Page 18 of Grift

He could convince his father to destroy the tapes. Or maybe I could convince my father to just forgive the Jared episode. Part of me knows what a longshot this is, but I can’t just keep going along with what everyone suggests and not at least trying to see if there isn’t another way. I have to try.

Instantly there’s a change in the room, a darkening of his mood that’s palpable in the air. “I didn’t get the impression that either of us had much of a choice in the matter.” He echoes my words from the other night.

I draw myself up to my full height, and look him straight in the eye. This huge man, with so much controlled power in his body, raw charisma, restrained violence. Surely no one can make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.

“Tell your father no.” It sounds so simple. A stranger probably assumes that I can do the same, unless of course they know the history behind my relationship with my family. But surely this powerhouse has more leverage. The dark laugh he gives sends a chill diving down my spine.

“That’s not how it works, darling,” he says, his deep voice curling around the word darling in a way that leaves my mouth dry. “Besides, if I say no then you’ll just get stuck with Callan or Rory. We talked about that.”

There’s such finality to it that I shiver.

His face darkens even more. “Is that it? You’d rather marry someone like Callan?”

He pulls away from the desk, rises to his full height, and takes a step toward me. His body throws so much heat I can hardly stand it. I bite my lip and look up at him, and our eyes meet. The force of it, the way that he seems to see right into me, unsettles me and leaves me searching frantically for the right words.

“I….no,” I stammer. “I don’t want to marry your brothers.”

He does laugh then, putting a hand on my cheek. His touch is feather light, deftly tender, and he leans in close until his warm breath shifts the curls closest to my face. He smells like soap and cologne and a hint of something manly that’s communicating a primal message to my DNA. “It sounds like we’ve both done things that mean our families don’t care what we want. And while I’m not crazy about the idea of marriage, I can’t say that I don’t want you, Jessica.”

The weight of that word, want, hits me like a tsunami.

I’m back at the gala pressed up against the wall, with the weight of his body lightly pinning me while I offer up my lips to his hungry, demanding kiss. It has so long since I’ve been kissed at all, and I’ve never been kissed like that. That whole night I’d lain awake, my lips still tender, remembering how his hands slid down my dress. God.

There’s a sharp rap on the door and a polished woman in a blue suit steps inside the room. She’s carrying a folder and wearing a badge that reads “public relations.” A step behind her is a woman that I recognize instantly, fear flaring alone my spine: Paige O’Connor, a reporter for the Boston Globe. Normally O’Connor covers the business and city beats, but she’s been known to scoop a society story or two. She’s on my mother’s “avoid at all costs” list.

Shit.

“Your two o’clock meeting is here, Patrick,” the woman with the PR badge – which reads Grace Kacou – says brightly. She’s stunning, with intelligent dark eyes and curly hair shot through with streaks of gold. I can see why the Carneys would choose her to be the face of the Trinity Casino project.

She takes in how close we’re standing, Patrick’s hand on my cheek, and her dark eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t realize your last meeting was running over,” she says smoothly. “Paige and I will grab a coffee and be back in five.”

But Paige slides around Grace and stares at me hard, rooted to the spot. She’s not going anywhere, and I can tell from the way her eyebrows pull together and then shoot up to her hairline she recognizes me.

“You’re Jessica Kensington,” she says, already pulling out her phone.

Grace is moving to say something, and Patrick takes a step that physically puts me behind him. Like he can use his body to shield me from the gossip, from the horror of being in the headlines. It’s like a terrified hummingbird tries to beat an escape from my chest. Being caught like this – even in a situation that’s totally innocent – could be taken out of context. The merest mention of my name will send my father over the edge.

I can’t stop myself from shaking. I’m vibrating like paper in the wind. It’s like Patrick senses it, and puts a steadying hand on my arm.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he murmurs quietly, before turning back to Paige.

“Paige, always a pleasure. Happy to give you an exclusive on the next phase of the Trinity, but my private life stays off the page,” Patrick’s voice is intense.

She laughs, and belatedly I catch the pun, wondering if it’s intentional.

It seems like people don’t give Patrick credit for being sharp.

“No can do, Carney. James Carney’s son hot and heavy with a Senator’s daughter? That’s too big a story to pass up,” Paige’s voice is light, but it’s taken on a predatory edge that leaves my stomach sinking.

Grace’s eyes narrow, as Patrick takes what seems like a threatening step toward the reporter.

Then there’s a bright splash of a familiar voice from the hallway. “Yes, Dad! I ran into her in the hallway on her way to see him. She’s very sweet…”

James Carney steps into the doorway, with Bridget behind him.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, then. The cold blue eyes sweep the room and when our eyes meet, he gives me a wolfish grin. He’s wearing an expensive suit with a garish cranberry tie that instantly sets my teeth on edge. It doesn’t escape me that Patrick has subtly shifted his body again, this putting himself between myself and his father. Plenty of threats circling like sharks today, it seems.

There’s a story here, for another day.

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