by Angel Payne
No. My stupidity had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the strange fog that slammed me in that man’s presence. I never opened up like that, not even to Dad, especially not to a client. And, damn it, not to a client like him. He graced magazine covers. Did consulting gigs for CNN. Dined at restaurants with unpronounceable names. Could probably see to Canada from his home, at the top of one of those buildings that disappeared into the clouds…
I shivered with mortification and cranked up the hot water. As the spray pelted my face, one question taunted. How would I face him this morning? By now, he’d likely formed a few definitive thoughts about me. Weak-willed. Imprudent. Immature. A woman—a girl—who babbled like a tipsy sorority sister to every man who poured her some wine, never mind how expensive and fabulous the vintage.
The worst thing of all?
I’d reveled in every minute of it.
God help me, I couldn’t deny my attraction to Killian. Maybe I could’ve if he hadn’t touched me, but it was too late for that. The damage was done. My stomach flipped over on itself when I recalled him helping my balance after pulling me from the conference table…and then reliving the current that passed between us like lightning arcing between storm clouds. Every time we’d brushed, that connection had flared all over again, brilliant and searing, so that when he leaned close, I’d let him. Inwardly, I’d damn near begged for his nearness.
I smiled, remembering every one of those heart-halting moments. Why not? For a few special minutes, I’d been treated to a glimpse of the man beneath the bespoke suit. He was funny and engaging when he let his guard down, though I quickly comprehended how difficult the exposure was for him. That was only the beginning of his labyrinth—a psychological maze I simply didn’t have time for. Trying to decipher a man like Killian Stone was undoubtedly a full-time job, best left for some bored upper crust woman with nothing more complicated to ponder than matching her shoes and handbag for the city’s next society event.
Scoffs the woman who matched her nail polish to the company’s damn logo.
“There’s a difference,” I seethed. Coordinating a manicure was miles from dropping panties for the man. That distance was not going to be breached—even if he caused my body to tingle in places that I’d long forgotten. Illicit places. Wet, pulsing places…
I brutally turned the knob toward the C setting and finished my shower with chattering teeth.
When I climbed out, coffee was in order. I brewed the java while my straight iron heated, thanking God for the SGC travel department, wise enough to set us up in a hotel with single-cup brewers. Final decision on the look for the day? A sleek top knot formed a classic match for my no-nonsense gray pinstriped skirt suit, paired with practical pumps. Since it had been so cold in the conference room yesterday, a long-sleeved blouse and the suit jacket would do fine. I always received compliments when I wore pale pink, and luckily, that was the blouse most ready to go.
As I slipped into my shoes, I stopped for a long second. Hell. I was actually putting extra care into my appearance, though realizing it a few minutes too late.
“Okay, Montgomery,” I muttered, perusing myself one more time in the full-length mirror on the door. “This behavior needs to stop. You’re here to do a job. Only that. End of story. Nod your head. You understand this. Now nod again.”
I complied and then realized one affirmation was still missing. No matter what happened between Stone and me yesterday, it was back to business, only business, today. Those minutes together, that feeling when he focused those midnight eyes solely on me…that kind of shit could become addictive. I didn’t have time in my life for addictive. I didn’t have room in my heart for the disappointment and betrayal that would follow. I’d had enough of both to last a lifetime.
I stuffed my laptop into my briefcase, grabbed my cell, and headed for the elevator. The team usually met in the lobby and then took a shuttle to the business we were working with. I hadn’t heard different plans, so I hit the button for the lobby while taking advantage of the elevator’s mirrored wall to get my lip gloss on evenly.
The doors slid open, and I caught sight of the team—as they exited through the hotel’s revolving door. Fortunately, Chad turned to make one last scan of the lobby, his face creased with worry. Relief took over as he spotted me.
“Shit, Claire. I thought we were going to leave you behind.”
“What the hell? We always leave at eight forty-five. I’m ten minutes early.” I tried and failed not to fume as he hustled me across the lobby. Obviously the plan had been changed and I hadn’t been clued in. The switch-up wasn’t a big deal, but being kept in the dark about it? Not nice. Secrets, big or small, were a major pet peeve, thanks to the significant baggage Nick had left behind in my psyche. The sordid side of our work often provided stunning justification for the mindset too. The truth, however messy, ultimately did set a person free.
“I’ve been texting you,” Chad snapped. “Is your phone dead? The rich guy sent his car, and the queen and her spawn said it would look bad if we made them wait, so you could find your own way to SGC. I offered to come up to your room, but Andrea gave me talk to the hand faster than Margaux could summon her laser-lizard stare.”
Since we neared the limo, I flung back my what-the-fuck? glare at him. I received his fast shrug in reply, another silent code between us, generally meant as at least I tried. I couldn’t argue.
While climbing into the town car after him, my gaze locked with the driver’s. Oblivious to the political tangle that awaited me inside, he gave a friendly nod and murmured, “Nice to see you again so soon, Miss Montgomery.”
I plastered on my best pageant smile in return, hoping to God nobody else had heard him, before settling next to Chad. “Good morning, everyone. I hope you all slept as well as I did. Damn, the mattresses here are fantastic. How are you this morning, Andrea? I’m so glad I came down when I did. Please let me know if there are any other changes in our usual routine so I can go ahead and make a note of it now.” I stared at her with dewy expectancy. I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
Margaux had already primed the princess-zilla glare. “The change was made several hours ago, Claire. Were you really working that hard, got in that late, and weren’t on top of your emails this morning? I mean, where were you? Mother and I enjoyed some wine in the hotel bar for an hour and a half and still didn’t see you come in. What kept you so long?”
’Zilla had clearly added bitch-flavored creamer to her coffee. “A lot of my emails couldn’t wait until this morning,” I supplied, “so I hopped right on them last night.” It wasn’t a lie. I had nothing to hide. Not really. It simply wasn’t the whole truth. Technically, there was nothing wrong with that.
“And then…?” Margaux prompted.
I grabbed my forearm and started rubbing. “And then what?”
Her face, made up as flawlessly as a Lancôme ad, took on a suspicious air that turned my nerves to icicles. “It took over an hour to answer a few emails?”
“I’m sure Claire just got caught up with some of the other SGC staff.” What Chad lacked in physical height, he made up for in commanding presence. His stiffened posture made Margaux back off a little. He tossed a wink back at me. “So did you pick up on any office gossip about our boy Trey?”
Poor guy. He had no idea that his query threw me on the defensive as equally as Margaux’s. “They…errr…all seem pretty tight-lipped. I tried to appear friendly and open, hoping to convey that we’re available if any of them wish to share ideas with us.”
Michael smiled. “Sounds like a great approach. Wooten’s press conference was on every channel I flipped to last night. This story is media catnip. Damn. We really could use a natural disaster right about now.”
He joked, but we all recognized it as truth. A diversion in the news would give us a huge break. Instead, every news broadcast in the country led with the Wooten event, his accusations dissected by a thousand media “specialists” who arrived at the s
ame conclusion. The senator was out for blood. He swore he’d bring charges against Trey, mentioning every nightmare accusation from statutory rape to the corruption of a minor. By tonight, Trey would be the punch line for Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel, Jon Stewart, and every stand-up comedian from New York to California.
It was going to get uglier before it got prettier. With that shared knowledge, we greeted the car’s stop with grim stares.
Chicago had rolled out one of its finest blustery mornings for us. Looking every inch the wimpy Californians that we were, we grabbed our bags and briefcases with frantic haste.
Five minutes later, we stepped off the elevator at the sixty-seventh floor. Our first sight was a frazzled version of Killian’s assistant, Britta. Her hair, a polished blonde Scandinavian waterfall yesterday, was shoved atop her head and secured with a pencil. Her earrings were yanked off and thrown to the side, her coffee hardly touched. She waved us toward the conference room without a greeting. We weren’t hurt. Her phones played dueling ring tones, and by the number of times she repeated, “No comment,” we all jumped to the same conclusion. The press was so hungry for answers, they were finding ruthless ways to get through SGC’s first-level switchboards. Not good. We had to wrangle this narrative back from Wooten—about five minutes ago.
I discreetly pulled Andrea to the side, requesting a moment. Margaux followed us. Not a surprise. I attempted a dismissive glance but, when it didn’t work, simply focused on Andrea. There was no time to waste on turf wars.
“This is just a suggestion, so hear me out,” I began. “We all know why Britta looks cornered. Every one of those callers is a reporter. They’re not letting up. The poor woman looks like she’s already put in an eight-hour day, and it’s barely nine. I think someone from our team should give her a hand.” Like clockwork, Margaux tensed at my suggestion. She was the press wrangler on our team, logically the best person for the job, but she looked at the vacant seat next to Britta like it was a steerage berth on the Titanic. “At the same time, we can coach Britta on how to route and handle press calls.” Hurriedly, I added, “So we don’t walk in on this every morning.”
Andrea took a long moment to ponder what I said. “I think you have a very valid point, Claire,” she confirmed.
I smiled with pride, even managing a diplomatic glance at Margaux. “Thank you for listening. I appreciate it.”
“Well, we are a team, and we all have input on how we handle crises. That’s how I like to do things.” The response doubled my appreciation—until Andrea smiled in return. Her transparent veneer was back in full force. “So, darling, why don’t you grab yourself a cup of coffee first, perhaps freshen up Britta’s while you’re at it? I know you’ll be wonderful with her. I’m sure she will benefit from whatever you can teach her. And don’t worry—we’ll bring you up to speed in the conference room when you join us later.”
She walked away with Margaux on her heels. The only thing missing from the moment was Margaux turning to stick her tongue out in triumph—though her sashay accomplished the same teardown on my confidence.
Another sigh from Britta made me push aside my selfishness. I quickly put down my case and bag and then let her in on the plan. She looked so relieved I almost expected her to tackle me with a hug. Margaux and her gloat were officially forgotten.
I ordered Britta to put the phones on hold while I got us both some fresh coffee. In the warmly decorated lounge, I ran into Chad and gave him the synopsis of what just happened. His reaction was as predictable as Margaux’s, meaning I had to shove him into a chair and tell him to breathe through his instant temper blow.
“That little bitch,” he muttered. “She’s going to get hers one day.”
“Stand down, Lerner. She didn’t call this one. Andrea did. Even if she had, she’s not worth the powder and we both know it. Can we just chill about her for one day?”
He cocked a curious glance. “Well, hel-lo, happy surfer girl. I wasn’t about to ask if you secretly got laid last night, but there is something different about you today. And you haven’t been answering your cell.” His eyes widened. “Woman, do you have a secret Chi-town fuck buddy you haven’t told us about?”
I headed to the coffeemaker, not about to let him detect my lie. “You say crap like that every time I wear my hair like this.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Chad, I really don’t have time.”
“Fine, fine. But now I get to play surfer-brah on your ass. The only reason Margaux didn’t step up for the phones is because she wants to be free for rubbing her wet spot all over Killian Stone. That red silk number she’s wearing today? Before you came down, she told Michael that she packed it especially for attracting the man. Apparently, he likes curvy blondes in red.”
“Thanks for the trivia.” I made my sarcasm win over my jealousy. Was Killian as huge a skirt chaser as Trey? If that was the case, then it was best I found out—and could be grateful for—having the knowledge now. I could be at peace leaving him for Margaux’s clutches, as well as knowing my judgment about men was just as shitty as ever.
“Whether it’s true or not, I observed the guy during the briefing yesterday, and I can tell you this—Stone’s about as into the ’zilla as a vegan is a slab of bacon. Karma makes one hell of a center ring, Claire, and I hope today’s the day it dings the full count for Margaux. When it does, I’m going to be in the front row with popcorn.”
I forced a laugh to my lips, despite what his comment about Margaux and her wet spot did to my stomach. “It’s time to get to work,” I told him. Thank God, I added inwardly.
While it had been ages since I’d manned a phone, I actually enjoyed the pace of the job. Spending a few hours with Britta was a bonus. The woman was smart, funny, and very open about her experience working for the Killian Stone. I listened to every word—for the good of the team’s effort, of course.
Through everything Britta said, one message was blindingly clear. The man was exceedingly generous to those he allowed past his shell of self-control. Britta told me about the time he’d waited in the ER with her after her son had fallen off his bike and broken his arm. And the night he’d summoned the corporate jet at midnight so she’d been able to fly to Florida to see her dying father. And the Christmas season they’d both missed due to working day and night on a new merger—for which she’d found a brand-new car in her driveway on Christmas morning, courtesy of her thankful boss.
Inadvertently, she also opened a window on some of Killian’s personal quirks. He was an avid water polo player, practicing three mornings a week with his team in the pool at his gym up the street. He had a weakness for everything fried but hated ice cream and pizza. And he was an avid geek about his stamp collection. I nearly spewed coffee on my laptop when she imparted that fact, wondering if he’d ever stop astonishing me. And if I really was attracted to a halfway-decent guy.
No. Attracted, along with any descriptor connected to it, could not be part of my vocabulary for the man again. Once he got an eyeful of Margaux in her red silk man-catcher dress, things would change anyway. She’d have Killian Stone between her thighs, and I’d be able to sleep without stressing about the DEA pounding on my door.
We slowly wrestled the phones under control once the reporters realized we really meant no comment, no matter how often they got through. Britta was on the phone with an actual client when another line lit up, so I punched the button to handle the call.
“Stone Global Corporation. Killian Stone’s office. How may I direct your call?”
“This isn’t Britta.” The man sounded distracted, harried, and a little annoyed. His voice was half-drowned in street noise. Gusting wind, blaring horns, and a passing police siren made it hard to hear him. Still, my pulse raced and my insides lurched—in ways they hadn’t since last night. But Stone was here already. His office door had been closed all morning.
“No, I’m sorry. She’s on another line. Would you like to hold, or can I direct your call?” I breathed deeply, forci
ng decorum to my voice.
“Who the hell is this?” The siren screamed a block closer to my caller. It didn’t constitute an excuse to become a jackass.
“My name is Claire. To whom am I speaking?” Two can play this game, buddy.
“This is Killian Stone.”
Oh, hell.
That didn’t explain his closed door, though it justified the heartbeat sprint and the flipping stomach. Too bad it couldn’t excuse my attack of haughty and snotty, which he apparently found amusing. The snicker beneath his reply had been unmistakable.
“I—I apologize, Mr. Stone.”
Another flash from last night blazed through my mind. The image of him, anger creasing his face as he said goodbye, telling me I could do what he said or go straight to O’Hare. God, how he’d enraged me. Then, damn him, aroused the hell out of me. But now I plunged into dread, remembering what the man could accomplish when he was pushed.
Thankfully, he preferred chuckling at the moment. “Apologize? For what? Answering the phone? But out of curiosity, where is the woman I pay to do that job?”
“Ummm…” My hand still shook like a teenager on the phone with the boy she liked from science class. “She’s still on another line. The phones were really busy this morning, so I suggested we help her with some strategies on how to handle the press. The bastards have been relentless and somehow found a way to breach the front switchboard. Hopefully they won’t bother Britta too much longer…”
I was rambling. Worse yet, I knew it. I wanted to crawl into a hole for at least a week of hiding. What was it about this man that made me act half my age? It was ridiculous. Unprofessional. It had to stop.
Britta had finished her own call. She stared at me with open alarm, clearly reading my gawk and sensing I had Killian on the line. “I can take that now,” she prompted.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled. “Sure.”
“What?” Killian asked.
“Done,” I blurted. “I mean—errr—Britta’s done. With her call, I mean. I’ll hold you now. I mean I’ll put you on hold. Then you can talk to her—”
