by Alex Elliott
“You Can’t Take It With You. I played Alice,” I supply, putting some of those acting skills to use, pretending I’m as cool as a cucumber in lieu of entertaining a fantasy of riding his face.
“Kauffman. Interesting.” He nods with a quirk to his lips.
“And Moss. Do you know of it or is that Google talking?”
“You aren’t the only one with a background in theatre. In D.C., we’ll attend whatever blows into town including the symphony, opera to rock concerts. Major theatrical galas to Shakespeare in the park, and every now and then, a hole in the wall, featuring superb jazz. I expect you to be ready at a moment’s notice and properly attired as I see fit.” His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Surely he means as a fill-in when he isn’t occupied.
Under his simmering stare, I recall all the arm candy I’ve seen him sport, and murmur, “Understood.”
Stone nods. “As to the Moss production, there’s a tremendous amount of activity simultaneously taking place onstage. Like an orchestra—or jazz dissonance. Purposeful and reminds me of political tag teaming on the Senate floor. About a family with hidden agendas and talking nonstop. Did I miss anything?”
“No, but I’d define it as choreographed chaos.” The depth of his knowledge is astounding. All the actors were on stage, talking all at once. Focused pandemonium. I felt alive.
“What questions do you have for me?” he asks out of the blue and there’s this playful glint in his eyes. Something must have shifted. His tone isn’t as antagonistic, even if he’s still gifting me with a blistering stare.
There’s more to his popularity and dark good looks. Tons more than what blazes across the media. An imperceptible layer to him—or a wound—and it’s that undercurrent within Stone that has me mystified. A paradox I want to solve.
“Foreign relations interest me. What are your thoughts on counterterrorism, in the face of the recent bombings?” One of his committees, and I rattle it off, hoping to strike pay dirt. I’m against war and brute force but doubt that truth would buy me a vote of his confidence. Not from a politician who chairs the committee with an iron fist.
“Don’t let terrorism drag you under,” he says coldly. “Off the record, it’s a fiasco. With the upcoming convention and presidential election, no one on the Hill is coasting. These bombings aren’t isolated events. Casting blame and avoiding the fallout is the name of the game at the moment. But tell that to the oil companies and the candidates if you’d like to witness fireworks before the Fourth. Make a wave and you’ll be a one-hit wonder at the Capitol. Gone and all too soon forgotten. That isn’t what someone with big dreams wants to hear. Is it?”
His frank response is more than surprising. Is he testing me? “Believe it or not, it is. Remember, I’m the one who wants the truth.” I absorb how his eyes appear both candid and tired. Then all too soon, he returns to wearing a guarded expression.
“The truth has many sides and what you hear from me is one-sided. Perhaps, I’m not the best example of Hill veracity.” And with that said, he lowers his gaze from mine. He’s quicksilver in his actions and perhaps his moods.
I feel him surveying my mouth and wish I could climb inside his head. From a political persona who appears on a pedestal beyond reproach, his sudden shift in how he regards me can’t be my imagination. Not when I’ve kissed him and enjoyed the intimate caress of his fingers.
Under this icy veneer, he’s sensually provocative. Where did that part of Stone go? If it’s true that he’s all business when it comes to his career, I should admire that. Propagate it. But in that instant, I hunger to stop the pretense, and trace the beard stubble shadowing his jaw. Kiss his full pouty lips.
Phoenix, focus. “Senator, I’d like to hear an insider’s perception, especially yours. I’m here to see what really goes on behind closed doors and also how I can help. What can I do? Just tell me,” I offer, refusing to relinquish this potent part of him that he keeps sequestered.
Pouring the last of the wine into our glasses, he says, “Depends on what you’re really looking for. Do you even know?” He leans back in his chair, regarding me over the rim of his glass as our eyes lock and a sharp jolt zings my ribcage.
My breath squeezes in my chest. Funny, I can’t be the only one to see through him. I mean up close, his smooth impenetrable veneer falls away, and I feel this crazy connection as if we’ve known each other for years. Mental snap of my fingers!
“Nothing more than when you first asked. Connections, Senator.” I speak truthfully, supplying what sounds logical. I’m no fool.
As a congressman, he has an agenda, and need I remind myself for the hundredth time, I’ve got mine. Yet in this crazy moment, I sense I can trust him with my deepest, darkest secret. That’s a dangerous doorway. Like I said, ‘crazy!’ I can’t trust him. Or anyone. Not if I’m going to pave my own way.
“You’ll find plenty of contacts and from those, you’ll winnow the wheat from the chaff. Over the years, I’ve learned to pick and choose the committees where I can best be effective.”
“That sounds very—” I stop and search for a word that doesn’t outright insult him.
“Political?” Cocking his brow, he clinks my glass with his. “Welcome to the big leagues.”
“I’m here to affect change,” I say resolutely, referring to what I need to conquer within myself.
“Change? Is that what you’re after besides truth.” He seems amused, not that he proffers a smile—it’s more a tightening at the corners of his eyes. Tiny creases momentarily flare. “I think I’ve heard that one before. What about beauty? Or world peace?”
“Be careful, your cynicism is showing.” I refuse to be cowed even if what I’m searching for sounds naïve.
“Is it?” He sounds wistful.
“Don’t most people on the Hill seek to forge a path? Isn’t that what all interns are after?” My stomach twists.
“In the beginning, I suppose. It’s what people tell themselves. But everyone is after one thing. It’s all about number one. So O’Malley, besides truth and connections, what is it that you hope to find? I guarantee it has nothing to do with what’s on these pages.” He picks up the stack of documents that comprise my application. He sees right through me.
Stone’s right—he is my worst nightmare. He has me coming apart. Okay, c’mon. Get your head together.
Out of habit, to gain some distance, I follow up with another question about his committee involvement. “So, are you still heading up the action subcommittee on the draft reform or did you relinquish your chair on that?” Obviously, war is controversial and where he has misgivings. “You took the Hill by storm on that one. Made the cover of Rolling Stone.”
His features sharpen as he clenches his jaw. “There’s a difference between actively engaged soldiers and draft reform. The draft was a hot button topic. That was an eon ago. You’re an O’Malley—aren’t you keeping up with your family’s interests?” His brow furrows and his condescending tone returns. When I don’t reply, he smirks and reaches for the bill. Stone signs his name, replacing his Black Card in his wallet. He looks up and growls low, “Let’s go. We’ve got a talk and I don’t want to be later than I already am.” He stands and pulls out my chair.
“There’s still a war raging. And not just overseas,” I retort, swinging around as he buttons his jacket.
“Thanks for the reminder. It’s negotiating peace that we’re presently focused on. Especially with the recent bombings. Unless you’re going to talk my ear off about securing our borders. Either way, the operative words are building and rebuilding our foreign relations. Some believe they are financial black holes. Effectively, the war is over and hasn’t even begun. But out in Nantucket, you probably engage in cocktails and discussions about how this isn’t an ‘existential threat.’” With his arm extended toward the entrance, he regards me with lethal calmness as if a wall of glass exists between us. His eyes are remote, dark and impenetrable. A stark reminder to control my
emotions.
Which of course, because apparently I’m a dolt, I wholeheartedly ignore. “I don’t view it that way. Nor do thousands of veterans or bomb victims!” We exit the restaurant and I can’t curb the bite of what I feel.
At the end of the walkway sits my idling car. Jon’s at the wheel, glaring, silently warning me to put away my harpy tone. I bet he’s wondering what’s up with me. When we’d arrived thirty minutes ago, I’d had the senator eating out of my hand. Now, I’m butting heads with him. Stone curls his fingers around my elbow and stops me from walking.
I look up into his face. “Yes?”
“Pardon me, but I hate to burst your bubble. It’s foreseeable that from hanging out in a gilded ivory tower that you’re a little behind in real time politics. Anything and everything smelling of war reform—committees, interest groups, lobbyists—put a fork in them. That subject has got globaloney written all over it. With reelections coming up, there isn’t much law rewritten. You might as well start learning what actually goes on. I hate to pop your idealistic cherr—” Stone halts, apparently catching himself—not that he appears the least bit apologetic.
“My idealistic what?” I employ that same searing, mocking tone that he’s rankled me with.
“Bubble,” he exhales quietly.
“You aren’t,” I assure him as a heatwave charbroils the skin up my neck.
“Look, Ms. O’Malley, government has a purpose when it comes to making policy and it’s more often than not thorny. Learning how to wheel and deal is where we come in. There’s always someone looking to trade. Hawk. Sell. Take it from me, learn to recognize the signs before you end up doling out a bunch of promises. As a new intern on the Hill you won’t be immune, you’ll be lambasted. Forget being a one-hit wonder, you won’t last a term.”
That admission does it for me. Either I do what needs to be done or get out. I can’t lose my head. Not when he’s a go-getter. Just the type who might teach me a thing or twenty on how to make it on my own. He’s the man I’m going to target—mirror. Isn’t that lesson number one on how to make it? Emulate those in power—those deemed memorable.
But how can I get Stone to view me as more than shooting from the hip? Let’s see, according to the Silver rulebook, chapter and verse: stow emotions and be smooth as glass. Cold. Calculating to a fault. No more emotional breaks. No more acting naïve. I’ve got to up the ante. If I don’t, I won’t have a connection worth diddly and all the fast talk about making my mark won’t materialize. I slide across the cool leather of the backseat, prepared to show Stone how committed, committed can get.
The senator gets in and shuts the car door. Jon pulls away from the restaurant and we’re headed to the coffee house. I’ve got one month to prove I’m capable, dependable, determined, and then my world stops spinning.
Dear sweet Jesus, retrograde is about to take over!
Chapter 19
X.S.~ What’s One More Lie?
“DID YOU MEAN this?” Stone holds up a sticky note. He shows me the note Jon wrote as a dirty joke and I’d socked away.
Jon must’ve caught a glance and the car swerves on the rode—a sharp lurch.
“Christ,” Stone growls, yet never breaks eye contact.
“Err…” I falter, not knowing what to say and sternly remind myself not to shift my focus to Jon.
“Well, it’s either yes or no. Which is it?” Stone asks in a voice too low and seductive to ignore.
“Well,” I parrot back as we both stare at each other. Without blinking, I absorb the raw intensity in his eyes and for a second, I can’t respond. I’ve never encountered a man who looks at me as he does.
“How did you know I was going to offer you the position as my personal assistant?” In prosecutor mode, his gimlet-eyed stare pins me in place by the power he wields.
I choke out, “I didn’t.”
He holds the note an inch away from my face. “Is this yours?”
Jesus Christ, it’s as if I’m on the witness stand. “Yes, but…” I gawp at the pink letters on the note. If only I could channel Rob Lowe from an episode of The Grinder.
“Ms. O’Malley, do you have any idea what intimate means to someone like me?”
Suddenly, my whole future hinges on what comes out of my mouth. He very well could be thinking I’m a wacko, looking to hook up after one kiss.
“Look…it’s…just….” I need to convince him that I view this as a work relationship, and I’m one hundred and fifty percent committed. The adrenaline rush that follows has me ready to catapult and I swallow a stream of gibberish. Obviously, I can’t seem to hide one thing from this man. I have two seconds to think of something. Anything.
“Can we get past trading bafflegab?” A silken thread of warning edges his voice.
In his glassy eyes, I see tiny twin reflections of my scared expression as I nod and squeak, “Yes.”
“Pointblank, a hatchet job or someone seeking to set me up, isn’t going to happen.” Without warning, Stone leans over. He’s so close I feel the scrape of his beard stubble along my cheek. “O’Malley, what previously occurred between us was a first. I don’t make a habit of public displays and an encore is not forthcoming.”
He seamlessly straightens and I question if he actually was near enough to kiss. My skin tingles along my face, confirming it wasn’t my imagination. Stone executed that move with cultivated finesse. His confident tone doesn’t irritate me like the other times—oh no. It’s as if we’re connected on a deeper level. His potency pours through me, imparting an irrational impression I can only describe as the shadow of a premonition. Or I’m light-headed and suffering from a terrible case of wishful thinking.
“That note is simply a mistake. Nothing to consider.” As soon as the excuse pops out of my mouth, everything changes. How many times in one night can I possibly repeat a word? Unconsciously I’m trying to punish him but in reality, I’m giving him a pointed message. In a beat, the world around me fades to grey, and there’s only Atticus Stone and me.
“Easy for you to say.” He gazes at me, his eyes unwavering, and the note still in his hand.
When Jon abruptly coughs, he harnesses my attention. I understand his message. Universal code for dummies: get a grip. Senator Stone might have kissed me in a club, but he isn’t into interns or his staff. Confirmed in all my research on the man. Tonight he’s been a perfect gentleman—albeit exacting and inquisitive, but no waterboarding.
“I’m not being slick. It wasn’t a reference to you.” What’s one more lie?
His brows knit together. “Are you saying you received an offer to be someone’s intimate assistant?”
This calls for damage control and some groveling. I don’t need a smack to recall that some journalists are being beheaded for wanting to shed light on the truth. The real truth. Big and international. World changing. Not petty minutia. Or a flight of fancy during an interview, reliving what it was like to kiss the new boss.
“It’s just, God… That note has nothing to do with my work ethics or my ability to get the job done. You might not believe that I’m the person for this spot. My life really is reflected in my answers on those pages. Read my application. Not some scribbled note.” Scooting a few inches closer to Stone, I reach over and tap the stack of documents on his leg, all the while neither of us breaks eye contact. “I grasp concepts quickly. My lips are sealed. I’m here to learn and reap from my experience. The trip up the ladder begins tonight. With you, Senator Stone, and I’m pretty sure we both can get what we want.”
I pull my hand back and he lets his legs splay open, tapping my résumé lightly on his thigh. Slowly he raises his hand to his chin and rubs the side of his jaw with one of his long fingers as we continue in this mind-warping face-off.
The silence is deafening. So all-encompassing it feels like the temperature back here just shot way up. My whole body blushes. Add another fifty degrees hotter when he lets his gaze rove down from my face to my chest.
Can he see how fast I’m breathing? I try to swallow but a brick of anxiety is lodged in my throat. I remind myself to stop fidgeting with the material of my dress at my lap, stilling my fingers. Jon slows down and turns the corner. The coffee house entrance flashes up ahead. A line of people are outside and I struggle to take a breath.
“It looks like we’ll be spending the next two days together. Close quarters, O’Malley. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
“Does that mean I’m on your team?”
“I’ll make a decision on Wednesday. As you know, my schedule just got slammed, and I need to prep for tomorrow. You up for a late night?” he counters, his eyes hooded, and I nod.
I add, “Yes, sir.”
“Yes what?” he growls.
“Yes, I’m up for a late night,” I copycat him. With his immaculate record and the political backing to hit it big in the White House, he has every right to throw me a curveball. As his only staffer tonight, I’d better field that ball into an action plan. What are Stone’s needs? Does he drink coffee or tea or soda? I need to call the hotel and verify their fax and printer are working as well as room service hours.
The car stops and he opens the door, climbing out and away before I can ask for clarification. Doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes to get on the Hill with a VIP pass this man can capably provide.
“What was Stone talking about?” Jon whispers as he holds out his hand to me.
Climbing from the backseat, I shrug. “After the talk, we’ll be working tonight.”
“Can’t say his reputation isn’t well deserved.”
“Seriously,” I agree. “I’ve never seen anyone so busy. His cell never stops. He has multitasking down to a science.”
“Comes with the turf.” Jon turns so his back is to the fast forming crowd outside the entrance and surrounding Stone. “Hey, what happened in the restaurant? You practically bit his head off getting into the car. Did he say or do something—”
