Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1)

by Alex Elliott

  Tutting, she pokes a finger. “Look at the rolls of fat. Hold him.” She’s right.

  “Make it fast,” I say.

  She lifts the judge’s sagging flesh at the base of his neck, making the skin taut as I instruct, “Deep cut. Then slice.” Cradling Bloomberg’s head in my arms, I meet her good eye, and she nods.

  With a grunt, she sinks the tip of the blade deep, carving through the neck of the judge, severing his thoughts. His pain. He stops struggling. The man is finally quiet.

  I release my hold on him and observe, “There’s elegance in death. Melania was elegant in life.”

  “What timing you have. Help me with the cord,” Gina says sharply, and tosses me an end, sounding miffed at the mention of my wife.

  I allow her a few seconds to collect herself. Jealousy is a strong emotion and only once got the better of me. I roll the cord between my fingers, recalling how silky my wife’s hair felt after she washed it. “We didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but she always made up her eyes, her lips, her face when we walked in the evening.” The memory of Melania is so vivid, I pat my cheeks, mimicking the scene from my past, recalling how my wife had applied her cosmetics. And what it was like to gaze at her. “She had these blue eyes. Like sapphires and she made her hair up like Jacqueline.” In the end she didn’t struggle. A real lady never overstays her welcome.

  Wiping the spray of blood off her cheek, Gina asks, “Jacqueline who?”

  Perplexed that she doesn’t automatically understand, I shake my head, “O’Malley. Is there another?”

  No reply and I exhale, watching how deftly Gina moves. Her fingers are beautiful, precise, and expertly she plies the cord, winding the ends. Flawless detail. With one final wind of cord around the judge’s neck, she ties it with what sounds like a titter of satisfaction.

  She looks over to me and laughs. “My God, you’re a romantic at heart! Admit it.”

  Am I? Dr. Oz advocates getting in touch with one’s feminine side. Ying-Yang. Yoga. Meditation. Subjects I’d like to explore and only with Gina do I admit, “That I am.”

  “Come here,” she whispers, holding out her arms.

  Impetuously like when we were younger, I give into the moment and clasp her face in between my hands. She might not be Melania, but she does everything I ask and more. Dr. Oz proclaims, “Make the driving force in your life love.” I say goodnight to the memories from the past, and kiss Gina’s forehead, leaning over the body of the judge.

  I’m assured my old friend would not mind our show of frivolous affection—after all, hadn’t I patiently watched him countless times.

  Chapter 7

  X.S.~ Rough Velvet

  SECRETS. SECRETS. Are no fun… Patently untrue propaganda. And in my world, that’s precisely how I get by.

  Correction: it’s how I used to get by.

  After winning a minor victory in court, my trust account isn’t being held captive by my grandparents. The judge withheld his final ruling—thanks to Brooke. He’s given me a month to get my act in gear. Secure employment and on that front, Jon promises he’s found me a spot and set up an interview. A hush-hush paid internship just up my alley on the Hill. Jon claims that it’s bad luck to discuss said position on the phone and will fill me in when I pick him up on Sunday.

  With an interview on Monday, tonight, I’m ready to have some wickedly wild fun. After shucking my braids, Birkenstocks, and organic lifestyle, I’m done with stockpiling secrets. It’s time to unlock a secret or two, starting with myself. Graduating from BC with my future wide open, I wonder about my dad—who he is, besides absent.

  To this day, my mom refuses to divulge my father’s identity and no amount of nagging or haranguing has gotten her to cave. After an emergency room visit to the ER twice in the past week for extreme nosebleeds, Mom could’ve come clean. Could have, but didn’t. Mums the word—according to my mother it’s for my own good. She doesn’t get it. I don’t care how awful she believes my father to be, that’s between her and him. Same thing as Martin. I don’t hate him for leaving, just for dying—and really I don’t hate an iota associated with my adopted dad—only that he isn’t around to pester or make proud.

  Tonight, I’ve agreed to hit a dance club with esquire Brooke extraordinaire, and she’s staring at me as if I’ve committed a mortal sin. “Those glasses. Now,” she whispers, holding out her hand expectantly.

  A losing battle and why do I try? “I won’t be able to—”

  “Shush!” She jabs the air, gaining the attention of the other girls in our troupe. “O’Malley, you aren’t here to conduct an exposé of the guys in there. And your vision is just fine for our mission tonight.”

  It’s true. Sorta. My glasses are a crutch. With a sigh, I hand them over. “I’m holding you personally responsible if I fall.”

  “X, that’s the point.” Brooke gives me her lawyer look, fluffing my hair. “You might actually get laid.”

  “Just as long as the man is real and not a figment of my imagination.”

  “Go with your gut instinct,” she offers.

  I fall silent, marveling that’s exactly what I should’ve done with Spencer. Deep down I knew. Good Christ, I knew something wasn’t right. “Counselor, you’re on.”

  She laughs. “It’s a deal!”

  An hour later, I’m buzzed and feeling no pain. Surveying the sea of beautiful people, so far no one strikes a chord in me. Not that I’m complaining.

  “Let’s do another round.” Brooke drums her hands on the table, jarring me back to the here and techno beat now. She sinks onto the chair next to me and points. “How about him?”

  I follow her finger and smile. “He’s looking at you and winking. My tummy says pass.”

  “How does your ‘tummy’ feel about peppermint schnapps?” Rowena suggests. She’s a mutual friend of Brooke’s and mine. Same as Katrina, the girl bouncing on the chair to my side.

  “Mmm, one more drink? Can’t hurt,” I say in response to the proposition of doing another shot of pretty-colored liquor. We’ve done everything from Alabama Slammers, a round of fireballs to flaming B-52’s, and my gut all but whispers, “Fine. One more.”

  Brooke orders singles for this round. “Anyone up for a bump?” She pulls out a vial of coke, but I shake my head. I don’t need another nosebleed.

  We’re seated upstairs, overlooking the dance floor in a club her uncle owns. Wall-to-wall people crowd the place with a line outside, and security up the wazoo. Techno thunders from the speakers, and I can’t resist tapping my foot.

  “Isn’t that Miles McCarthy?” Rowena points at a table nearby with an attractive man I recognize.

  “Yep. And his better half,” I reply.

  Rowena does a double take and giggles. “He actually brought his Oscar as his date.”

  I join her laughter. “God, what a catch. Actorvist. Funny, handsome, and single.”

  Brooke smirks and leans over. “Thought you couldn’t see dick without your glasses.”

  “Only big ones.” I flip her off and we both laugh.

  Katrina pulls my hand and semi-shouts, “Phoenix, come dance with me. Didn’t we have a deadly good time last round?”

  “Err, deadly. Yep, we did.” Shifting my focus to the dance floor, then I glance back at Kat and sigh. There go her puppy dog eyes. “If you promise not to step on my toes. I’ve got an interview and I can’t hobble into it.”

  “Promise, love. No toe stepping.” She has a thing about doing a modern rendition of Irish step-dancing on the dance floor. It’s not that she stinks. Actually, Kat is quite good.

  Me and my bruised toes can testify. All my thoughts flatline as I absorb the view of this hunk marshaling his way through the crowd, barreling into my awareness. A slice of his profile: a quiff of dark hair, straight nose, strong jaw. I drink in his athletic tan neck. Buff body, and whoosh. The lights flicker and I lose sight of him. Talk about a kick to the gut. Okay, that’s ridiculous. A millis
econd man-sighting means absolutely zero. Tell that to the third-degree flush overtaking my body. I reach for the glass of ice water, sucking down a gulp.

  “To getting pinned against a wall by a big, big dick.” Brooke’s gaze settles on me and my face feels the heat of her stare.

  From flushed, my face goes fire-engine red as I switch the glass of ice water for the peppermint schnapps.

  As if she knows something, I try to look away, not fast enough. “Phoenix, I’m referring to you specifically.”

  “I’ll see what I can muster,” I pronounce as she clinks my glass. Rapidly, I tap everyone else’s before tossing back the shot.

  “Better or else,” she murmurs as a man wearing a charcoal suit and matching silk tie catches her eye. Graying at the temples, CEO material, and just her type.

  Silently, I thank the Gods. The suit talking with Brooke curtails her discussion on the subject of my recent man candy sighting. What can I say? I’m a bit rusty after being affianced to the horniest gay hipster in Boston. It’s not as if Brooke doesn’t understand but sometimes she forgets. Getting pinned isn’t as easy as it looks. She bungee jumps from CEO bed to bed to bed like a maven. Whereas, I’m going to need a shove.

  “C’mon, love,” Kat proclaims. We both rise on heels that should come with a warning against drinking and dancing. Whoa. Toss in walking. “This is my favorite song. Makes me crazy,” she declares.

  “Good to know,” I say, plotting how I’ll avoid getting kicked in the shin. We descend the stairs and blow through the crowd toward the dance floor.

  The four of us flew down to New York thanks to Brooke and her declaration that we were due a huge victory celebration. We’re hanging out in her dad’s West Village penthouse for the weekend. Our only plan is to dance all night, and I don’t care that within the last hour, I’ve downed far too many shots to recollect.

  I’m twenty-six and with the help of Brooke, just put one over on my grandparents. I’m alive and well with a job interview. Feeling the zeal of power, I’m not about to sit and worry about my future tonight. Not when there’s a bounty of handsome men around who smile at me, charming enough to make even me believe that I could do something offbeat and off-the-wall. Say, ditch my friends in a New York City second and lose myself.

  When in Rome?

  Wearing a pound of makeup and this itty-bitty borrowed dress, I agree that Brooke has a point. The men giving Kat and me a once-over have no idea who I am, and don’t frigging care. To them I’m not a disappointment or a doorway to Nantucket. This club is a tease. A sensory delight. And I swear, I’ll do whatever is required to land that paid internship. I’m going to love escaping from Boston and starting my life. My life!

  “We’re almost sprinting,” I gasp.

  “Don’t want to miss the best part.” Katrina doesn’t stop until we’re out in the middle of the dance floor. Soon afterward, she’s sandwiched between two guys and shouts, “Come join us.”

  “I’m good.” I close my eyes. This is what it’s like to be free. I lift my arms, swivel my hips, absorbing the notes of the blaring music. When I open my eyes, I see him. From flying high, I’m tumbling fast.

  My brain sizzles.

  I stare across the dance floor at a man. The one from before. And this second time assures me I wasn’t wrong. He’s gorgeous in a rugged dark way. More like some mythical hunter. Orion. I shiver from his power. Projected. It’s his eyes.

  Brighter than exploding twin stars. They consume me. Obliterate my next thought and the one after.

  I gather he’s not just some run-of-the-mill handsome hunk. He’s got this stare that slices through the bodies gyrating next to me, and right into the center of my being. I want to look away—Christ, I tell myself look the hell away—but I can’t. Instead of being mortified that he’s staring a hole in me, I’m excited.

  He’s seated maybe twenty feet away, behind the cordoned off VIP area at a table with four other men. All of them handsome, sophisticated, and dressed in dark suits. He doesn’t seem to be focused on their animated conversation. No, he’s zoning in on one target. He lifts a glass to his mouth and over the rim, he watches me dance. There’s something so familiar about him. No way could I have met him at one of my family’s parties. He’s not only gorgeous, there’s an extreme intensity about him. Proof that I’m caught in a mind-screw-fest as I dance for him—nearly a whole song.

  Mesmerized, I let go as though I know what he wants. I don’t feel cheap or sleazy. He makes me want to be daring. Provocative. And in return, I want to tempt him like he’s tempting me. Trailing my fingers down my breasts, I alternate rotating my shoulders slowly to the music, and yeah, I imagine that his mouth is on me, drinking between my legs, driving me wild. Best of all in my fantasy, he doesn’t care who my family is as he forces my legs wider apart, imprisoning me under him until I forget everything except how insane he makes me feel.

  My dress—a tiny scrap of shiny white material—rises up my thighs, the hem tickling my skin. Luckily there are people all around and steamy clouds float up from the floor, or the slice of man cake would be getting a shot of how little I’m wearing. And just as I think that thought, the crowds part, and guess who gets an eyeful of me and my dirty dance routine? My admirer leans over, setting his glass down, and I’m aware that his eyes have just gotten a panoramic view of my hips and the strip of lace I call my thong.

  He breaks eye contact. He’s saying something to the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering if he’s leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone else making him easy to track as he strides from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that’s better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind-warping. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning, my feet direct me toward him.

  Okay, wait, I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.

  A hulking guy grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Baby doll, no reason to be alone. Let’s dance.”

  “Please let go,” I say, snapped out of fantasyland.

  “Or what?” he jeers. “No need to play hard to get.”

  “I’m not playing a game. Stop touching me. I asked nicely.”

  “So did I.” He yanks me to him, snarling, “I’ve got what you’re after.”

  Being suddenly restrained kicks my fight-or-flight up to the stratosphere. I try to wrest my wrist free, but can’t. This cave dwelling throwback has got to be kidding. “In case you never got the memo, Neanderthals and humans don’t interbreed.”

  “Apparently, you aren’t into nice.” This guy looks like he’s a jock or a gym rat, and his bulk doesn’t make up for him being minus in brain power.

  Think, X! Screaming like a banshee isn’t a solution. Either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor with this jerk, getting knocked and bashed, or kick him in the shin.

  “The lady gave you a direction.” The sound of a smooth baritone voice cuts through the music and sends a tingle up my spine.

  I jerk my wrist as the cretin snarls to my nameless backup, “Do yourself a favor, and get lost.”

  “Let go of the lady. She’s with me,” my would-be savior says in a calm tone that sounds all too quiet. “You should probably take your own advice. Or we could take this outside. Your choice.”

  The power in his voice reminds me of static electricity before thunder booms and lightning strikes.

  “Sorry, I-I-I didn’t know,” Mr. Cretin blusters, and like magic he unhands me and appears more than regretful. He repeats himself, “Sorry, man.”

  I pull back my arm and whip around. Grazing my fingers over the fine wool of a bespoke jacket, I gape
at a pair of mountainous shoulders. Oh my… For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face Orion in the flesh.

  “I hate when that happens,” he offers in words shaped by a rich Southern accent and towering like a redwood right in front of me.

  “Me more. And thanks,” I say and stare in stunned silence.

  “You’re quite a dancer.” His gaze harvests the thoughts from my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Polar to Spencer.

  Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour. He holds off smiling, regarding me, and slightly cocks his head. In that instant, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark hair. Trace his chiseled face. All at once, it’s like the night of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.

  “Whoa, I’ve got you.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “Are you all right?”

  His touch isn’t static. The slight pressure of his fingers sends a racing jolt that hits me like a kilowatt of electricity as the thunder of tremors dance across my skin. “Uh, it’s kind of crowded here. I’m just hot,” I think I say.

  So much for grad school. I’m beyond intellectually stunted standing next to him. More so with his warm fingers curled along my wrist; it’s all I can do to stay upright.

  “Need something to drink?” he asks.

  “The opposite.”

  He gives a slight tug to my hand. “Come talk to me. Over there.” Orion juts his chin to some invisible place, not that I break eye contact to see where he means.

  I’m floored by a man who is taller than any jungle gym I’ve encountered wants to talk. “Okay. Sure.” I hope I’m speaking and the mute button isn’t pressed.

  Confirmation: he leads me to an alcove. It’s down from the dance floor, and one I didn’t know existed. Not that I’ve been to this club before. Thunderstruck, I follow along, our fingers interlaced, and a tiny voice inside my head asks, “Should I be afraid?”