Power Play: A Romance Collection

by Lauren Landish

  Nathan Stone.

  I know that name, or least I knew Michael Stone. Anna’s boss. This is what Raul found, what scared him off. It has to be. I shove the paper into my pocket, pushing Raul to his side so he doesn’t choke if he vomits before he comes to. It’s not common, but some folks are weird when they regain consciousness.

  It’s then I hear it . . .

  A gasp.

  I turn and it’s her. Carly. She’s standing at the entrance to the alley, her mouth wide open but her hands clasped over her lips.

  Before the shock can unlock her legs, I take the three strides to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her against me. I turn, shoving her against the wall and holding her hostage there. Her eyes are pure terror, a weak cry coming from deep in her throat.

  “You saw nothing,” I say harshly. It’s not a question.

  She nods, but I can see the questions, the urge to scream. I grab at her bag, the same one I helped her repack earlier when the contents scattered on the floor. Finding the wallet, I open it to see her ID.

  “Carly Edwards. New York City, New York. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

  Something in the snide question gives her a boost, her chin raising defiantly. I can’t have that. I need her weak in this moment, fearful of me, of what I’ll do if she tattles on what she’s seen.

  I growl, the sound low and feral, and she shrinks. “I know who you are. I know where you live in the US, and I recognize that hostel key.” The threat seems almost enough, and then I add, “And it seems the café owner, Strega, is rather fond of you too. I’d hate for anything to happen to either of you.”

  It’s then that she gets it. I see the decision in her eyes. “You saw nothing. Understand?”

  Finally, she speaks, and though it’s quiet, I hear her. “Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie, to use the horror she would feel at that to terrorize her into keeping her mouth shut. But that’s not what comes out of my mouth.

  “No, he’s unconscious. Not dead.”

  Her relief is palpable. Her agreement is nearly complete, and she nods slowly. “I didn’t see anything.”

  I let her go slowly, willing her to not make any sudden moves. She moves just as carefully, but I’m surprised that when offered the chance, she doesn’t make a run for it. Instead, she moves to Raul, bending down to place two fingers to his neck to confirm what I’ve told her. Smart girl.

  She nods and brushes off her knees as she stands up. “I’m leaving first. Do not follow me.”

  Her audacity at issuing orders amuses me on some level, but I dip my chin, agreeing. She steps out of the alley and onto the sidewalk without giving me her back, and then like a mirage, she’s gone.

  I count to ten and then follow her out of the alley. I look left, scanning as far down the sidewalk as I can, but she’s nowhere to be found. If she’s as smart as she seems, I’ll never see her again.

  Chapter 5

  Emma

  Driving higher and higher into the hills of The Hamptons, all I can see are trees and fences. Obviously, there are houses behind each run of trees because every once in a while, the fence style changes, denoting the different estates.

  Claire and I grew up wealthy, but this is on a whole different level of money.

  I slow as I round a turn, noticing that the brick fence pillars are now marked with a scrolling letter S, just as Claire said they would be. I follow the street to the servants’ entrance, turning in carefully and stopping at the callbox.

  With a press of a button, a disembodied British accent resonates crisply from the speaker. “Stone Manor, may I help you?”

  “Yes, Kitty Williamson from Mostest Hostesses as requested, sir.”

  The congenial tilt to my voice is one of practiced comfort, the professional courtesy I learned at Mom’s side through years of her parties.

  But even saying the stupid name Claire gave me makes me roll my eyes. And ‘Mostest Hostesses’ doesn’t exactly help either.

  As the gate buzzes and begins to open, I roll my window up and drive forward, mimicking myself with a Kardashian-worthy snide repeat. “Kitty Williamson, Mostest Hostesses, sir. Ugh! Claire, you owe me one.”

  She can’t hear me since we’d decided a wire was too risky, but I’m still putting it out in the universe because I know how big of a request this was for her, and I’ll be collecting on this debt for sure. Sister or not.

  The tree line clears, and suddenly, I can see the house. No, not house. That is a fucking mansion. Or what’s bigger than a mansion? I can’t think of a big enough word, but I know that this home qualifies.

  It’s stunning and classic, red brick soaring three stories high with white Attic-style columns reaching to the roof.

  From the outside, it looks as if there are distinct wings within the house, a central and two side sections, each with turrets and chimneys rising from the roofline.

  Driving around to the side, since servants definitely don’t warrant a front-door entry at a place like this, I can see more columns on the back of the home, but instead of going to the roof, they end at a large second-floor balcony that overlooks the ocean.

  I have a flash of what this life must be like. Days spent lounging by the pool or breakfast on the balcony as you watch the tide come in, soft breezes and blue skies over manicured grounds.

  Even bitter New York winters are probably tempered by roaring fires, cable-knit sweaters, and snifters of warm brandy while surrounded by leather and oak paneling. It sounds picturesque, but I know there’s a dark side to the fairy tale.

  There always is, and Claire made sure I knew what I was getting myself into before letting me go tonight, reviewing the risks and players with me until I could quote her words back to her without any mistakes.

  I park my Lexus in the lot, noting that the other cars all seem to be nice and new too. I guess being a Mostest Hostess pays decent money, enough for the other girls to drive as well as I do, thanks to Mom and Dad’s twenty-first birthday gift.

  I love my Lexie. She’s my baby, and I’ll throw down on anyone who even threatens her.

  With a final deep breath for courage, I assume the mantle of Kitty Williamson, secret spy on a mission for the FBI. The hostess part comes naturally, but being on the lookout for the list of things Claire wanted me to keep an eye on is less so.

  I’ll have to be careful, conscientious, and maybe a bit daring.

  Excitement and fear rush through me in equal measure.

  I walk the few steps to the side door of the house, which opens as I approach, revealing an older, grey-haired man in slacks and a dress shirt with a bowtie.

  Everything about him, from his dress to the way he holds himself, his face carefully neutral, screams formality, and I fight the urge to curtsy.

  “Miss Williamson, do come in,” he says, his accent revealing him to be the disembodied voice on the callbox.

  “Thank you . . . ?” I let the sentence hang, inviting him to tell me his name as I step inside the entryway to a sort of mudroom. If you can call something the size of a one-car garage a mudroom.

  His smile is slight. “Mr. Prescott. I have worked for the Stones for two generations, and it is my pleasure to oversee tonight’s party preparations.”

  He manages to say it without sounding self-important, a feat in itself. But then he does a pointed scan of me from head to toe and his judgement oozes through the moment.

  I’m suddenly glad that I had a closet already well-prepped for a mission like this.

  My dress is designer, from last year’s Nanette Lepore collection, but it fits me like it was custom-made to highlight my curves without going past the line of propriety.

  My sky-high heels are perfectly polished black leather, so supple they beg to be touched. And my hair and makeup are on point, a chic chignon and red lips to go with a subtly finished face.

  “Quite lovely, Miss Williamson,” Mr. Prescott decrees. I dip my chin in thanks, and he o
rders, “Follow me to the parlor.”

  My heels click along the marble floor as he leads me down a hallway to a closed door, which he opens with a flourish, indicating that I should enter. I do as instructed and discover a formal living area, a parlor indeed.

  Inside, several other women already wait patiently, most standing so as not to wrinkle their dresses but a few perching on chairs with demurely crossed ankles.

  I’ll give Mostest Hostesses credit. While I’m sure a few of these girls are available for more than just parties, and a few are definitely gold diggers, they all look the part of a young, beautiful society lady perfectly.

  “Miss Kitty Williamson,” he announces, pulling my attention back to him. With a nod, he closes the door behind him, leaving me in the parlor.

  I smile politely at the gathered women in greeting. Moving toward my left, I make a casual beeline for the one friendly face in the room. I offer the blonde a hand, giving her my best smile.

  “Kitty Williamson.”

  The blonde offers her hand in return and we shake. “Maritziana Popova.” She also has an accent, but it’s harsher, maybe not quite Russian but somewhere close. “Are you from Mostest as well?”

  I smile hugely, glad that my cover is holding water. “Yes. It’s my first time with them, though, so I’m a little nervous, even though I’ve attended many fancy parties.”

  Maritziana laughs, a small tinkling sound. “Then you’ll do fine. It’s truly just looking pretty and being entertaining. I suppose you can carry an intelligent conversation?”

  I wink, whispering, “Well, so far, so good, wouldn’t you say?”

  She laughs again, though this time it is larger, fuller, and I suspect closer to her own natural laugh. “Indeed, Kitty. I think you will do just fine. Let me introduce you around.”

  She does, quickly making the loop of the room, introducing me to the other hostesses. All are stunning beauties, dressed to the nines in gorgeous cocktail dresses, some more aggressively flashy than others but each sexy in their own way.

  Some seem coolly unaffected by the opulence around us, while others are nearly giddy.

  I try to take advantage of the time working the room, looking for clues or some tiny detail that might help, even in this public space. But other than noting that it is pristinely cleaned and generically decorated with the utmost care, I find nothing.

  A few minutes later, the door opens, grabbing everyone’s attention.

  A tall blond man walks into the room, seeming at gross odds with his surroundings in his jeans and white sleeveless T-shirt, his hair mussed.

  But even given his appearance, he carries an air of authority, obviously a man accustomed to delivering orders and having them followed without question.

  Instantly, I’m thankful for Claire’s constant tutoring as I recognize Caleb Stone, brother to Nathan and secondary target if I’m unable to get close to Nathan, the primary target.

  “Hello, ladies,” he says, his deep voice filling the room as he flashes a charismatic smile that I bet would get him inside quite a few sets of panties in the room if he wanted. “Glad you could join us tonight.”

  His words hold a hint of promise, like he could make reading Hop on Pop sound like a sexual proposition, and I can see the women around me shifting slightly in their heels, the flush pinkening their cheeks in delight.

  I can’t deny that he’s a sexy man, handsome in a rougher way than I’d expected from his picture. His muscles, chiseled jaw, and sparkling eyes are so much more apparent in person. But beyond the sex appeal, there’s a carefree wildness, and I think he seems like the type to squander a family fortune, like a frat boy grown up but still expecting life to be handed to him in a way that only growing up with money can provide.

  He continues on, not wanting or expecting anyone to speak back to him, like he’s used to being the center of attention.

  “The party tonight should be one for the record books, definitely one you’ll be thinking of for years to come. Thanks to me, of course.” He flashes a cocky smirk, flirting with everyone in the room all at once.

  I have a moment of disdain, even though he’s obviously joking around to keep things light, but I manage to corral my eye roll.

  “Seriously, all we need is a little entertainment. You entertain us,” he says, moving closer to trace a thick finger along a brunette hostess’s nose.

  I can see her breath hitch even from here as her mouth drops open, and I vow to myself that I will walk out of this room if she sucks his finger right now.

  But with a raised eyebrow, he moves on to the next girl, promising heavily, “I’ll entertain you.”

  And then finally, he takes Maritziana by the hand, spinning her in place like they’re dancing, though there is no music playing. “And we’ll all have a great time.”

  It’s a ridiculous display of ego and playfulness, making me somehow dislike and like him.

  My smile is lighter now, less harshly judgmental of Caleb’s seemingly playboy ways. I guess I’ve just seen too many instances of rich bad boys for the fantasy to hold any water anymore.

  But I seem to be the only one on the fence, as all the other hostesses are eating out of his hand. I wonder if that’s truly the case or if they’re just better actresses than I am. Either way, I’m going to have to step up my game.

  Caleb is slowly working his way around the room now, giving each girl a moment of his attention, when the air is broken by a harsh sound.

  A man clearing his throat at the doorway draws everyone’s attention, and you can feel the cold freeze rush through the space as we take in the man standing there now.

  Nathan Stone.

  He’s gorgeous, and I wonder if Claire purposefully showed me bad pictures of him and Caleb. Because standing in front of me isn’t a man but a fucking god.

  He’s tall, broad-shouldered in his double-breasted worsted wool suit, but tapered in a way that tells me the wool covers lean muscles.

  His hair is much darker than his brother’s, dark brown but bordering just on black, and I vaguely wonder if it’s because he spends more time indoors or if his brother’s is highlighted.

  Nathan reminds me of an Old Hollywood movie star, a handsome mix of Robert Redford and Marlon Brando with a new-age twist of Henry Cavill all rolled into one.

  I think tabloids would call him dashing, but when his piercing blue eyes land on Caleb, who has jauntily thrown his arm around a redhead, any guise of softness is obliterated.

  He barks, “Don’t scare them off with your theatrics before the party. No games tonight, despite your not agreeing with this.”

  Hmm, that is interesting and maybe something I can use. This is Nathan’s party and Caleb doesn’t want to do this. Then again, maybe I should have figured that out from his clothes.

  I get it.

  Been there, done that, man, and it seems he’s being instructed to suck it up and take one for the team the same way I have dozens of times. Maybe I can use that to get in with Caleb or to connect with Nathan, if possible.

  Either way, it’s an opportunity to get information for Claire.

  Caleb whines in an over-exaggerated voice, “Aww man, the party was just getting started. Don’t ruin our fun.” His last words are to the redhead beside him, but she along with everyone else is giving Nathan her undivided attention.

  Ouch, that’s gotta sting. But before I can make any idioms, Nathan’s eyes pass over each of us, and he speaks again.

  “You are here to do a job. Be hostesses at my party. Be entertaining and beguiling. No sexual favors are expected, and in fact, I prefer that you not use my party as a hunting ground.”

  My eyes narrow at his tone, which borders on disrespectful, like he assumes these women are considering just that.

  Then again, I had the same thought when I walked in, so I can’t fault him too much, but I’d never say it aloud.

  He continues on his curt speech, like he’s done this dozens of times before, pacing the room and circling us like a
wolf eyeing a pack of tasty sheep. I’ve never felt more like prey.

  I’d thought Mr. Prescott’s gaze had been penetrating as he evaluated me, but it was nothing compared to Nathan Stone’s.

  “Line up,” he says, and though we all shuffle to follow his order, inside I’m chomping at the bit to tell him that this isn’t a cattle call.

  He approaches the first girl, the redhead Caleb had been hanging on, and he takes her in, from toes to frosted tips.

  “Name?” She answers, confidently telling him but crumbling slightly when he responds, “You are not to speak to my brother again tonight.”

  He continues down the line, asking each girl their name, complimenting some and correcting others. My eyes widen as he tells one hostess, “Remove the pads from your bra. This isn’t a strip club.”

  Mr. Prescott trails along behind Nathan, holding out his hand to the hostess and taking the pads with a promise that they’ll be waiting for her at the end of the night.

  When he finally gets to me, he pauses, gazing into my eyes. I see his eyes narrow, the faintest of crow’s feet lines popping at the sides of his eyes as he stares me down. I have a moment of utter fear, certain that he knows I’m here under false pretenses because his gaze is like the eye of Sauron. It sees everything. He must also see the terror in my eyes, but he smiles, as if he likes that I’m afraid of him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kitty. Kitty Williamson, sir.” I say it with certainty and pride, though I don’t know why I added the ‘sir’ to the end. It just slipped off my tongue. But at his raised eyebrow of approval, I think I made the right move.

  “Kitty? And does the kitten have claws?” he asks darkly.

  Is he flirting with me? Or is this a test? He certainly hasn’t asked anything like this to the other girls.

  I’m not sure to be honest and the uncertainty makes my heart race. Actually, I think he is making my heart pound, not the questions he asked. His powerful command and sexy appearance are playing tricks on me. I’m certainly no innocent virgin, but I’ve never felt a primal pull to someone the way I do right this moment, as if the two feet separating us are way too much and I need to do something to get closer to him. Though I wonder if the excitement of the ruse and at potentially getting caught isn’t a part of the tingling delight I’m feeling.