by Alex Elliott
So help me, if she’s playing me like a pro, she had better be prepared to get balled senseless as she answers my questions. In that order, before she’s shown the door.
Unequivocally, I’ve lost it! O’Malley is the femme fatale version of kryptonite to my objectives. I’ve got to crush this craving before it’s too late.
We trade the back-and-forth about her qualifications. Nothing she says dispels my desire to spread her lovely legs and spend the night making her scream my name.
“Look, Senator…” she says, trying to convince me of her earnest intentions, and I want to tell her don’t.
Don’t call me that. For a beat, I clench my jaw, silently debating my next move. Until I watch a drop of blood smear down her porcelain skin. Followed by another. I take hold of her bicep and pull her closer to me. “Stay still. You’re bleeding.” I reach into my pocket and remove my handkerchief. “Use this.”
“I’m fine,” she says but clearly she isn’t.
“Do you have any ice?”
“No,” she whispers.
“Exit the highway,” I order the driver. “We need ice.”
Whatever argument she’s mounting, I don’t listen. I slant against her, cupping her chin, and we’re so close. Her breath is sweet and clean, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to sample her mouth again. Except blood streams out of her nose. The widening of her eyes in fear reaches inside me like a fist, punching into me bone deep.
“Step on it,” I instruct Jon. His eyes flash upward and our gazes intersect in the rearview mirror.
Speeding down the highway, he peers back and swears, “Holy hell! Phoenix, what’s wrong?”
Phoenix? Did I hear him correctly? This is Phoenix Silver? The granddaughter of Grace and Michael. No wonder she seems familiar. Christ, from the fanatical press I’ve procured over the years concerning the Silvers and PanCorp, she’s barely featured. Always referred to as a Silver. Never an O’Malley. Martin O’Malley, an aluminum baron, had died in a plane crash. From what I recall this woman’s mother is quite the operator yet she didn’t profit from that billionaire marriage. The prenup must’ve been ironclad.
So, this is Ms. Phoenix Silver… All grown up. One of the last unmarried Silvers. Away at boarding schools. Ensconced in college. A hint of trouble. A few photos of her here and there. Last one of her that I can recall… braids and fair-trade marches. Unlike the other grandchildren with their debutant Page 6 balls. This blonde bombshell must be the Silver sleeper. Or so pigheaded, she had refused to fall in line.
Jutting my chin toward the windshield, I bark, “Nosebleed. Find a service station and get some ice.” Fishing my hand inside my pocket, I remove and toss him my wallet.
“That’s ridiculous,” she protests. “We have a schedule.”
The driver shoots me a glance over his shoulder then to O’Malley. Under his breath he curses and nods, flooring the gas as he exits the highway. At the corner, he brakes sharp into a left turn, and parks in front of an all-night service station. Before I can bark out another order, he’s out of the car and I lean into O’Malley.
Turning to her, it’s then that I notice the ring on her third finger. Time slows. I take hold of her hand, clasping it entirely within my grasp. Between gritted teeth, I growl, “You’re engaged! Before or after we almost—”
“No-o-o,” she stammers. “It’s just a ring.”
“It’s a diamond solitaire. Don’t lie to me.” I tighten my hold on her hand.
Stark fear glitters in her incredible eyes as she solemnly nods. “I was.”
“Was? Then explain why you’re still wearing some man’s ring?”
Her eyes are wider than plates. “I didn’t want you to think I was a flake. It was a bad decision.”
“How long?”
“How long was I engaged?”
Anger chokes me. I close my eyes, fighting for control. I shouldn’t care if this woman is engaged, but I do and clarify with, “How long since you were engaged?”
“A month. I walked in on him and his lover.”
A flicker of satisfaction spears my chest and I push it down. “Where in the hell did you come from?” I demand. “I want the truth, without the song and dance details. Years and places. Got it?” Slick—a real way with words, Tuck.
Her brows knit. “In 1992, I was born in London but a week later came to Boston. Then in 2000, I moved to Arizona—Sedona for three months.”
“Why?” I ask sharply. “And don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes widen. Her face is stark white. “My stepfather died.”
Without breaking eye contact, I order, “And then?”
“Back to Boston for the summer. We moved to Seattle when my mom remarried…” O’Malley retells the finer details, minus the comment about being as American as apple pie.
I release her hand, aware of how soft her skin feels. “Those facts will be verified. I hope you aren’t lying.”
“Are you sure?” She lifts her brow. “Sounds as though you’d very much like to catch me in a lie.”
Is she challenging me? Does she have a clue who she’s calling front and center in our little charade or this veil of innocence she’s trying to hide behind?
Talk about shifting gears. This woman has me seeing Technicolor Americana all right. Red—the color of my handprint on her ass. White—the color of the lingerie I’d dress her in and then rip off her body, and blue. The color of my balls ‘cause none of what I’m imagining is going to happen.
“Ice?” Jon returns with a cup filled to the brim.
I shove it in the cup holder and ask, “What about paper towels?”
“They’d scratch her face. Napkins will do.” He hands over a wad.
I take them, unfolding one, and wrap three cubes of ice within. “Here. It’s not perfect. Place it at the back of your neck.” I hold it out to O’Malley.
“How’d you know that?”
“Epistaxis. I’ve got experience.” Looking into her eyes, a dark, captivating craving hits me with the force of a natural disaster.
What is it about her? I’ve got to silence the blaring doable submissive alert she incites or risk a lot more than my desire for payback. The cartels and The Saint aren’t interested in excuses—in case I need a reminder: Bloomberg was offed. A retired federal judge.
“Epistaxis as in personal?” she inquires.
I slowly gather my loosely strewn gray cells and compel myself to speak intelligently. “No. Family.”
The facts don’t add up. Besides her PanCorp background, it’s her refusal to offer up one clue about why we’ve met twice within three days that demands an answer. Decent summarization, except I can’t decipher dick, beyond whatever I’m imagining about her supple body.
Before I can ascertain her worth, my first task is to dismantle O’Malley and her ability to rattle me. I get out my phone, and bring up the application to shut down the driver’s cell reception to off-balance him, diverting his attention from the backseat. When he picks up his cell and flagrantly taps on the screen, that’s my cue.
I cant closer to O’Malley. Holding another napkin filled with ice to her forehead, I coast my mouth to her ear. “I want facts. How did you procure the position as my intern? You’ve got family ties. O’Malley and Silver. Democratic ties unless that changed in the last twenty minutes. And yet you signed up to intern with me? Even after we previously met.”
“It isn’t difficult to understand,” she murmurs.
We’re almost nose-to-nose. “Try me,” I say dryly, wetting the corner of the napkin. I take the liberty of cleaning the streaks of blood from her supple skin.
As planned, Jon is too busy scrambling with his lost cell reception to pay attention to my little chat with O’Malley. She tracks my movement like one of those long-haired cats my mother adores and I distrust.
For what feels like a year, we regard each other.
Instead of answering, she bites her lip. The one I sucked a
nd bit myself. Marshmallow-soft and just as sweet, just as deadly if I fall for the bait without answers. The risk is clearly part of the draw when it comes to this woman. I hunger to taste her mouth as I employ the means to exorcise the truth from her lying plump lips.
“I think we both can agree our previous encounter was a onetime thing. A mistake.” She looks me in the eye. “Right, Senator?”
I stare at her like one of us has lost her mind, not that I’ve got a handle on what to say to smooth that douchebaggery on my part. “Regrettable,” I simply say.
“Well, that’s settled.” She notches up her chin and I get it.
I’ve touched a nerve—one I’m responsible for crafting. How can I tell her the real mistake was letting her go that night?
“Is it?” I ask, uncertain why I want to tell her the truth.
“Uhh, I’m…,” she stammers. Besides a pair of ride-me-hard heels, the rest of O’Malley’s getup runs rather conservative—if she were any other woman. On her, it comes off as the attire worn by a sexy pinup secretary.
“You were going to say?” I prod her.
Instead of lessening, a gush of blood streams down her chin. What’s happening to her? This much blood can’t be routine. She tries to push away from me and acting on instinct, I haul her back. Thinking fast, I mask my emotions and like the jerk she believes me to be, I snap, “Don’t move. You’re about to get blood all over my suit.”
Her plush lips part and I guide her head back against the seat. “I’m sorry,” she whispers before she closes her eyes, pinching my handkerchief to her nose.
“Relax.” Without a qualm, I touch her neck. Gliding my fingers along her silky skin, I mentally undress her.
The material over her chest molds to her round tits. A point thrums along her creamy throat and I press my thumb over the spot. An approximate fractal. Each person’s heartbeat is unique. It’s as if O’Malley and I are intimately connected. I can feel her pulse thud within my own, stronger and stronger until I’m erect. She’d be a beauty to tie up. Bind and beg me. I’d take my time. With Phoenix, it’s all about the chase.
Even though she’s asked in on my team, it’s as though I’m anything but in the driver’s seat. Without meaning to, she’s giving me a tease as she cranes her neck. I press my fingertips, cinching my hands tighter. I’m so on edge. I hyper focus and it’s only O’Malley and me in the world. I taste razor-sharp lust. An eviscerating urge. Not hard, it’s predicated on muscle memory and my fingers tighten on her skin. I’m holding Phoenix by her neck. My handkerchief and the napkins are saturated with blood.
“We need to get you to a hospital.” What I’d rather do is blow off this talk and cart her to the nearest hotel penthouse. Call a doctor, get her stable, and then shut and lock the door for the next week.
“I’m not going to a hospital. This isn’t an emergency. I’m a touch anemic but I’ve seen a doctor.” She stares at me and adds, “I’m not lying. Do you want his number?”
It’s that challenging fire in her expression that hooks me. “I want to know about you. Let’s start with this. What type of anemia?”
She shifts her ice-blue eyes to her lap. “The kind involving a lack of iron.”
Why is she sidestepping a common medical condition, unless it isn’t routine. “That isn’t a diagnosis.”
For minutes, she doesn’t answer. The exits fly by and I direct Jon on which one to take. I bring up the app disabling his cell Wi-Fi and turn it off. Quietly I regard O’Malley. We’re seated a respectable distance apart and she’s staring into a compact, fixing her face.
“Besides the truth. What else are you interested in?” I soften my tone, wanting to reach out and tip up her face. Phoenix. I sample her name then say it aloud. “Phoenix, enlighten me.”
Snapping shut her compact, she glances my way. “Gaining experience. What do you want to know?”
Everything. Every atom inside me demands I harvest all her secrets. Every last one but that would take time to unmask and strip O’Malley bare. If time weren’t a commodity, I’d squire her away to D.C., to my condo. Or farther, to Provence. Untethered, I’d fly this chick nonstop to a cozy estate that I have an interest in near Mont Puget. The property overlooks the Mediterranean by way of a rugged inlet. It has a private landing strip and is inaccessible otherwise. What would be required to whisk Phoenix away? Keep her naked. Under me. Tame and teach her for as long as it takes.
The birth of that pipedream acts akin to a key in a lock. Between us, it’s as though a door clicks open… But that isn’t the plan, is it?
Consumed by the fire in her ice-blue gaze holding me hostage, I murmur, “Your eyes.”
She looks alarmed. “What about them?”
“The color is unusual,” I reply.
Her irises are shot through with tiny flecks of silver and rimmed in dark, dark blue, almost black.
“Yes well, my eyes and two bucks won’t get me a caramel latte.” She looks down for a second and I’m captivated. What secrets does she hold?
“And?” I say.
“Senator, I’m not a Democrat or a limousine liberal. I want to be a journalist, but can’t find a job. What I need is real-world experience that includes a reference. This spot opened up. End of story.”
“That isn’t the end. It’s the beginning,” I reply.
She nods. “I understand this is temporary. Is that what you mean?”
No, but I say, “Yeah.”
“If there’s a position on the Hill afterward, great. If not, I’m good. Nora said this was a short stint and related to your work with the GOP convention. I have no affiliation to any one candidate. Nora was very clear. Honestly, there aren’t many paid internships out there anymore. Regardless if I’m an O’Malley and maybe because, not all doors are wide open. You of all people, should understand that. As a registered independent, I’m crossing party lines in theory, and you want to know why. Truthfully, a reference from you would open doors that so far are shut.”
Hearing that, I reel off more nonsense and can’t believe I just went back to sounding like a complete tight-ass.
“You’ll get a reference. The convention and Capitol are that, but I can’t guarantee any doors being opened.” I follow up with another dipshit question. “What about committees? Interest groups. Anyone talk to you about lobbying?”
“Nora is my only contact on the Hill, I assure you. As such, she informed me that I had a choice and could decide when I arrived in D.C. Did that change, Senator Stone?”
“So you’re fine that this is temporary but I can’t give you a date when it might terminate?” I remind myself to stop my incessant staring at her mouth. Besides her skill set of kissing like no other—this woman possesses a mind-blistering style when she speaks. It’s more than elocution. Perfect enunciation and the way the tip of her tongue dances across her lips holds me spellbound and that’s when I see it. Her words. English. O’Malley’s is too perfect. Too precise to be her first language.
I’d better figure out what she’s after before it’s too late. Capitalizing on this event means that I’ve got to extract every dirty little secret she possesses. Keep your enemies near takes on a whole new meaning. Phoenix O’Malley is about to become my ‘body woman.’ I’ve never had a personal assistant. How else can I keep an eye on her if not right by my side? Cell in hand, I text Nora an update on my staff positions, relaying what I’m about to state.
“Did Mrs. Swan explain that the intern spot is as my personal assistant?”
Phoenix appears stunned for half a second. “No but—”
I allow her no wiggle room. “Unlike Nora, you’d be expected to attend every event alongside me. Do the menial tasks from picking up dry-cleaning to stocking my freezer. Accompany me to Cleveland and attend the GOP convention. Appear bright-eyed for fifteen-hour days while glad-handing delegates. Be at my beck and call as it were.” My hunger to own O’Malley powers up, and for the life of me, I can’t disengage.
/>
Cocking a brow, she recuperates from her mildly shocked expression. “Senator Stone, give me a chance. I won’t disappoint you.”
Her unflappable façade intrigues me. Going one further, I test the waters of where I intend to pilot this woman. “What about overseeing what the other staff are doing?”
“Isn’t that what your campaign and office managers do?”
Laughing low, I lean closer and elucidate, “I’d expect you to report on certain issues. Get my drift?”
Her icy eyes widen as her lips part, giving her both an angelic and sensual quality. What would those plump lips feel like on my neck, trailing down my skin? Phoenix is just a bargaining chip. With one minor difference: she’s a Silver and heir to PanCorp.
Even so, no matter how many times I repeat it, deep down something dark has taken root. Decadent temptation and it claws into my psyche. A demand that goes beyond seeking to use her, curtailing any attempt to detach.
Miss O’Malley, soon I will have you beneath me and siphon your sweetness like no one’s business.
Chapter 17
X.S.~ The Fall Should Always Be Fast. Memorable
SENATOR STONE can’t be serious. My face reddens and I shift uncomfortably.
“Your eyes and ears?” I offer up in disbelief and pray for a contradiction. Yet when he shifts his smoky gaze from his cell screen to me, cocking an arrogant brow, there goes my doubt. Unable to restrain myself, I unload, “Do I look like a snitch?”
“Strictly speaking, that isn’t how I’d classify you.” A dark glimmer flashes in his eyes. A thunderbolt of dark amusement. Par for the course in this senatorial staff interview from hell.
“Of course not.” If I didn’t need this job, I’d tell Mr. Perfection where to stuff it.
“You’ll deal with the details of my life and keep things running smoothly,” he returns, scrolling through a digital copy of my intern application.
