Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1)

by Alex Elliott

  “Jonnn.” After groaning his name, I ask, “Just for kicks, let’s say Nora gives me a thumbs up, what am I supposed to wear?”

  “Think conservative. Classy. You’ve got the DNA. Just let it show.”

  I’m in need of a makeover but going Nantucket pearls and pastels is in no way what I envision. Flipping down the visor, I stare into the vanity mirror, winding my hair in a prim bun. With a pair of thick black frames, platinum hair, and stark conservative apparel what are the chances that Stone will put two and two together? It’ll be my New York chic done modern. “I’m not doing pearls,” I snip.

  “Ah, but you’d look like a million bucks. What about the engagement ring?”

  My jaw drops open. “Newsflash. I’m not engaged!”

  “So what. It looks good. Speaks about stability.”

  “It’s a lie and no.” I read through the application and yeah, Jon’s recreated my college experience, and then I read the references he’s listed. Grace and Michael Silver. Richard O’Malley—my godfather. “Name drop much? You’re nuts to put them down. What if Stone’s office calls my grandmother?”

  “It’s not crazy to mention your family. Besides, look at the telephone numbers.”

  I glance at the numbers and although I don’t recall my godfather’s number off the top of my head, the one listed for my grandparents is— “You used your telephone number. Are you insane?”

  “Not in the least. I’m leveling the playing field. If Nora calls, I’ve got you covered and your family will be none the wiser.”

  “And for Richard? Whose number is this?”

  “Jeremy’s. He’s on standby.”

  “Your brother is going to pretend to be Richard O’Malley?” Jon’s brother was a Marine and had just returned from active duty with a case of PTSD so bad he was in rehab.

  “He’s good with it. Jeremy’s doing his program, so he’s got the time. It’ll give him something to do other than sit around the V.A., smoke dope, and do group therapy.”

  “This smells of all kinds of crazy,” I mutter, shoving the application back into the envelope.

  Jon looks over at me like I’m crazy. “And! Point?”

  “So it’s worked in your favor. I’m a little leery about mine. Luck, I mean.”

  “An opportunity has nothing to do with luck. It’s about working your connections. You’ve got an untapped skill.”

  “Oh yeah and what’s that?”

  “Charisma. When you choose to use it. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to have your looks, your connections, and that innate elegance you were born with?”

  I roll my eyes. “You mean when I picked you up with a Kleenex stuck in my nostril?”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “If you want to know the truth, sometimes, it feels more like a curse.”

  “Dammit, Phoenix. Don’t squander what you’ve got. I work my tail off to get where I am. We could be closer and I wouldn’t have to keep coming back here to check up on you.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” I grimace, taken aback by Jon’s frown. He’s always been there when I needed him, but this is a dilemma and obviously, he doesn’t know how bad.

  Down in D.C., he’s worked a gig for the last few years as a hotshot journalist. And it’s true; he’d be free of babysitting me and able to devote more time to his career. Yet unconvinced that I can successfully dive headfirst into an Atticus Stone internship, I re-open the browser on my cell. I’ll need some ammunition to bolster my makeover. I start to google ways to alter my looks so up-close, the senator with a demanding mouth and capable hands won’t have a clue who I am—outside of being an efficient intern in need of a letter of reference.

  One month, I can do it. Good God, if Spencer could do it for six years, I can pull off a faux façade for thirty days.

  Chapter 11

  X.S.~ Champagne Wishes and Pastel Dreams

  GRAN’S ‘COOKOUT’ is anything but hotdogs and hamburgers. Their Swain’s Neck compound is packed today. Waiters wearing white gloves circulate, carrying trays of champagne splits with plastic funnels, tumblers of what I guess to be Scotch, and margaritas given the sloshing neon liquid and salted rims. Scads of serious men decked in dark suits, shades, and coiled earpieces circulate at the perimeter—dead giveaway that guests from the Capitol are probably lurking about. I pray none are of the gorgeous senator variation. By reflex, I scan the crowd, and come up empty handed for an Atticus Stone sighting.

  Gran spots me and I do a wigglywave with my fingers. She responds with one of her infamous highhanded ‘Grace Silver waves’ revered and often copied, photographed and discussed by the media. Adroitly, I elbow Jon and under my breath, I whisper. “Silver alert. Nine o’clock. Incoming.”

  “We’d better go pay homage,” he replies.

  “Yep. There’s a lull in the receiving line. Let’s go.” He follows as I steer through the throng. With her arms raised, it’s as if a gong has been struck. On cue, I press my cheek to Gran’s smooth face, inhaling L’Air du Temps.

  She takes hold of my hands, and steps back. “Phoenix, let me look at you. All grown up, or so you assured everyone in court.”

  Code for ‘I dislike losing, but you’ll hate it more.’

  I tut, “Don’t be a poor sport, Gran. There isn’t anything disloyal in me wanting to chart my life.”

  “After Spencer? You need a moment to reflect and guidance.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” I say dryly.

  “Where’s your mother?” My grandmother changes tack.

  Ding-ding. Silver game playing tactics 2.0 are being field tested—on me. An innocent statement, but what she’s really doing is assessing, acquiring ammunition for later when she quietly addresses a list of concerns I’m so certain she’s compiling. The list gets longer and longer, but the trick is getting Gran to show her hand. Not about to happen, unless I fold. It’s hard to understand how she’s so assertive and doesn’t admire that quality in others. All I have to do is acquiesce, let her and my grandfather make a few calls. Roll over, let go, and let her. Definitely, I’m missing a piece of the puzzle.

  “Mom is flying to Seattle. Last minute details about an art gallery opening gone awry. It’s metal works this year. Then she spoke about possibly going on to Canada and Alaska. But how are you? Why are you returning to Manhattan early? Is there an emergency?” My best line of defense is always to answer her, and pose the next question. Steer the conversation, navigate the direction. Journalism 101, baby.

  She smiles pleasantly. “On the contrary. Merely an opportunity that has arisen. Nothing set in stone concerning New York. And with the heat, it’s just as well. Irrespective of why, I always get a little sad to say adieu. We’re closing the house next week.”

  “You don’t say?” I choke out. Without meaning to, I side-glance Jon and he doesn’t change his expression at the mention of ‘stone.’ Coincidence? Not much is when it comes to Grace Silver.

  “Phoenix, did you finish your minerals?” she asks.

  “Can we talk about it later?” I reply, baffled by her reference. Out of character for my grandmother to discuss health in public.

  “We’ll talk over lunch. I’d like you to come down during the week. Just you, me, and your grandfather.”

  Is she fishing and using my health as a smoke screen to troll for bigger subjects? I don’t answer her nor am I about to feed her information about having a job interview with Senator Stone.

  Instead on redirect, I ask Gran, “You remember Jon?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Silver. Great party. The clams are delicious,” he says amicably. Jon’s so smooth and why not. He comes in contact with every type of political and business bigwig.

  “Thank you, Mr. Richter,” Gran says and pauses, giving him her little stare. She believes that Jon and I secretly dated in high school, and secrets don’t sit well with my grandmother unless they’re hers. “Still working in D.C. at the Post?” she asks
him icily.

  “I am. Happily,” he supplies.

  The tension is palpable and I won’t have Gran browbeating one of my best friends, so I opt for the offensive defense, posing a tremulous question. One sure to displease. “Where’s Aunt Bridget? I saw her heading upstairs. Is she all right?”

  I don’t like going dark to off-balance Gran. But it is a necessary evil. Fight fire with fire. And my aunt’s an easy target.

  “Oh you know Bridget. Doesn’t like the sun or the heat,” Gran replies stoically, casting a worried look toward the upper balcony.

  If my aunt is inside, she’s more than likely banging the hell out of one of the waitstaff as she does every year. Aunt Bridget’s libido is the bane of my grandparents’ Nantucket colony life. Each summer, a huge chunk of change is exchanged along with whispered messages from their attorneys in settling house staff complaints. Bridget stirs up the gossip—I’ll give her that. We’ve all heard Gran preach that Silvers don’t do scandal. They certainly pay enough to ensure the truth is locked away.

  “Princess. Congratulations to the graduate,” Pop calls out, approaching our huddle with a drink in hand as he smiles and waves to the guests around us.

  The ice from my grandfather’s glass tinkles and he motions to a waiter for a refill. Hugging me, he laughs out a rumble. I’m surrounded by his spicy aftershave as the whiskers of his waxed handlebar mustache tickle my cheek. I can smell he’s well into his third bourbon and coke, at least.

  Pulling away from me, he glances over to Gran and lowers his voice. “Grace, the president and his chief of staff just arrived. Along with several candidates not on the guest list.”

  I stiffen at the mention of more Hill folk, but Gran’s face lights up and she laughs—or snickers really.

  “Gabriel and his entourage. This might be more than a social call.” Her attention falls on me.

  Zero is how many snits I could give that the president is here. Well, at least that explains the dark cloud of Secret Service agents.

  “I suspect something is brewing,” Pop answers.

  “Michael, I’ll go greet them and pave the way. Please join us in two minutes. Two minutes, my good man,” she repeats her direction.

  “Yes, Commandant.” He clicks his heels as he salutes her and winks at me.

  “Phoenix, come find me in a bit. We need to chat.” She gives me her semi-stern grandmother face, then squeezes my arm, and she’s off.

  What has she got up her sleeve? I exchange looks with Jon as a waiter brings him a beer and mentally roll my eyes as Gran scurries away. Turning, I scour the guests for tall, dark, hot.

  “Having a good time?” Pop inquires, taking out a handkerchief. He wipes the beads of sweat off his face and down his neck. “It’s hotter than last year. El Niño. Am I right?”

  “Yes and yes,” I reply, less frantic at not seeing Stone.

  “Mr. Silver.” Jon smiles as he shakes Pop’s hand. “Get any fishing in this year?”

  My grandfather looks momentarily perplexed, and thoughtfully frowns. “Not a bite. Well, nothing worth remembering.”

  “There’s always next year,” Jon concedes, holding the bottle of beer to his lips.

  Pop swirls the ice in his glass. “That there is, Mr. Richter,” he agrees vaguely and pats my arm. “I’d better get going on my mission. Can’t keep your grandmother waiting. Someone will want to stop and talk as I make my way. You know how it is.” For once, I see a glimmer of dissatisfaction in my grandfather’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just the heat. His skin flushed and he’s sweating profusely.

  “Pop, are you feeling okay?” I ask suddenly.

  “Right as rain. Except for this blasted heatwave.” He tweaks my ear and raises an eyebrow. “Your cousins are here. Go over and talk to them. Let them tell you about their recent moves and wedding bell news. You’re no longer hitting the books, and need to start thinking about a career path as well. Princess, promise me on this you won’t delay.”

  “Sure thing,” I say unnerved by his tone. Into my grandfather’s questioning eyes, I find myself nodding my head, but all the while, I can’t ignore the sirens blaring abort!

  My stomach twists as I spot my cousins across the pool. The ones who have fallen in line, earning six figures while working at PanCorp headquarters. The same two who live in Midtown and Monica is engaged to some hard-hitting CEO with a rock the size of a boulder on her finger. I highly doubt her fiancé is boning every available gay bachelor in sight. Sure, I should be happy for them but, I’m too strung out to pretend.

  Nice, charming, well-ordered lives: I could hurl. As I scan the crowd, my gaze hits upon another cousin. Dr. Colin Silver. Not the exact role model Pop referred to. Talk about the blackest of sheep. Colin graduated as a shining star from Yale medical school then three years ago burned out. Currently, he’s summa cum laude with a specialty in geriatric freeloading so it seems. After completing an exhaustive Johns Hopkins residency, he up and decided to open a private practice with two exclusive patients: Grace and Michael Silver. Dr. Suck Up lives wherever my grandparents tell him, proving he’s more leech than sheep.

  Midtown plastic cousins or Dr. Parasite—they’re all a no-go. I could rock the boat and point that out, but why? I’m ready to dive into the bay beyond the stone seawall. Strip naked and swim so far, so fast as to be free of this charmed and caged life everyone here leads.

  Pop disappears in the throng of pastel-colored people and I turn to Jon, irritation souring my tongue. He has his beer tipped back, and empties it. Standing six-foot, he’s no wisp of a man. He’s housed in a lean swimmer’s body with inked arms. His tats run from his knuckles and disappear under the sleeves of his white polo. Plenty of the women around us give him the eye in that we can tell you’re gay but hot. Like maybe in their bed, he might just decide to bat for the other team.

  “What are you drinking?” He pushes a wayward strand behind my ear as only he can do when I’m steaming, not from the heat but being around my family for more than six minutes.

  “Not enough,” I reply when I snag a waiter. “Pardon me.”

  Jon gives him his order, “Heineken and she’ll have…”

  I look down at the waiter’s tray, surveying my choices. I lift a tumbler and sniff. “This is fine.”

  The waiter bows and Jon shakes his head. “Why do you care what anyone here thinks? Your eyes keep ogling the champagne.”

  “Because,” I say, “I refuse to fit in.” I smile and raise my glass. I’ve never had the pleasure of Scotch before. Plenty of the men are drinking it, so I knock back a gulp. A nasty gulp I’m discovering. It tastes like lighter fluid and I shiver as the liquor sits idly on my tongue.

  “What’s wrong?” Jon eyes me with concern.

  Okay, either I can spit this aged kerosene out or down it. My gaze flits around the party, at all the pretty, pretty people who talk genteelly with their summer whites and boat shoes on. Spitting out the Scotch is a faux pas to the extreme and I force my throat muscles work. But swallowing is no better, and I gasp, convinced my throat is melting from the inside out. I start to hack as Jon claps me on the back.

  “Are you going to be sick?” he asks.

  With tears in my eyes, I follow up with, “Heck no. I’m ticked, but I’ll take another of those.”

  Chapter 12

  X.S.~ Poor POTUS

  TWO HOURS later, I’m scrounging through my purse, blindly looking for my keys. I’ve done my duty and stayed the perfunctory time. As I meander, weaving around people without making eye contact, my sandals slap across the patio pavers until I see Jon talking with a tall lanky man clad in a tight pair of Nantucket Reds.

  A Secret Service agent cuts in front of me. “Excuse me, Phoenix O’Malley.”

  “Yes,” I reply, looking over his shoulder. Both Jon and the other man laugh, their heads bowed together for a beat. I recognize Jon’s companion as one of the execs from Manhattan. Some high-powered PanCorp attorney I believe. The
more my memory starts to reconnect, I also recall said attorney has a wife and kids.

  “The president would like a word with you, Ms. O’Malley.”

  “With me?” I swing my gaze to the agent, wondering what President Gabriel North wants with me. This has to be Gran’s doing. Ten to one, she’s twisting North’s presidential arm, seeking some favor. Ah, yes and oh no.

  “The president is waiting in the library.” He torques his chin over toward the house. “Please follow me.” He turns to leave as if I’ll just happily totter along.

  “Pardon me, agent.” I cross my arms over my chest, killing time.

  The man stops talking into his cell, telling someone to ‘hold positions.’ “Yes, Miss?”

  “I can’t at the moment. Please tell the president, I’ll catch him later.” I arch my brow, pressing my lips together, and nod.

  The agent peers over his glasses, his dark eyes widen, and he looks like he’s thinking what to do. Well, while he’s trying to figure out how to keep his job, I’m done playing games, and walk past him with a stony, “Good evening, agent.”

  I march to Jon and his buddy. Both guys glance at me and then exchange a look between them—protracted—and I understand. I’ve invaded their private microcosm where Jon’s flirting hard-n-heavy.

  In my giddyap-I’m-leaving state, I semi-shout his name to grab his attention, “Jon! Time to split.”

  “More like splitting from the Secret Service. For the love of God, what was that about?” Jon demands. “Who’d you piss off now?” Clearly even flirting, my friend doesn’t miss a detail.

  “Just Gran plotting,” I scoff. “Poor POTUS. Lame ducks are such easy marks.”

  “Phoenix, nice seeing you again. It’s been a while,” the tall-blond-and-married attorney says, extending his arm to me.

  I still can’t recall his name, but I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Same. Sorry to greet and run, but I’m heading off calamity. Don’t want the ferry to get an order to stand down.”