by Angel Payne
It was very possible that Wooten had done his homework and unearthed the weakness in Stone Global’s massive hull. And now we had an oil slick.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Trey demanded.
I folded my arms and stated, “No in-house PR. Industrial-sized slicks require big guns for cleanup. Andrea Asher is on her way from California and she’s bringing her best team with her.” I checked my watch. “We have five hours until they arrive. Great timing. They’ll get here just before Wooten gets up on his soapbox.”
“Fucking great.” Trey looked like a man on his way to the gallows again. “Should I order beer and corn nuts?”
“No beer,” I snapped.
“Cold fish prick.”
I rose and crossed to the door that led to my private bathroom. “Sounds like a perfect temperature for your shower. Wash your hair and shave, too. Then get some goddamn sleep. I’ve had Britta pull out the sofa bed in the anteroom for you.”
Trey closed the door on me with a furious whomp. Again, nothing I wasn’t used to. The filthier pieces of our family dynamic took up a lot of space under our rug. It was simply my job to carry a very big broom. The task had always been manageable, but I was smart enough to know when to ask for help. I was also smart enough to seek the best, and that meant Asher and Associates. Though it was the first time I’d used the woman’s number, I wasn’t saving the digits to speed dial. This effort would be massive and expensive, and I expected this PR dream team to put the fear of God into Trey at the same time they commanded his reputation to rise up, be healed, and walk from the grave. After they performed that small miracle, we could all live happily-ever-after on our respective sides of the country.
And as long as they didn’t discover the darkest, dirtiest secrets under the family rug, we’d all get along fine.
Chapter Two
Claire
“You’re going down.” I threw the taunt at Chad as we deplaned at O'Hare. Sure we were teammates, but that didn’t mean a little good-natured competition wasn’t in order. Besides, traditions were sacred, and this one sprang to life on one of our trips over a year ago. Points were assigned for varying degrees of horror experienced during our coach class flights—a game we used to smile through the pain. Or acknowledge our masochistic sides. There was a difference, right?
The answer could wait. I finally had the drop on Mr. Chad Lerner, my geek-cute yet all-too-cocky teammate. I was sure of it this time.
“No damn way.” Chad laughed and readjusted his new Kliik eyeglasses as we strolled the jet way to the terminal. “Did you see the nightmare I was stuck with? You’re delusional to think you’re winning this one, little girl.”
From several feet behind us, Michael joined his laugh with Chad’s. He knew why we teased each other, though he’d been so far back in the plane, we didn’t know if he was still in today’s running. I glanced to where his head of thick gold waves appeared over the sea of other passengers. From this distance, the guy could be mistaken for Ryan Reynolds, especially when the top half of his handsome face became animated by a gloating waggle of brows.
I volleyed with a deep pout. “Damn.” The guy racked up automatic points for being stuck in the last five rows of the plane. Throw in a screaming kid or a gossipy seatmate and he’d have this sewn up, at least for today. Our final teammate, Talia Porizkova, was scheduled to join us in a few days, after wrapping up a job for the firm down in New Orleans.
Our little competition never included the other two members of the team, because they always sat in first class while we were herded to coach with the other cattle. Andrea was the owner of the leading PR fix-it firm in the nation, so she never sat in coach. Neither did her princess-zilla daughter, Margaux.
Okay, maybe the “princess-zilla” thing was overkill. Margaux had been my classmate at USD, even my pseudo-roomie for a couple of months, and I remembered a few people who’d strained to see her softer side despite the friendship-through-intimidation routine that’d served her well through life. I’d personally given up on the quest halfway through sophomore year, especially after the events of senior year, but that had been three years ago. Maybe it was time to give her a fresh chance.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
We passed the plane’s flight crew as we entered the terminal. The attendant who’d been serving the first class cabin wore a tear-stricken gaze, gripping a wine glass rimmed in Margaux’s signature berry stain lipstick.
While giving the girl a sympathetic smile, I prayed Margaux had limited herself to one glass of wine before accompanying her mother to one of the most important meetings in Asher and Associates’ history.
There was no sign of Andrea and Margaux at baggage claim. They were likely outside already, watching as Stone Global’s driver loaded their bags into the company’s limo. That meant Michael, Chad, and I would have to postpone a final points tally while hurrying through baggage claim then hustling our asses to the curb.
Watching the carousel vomit luggage was strangely calming. The thunks of the pieces as they touched down were predictable and steady, the last of life’s elements I could count on for the next few months. We were headed into a public relations DEFCON One situation. Trey Stone was a monumental embarrassment to his family’s company. Before the plane tickets were purchased for Chicago, we all agreed this newest fiasco was likely a scrape on the surface of what the playboy was capable of. Experience had shown us how the drill went in situations like these. They usually turned worse before they got better.
Trey had two brothers, as well. Lance, eleven months behind him, was the dream-prone artist. The youngest was Killian, Josiah Stone’s hard-ass heir apparent as ruler of the empire—and the face that flashed into a million women’s minds in the greater Chicago area every night when they switched on their vibrators. The men’s labels meant nothing. We’d throw open their closets of secrets, too. Yank up their rugs until no dust ball or spider web was concealed anymore.
No doubt about it. We were in for a hell ride with these billionaire boys.
The baggage beast finally spewed my bright orange suitcase. I tried to elbow my way in to grab it but missed. I swiftly caught Michael’s eye above the crowd, gave him my best puppy dog look, and pointed at my bag. With a charming wink and a gleaming smile, he snatched it off the belt.
“Handsome, tall, and strong?” I joked as he set the bag in front of me. “I don’t know how you haven’t been snatched up, my friend.”
Surprisingly, his lips fell. A strange darkness entered his eyes. “Yeah. That’s me. Oh-so-snatchable.”
I wanted to press him on the moment of melancholy but he reverted to smart-ass mode, bumping my shoulder. Bags in tow, we headed outside, starting anew with the debate about who would win this round of our “friendly” competition.
Michael threw a smirk at Chad and me. “You know I have you both beat, right?”
“Pfffft.” Chad shook his head. “Back of the plane doesn’t mean squat. You do remember the time I sat last row but collected two phone numbers by the end of the flight?”
I nodded. “Instant disqualification if digits are exchanged. You know the drill, Mikey.”
As we stepped into a frigid Chicago morning, Michael patted his overcoat pockets. “Not a thing here except dried baby drool.”
“Egghhh.” Chad grimaced. “I’d say that takes the trophy.”
“Not so fast, fancy pants,” I broke in. “The woman next to me had three white rats in her purse.” They stared at me like I was about to hit them with the punch line. “I’m not joking. Rats. Three. In her purse.”
“Flowers for Algernon, anyone?” Michael smirked.
I tossed a mock scowl. “I can’t believe it. A geekier comeback than The Chad.”
Chad swept a deep, chuckling bow. “I concede. You win this round, mademoiselle.”
“Agreed,” Michael added. I curtsied in return.
We sobered upon seeing Andrea and Margaux waiting by the car, scowling at our antics. They were dress
ed in nearly identical St. John Knits ensembles, tapping their Louboutins in tandem. I did my best to ignore whatever Chad mumbled under his breath about the ice queen and her minion, following Michael out to the stretch town car.
We had about thirty minutes to travel from O’Hare to the Stone Group building in downtown Chicago. Andrea used the time to update us on information that had been leaked to the press since we left San Diego this morning and how the facts affected our handling of what many outlets already labeled “Treygate.”
Michael was the first to speak up. “Maybe we need to get him out of the country.”
“No. Running and hiding makes him look guilty. I say we face it head on.” Andrea always favored a fortress approach and had the battering ram personality to prove it. In this case, I admitted to walking the fence about agreeing to the tactic, though I wasn’t sure Michael’s approach would work, either. There was so much we didn’t know about the machinations of the Stone empire. Something told me we wouldn’t be able to repair anything until we knew everything.
“He needs an image cleanser. Can we get a diversion in there?”
I nodded approval to Chad’s suggestion prior to my own response. “We find a squeaky clean girl for him to be seen with a few times a week, release a few statements that she’s good for him and a month or so, he’s a changed man. Slow and steady, controlling the narrative by making them stick with nice, boring activities.” It wasn’t innovative, but sometimes the wheel didn’t need to be reinvented.
Margaux clucked her tongue. “The press will see right through it. This is big time news, Claire, not local gossip rag stuff. We need to take every piece seriously.”
She punctuated by grimacing like she just ate something sour. I played neutral with my outward response but formed an inward retort. I was taking it seriously. “Boring news day” was an approach we used all the time, and it usually worked. The press, more fickle than thirteen year-olds, would move on if Trey Stone didn’t give them any more tempt and tickle. Voilà. Mission accomplished.
“Excellent point.” I managed a diplomatic tone for my reply, a feat made easier by the promise of inserting a zinger of my own at the end. “Maybe you have a strategy of your own to share, Margaux? We’d love to hear about it.”
I relished the squirm that would cause, if only for a few seconds. It never happened. Instead, Margaux gazed out the window with a slow smile. “I only have one declaration to make right now. First—and only—dibs on Killian Stone. That man is fine, and allll mine.”
“Dibs?” Andrea issued the reproach. “Darling, grown women don’t ‘dib’ on men like Killian Stone.”
She rolled her eyes. “God wept in his wine, Mother. You know what I mean.” One of her gel-coated, French-manicured fingers circled at the rest of us. “And the rest of you do, as well. I have bribe-worthy secrets on all of you.”
Michael and Chad sent soft chortles at the wink she added to soften the message. I didn’t join them. My secrets, while never my choice, would also send me to jail for a long time. Margaux’s extra glance my way served as confirmation that she hadn’t forgotten, either. In exchange, I simply had to declare my libido a no-fly zone for Killian Stone. Done and confirmed.
The limo lurched to a stop in front of a huge skyscraper. The Stone Global building was one of the hugest monoliths of the Chicago skyline. At first approach, the place seemed like a hundred other corporate buildings in the country, but as we neared, the tight security detail was obvious. I wasn’t sure if the Fort Knox mentality was due to the current scandal or if they typically ran such a tight ship.
After being processed through the metal detectors at the front door, we were directed straight to an elevator then whisked sixty-seven floors up. The ride took less than a minute, but we rode in silence to our destination. A woman with Grace Kelly refinement waited when we stepped off and guided us to the conference room at an efficient pace.
Killian and Trey Stone already waited there for us.
Though they were both about the same height, one of them had stiffer posture and a more precise cut to his thick, near-black hair. And a much better-fitting suit. It was he who turned the moment our escort walked into the room.
“Mr. Stone, Andrea Asher and her team have arrived.” After finishing the announcement with a serene nod, our escort left the conference room.
He turned toward us.
I froze in place as the tower of my self-control toppled over—and burned to ashes.
Talk about presence. The man was stunning and glorious, forbidding and beautiful, intoxicating and commanding—and dear God, scary as hell—in the most sexy, toe-curling ways I’d ever experienced. I think my toes actually did curl. My mouth went dry. And my body throbbed in places it hadn’t in a very, very long while.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This wasn’t good. At all. Margaux had already all but jammed her homing beacon into the man. The more important factor: I was here to work for him. To work, period. To dig him out of a public relations nightmare, not to plunge my hands into his pants. Or run them all over his gladiator-sized shoulders. Or lose them in his black satin hair…
Get your head back in the game, Claire. Now.
Andrea stepped forward, perfectly manicured hand outstretched, to introduce herself. The rest of us fell in behind her—except for Margaux. She strode up next to her mother, turning on the charm in ways I hadn’t seen from her since the last project we’d tackled with one of Hollywood’s favorite bad boy hunks. I couldn’t decide whether her girl-balls irritated or impressed me. I supposed it didn’t matter, since her maneuvers yielded the same results here as they did in Hollywood. Stone hardly glanced at her after his perfunctory courtesies.
A small army of his colleagues filed into the room in our wake, and he introduced Andrea to all of them. His voice was velvet on the air, as if he hosted a wine tasting instead of a PR crisis summit. The innate strength of the sound made me stroke my forearm, thinking I should have worn a sweater instead of a short-sleeved shift. The dress seemed practical at the time, but suddenly I had goose bumps. Lots of them.
Dammit. I really needed that control tower up and running again. My nerves begged my brain to put a rush on the order.
Finally, Killian pivoted to the man of the hour. The action required him to face us again, making the hair on my arms dance. Rubbing them didn’t help this time, either.
“And this is my oldest brother, Trey.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I murmured when Trey came to me at the end of the receiving line. We clasped hands, but then he wouldn’t release me. His persistent hold made the creeps set in. I tugged away as he snuck in a little wink.
“Enough.”
One word. Steady, hard…and thoroughly arousing. For a moment, I had trouble believing the order had actually come from Killian. Then the man himself stepped up. “My apologies. He’s out of control, and this is exactly why we need you all here.”
“It’s—ummm—” Heat rushed my face. Mortification clutched my chest. “It’s—it’s all right. It’s been a rough day for everyone, Mr.—errr—”
“Stone.” Andrea practically hissed it.
The man quelled her with a glance. “As stated, Ms. Asher, it’s been a rough day for everyone.”
He slid his hand against mine. His skin appeared lightly suntanned. His grip was equally warm. Unlike his brother’s clammy shell of a clench, I wished his hold would never end.
“Let’s try this again. Killian Stone. And you are?”
“My name…” What was my name again? “C-Claire. Claire Montgomery.” Next to him, I felt small, fragile, and breathless. To my horror, it was wonderful.
His thick fingers wrapped around mine, seeming to swallow my skin with his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Montgomery.” His slight emphasis on the pleasure had to be my sleep deprivation at work, though there was no mistaking how his dark, dark stare delved into me. He kept searching my face; for what, I wasn’t sure. Or perhaps I didn’t care.
This man likely got anything he wanted from any woman he chose—and could give her anything in return.
Right. And toads could be kissed into princes. And pumpkins became carriages. And insecure princesses never held on to disastrous secrets as relationship collateral.
I’d given up on fairy tales a long time ago, and never once regretted the choice. Now certainly wasn’t the time for change.
“It is Miss Montgomery, isn’t it?”
“Please, no. I mean yes. It is ‘Miss’ but Claire is fine. J-just Claire.”
Andrea stepped forward. “Claire’s one of the junior members of our team, Mr. Stone. She’s a whiz with reports and analysis.”
It was Andrea’s version of dictating this would be the first and last time I spoke directly to the man. Could I blame her? I kept stammering like an idiot. I needed to pull myself together. I never acted this way around clients, whether they were Adonis brought to life or not. The job was our primary objective, not eye-fucking the man with his hand on the checkbook. And wondering what his hands would feel like in other places on my body…
“Mr. Stone, I’m Chad Lerner. I’ll be handling the social media piece for the campaign.” Chad gave Killian a solid handshake, not a bit intimidated by the man who stood almost a foot taller than his five-foot-five. For some men, size really didn’t matter. Chad was a social media guru whose reputation preceded him, proved by Stone’s respectful nod.
