Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1)

by Alex Elliott

  “Nothing of the sort,” I hiss. “It was like an interrogation.”

  “Yeah, some interviews are like that. Welcome to Washington.” Jon winks. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Keep your head up.”

  “I’ve got to make certain Stone understands that I’m no slacker. That I can handle whatever he throws my way.”

  “If you’re still here, I imagine, you did.” He steps back and cocks his head toward the senator.

  The man is surrounded by people. Stone is smiling, laughing, and talking as if he’s known them forever. His charisma is palpable. I need a dose of that along with a booster of his confidence. I’ll do anything. Nothing is too lowly on the internship ladder. It’s one month: four weeks to show him, I’m the real deal. If I do my part, Stone might not only give me a job reference, he could actually show up as a witness in court on my behalf.

  What’s more, it isn’t ridiculous to learn from a capable master. It’s epically pragmatic! This man might turn out to be more powerful than any one family. President Atticus Stone. He could happen. We could happen—if I get my head out of the clouds.

  Chapter 20

  Atticus Stone~ Unchartered Terrain

  Fifteen minutes ago.

  “INTIMATE STAFF ASSISTANT.” Written in pink ink in large block letters on her note and I can’t let go. I don’t look down at the page where O’Malley’s indicating with her insistent finger tapping. Sure, the voice in my head shouts to release it, but it’s a no-go.

  Over dinner, I’d grilled Phoenix using a voice stress analysis app. After reviewing the recording on my cell, except for four micro tremors, she’s seamless. I text Archer, the PI hacker I use, giving him instructions to begin tailing O’Malley. I follow up with a laundry list, topped by a direct order to get his ass over to her apartment and install surveillance on the double. Archer is invisible when it comes to short-circuit cameras with audio and remote feed access. He’ll tap her cell and install spyware into her computer. By midnight, unless the world ends, I’ll have a complete copy of her email accounts, search engine history, and a copy of the hard drive on her computer.

  For the last hour, I’ve purposefully vacillated to keep O’Malley off-balance. We’ve talked about a variety of topics—don’t ask me what—it all sounds like non sequiturs.

  Except when she pointedly mentioned the war and that cracker box upheaval. Although during bedlam, I’d found a unique opportunity. That’s what this is as well: disorder and a doorway. At dinner, along with unearthing intimate details of Phoenix’s life (which I’ll use for deeper excavations), I’d hungered to kiss her again. Seated next to her in the back of a Fiat, even with a driver up front, further solidifies that line of thought.

  My cell buzzes. On the screen, I read the message from The Saint:

  “is the blonde a Bratva dessert”

  Cold fury slices into my awareness. From entertaining ideas of O’Malley naked and riding me, I exhale as if punched in the face. With my pulse starting to climb, I consider what to divulge to my uncle. He’s infiltrated one of my contacts. The doorman was someone I’d trusted. I had planned on using him to lift O’Malley’s case for my inspection. Good thing Jon stayed with the car.

  Each of my keystrokes is a jab:

  “New intern.”

  The vision of Phoenix naked and under me flares. If I had any sense, I’d force it away. Imprisoned in a Fiat, I’m jacked up, and the pounding in my head starts. My ‘script is in my luggage and I’m not about to order Jon to park this mobile torture unit, so I can go rooting around in a suitcase. Using a pressure point on my hand, I close my eyes. As I press, I latch onto the image of O’Malley with her legs parted. Sure it’s an illusion yet it works to anchor my temper. Meticulously, I envision the texture, taste, and scent of her bared and spread for my pleasure. The things I’d enact with her would exorcise a casket of shit buried within me.

  I’m intrigued by my newest drug of choice as I stare at the two-word text. It pisses the shit out of me that The Saint has eyes on me. On Phoenix. My anger reignites. My diaphragm locks.

  Silently, I curse then hit send. From dickering with O’Malley about war reform, I wait to see what The Saint has to say. What did I expect with Santo’s paranoia and his preference to backstab over face-to-face pushback? A deadly combination.

  My burner buzzes. Displayed:

  “wait to contact Ryan on Wed and give her your demands-she is ready to listen”

  After reading Santo’s text, I click delete.

  “How many phones do you have?” O’Malley asks.

  “A few. Why?” I slide my gaze to hers.

  “Just wondering.” Her lashes flutter provocatively, right before her eyes widen. “Wow, there’s a throng waiting for you.”

  That detail is far from comforting. I stow my cell, sharply glancing around but don’t see any drugstores nearby. This is a new burner and if I have to dump it that’ll be a chore. The car stops and I climb out ready to self-combust.

  People surround me. A jabbering mob as they shake my hand. In the storefront windows, I watch as Jon helps O’Malley from the backseat. His hands on her shift something rudimentary in me. My nature to possess spills into my awareness. Half attending to the crowd, I’m caught in the moment, contemplating the many ways Ms. O’Malley can serve me in the flesh.

  Not one has to do with the Hill. None have to do with performing legislative research, attending hearings, or answering constituent phone calls. I’m not deliberating where to plug her in with my other office or home staff. Nor do I picture her in terms of my domestic or foreign policy opinions. Far, far away from legislative bills with her pink lips and soft sighs. Forget my rocketing career in politics.

  What I want from her can ruin me. But in a way, it’ll be worse for her if I waffle. She’d be cast under a shadow—the type imbued by Santo. I can’t allow The Saint and his minions near her first. The only alternative requires that I plot and plan how I’ll go about seducing this Irish mob princess into my bed while keeping her lips sealed. Her words not mine. How to keep her presence under the radar is turning out to be the question of the century.

  Someone opens the coffee house door and I motion for those in the cluster that have congregated to enter. When the last person heads inside, I turn toward O’Malley. Jon’s back in the car, talking on his cell. She comes up next to me, close enough that I get a whiff of her flowery fragrance. As we gaze at one another, a blood vessel in her neck pulsates wildly. Methodically, I construct what is required to possess her. I mean truly dominate this woman for all sorts of reasons aside from getting my rocks off.

  I look at her—look her up and down and don’t even try to hide what I’m doing. Let me count the ways I’m going to enjoy getting Phoenix O’Malley to conform as I extract all of her secrets. She isn’t a pushover. She’s stunning and with that spunk of hers, I run through countless methods and equipment, toys and tricks that will be useful. A treasure-trove I’ve accrued, but haven’t employed in my dungeon of late.

  Anticipation of a truth-session has raw lust swimming in my veins. I’m buzzed and the crash of adrenaline bursting into my bloodstream is almost audible as I commit to the task of breaking her in. Cell out, I text Archer:

  Status?

  He returns with,

  “In route. Be there by ten.”

  By having him tail O’Malley, I’ll gain access to her life. Her thoughts. Her wishes and dreams. If she’s lying to me, working for someone, and believes she has the goods to entrap me, she will regret it. Regret is just the start.

  The muscles all over my body tighten, and I’m snared by an eviscerating hunger as I mentally undress this woman, imagining her spread-eagle, blindfolded, muffled, and cuffed. Stone, have you lost it?

  “Ready,” she asks.

  With a to-do list a mile long, I reach around to touch the small of Phoenix’s back. Inhaling her fragrance, a zing grazes across my nerve as I pilot her inside. Silently, I respond to he
r and that goddamn voice in my head: No, not even close.

  ~

  INSIDE THE coffee house is packed. It’s an informal town meet-n-greet that I could do in my sleep, except every atom in my body is hyper aware of the woman standing next to me.

  A gentleman thumps me on the back. “Senator, is it true about the immigration reform uproar? What’s the president thinking?”

  I can hardly recite my own name and now I’ve got to talk shop. I answer questions, one after another, but all the while I’m in my private hell where my tie feels more like a noose. Standing with a cup of coffee in hand, I’m wishing it were Scotch.

  More and more people enter. O’Malley answers questions or directs the speaker to me, coming over and paving an introduction. She’s a natural at making small talk. In the crowded space, our bodies unintentionally come into contact. More than once. Okay, maybe a couple of times it was intentional on my part. In my warped defense, I find that without trying, I steer my body in her direction. Greedily, I steal one more glance at O’Malley, savoring the view: she sucks her lower lip a darker pink.

  And boom. She flashes her eyes to mine as if she feels my heated stare. Each and every time, I feel a current of electricity rip through my awareness. I could spend the night watching her.

  Applause starts, then ramps up, and I force my focus to the front as I walk forward. Stepping up to the mic, I look around the coffee house. “We’re living in a time of unsurpassed possibility as well as uncertainty. After being on the road campaigning both in Georgia and for the GOP, I’ve come to view neighborhood communities as microcosms and a metaphor for what we should be doing as a nation in the 21st century. Exemplified by what the Back Bay Business Association has done here in Boston. Your campaign support is phenomenal and your involvement in shaping this community deserves recognition.” I raise my cup to several of the Newbury high rollers I see in front of me…until my eyes touch upon O’Malley’s face and my mind blanks for a second. A groan threads up my throat, and I stifle it, hurling myself into a speech I’ve given countless times over the last month. At the end, I thank everyone for coming out tonight, then removing the mic on my lapel, I nod to the man on my left as I meet O’Malley’s gaze.

  As if magnetically drawn, I move to her side. “Any thoughts or suggestions for improvement?” I ask her, smiling at those who clap my back as I give rote responses to congratulations floating around us.

  “Everyone is thrilled that you’re here.” She smiles at me and then shifts her eyes at the people milling about.

  Not everyone. People keep entering the coffee house. Phoenix has GOP buttons and pamphlets that I learn my Hill team had overnighted here. Nora is correct—I have no idea what goes on behind the scenes.

  Shaking my head, I concentrate on doing this meet-and-greet but I find myself intrigued by my intern. Folks continue to come up, some form a casual line and others by way of Ms. O’Malley’s introduction. During a lull, I lean over and tell her, “You’re good at working the crowd.”

  She refocuses on me and with a shrug offers, “I’ve had experience at flashy events.”

  Every time I glance at her, she’s doing something that has me to the point of hauling her to the back restroom and pushing her against a wall, demanding to know what’s her game or if she’s the slightest bit interested in letting me do her. If the inside of the Fiat was torture, this is no reprieve, and I can’t wait to get out of here.

  An hour later, I’m practically sprinting out the door as I take her elbow, piloting her to the waiting Fiat at the curb. “Goodnight,” I say to those standing around us.

  “Senator Stone?” A couple at the curb walks over. “We can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. Not just here tonight, but all over.”

  “Good evening. What are your names?” I smile and hold out my hand.

  They introduce themselves, a husband and wife and owners of a bookstore nearby. I gesture to Phoenix. “My personal assistant, Ms. O’Malley. It’s a pleasure and I appreciate you both coming out tonight.”

  For a few minutes, we all talk and I get the full-on Phoenix impact. A mega dose of her feminine charisma, until the man tugs on his wife’s arm. “Don’t want to talk your ear off.”

  I blink and realize, I’ve been staring at O’Malley. Shifting my focus, I speak to the couple, “Might be the other way around.” We all laugh and exchange another round of handshakes. As they walk away, I redirect my gaze to the girl standing next to me and I’m the one who asks, “Ready?”

  In a quiet voice, she replies, “Yes, sir.”

  The sultry sound of ‘sir’ rolling off her tongue makes my cock twitch. Under the glow of moonlight and gentle sweep of the summer breeze, I’m tempted to pull her into my arms, press into her, and resume where we’d left off Friday night. Phoenix, come to me, I silently order her. What I’d give to have the freedom to follow this craving; an adrenaline rush in the mystery of unchartered terrain.

  Instead, I guide her to the car, and we climb in to the backseat. “Jon, get us to the hotel,” I order in a clipped voice, observing the minx who almost brought me to my knees.

  Chapter 21

  Atticus Stone~ Set Me Up Again

  OUT ON the sidewalk in front of the hotel, I wait until Jon is dealing with my suitcase, and out of earshot. Suddenly O’Malley seems nervous as though she has something important to relay. “Do you want the driver to stay?” I ask as a way to define our plans.

  “My apartment isn’t far,” she replies, following me to the rear of our ride.

  “The one we discussed. Or another?” I retort drily. Is she about to bow out after trying to convince me how much she’s a team player? Typical trust fund princess bait-n-switch, not that I’ll allow her that freedom. But it is interesting to see how she contrives her moves.

  “I provided my address. All of them. And I can stay here if they have an open bed.” The term ‘bed’ glides off her tongue.

  It lands like a bomb, imploding inside my head. I refuse to react to her well-timed reference to a bed that will contain her tight little body for the night. Looking up, I meet her eyes, and grind my back molars. That comment can go south in so many ways. Jon—a volunteer from ShitifIknow—might tweet or post this snippet. Or I might lose it in the elevator, forget needing a bed.

  “The hotel doesn’t look that crowded,” she supplies when I don’t reply. “They assured me they have a top-notch business center and all-night room service. They serve Starbucks.”

  “When did you inquire?”

  “After you mentioned wanting to work tonight?” she supplies and adds, “There must be at least one empty room. Even if they’re sold out, there’s still a chance someone hasn’t shown up. It’ll be easier than trying to deal with logistics in case of a last minute emergency.”

  We won’t need those amenities, yet I’m impressed. “Good planning.”

  “Thanks. I try,” she replies with a smile. It’s so open and genuine, I’m stunned.

  We’re standing out on the sidewalk and I’m right in the middle of reaching into my pocket for my money clip when the driver’s head snaps up at her announcement. I meet his surprised gaze and feel an acute sense of ownership creep into my awareness, as if I want to point to her and proclaim: MINE.

  Stowing my moment of primal insanity, I go for the expected reply. The one that won’t get me kicked in the nuts. “Considering we have a ton of work to get done, that might be best,” I say with phony aplomb.

  “Senator, I’ll go ahead and get a room.” Abruptly, she leans in close, infusing me with a measured dose of unwavering eye contact and another hit of her fragrance—light with a citrus undertone—and I forget all about the world around us. Christ, her pupils are fully dilated, leaving her arctic-blue irises captivating neon rims. Her bewitching gaze peers into me, diving deep—too deep.

  Peeling off a tip for Jon, I wonder what’s running through her mind. And why there’s an undeniable connection between us where a
ll I want to do is go upstairs, strip her naked, and tie her to my bed.

  Only one thing is required, and it’s her admission that she’s a willing participant. A rush of lust coats my reason until it’s slick and slippery. Every filthy fantasy involving O’Malley that I’ve entertained for the last three nights overpowers my sound judgment until I’m left fighting the urge to shove her against the car, cup her head, and haul her mouth to mine.

  “Senator Stone, is that all right?” she asks.

  I hand the driver a tip and say to her, “Put the room on my credit card.” Afterward, I murmur a delayed, “Thanks, Jon. See you tomorrow.”

  Decision made. O’Malley and I are going to fuck. Protracted and carnal.

  The hotel staff wheels my luggage away. As a porter takes my computer case, I request it and am vaguely aware of the driver mock saluting before he retreats into the car without further incident.

  The chances of X agreeing to go upstairs and let me ravage her like a savage are in the range of probable. I remove my credit card and hand it over to her. It’s her reaction I’m finely tuned into as I gauge my next words.

  “Do you need a wakeup call?” She flicks her gaze to the driver as she waves.

  “No. But you might. We’ve got an early morning and I plan on hitting it before sunrise. Tomorrow doesn’t stop until midnight. If we’re lucky.”

  “I’m good with that. College was all about all-nighters.” She takes my credit card but not before her silky fingers slide over mine, discharging an electric jolt that shoots up my arm.

  “Doesn’t get much better in politics,” I assure her. On edge, the idea of a drink sounds better and better. A requirement as I plot how to effect this hookup and what I intend to achieve.

  “I’m not put off,” she replies.

  Motioning to the front steps, I say, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.”