The Kiss Thief(14)
“Really, Wolfe?” She wiped blond strands of hair from her forehead, her eyes dancing in their sockets. Her shabby appearance explained why Sterling came rushing through the door behind her, muttering redundant apologies. I shooed my housekeeper away, focusing on Kristen.
“Let’s take this outside before you burst an artery on my marble floors,” I suggested cordially.
“Don’t be so sure I’ll be the one shedding blood in this exchange,” she said, wiggling her finger at me. Poor form. That was the thing about girls who came to the big city from a small Kansas town and became successful career women. That girl from Kansas? She’d always live inside her.
My office was on the west wing of my mansion, next to my bedroom and a handful of guestrooms. I led Kristen into my bedroom, leaving the door open on the off-chance she was in the mood for more than talking. She paced, hands parked on her hips. My king-size bed stood out as a reminder of the place I never had her in. I quite liked fucking women in compromising positions. Sharing a bed with someone else was not an idea I’d ever entertained seriously. I’d learned people come and go out of your life frequently and without notice. Solitude was more than a life choice. It was a virtue. A vow of sorts.
“You screw me the night of the masquerade and then get engaged the next day? Are you fucking kidding me?” Kristen finally burst, the words gushing from her mouth as she pushed my chest, giving it her all. She did a better job than Francesca, but her wrath still left me unimpressed—and more importantly, unmoved.
I shot her a pitiful stare. She knew as well as I did that we were about as far from monogamy as humanly possible. I promised her nothing. Not even orgasms. They required minor work on my part and, therefore, were a terrible waste of my time.
“Your point, Miss Rhys?” I asked.
“Why her?”
“Why not?”
“She’s nineteen!” Kristen roared again, kicking the leg of my bed. Her wince told me she’d just found out that, like my conviction, it was made of steel. I had quite the taste for expensive, unlikely furniture, something she’d know if she’d ever been invited to my house.
“May I ask how you became privy to my personal business?” I wiped at the speckles of saliva she’d left on my dress shirt. Humans, as a concept, were not among my ten favorite things in the world. Hysterical women were not even in the top thousand. Kristen was being highly emotional, considering the circumstances. She was therefore a liability in my way to the presidency and serving my country.
“My agency retrieved images of your young bride moving into your mansion, complete with pictures of her watching like a princess as your staff carried her many, many bags. I’m guessing she’s a soon-to-be trophy wife. Speaks five languages, looks like an angel, and probably fucks like a siren.” Kristen continued pacing, pushing the sleeves of her smart suit up her elbows.
Francesca, despite her many shortcomings, was not unpleasant on the eye. And she probably did have extensive sexual experience, considering her very strict daddy had been a continent away for most of her youth, leaving her to her frivolous ways. Which reminded me, I needed to arrange for her to get drug tested and checked for STDs. Slipups were not an option, and public disgrace would earn her a spot on my shit list, a place her father could confirm was less than picturesque.
“Are you here to ask questions and answer them yourself?” I shoved her shoulder lightly, and she fell to an upholstered cream seat below me. She growled, darting back up. So much for trying to calm her down.
“I’m here to tell you that I want an exclusive Bishop piece, or I will tell everyone who is willing to listen that your new blushing extremely young bride is also the daughter of the number-one mobster in Chicago. I’d hate for it to be tomorrow’s leading headline, but—as you must agree—gossip sells copies, right?”
I rubbed my chin.
“Do what you gotta do, Miss Rhys.”
“Are you serious?”
“As serious as someone can be without filing a restraining order against you for attempting to blackmail a member of the senate. Let me show you to the door.”
I had to give her some credit—Kristen wasn’t here to grieve the untimely death of our fling. She was all business. She wanted me to compromise the governor in order to save my own ass and give her a scoop that would likely get her an offer from CNN—or TMZ—the next day. Unfortunately for Kristen, I wasn’t much of a diplomat. I did not negotiate with terrorists—or worse, journalists. In fact, I would not even negotiate with the president himself. Francesca had pointed out at the masquerade that Nemesis had slayed Narcissus, teaching him a lesson about arrogance. She was about to find out that no one stomped on her husband-to-be’s pride.
The irony, of course, was that Francesca’s father was the very person to teach me that lesson.
“Huh?” Kristen huffed.
“Tell the world. I’ll just spin it as I’m saving my fiancée from the big, bad wolf.”
I was the big, bad wolf, but only Francesca and I needed to know that.
“You didn’t even like each other at the masquerade.” Kristen threw her arms in the air, trying another tactic. I carefully placed my fingers on the small of her back and led her to the doorway.
“Affection has nothing to do with a good marriage. We’re done here.”