Poker Face Page 3
He looked around the living room for Stone, but he was nowhere in sight. Probably stepped into the bathroom to relieve that massive hard-on of his. Lucky bastard.
It was beginning to look like he’d get to tuck his erection in his pants, trot down the hall like an obedient lackey, and spend the next two hours explaining to his idiot boss why this series of public appearances in Florida was good for his entire national political party and would gain him favors, donations, and endorsements in his own campaign for reelection.
He yanked on his shirt, buttoned it angrily, and tied his tie with jerky movements, using the mirror behind the bar to straighten it and comb his hair. Nope, he didn’t look like a man who’d been on the verge of the fucking of his life.
Although as he walked down the hall, lube squished around sexily in his drawers, reminding him in no uncertain terms of what had almost been. His intensely dissatisfied dick leaped to attention eagerly. Down, boy. No roller coaster ride for you. Irritated and uncomfortable, he pasted on a facsimile of a pleasant expression and knocked on Lacey’s door.
Sometimes he really hated his life.
Chapter Two
STONE SLEPT for shit. He dreamed all night long of a muscular chestnut-haired Adonis who looked a lot like Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis ordering him to his knees and doing unspeakable things to him. Which was odd. He wasn’t a serve-the-master kind of guy, his job as a security consultant to the rich and famous notwithstanding.
In fact, the intensely disciplined nature of his day job tended to bleed over into his personal life. He liked to be in control of everything around him during his off time. Of course, in the moments during the day job when he had to take control, he had to take total, immediate control of his principal. Often it involved tackling them, bodily dragging them to safety, and throwing them, literally, into vehicles to flee.
Why Christian provoked that response in him, tonight, he had no idea. But a need to utterly dominate Christian had come over him. Which was not like him. Control was one thing. But domination was not his jam. He was an adult and preferred adult encounters with like-minded adults.
It cut down on so much drama. He didn’t do relationships, and he only had sex with other men who weren’t into emotional commitments. Ships passing in the night. That was his preferred modus operandi.
Although, the ships usually ended up having actual sex. Not a phone call and his partner leaping to his feet and practically standing at attention to take the call.
Who in the hell had Christian on such a short leash, anyway? He hadn’t pegged the guy as an ass-kissing lackey type, in spite of his description of his job painting himself as a Boy Friday to someone important. Christian struck him as smart, confident, and more than a little cheeky. The kind of guy who set his own agendas in life.
But that call…. Christian had visibly been irritated as fuck by it, and yet had spoken in the most deferential of tones. His boss must be a giant asshole to demand that degree of sucking up from his employees.
He knew the type all too well.
Most of the time, his clients were polite, professional, and accustomed to working with top-drawer security people like him. But occasionally he had to crack the whip with some snot-nosed musician who’d just made it big and thought having crazed stalkers was cool.
Thankfully, the client he’d come to Miami to protect should fall firmly into the former camp.
Giving up on sleep, he rolled out of bed and headed for the hottest shower the hotel could offer up. As he got naked and the water pounded out the worst of the fatigue and tension from his body, his thoughts turned to the sight of Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis bent over his sofa, mewling into the cushions, muscular thighs spread wide, and that gorgeous ass eager and ready for him.
His cock swelled and hardened, startling him with how violently it reacted. Well, then. Apparently, jacking off in the shower last night hadn’t soothed the beast quite enough.
He reached for the liquid soap dispenser and planted his forearm on the cold tile wall and his forehead on his forearm. While the hot water pounded down on his back, he reached for his cock. The slippery slide of his fist on his erection pulled a groan from his throat. His hips pumped in time with his fist, and he closed his eyes, picturing what it would have looked like to see his dick plunging into that fair, smooth ass below the sharp tan line of Christian’s back.
It didn’t take long to bring himself to a series of short, fast thrusts into his fist and grunting completion. Good thing he’d spread his legs wide and locked his knees, though. The mental image of fucking Christian had been more of a turn-on than he’d expected.
Legs weak, he stepped out of the shower. He shaved and dressed in one of his conservative, bespoke suits that lay perfectly over his holster and sidearm.
His hair neatly combed and still damp, he stepped out of his room. Folding his hands together in front of his crotch, he set aside lust and fantasies, shutting down his feelings and thoughts to enter the cold mindset necessary for his work and headed down the hall.
By the time he reached the double doors to a large, corner suite, he’d achieved full bodyguard mode. His gaze was alert, scanning the hallway in both directions, registering details of what stood on the table opposite the nearby elevator, where the security cameras were tucked unobtrusively in the corners, measuring sightlines for a shooter, cataloging the niches on either side of the elevator bank as safe spots to shove a client in a gunfight.
He knocked on the door of the suite on time to the exact second, according to his watch, which he’d set yesterday off the international atomic clock. Precision mattered in his line of work.
“C’mon in!” a voice called in a thick Texas drawl.
He stepped into a suite easily twice the size of his flat in London, decked out like a campaign headquarters in full swing. Red, white, and blue campaign signs had Lacey’s name splashed all over the walls, a half-dozen telephones sat on two tables, and at least that many more laptops glowed on various coffee tables and work surfaces. But oddly, there were no humans manning them. Which gave the room a sad morning-after-the-party vibe, actually.
The election was a solid year away. He didn’t envy American politicians their lives. Fundraising was pretty much a full-time job for them. How they could look themselves in the mirror every morning, he had no idea. He couldn’t do it. It was like being a whore in a business suit.
He recognized the client from the pictures included in the briefing. United States Senator Jack Lacey, from the great state of Texas. A high-profile guy—six terms in the House of Representatives, finishing up his second term as a senator.
The analysis of Lacey from Stone’s bosses at Wild Cards, Inc., a British security firm, was harsh: a loud blusterer more prone to lies than truth. An ineffective politician who compensates by thrusting himself into the public eye. The type to draw the wrong kind of attention from unstable constituents and then say something to enrage those people. Probability of his alleged stalker being real are high. Violence of said stalker: unknown.
“You must be Stone Jackson. I’ve heard great things about you.” A perfectly groomed and well-moisturized man around sixty years old stepped forward, smiling big enough to show off his mouthful of porcelain crowns.
“Thank you, sir.” He stuck out his hand and endured the limp-rag handshake. He’d worked with enough politicians to know they perfected a soft handshake for when they met the public. Otherwise, their hands would get crushed by the hundreds of people they shook hands with when working a crowd line.
A disturbing sense of déjà vu swept over him. Looking at the senator was like looking into a mirror at a thirty-years-older version of himself. The man had the same dark eyes, olive complexion, strong jawline, and broad smile that he had. Their hair was different, but even their heights and builds were similar. It was a little freaky.
At least they were dressed nothing alike. Jack Lacey was wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots with his custom-made Italian suit. Stone wasn’t
particularly into fashion, but the getup screamed of the worst sort of crass pandering to his constituency.
A big, silent man stepped forward. Lacey said, “This is Travis Tucker, my head of security.”
His skin was the true black of a person of African descent who spent a lot of time outside. Stone’s brief said Tucker was an ex-Marine, had pulled a stint as an embassy guard in the Middle East, and was damned good at his job. Which was a red flag for Wild Cards, Inc. If Lacey already had good protection, why call in an expensive outfit like theirs?
In fact, it had been Tucker’s suggestion that supplemental security be hired from a private firm like Wild Cards in the first place. Hence Stone’s presence in Miami this morning, and hence his curiosity over what prompted his being here.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Tucker?” Stone asked the security man directly.
“The senator is getting death threats.”
Lacey interrupted. “I keep tellin’ y’all, Tuck. I get those all the time. You’re bein’ a nervous Nellie.”
Tucker never broke eye contact with Stone and continued as if Lacey hadn’t spoken. “Threats are threats. It’s my job to take all of them seriously, sir.”
“Y’all are makin’ a mountain out of a li’l ol’ mole hill.” Lacey snorted to punctuate the comment.
“What’s your gut feel, Mr. Tucker?” Stone asked, taking his cue from the security chief and ignoring the senator’s interruptions.
“I think these threats have teeth. And call me Travis, or Tuck.”
Stone studied Tucker, who was maybe ten years his senior. But they were both ex-military men. Both knew the value of intuition. He nodded once, wordlessly accepting the man’s worry at face value. Tucker nodded back. Yup, they were going to get along just fine.
“I’d like an extra set of eyes on the venues we’ll be visiting this week. If you could help us find security weak spots, pick out potential points of attack, maybe suggest some additional measures to beef up our protection of the boss, that would be helpful.”
“No problem. And Stone’s fine for me. I’ll need a list of events and locations—”
“My aide can get those for you,” Lacey interjected. He raised his voice, shouting, “I need a copy of my itinerary for the new security guy!”
Didn’t like not being the center of attention, huh? Stone knew the type. In point of fact, many of his clients fit that description.
Of course, plenty of rich, powerful people were quiet and unassuming. Didn’t go out of the way to draw attention to themselves. They were the ones who rarely needed his services. It was these loud, blowhard types who had to be the star of the show who ended up at risk from the crazies.
An aide walked in from the next room, presumably to deliver the demanded itinerary. Stone glanced over at the flunky. And stared, stunned.
Light brown hair, faintly chestnut in tone. Square jaw. Piercing blue eyes. All-American good looks. Perfectly tailored suit.
Aww, fuck me.
Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis.
And he was looking every inch an aristocrat this morning. America might not officially have royalty, but if it did, this man would be part of it.
The silent horror was mutual as Christian stared back at Stone. Oblivious, Jack Lacey boomed, “This is my new bodyguard, Stone Jackson. And this is Chris Chatsworth-Brandeis, my main bitch.”
Stone blinked, startled at the senator’s crudeness. For his part, Christian’s gaze hardened into chips of blue ice. The man did not like his boss. At all. Stone couldn’t say he blamed the guy.
Christian held out a stapled sheaf of papers, and Stone took it with a mumbled word of thanks while Senator Lacey wandered away and sat down on the sofa with a remote control to cruise through the news channels.
“If you have any questions or need me to walk you through the senator’s usual routine, let me know,” Christian said.
“I will. Thanks.” Good God, the awkwardness of it.
Last time he’d seen this man, he’d been half-crazed with lust, so hungry to have a lover with intelligence and breeding and class that he could hardly stop himself from coming all over the guy’s backside. Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis represented everything he’d ever craved in life and been denied by the circumstances of his birth.
Farmers were not technically poor people. But all their wealth was tied up in land and equipment and animals. Success and failure were determined by the whims of global warming, and food on the table was often a direct result of grueling, backbreaking labor. He was glad for the work ethic and the physical strength his youth in rural Georgia had given him, but he’d always wished for more.
He’d wanted a college education at a top university. Travel. Worldliness. But there hadn’t been money for it. Instead he’d enlisted in the Army, seen the world from the back end of a Humvee, and put himself through college online. He secretly liked to watch Ivy League university lectures online when he wasn’t putting his body on the line to catch bullets for people with the cash to pay for his life.
And then his mother had gotten sick, and his parents had to move to England—his mother’s birthplace—to get her the expensive medical care she needed. Her health had stabilized, but she had to stay in England for continuing care.
He was an only child, born late in his parents’ lives, and as they aged, he felt an obligation to be closer to them to look out for them. Hence, when his stint in the Army ended, he’d relocated to England as well. He’d been lucky as hell to land a job with a start-up security firm called Wild Cards, Inc. They were a top-drawer outfit all the way and provided their people with the very best equipment, training, and support. They were one of the top personal security firms in the world.
His boss, Peregrine Cardiffe, founder of Wild Cards, Inc., was upper-crust British all the way, and he had helped Stone file off a few of his social rough edges. Taught him how to wear a decent suit and where to buy one and get it properly tailored. Pere also taught him how to drink brandy. How to act like a gentleman. Act being the operative word, though. It was all learned behavior. A layer of silver over lead.
Whereas a man like Christian Chatsworth-Brandeis was a gentleman all the way down to his DNA.
And now they worked for the same bastard boss. Which pretty much took a repeat of last night off the table.
Goddammit. He never mixed business and his personal life. No bodyguard did. It was impossible to achieve the cold, calculating focus necessary in his line of work if feelings of any kind intruded.
Speaking of work, he asked the senator’s security chief, “Is there anything we can do to get cameras installed in the hotel stairwells, like today? Anyone can get into or out of this place undetected using the fire exits. And while the hotel is installing cameras, the south end of the loading dock is camera blind also.”
Tucker answered sourly, “I had to change floors when we got to the hotel to even get us hallway cameras. The hotel manager informed me that the Imperium caters to clients who value their privacy and do not want the kind of invasive security I was suggesting they install.”
Great. Nothing like parking a high-profile and controversial politician with a lot of enemies in a hotel that prized secrecy for its customers above all else. Places like this were dens of drugs, wild parties, and underage groupies a certain clientele was willing to pay top dollar to hide from public scrutiny.
“Who picked this hotel?” he asked.
Christian answered that one, irony rich in his voice. “That would be the senator.”
A world of information was packed into that dry answer. Lacey was a player. Had vices he needed to hide from the public. Was using the absence from Washington to indulge. Which geometrically increased his exposure to a would-be killer.
“Any chance we can convince him to move to a more secure hotel?” Stone fielded.
Tucker and Christian answered simultaneously and emphatically, “No.”
“Poison of preference for the senator?” he asked quietly.
Stone grinned. Yeah. No love lost between this guy and his boss. “Does he know you’re plotting his demise? Should I be watching you?”
Christian’s gaze snapped to his, and all of a sudden heat sizzled between them. Belatedly he murmured, “Hell, even his wife is probably plotting his demise. To know him is to despise him.”
“Well, isn’t this going to be a fun assignment.” And the sexual tension was back, thick and heavy between them. They had unfinished business to tend to, but it was strictly off-limits, and they both knew it. Dammit.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why does your boss insist on being here? What’s his vice?”
Christian frowned and didn’t volunteer an answer. But surely he knew. He lived practically up the guy’s butt. Metaphorically, of course.
Stone sighed. “I’m going to find out for myself anyway as soon as I’m on the guy’s detail 24-7. You might as well go ahead and tell me. I’ve signed all the nondisclosure agreements your people shoved at me. You can have my balls and firstborn child if I go to the press with anything I learn about the senator.”
Christian still hesitated, so Stone added, “Wild Cards, Inc. is an elite personal security firm to the world’s richest and most famous. Discretion is our primary hallmark. That and keeping our clients alive and safe.”
“Women,” Christian murmured so low Stone had to step closer to hear him. Close enough to smell the man’s aftershave. Of course it was as classy as the rest of him. Stone’s knees went a little weak at the clean, expensive-smelling cologne.
“And booze.”
Sensing that Christian was avoiding sharing something shocking, he murmured for Christian’s ears only, “Trust me. I’ve seen it all.”