanting to work tonight?” she supplies and adds, “There must be at least one empty room. Even if they’re sold out, there’s still a chance someone hasn’t shown up. It’ll be easier than trying to deal with logistics in case of a last minute emergency.”

We won’t need those amenities, yet I’m impressed. “Good planning.”

“Thanks. I try,” she replies with a smile. It’s so open and genuine, I’m stunned.

We’re standing out on the sidewalk and I’m right in the middle of reaching into my pocket for my money clip when the driver’s head snaps up at her announcement. I meet his surprised gaze and feel an acute sense of ownership creep into my awareness, as if I want to point to her and proclaim:
MINE.

Stowing my moment of primal insanity, I go for the expected reply. The one that won’t get me kicked in the nuts. “Considering we have a ton of work to get done, that might be best,” I say with phony aplomb.

“Senator, I’ll go ahead and get a room.” Abruptly, she leans in close, infusing me with a measured dose of unwavering eye contact and another hit of her fragrance—light with a citrus undertone—and I forget all about the world around us. Christ, her pupils are fully dilated, leaving her arctic-blue irises captivating neon rims. Her bewitching gaze peers into me, diving deep—too deep.

Peeling off a tip for Jon, I wonder what’s running through her mind. And why there’s an undeniable connection between us where all I want to do is go upstairs, strip her naked, and tie her to my bed.

Only one thing is required, and it’s her admission that she’s a willing participant. A rush of lust coats my reason until it’s slick and slippery. Every filthy fantasy involving O’Malley that I’ve entertained for the last three nights overpowers my sound judgment until I’m left fighting the urge to shove her against the car, cup her head, and haul her mouth to mine.

“Senator Stone, is that all right?” she asks.

I hand the driver a tip and say to her, “Put the room on my credit card.” Afterward, I murmur a delayed, “Thanks, Jon. See you tomorrow.”

Decision made. O’Malley and I are going to fuck. Protracted and carnal.

The hotel staff wheels my luggage away. As a porter takes my computer case, I request it and am vaguely aware of the driver mock saluting before he retreats into the car without further incident.

The chances of X agreeing to go upstairs and let me ravage her like a savage are in the range of probable. I remove my credit card and hand it over to her. It’s her reaction I’m finely tuned into as I gauge my next words.

“Do you need a wakeup call?” She flicks her gaze to the driver as she waves.

“No. But you might. We’ve got an early morning and I plan on hitting it before sunrise. Tomorrow doesn’t stop until midnight. If we’re lucky.”

“I’m good with that. College was all about all-nighters.” She takes my credit card but not before her silky fingers slide over mine, discharging an electric jolt that shoots up my arm.

“Doesn’t get much better in politics,” I assure her. On edge, the idea of a drink sounds better and better. A requirement as I plot how to effect this hookup and what I intend to achieve.

“I’m not put off,” she replies.

Motioning to the front steps, I say, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.”

We enter the hotel and I focus on the floors in lieu of her ass. They’re a warm, honey-stained hardwood and I’m conscious of her heels
tap-tap-tapping
.

A few feet before the check-in desk, she slows and curls her fingers over my arm. “There’s a line. I’ll check us in if you have calls to make.”

The feel of her fingers reminds me that she’s silken to the touch and innocent. Once I take her over the edge, there is no backing out. Her education begins tonight. I’m pulling her into a dark realm, jockeying her into begging me to do things she more than likely has never heard about or conceived.
Or I could tell her to leave.
Run back to her ivory tower. Wait for Prince Charming and live happy-vanilla-ever-after.

“I don’t know if this is plausible,” I say softly, watching her mouth as my muscles constrict. I clench my jaw for having admitted aloud what’s plaguing me. Neither she nor I can have it both ways.

“Look, I’m here to work. Senator Stone, whatever you’re thinking, this is
plausible
. Total and irrevocably doable. No matter what you might believe, I’m not a preconceived notion. Didn’t you say to put away our judgements? I need this job but I won’t beg.”

A burst of fire scathes my nerve endings, signaling that what’s going on between us is far outside the norm even for the places I inhabit. In a covert world, where edge play relies upon instinct, I’m throwing caution to a gale-force wind. Not to mention how The Saint will use this woman if he suspects she means anything to me.

I look down at her fingers, focusing on the pale nude color on her nails, and grind out, “I could use a drink, O’Malley.”

Backing away from her, my one good plan is to head for the hotel bar. No question, I need a quart of liquid ammunition to stop from coming onto this woman with the sophistication of a wrecking ball. I glance around the lobby, spotting the lounge. It’s a dark rectangle cutout in the far wall where the twinkling white lights remind me of Christmas. I squelch that thought as my only means to disengage from the roil of gutting nausea whenever I contemplate the holidays.

“Where are you going?” Her eyes grow to the size of saucers and I gesture with a snap of my chin toward the corner of the lobby.

“I’ll be in that bar.”
      

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

Nodding, I can’t get away fast enough in my quest to toss back a few shots of steel reserve in the form of straight single malt Scotch. Hell, I’ll guzzle unfiltered moonshine if it means sweet relief from the razor-sharp ache racing under my skin from O’Malley and her pink suckable lips.

“It’s been a long day and we won’t get to bed ‘til probably early morning…” And the audacity of her being here hits me. Twice we’ve run into each other and are closer than two coats of paint in what we want. “Why did you come to the airport, if you could have met me tomorrow morning?”

She smiles. “I didn’t want to miss the opportunity and when Nora offered me the spot, she mentioned it was last-minute since you’d dismissed your team. She changed up your schedule and worries about you.”

“Worries too much and I understand, you’re partially to blame. I didn’t thank you for setting up the Harvard gig.” Standing this close to O’Malley, I’m faced with the plaintive truth. One taste of her in bed and I might want another. And another. I feel the force of that veracity spread through me, all the more tempting under the weight of potential disaster she represents.

Silently I’m chanting for her to step away, or better yet, spin on her circus height pumps and go conquer the world miles away from me.

“My pleasure. I had a few favors owed.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been back on campus and I’m looking forward to this IRT talk with the independents.”

“IRT?” she asks.

“In real time.” I stiffen and the chanting fades to a dead stop. The Saint will deal with Nolan. There will be questions posed when he’s dealt with. I haven’t come right out and asked her about the dean. What favors could the independent party possibly owe her or is it her family? This question grounds me, and I formulate a casual response, but all the while, I’m interested in getting to the bottom of more than a few things where O’Malley is concerned. “Interesting to be owed favors. We should discuss that point.” I have no choice but to take this woman over the edge to extract answers.

“Indeed. After I check-in, I’ll bring your key to the bar. Okay?” Her suggestion sounds innocent, but within our raw attraction, nothing is innocent. We both know that.

“Sounds like a plan,” I retort.

Her brows knit together and then she points toward the check-in counter. “Any special room requests?”

“A bed. King size. What do you drink?” Tempting fate, I offer her a drink, and I wait to hear her response.

She meets my stare. “Whatever you’re having.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You drink Scotch?”

“Sure. Why not?” She stops in midstride, glances over to me, and returns my raised eyebrow. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“I believe that.” After meeting plenty of champagne-looking women who can drink me under the table, I’m not about to turn this into a drinking gauntlet. “Great, we’ll sip Scotch and talk GOP campaign strategy for Boston.”

Provocatively she smiles, pivoting on her heels, and leaving me once again frozen in my tracks. This magnetic connection we’ve got—the push and pull… If I don’t get a handle on my runaway reaction to her, I might drink the bar dry in an effort to extinguish this craving she flagrantly unsheathes in me and seems to enjoy antagonizing. Lost in a tangle of my thoughts, I cross the lobby, envisioning O’Malley under me. I weigh the possibility that she might be a virgin. I don’t do virgins.