Masked Page 27

  Trey had two brothers, as well. Lance, eleven months behind him, was the dream-prone artist. The youngest was Killian, Josiah Stone’s hard-ass heir apparent as ruler of the empire—and the face that flashed into a million women’s minds in the greater Chicago area every night when they closed their eyes to sleep. The men’s labels meant nothing. We’d throw open their closets of secrets too. Yank up their rugs until no dust ball or spider web was concealed anymore.

  No doubt about it. We were in for a hell of a ride with these billionaire boys.

  The baggage beast finally spewed my bright-orange suitcase. I tried to elbow my way in to grab it but missed. I swiftly caught Michael’s eye above the crowd, gave him my best puppy-dog look, and pointed at my bag. With a charming wink and a gleaming smile, he grabbed it off the belt.

  “Handsome, tall, and strong?” I joked as he set the bag in front of me. “I don’t know how you haven’t been snatched up, my friend.”

  Surprisingly, his grin fell. A strange darkness entered his eyes. “Yeah. That’s me. Oh-so-snatchable.”

  I wanted to press him on the moment of melancholy, but he reverted to smartass mode, bumping my shoulder. Bags in tow, we headed outside, starting anew with the debate about who would win this round of our friendly competition.

  Michael threw a smirk at Chad and me. “You know I have you both beat, right?”

  “Pfffft.” Chad shook his head. “Back of the plane doesn’t mean squat. You do remember the time I sat last row but collected two phone numbers by the end of the flight?”

  I nodded. “Instant disqualification if digits are exchanged. You know the drill, Mikey.”

  As we stepped into a frigid Chicago morning, Michael patted his overcoat pockets. “Not a thing here except dried baby drool.”

  “Egghhh.” Chad grimaced. “I’d say that takes the trophy.”

  “Not so fast, fancy pants,” I broke in. “The woman next to me had three white rats in her purse.” They stared at me like I was about to hit them with the punch line. “I’m not joking. Rats. Three. In her purse.”

  “Flowers for Algernon, anyone?” Michael smirked.

  I tossed a mock scowl. “I can’t believe it. A geekier comeback than Chad.”

  Chad swept a deep, chuckling bow. “I concede. You win this round, mademoiselle.”

  “Agreed,” Michael added.

  I curtsied in return.

  We sobered upon seeing Andrea and Margaux waiting by the car, scowling at our antics. They were dressed in nearly identical St. John Knits ensembles, tapping their Louboutins in tandem. I did my best to ignore whatever Chad mumbled under his breath about the ice queen and her minion, following Michael out to the stretch town car.

  We had about thirty minutes to travel from O’Hare to the Stone Global building in downtown Chicago. Andrea used the time to update us on information that had been leaked to the press since we’d left San Diego that morning and how the facts affected our handling of what many outlets had already labeled Treygate.

  Michael was the first to speak up. “Maybe we need to get him out of the country.”

  “No. Running and hiding makes him look guilty. I say we face it head on.” Andrea always favored a fortress approach and had the battering-ram personality to prove it. In this case, I admitted to walking the fence about agreeing to the tactic, though I wasn’t sure Michael’s approach would work either. There was so much we didn’t know about the machinations of the Stone empire. Something told me we wouldn’t be able to repair anything until we knew everything.

  “He needs an image cleanser. Can we get a diversion in there?”

  I nodded approval to Chad’s suggestion prior to my own response. “We find a squeaky-clean girl for him to be seen with a few times a week, release a few statements that she’s good for him, and in a month or so, he’s a changed man. Slow and steady, controlling the narrative by making them stick with nice, boring activities.” It wasn’t innovative, but sometimes the wheel didn’t need to be reinvented.

  Margaux clucked her tongue. “The press will see right through it. This is big-time news, Claire, not local gossip-rag stuff. We need to take every piece seriously.”

  She punctuated by grimacing like she just ate something sour. I played neutral with my outward response but formed an inward retort. I was taking it seriously. “Boring news day” was an approach we used all the time, and it usually worked. The press, more fickle than thirteen-year-olds, would move on if Trey Stone didn’t give them any more newsworthy behavior. Voilà. Mission accomplished.

  “Excellent point.” I managed a diplomatic tone for my reply, a feat made easier by the promise of inserting a zinger at the end. “Maybe you have a strategy of your own to share, Margaux? We’d love to hear about it.”

  I relished the squirm that would cause, if only for a few seconds. It never happened. Instead, Margaux gazed out of the window with a slow smile. “I only have one declaration to make right now. First—and only—dibs on Killian Stone. That man is fine and all mine.”

  “Dibs?” Andrea issued the reproach. “Darling, grown women don’t call dibs on men like Killian Stone.”

  She rolled her eyes. “God wept in his wine, Mother. You know what I mean.” One of her gel-coated, French-manicured fingers circled at the rest of us. “And the rest of you do, as well. I have blackmail-worthy secrets on all of you.”

  Michael and Chad sent soft chortles at the wink she added to soften the message. I didn’t join them. My secrets, while never my choice, would also send me to jail for a long time. Margaux’s extra glance my way served as confirmation that she hadn’t forgotten either. In exchange, I simply had to declare my libido a no-fly zone for Killian Stone. Done and confirmed.

  The limo lurched to a stop in front of a huge skyscraper. The Stone Global building was one of the hugest monoliths of the Chicago skyline. At first approach, the place seemed like a hundred other corporate buildings in the country, but as we neared, the tight security detail was obvious. I wasn’t sure if the Fort Knox mentality was due to the current scandal or if they typically ran such a tight ship.

  After being processed through the metal detectors at the front door, we were directed straight to an elevator and then whisked sixty-seven floors up. The ride took less than a minute, but we rode in silence to our destination. A woman with Grace Kelly refinement waited when we stepped off and guided us to the conference room at an efficient pace.

  Killian and Trey Stone were already waiting there for us.

  Though they were both about the same height, one of them had stiffer posture and a more precise cut to his thick, near-black hair. And a much better-fitting suit. It was he who turned the moment our escort walked into the room.

  “Mr. Stone, Andrea Asher and her team have arrived.” After finishing the announcement with a serene nod, our escort left the conference room.

  He turned toward us.

  I froze in place as the tower of my self-control toppled over—and burned to ashes.

  Talk about presence. The man was stunning and glorious, forbidding and beautiful, intoxicating and commanding—and dear God, scary as hell—in the most sexy, toe-curling ways I’d ever experienced. My body throbbed in places it hadn’t in a very, very long while.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This wasn’t good. At all. Margaux had already all but jammed her homing beacon into the man. The more important factor—I was here to work for him. To work, period. To dig him out of a public-relations nightmare, not to plunge my hands into his pants. Or run them all over his gladiator-sized shoulders. Or lose them in his black satin hair…

  Get your head back in the game, Claire. Now.

  Andrea stepped forward, perfectly manicured hand outstretched, to introduce herself. The rest of us fell in behind her—except for Margaux. She strode up next to her mother, turning on the charm in ways I hadn’t seen from her since the last project we’d tackled with one of Hollywood’s favorite bad-boy hunks. I couldn’t decide whether her girl-balls irritated or im
pressed me. I supposed it didn’t matter, since her maneuvers yielded the same results here as they did in Hollywood. Stone hardly glanced at her after his perfunctory courtesies.

  A small army of his colleagues filed into the room in our wake, and he introduced Andrea to all of them. His voice was velvet on the air, as if he hosted a wine tasting instead of a PR crisis summit. The innate strength of the sound made me stroke my forearm, thinking I should have worn a sweater instead of a short-sleeved shift. The dress had seemed practical at the time, but suddenly I had goosebumps. Lots of them.

  Finally, Killian pivoted to the man of the hour. The action required him to face us again, making the hair on my arms dance. Rubbing them didn’t help this time either.

  “And this is my oldest brother, Trey.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I murmured when Trey came to me at the end of the receiving line. We clasped hands, but then he wouldn’t release me. His persistent hold made the creeps set in. I tugged away as he sneaked in a little wink.

  “Enough.”

  One word. Steady, hard…and thoroughly arousing. For a moment, I had trouble believing the order had actually come from Killian. Then the man himself stepped up. “My apologies. He’s out of control, and this is exactly why we need you all here.”

  “It’s— Ummm—” Heat rushed my face. Mortification clutched my chest. “It’s— It’s all right. It’s been a rough day for everyone, Mr.—errr—”

  “Stone.” Andrea practically hissed it.

  The man quelled her with a glance. “As stated, Ms. Asher, it’s been a rough day for everyone.”

  He slid his hand against mine. His skin appeared lightly suntanned. His grip was equally warm. Unlike his brother’s clammy shell of a clench, I wished his hold would never end.

  “Let’s try this again. Killian Stone. And you are?”

  “My name…” What’s my name again? “C-Claire. Claire Montgomery.” Next to him, I felt small, fragile, and breathless. To my horror, it was wonderful.

  His thick fingers wrapped around mine, seeming to swallow my skin with his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Montgomery.” His slight emphasis on the pleasure had to be my sleep deprivation at work, though there was no mistaking how his dark, dark stare delved into me. He kept searching my face, although for what, I wasn’t sure. Or perhaps I didn’t care. This man likely got anything he wanted from any woman he chose—and could give her anything in return.

  Right. And toads could be kissed into princes. And pumpkins became carriages. And insecure princesses never held on to disastrous secrets as relationship collateral.

  I’d given up on fairy tales a long time ago and never once regretted the choice. Now certainly wasn’t the time for change.

  “It is Miss Montgomery, isn’t it?”

  “Please, no. I mean yes. It is Miss, but Claire is fine. J-Just Claire.”

  Andrea stepped forward. “Claire’s one of the junior members of our team, Mr. Stone. She’s a whiz with reports and analysis.”

  It was Andrea’s version of dictating this would be the first and last time I spoke directly to the man. Could I blame her? I kept stammering like an idiot. I needed to pull myself together. I never acted this way around clients, whether they were Adonis brought to life or not. The job was our primary objective, not eye-fucking the man who had his hand on the checkbook. And wondering what his hands would feel like in other places on my body…

  “Mr. Stone, I’m Chad Lerner. I’ll be handling the social-media portion of the campaign.” Chad gave Killian a solid handshake, not a bit intimidated by the man who stood almost a foot taller than his five-foot-five. For some men, size really didn’t matter. Chad was a social-media guru whose reputation preceded him, proved by Stone’s respectful nod.

  While Chad turned and spoke quietly with a few of our new contemporaries, I booted up my laptop and readied the presentation he’d scrambled together in the limo, based on our strategic conversation at the time. Since bandaging Trey Stone’s reputation was directly linked to confidence in Stone Global Corporation as a whole, we’d have to use a multi-pronged approach that was likely to change by the second, though these notes gave us a decent place to start.

  “Miss Montgomery, will you be taking part in the presentation? I’m looking forward to hearing your ideas.”

  That voice again. His nearness again. The most excruciating example of heaven and hell life had ever thrown at me.

  I carefully swiveled from my spot at the projector to make sure my ears weren’t playing tricks on me. At first I thought he must’ve been joking—cruelly so—but Killian Stone had his midnight stare pinned directly onto me, as though he actually expected my answer to be yes.

  No. Don’t look forward to hearing my ideas. Don’t look forward to anything from me. Please!

  Right on time, Margaux barked out a laugh. The sound could’ve been charming, if someone enjoyed listening to injured seals. “Oh, Killian, you are such a funny one. Our Claire is sweet but inexperienced as of yet. She’s great at crunching all the numbers and data, though.”

  “Mr. Stone will be fine, thank you. And I happen to like numbers and data.” He maintained the pose like a wildcat in waiting, a clear dare for Margaux to refute him.

  She didn’t. Instead, she swallowed hard and shrank back. Though a few snickers peppered the air, I firmly decided to stay out of the fray. Preferably, out of Margaux’s blast zone altogether. I lowered my head and busied myself with the menu screen on the computer, congratulating myself for the move when Andrea came to salvage her daughter’s dignity.

  “In the interest of time, I’ll present our preliminary plan solo, Mr. Stone. I hope that will be acceptable?” She beamed her megawatt smile, the one matching the engagement ring my father had slipped onto her finger three months ago, with an extra glint in her light-green eyes. Her expression communicated You’re my number-one priority and Don’t fuck with me in five convenient seconds.

  Stone returned the stare as if she’d tried to crack a joke that wasn’t funny.

  “Great,” he declared. “Let’s get started, then. I have other things to attend to before calling it a day.”

  The air in the room shifted as everyone complied with the request that really wasn’t a request. Chairs squeaked and papers rustled as everyone took their seats. I clutched opposing elbows again, like the speechless idiot I’d become.

  Clearly, this man did everything his way—the way he expected everyone else to do them too. It was a simple fact in his world. Disputing the point was useless, just as was denying I didn’t instantly add it to my list of arousal factors about him. When I mixed in his physical pull, shifting from a carnal pulse to a breath-stealing force when he came nearer than fifteen feet, I came to a pair of harsh conclusions.

  Resisting the urge to idolize him was going to be agonizing. But indulging it would be worse.

  Time for a fast lesson in separating reality from fantasy.

  The lights dimmed. I took the seat at the front end of the oval conference table, nearest the equipment in case technical problems arose during Andrea’s presentation. The show wouldn’t last long, considering we’d received the call from SGC’s team less than eighteen hours ago.

  My heart stuttered when Killian dropped into the seat beside me. Fabulous. Just when I’d reclaimed a scrap of concentration, along with the hope Margaux didn’t have enough inspiration to order up a voodoo doll named Claire.

  Sure enough, I looked up to confront Margaux’s glare, practically forging daggers for me across the table. Damn it. She and I would need to talk, and soon. I’d done nothing to attract Killian Stone’s weird attention laser beam.

  Except enjoy it, girlfriend. A lot.

  That didn’t mean I was going to do anything about it.

  Yes, he was breathtaking. His tall, proud physique looked hard enough to bounce coins off. He wore a suit better than any Versace model. His thick, shiny hair made my fingers twitch, wondering if it was soft as satin, rough as plywood, o
r both. I was certain he did bed head even better, especially with a jaw of stubble to go with it. So beautiful. So alluring. So commanding.

  So off-limits.

  The die had been cast years ago, during one semester that changed everything. Margaux and I were both seniors, and she’d gotten pissed off enough at Andrea to move out of their La Jolla palace and slum it in an off-campus house I shared with three girlfriends. Since she had a sex tape to extort my roomie Bonnie with and was willing to share her high-end hair products, we all agreed to tolerate her for a few months.

  That was when things had gotten tough for Nick, the man—the boy—to whom I was all but engaged. So desperate to pay his pre-med tuition, Nick was ready to sell his body on the street until learning that selling prescription drugs would turn him a better profit. I’d listened, beyond in love, as he gave grand speeches about how the medications should be available to everyone anyway and the corrupt pharmaceutical companies were holding the patients hostage with huge bribes to the government. It was a crime, how some students had to carry horrific credit loads to succeed in their majors and couldn’t survive the stress without some artificial help. It wasn’t like the dispensaries at the rehab facilities where he worked would miss the pills, either. Like the infatuated idiot I was, Nick became my Lancelot, Saint George, and Robin Hood in one. He was a savior, not a criminal—a knight, not a drug dealer. Like the noble Maid Marian I refashioned myself into, I’d let him store his stash in my room. And like the shrewdest Sheriff John on the planet, Margaux had gathered plenty of photos, videos, and assorted paperwork to prove it.