A Madness Most Discreet (Brothers Maledetti Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  And then she was gone.

  Episode? Michael? Negotiations?

  What the hell?

  “Hello?” A man’s voice came on the line. Younger. Businesslike. “This is Michael. To whom am I speaking?”

  I essentially repeated everything I had just said, carefully spelling out the name of the hospital for the man.

  When I had finished, Michael made a tsking sound. “Mr. D’Angelo, given the seriousness of this claim, I’ll need to speak with the doctor supervising Olivia’s care to corroborate your story. Also, I’m going to ask you to send over copies of the admittance forms as further proof. Let me get you a fax number.”

  I sat back, staring at Olivia’s sleeping profile, trying to wrangle my tangled thoughts.

  Three things—

  First of all, why had these people instantly assumed the worst? Why would I lie about Olivia being in the hospital? What did they think I would gain from that?

  Second, what kind of loving mother passed something like this off to an assistant? Why was being ‘on the floor’ more important than her daughter’s health?

  And third . . . fax number? Who still used faxes in this day and age?

  Michael came back on the line, rattling off a number. “From here, I would appreciate the name of your legal representation or other party to whom I can send our standard confidentiality agreement. Any monies agreed upon will need to be handled through our respective attorneys.”

  Money? Attorneys? What the what?!

  Who were these people?

  I had only known Olivia for a few hours, but her mother and Michael seemed about as un-Olivia-like as a person could be.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but what is going on here? Why am I in the middle of this? I was simply calling to let Olivia’s family know about her hospitalization.”

  Michael full-on sighed. Like he so wasn’t going to buy my innocent act. “This is simply standard operating procedure, Mr. D’Angelo. As I am sure you can appreciate, Senator Hawking takes her daughter’s safety and privacy very seriously. We would ask for your full cooperation.”

  Whoa. What?

  Senator Hawking?

  It all clicked in a blinding flash.

  Senator Louise Hawking.

  Senior senator from the State of California.

  The Senate Majority Leader of the United States of America.

  The most powerful woman in Washington.

  The woman who many people, myself included, assumed would be the next President.

  The woman who also, it turned out . . .

  . . . was Olivia’s mother.

  ELEVEN

  Olivia

  Reality came back to me in pieces.

  Light against my closed eyelids. An aching dryness in my throat. A heaviness in my limbs.

  Memory filtered in.

  Italy. Tennyson. Villa. Wriggle. Darkness.

  The daemon.

  At that last thought, my eyes flew open.

  I was in a hospital bed. Of course. That’s normally where I landed after the oily, black daemon had at me. A glance at the digital clock beside my head showed it was just after seven in the morning. The large passage of time was also to be expected. I was usually out for a solid fifteen plus hours every time.

  I was in a typical hospital room with neutral walls and neutral decor and a solitary window. I looked to the side. The soft blue light of sunrise drifted through the beige curtains, washing the room and illuminating the sleeping form of Tennyson D’Angelo.

  He sat in a chair beside my bed, his head lolled back against the headrest. His dark hair was tousled and askew, his chest rising and sinking in deep, heavy breaths. He was still in the clothing he had been wearing yesterday, now rumpled.

  And, somehow, the entire effect was incredibly appealing. How he managed it, I had no idea.

  It was a Hot Person thing.

  No one else was in the room.

  But . . . Tennyson was still here.

  The bigger question: Why was he still here?

  I was basically a stranger. Sure, we had exchanged some banter, and I had indulged in a major bout of ogling and lusting of his man-tastickness—ya know, before being attacked by supernatural evil slime and passing out—but beyond that, I was no one to him.

  Besides, he had admitted that being around others’ emotions was difficult for him. Hospitals seemed like they would be the worst of the worst when it came to emotions. So even if he was concerned about me and wanted to continue our conversation about paranormal things, wouldn’t staying here be nearly impossibly difficult for him?

  I swallowed, telling the fluttery, giggly sensation in my ribcage that his presence here meant nothing.

  He was merely a genuinely decent person. When I had collapsed, he had done the right thing and got me medical attention . . . and then stayed around for an additional day in an emotional stressful situation at peril to himself in order to make sure I was okay?

  Mmmmm.

  Or . . . Tennyson had recognized me and decided to jump on the chance to ingratiate himself with my political connections?

  He wouldn’t be the first guy to do this.

  My mind flashed back to the moment when I initially made eye contact with him. There had definitely been recognition there.

  I had a talent for being too trusting too quickly with the opposite sex, particularly when I felt that zing of intense attraction.

  Hey, Current Olivia, how’s about you be smarter than Past Olivia? That woman was a pathetic clinger who held on far too long to loser guys. Be a better person.

  But Tennyson had experienced a vision when the black daemon appeared. What had his vision been about? Was that why he was still here? Did it have to do with me?

  Stop it. Not everything is about you.

  But . . . I couldn’t help wondering.

  I allowed my eyes to wander over him. He was just as handsome as yesterday, his lean body relaxed into the chair.

  But imperfect details jumped out at me. Stubble darkened his jawline. A small scar puckered the skin next to his ear. Laugh wrinkles etched the corner of his eyes, and he had the beginnings of a zit on his throat.

  Somehow, his imperfections made everything about him more perfect.

  I hated the ache that bloomed in my chest, that uncontrollably physical reaction that shouted with all the tenacity of a two-year-old: Mine. Want. Now.

  A massive, unrequited crush was exactly what this situation did not need.

  You hear that, stupid hormones?

  But that intense sense of connection persisted. Again, I wondered why I was so drawn to him. It wasn’t just his looks alone.

  At some point, I would put my finger on it.

  But for now, I had bigger problems. Namely, how to prevent this collapse from reaching either my mother or the media or both.

  The daemon was why my parents tended to keep me close. Though I had seen the Wriggles my entire life, the daemon didn’t appear until my teenage years. Initially, the daemon was scary and hurtful but not horrific.

  Then about six years ago, the daemon attacked me one Saturday morning. I lay unconscious in my apartment in D.C. for almost thirty-six hours before people realized I had been injured.

  My parents had been upset for many reasons. One, I was clearly ill. And two, they needed to know why, postulating everything from a drug problem to cancer in an effort to explain my episode. They dismissed my explanation—an attack by a supernatural demony-thing—as ‘clearly insane.’

  Since then, my parents had insisted I not be alone, preferring that I live with them, for everyone’s good. I had given up my position in D.C. and moved all my things back into my childhood home in Sacramento. But I had still needed to be doing something with my life. For whatever reason, the Wriggles were few and far between in eastern Europe. I had never been attacked by the daemon there, so I had spent the last several years running my non-profit from Romania and Greece, despite my parents’ protests.

  Taking off b
y myself to find Tennyson had obviously been a calculated risk.

  I know most people aren’t thirty-three years old and still answering to their parents. I get that.

  But the daemon and my health issues aside, I am an only child and despite our differences, I admired my mom and her political agenda.

  Yes, she was busy and I had to schedule an appointment to talk to her, but I also respected the good she was doing in the world. She was one of those politicians who, under all the hair spray and white teeth, genuinely cared and wanted to better the lives of others. I had seen her crying behind closed doors because she couldn’t do more to help an underprivileged neighborhood or yelling at rival senators to help her clean up a superfund site that was contaminating drinking water.

  When my obsession with the occult and other paranormal mumbo-jumbo hit the media—as it inevitably did—I damaged her reputation and, by extension, her reach in doing good in the world.

  When I collapsed half a world away, my mom suddenly had to field questions about my mental stability and rumors of a drug habit, sidetracking her from more critical problems.

  I would explain the situation to Tennyson when he woke up. Maybe he had some connections and could get me out of here before my mom and the media found out.

  All those hopes were dashed before they could get past the embryonic stage.

  Steps sounded outside my door.

  “Can the doctor give me an assessment of her condition?” an all too familiar voice asked in the hallway.

  Michael McMillan. My mother’s right-hand man.

  How had Michael tracked me down so quickly? Say what you will, my mom did have impressive intel. Or possibly a mainline into the NSA’s file on me.

  Or, more obviously, Tennyson knew who I was and had contacted them. If I wanted to use me as a stepping stone to my mom, that’s what I would do.

  And naturally my mom would send Michael. Because this whole situation wasn’t awkward enough without Michael being involved.

  My heart sank.

  Gah. This was such a mess. I wouldn’t be escaping my parent’s disappointed looks or some level of media attention—it was just a question of how intense the scrutiny became.

  I wanted to pull the covers over my head and curl into a ball until it all went away.

  But I had uncompleted business with Tennyson D’Angelo. Regardless of his intentions toward me, I did need his help. The Wriggles were right; he was tied up in all this somehow, too. If anyone could save me, it would be him. If my mom hustled me back to the States, it might be too late before I managed to slip away again.

  Now what?

  “I am not allowed to release any confidential information without the patient’s consent,” a woman’s voice replied in Italian-accented English. “Her boyfriend has been attempting to get information, and we have refused him, as well.”

  Whoa. What?

  Boyfriend?!

  Michael made a scoffing noise but said nothing. He knew that I didn’t have a boyfriend currently.

  Michael also knew my dress size, my shoe size, my makeup preferences and what I wanted for Christmas better than I did. He probably knew who I would marry, how many children I would have and the date of my death. He most certainly had my funeral already planned—that was a given.

  The man was thorough. It was how he had made himself indispensable to my mother. And why she kept him on, despite his behavior toward myself.

  That said, Tennyson must have told the hospital I was his girlfriend, allowing him to stay in the room with me. But again, why would he do that for a stranger? The scales between us were imbalanced and not in my favor.

  The hearts and unicorns part of me whispered that perhaps Tennyson like-liked me. That maybe all the zings and sense of a kindred soul weren’t entirely one-sided.

  That pesky ache threatened to grow again. I shut it down quickly, mentally throwing mud on the hearts and unicorns before they got too sparkly.

  The cynical thirty-three-and-never-going-to-get-married part of me suggested that he had recognized you and was using you for your family connections.

  Wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for sure.

  Michael continued to chat with the nurse. The door handle turned. Tennyson stirred at the sound.

  I made a split-second decision.

  Because I just spent the last fifteen hours unconscious, and I wasn’t sure I was up for peopling quite yet. Because a soul-crushingly gorgeous man was sleeping in a chair beside my bed and I didn’t know why. Because Michael would have judgy eyes and probing questions that I couldn’t answer.

  I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  Tennyson rustled beside me, clearly waking up. Footsteps entered the room. I had a sense of Michael leaning over my bed, mostly because the light dimmed and his distinctive cologne eddied around me. The smell faded as he stepped back. The sound of movement around the bed.

  “Tennyson D’Angelo, I presume,” Michael said.

  “Yes. Michael McMillan, I’m guessing.”

  “In person. What have they told you about my client’s condition?”

  I was always ‘the client’ when Michael wanted to protect my identity. Otherwise, I was Ms. Hawking.

  I hadn’t been simply Olivia to him in over two years.

  The men chitchatted for a few minutes. Tennyson gave Michael an update on what he knew about my status—unconscious for no known reason and no visible wounds. Michael responded to it all with his characteristic monosyllabic efficiency.

  Once Tennyson finished, Michael launched into media-damage-control mode.

  “My employer appreciates you registering her client under the name Olivia Campbell,” Michael began.

  That was all fancy talk for, Senator Hawking is thankful you kept her daughter’s legal name off of any public records. That makes hushing up this incident a lot easier.

  “But we both know your claims of being a boyfriend to my client are completely false,” Michael continued.

  The subtext of his tone was clear: You are a handsome man; no way you’re actually with Olivia.

  Silence.

  I waited, fully expecting Tennyson to laugh and agree with Michael. Then they would have a chummy talk and Michael would pull out all his white, smiley platitudes (and my mother’s checkbook) and Tennyson would leave. I might never see him again.

  I had to finish my discussion with Tennyson. I needed to know everything Tennyson did about the daemon and how to stop it.

  My eyes fluttered open.

  Tennyson and Michael faced each other at the foot of my hospital bed, aggressive cave-man attitude in their posturing.

  Ooooh. Battle of the Hot Guys.

  That should be a reality TV show.

  Hah! Who am I kidding? That’s all reality TV is. Just Hot People doing regular people things while us Not People watch in amazement. Like we don’t clean bathrooms all the time but somehow watching a ripped, gorgeous guy scrub a bathtub without a shirt on is worthy of prime-time television—

  Okay. Fine. Maybe there was something to it all . . .

  Regardless, neither Michael nor Tennyson were paying attention to me.

  Michael, of course, was neat as a pin despite the early hour and intercontinental flight.

  Tennyson was rumpled and adorable.

  I opened my mouth to say something, anything. But Tennyson beat me to it.

  “Why would you assume I’m not her boyfriend?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

  Those were fighting words.

  So . . . maybe Battle of the Hot Guys for reals. Yum.

  I could nearly see Michael’s hackles rising. He hated being challenged like this. Besides, he knew I wasn’t dating anyone. He delighted in the fact that I was serially single, loving to toss it in my face.

  Why would Tennyson argue with Michael over dating me? What were his motives? Was he in this for the money? Or did he want political influence more than money?

  I snapped my eyes shut and continued playing poss
um. Now I had to hear how this went down.

  Michael made his signature scoffing noise. It really was remarkably dismissive, connoting complete disbelief and a low opinion of the other’s intelligence in one short sound.

  “Please, Mr. D’Angelo,” Michael said. “First, we both know who we are discussing. It’s obvious your interest in my client is not personal. Moreover, were my client to embark on a romantic relationship with you, she would have submitted your name to her mother for clearance. This is our standard operating procedure.”

  Ouch.

  Everything Michael said was true, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. Was it really so far out of the realm of reality that Tennyson would be interested in me for me?

  Really, Michael?!

  Never mind that I didn’t believe it either. It stung that everyone simply assumed Tennyson was hanging around me for some reason other than myself.

  That same memory flickered.

  I hate having to date such a troll. But that’s the price of political gain, ya know. You have to pay the piper. And if that involves dating and marrying the oddball daughter of a senior senator, then that’s what you do.

  When would I finally let the hurt of those words go?

  “Maybe just once, Olivia wanted a relationship that wasn’t orchestrated for public consumption,” Tennyson countered. “I appreciate you coming all this way to help Olivia out. But honestly, if you’re going to stand there and insult her, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. She deserves better than this.”

  That . . .

  just . . .

  wow.

  I mentally swooned a little and then added loyalty and gratitude to my list of Reasons Why I’m Crushing on Tennyson D’Angelo.

  A brief pause.

  Michael snorted. “To be very honest, Mr. D’Angelo, I’m not here to plumb the depth of your relationship with my employer’s daughter. I simply want to know how much it is going to cost us to get you to quietly go away?”

  “Excuse me?” Outrage laced Tennyson’s voice.

  “Please don’t be coy, Mr. D’Angelo. We both know this little game. You pretend interest in my client, claim a more serious relationship than you really have, and in return, we pay you to disappear.”