CHAPTER TWO
DUFFY
The image was imprinted on my mental hard drive before I could hit the delete button.
Of my ballbusting boss—the woman who’d moderated the last presidential debate—with a scarf balled and shoved inside her mouth, as a tall, bizarrely well-built demigod slammed into her, his arse muscles contracting each time he did. Her pencil skirt was bunched around her waist, her knickers haphazardly tugged to one side. Her tits bounced happily through her torn shirt. Lovely.
Assuming Jason hadn’t become a six-foot-four deity with buns of steel, Thor’s build, and shaggy, nineties-heartthrob blond hair in the three weeks since I’d last seen him, this was definitely a paramour of some sort.
“Nice panties,” he greeted me midthrust, not bothering to stop shagging my employer. “Please tell me you’re wearing a matching bra.”
“I am,” I announced, refusing to appear embarrassed. “They were on sale.”
“Great investment.” He groaned, obviously on the edge of a climax.
Were we actually exchanging pleasantries while he was defiling my boss? And people said the Brits were overly polite.
“WHAT THE FUCK, DUFFY!” Gretchen shoved the man away, her bare feet slamming against the marble floor. She dashed toward me like a bullet, trying to cover her tits with her torn blouse. I scrambled to my feet, tugging my dress down as I peered at the man behind her, because obviously, ogling hot men was of great importance in that moment.
Bloody hell.
Where did she find this bloke? Not anywhere I’d been frequenting, that was for sure. To say the man was hot was like saying hell was pleasantly sunny. Sizzling was more like it. His cheekbones and jawline were comically sharp, his lips pomegranate red, pouty yet well proportioned. And that body . . . hello, Michelangelo’s David. But with much better equipment.
Was he an aging model? An actor? Brad Pitt and Chris Hemsworth’s love child? They must’ve had him when they were quite young. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties.
Gretchen gripped my shoulders and yelled in my face. “What’re you doing here? Answer me!”
“You told me to bring Lyric’s gifts to your flat before six o’clock in the morning,” I reminded her, in a rather bland tone. Even though this was a colossal clusterfuck, it wasn’t my colossal clusterfuck.
“I meant in the early morning, you idiot!” Gretchen kicked away the wrapped gifts between us, showing me exactly how much she cared about her child’s birthday presents. “Not in the middle of the night. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I wanted to get this assignment done so I could be available to tend to all of my other Gretchen Beatty–related duties tomorrow morning.” I took a step back, not in the mood to be showered with her spit. “You know, like finalizing your farewell speech, finding that sound bite from that interview with POTUS, working on Lyric’s school diorama, and booking you that interview with Vogue.”
In my periphery, Demigod leisurely buttoned his black Dickies with one hand, then flung the balcony doors open and lit himself a joint. His blue eyes met mine, and he smirked quietly as if we had some sort of alliance. The things that leave her mouth when my cock’s not stuffed in it, amiright?
“You ladies need a moment?” His voice was rich and smooth and—I couldn’t help but notice—quite mocking.
“A moment, a drink, for you to build me a time machine to get me out of this mess.” Gretchen picked up one of the presents and hurled it at him.
He seized it midair, then calmly placed it on the credenza. “I can get you a drink and a moment. As for the time machine, I only build shit if it comes with an IKEA manual. Though if you’re serious about it, my friend Arsène could probably—”
“I really don’t care what your friend Arsène can do. Can you strangle and bury her somewhere?” Gretchen seized me by the wrist, obviously worried I’d escape. “No one’s gonna miss her.”
He examined me through half-lidded eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering over his gorgeous lips. Bollocks. Was he going to kill me? Was I going to like it? He was nauseatingly attractive. And I was in the market for a rebound. In other news, I really did have the tendency to surround myself with the worst of people. Between BJ breaking the news to me tonight that instead of proposing to me before my visa expired—in two weeks—and my boss plotting to kill me, one had to wonder if the FBI could use me as bait to attract domestic terrorists.
“Nah. I think I’ll keep her as a pet.” Demigod winked.
“You just try.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my feistiness trickling back into my system. “I’ll chew on all your furniture, piss in your shoes, and bite your arse.”
Chuckling and shaking his head, he glided out of the double-glazed doors, leaving us alone.
Gretchen swiveled to me, a demonic sneer stamped on her face. “You had no right to barge in here.”
“I’ve been coming here three times a week since we started working together,” I pointed out. “I reckon you simply forgot you invited me this time around.”
“Oh, fuck. I got so drunk. He always makes me lose control. What do I do?” Gretchen let go of me, raking her shaky fingers over her face. She began pacing, shaking her head frantically. “No one can know. This could end my White House career before it even started.”
To make matters worse, because WNT had been in the midst of a humongous sexual harassment scandal when I’d joined their forces, the network had decided to waive all NDAs for people who worked with the stars of their flagship shows in an effort to exhibit full transparency. Which meant I had never signed a nondisclosure agreement. Nothing stood in the way of me shopping myself a nice, six-figure interview about how I caught Gretchen Beatty shagging a man who later on toyed with the idea of keeping me as a pet. Then plotted my murder in my presence.
Wait, wasn’t that a Coronation Street plot?
I stood there silently, processing the power shift while Gretchen tipped her face skyward, presumably to demand of one of God’s angels that she speak with the manager.
“This isn’t happening to me. I’ve worked too hard, I’ve given up too much . . . there must be a way to make this go away. To think of something . . .” She paused, seemingly remembering Demigod was here too.
“Bring your ass back here, mister! Don’t try to leave me with this mess. Your dick’s not even dry yet, and you’re already planning your escape.”
I forgot to mention—Gretchen wasn’t known for her manners.
Demigod took two idle drags, flicked his joint off the balcony, and strolled toward us. Up close, he was positively gigantic—six foot three, minimum—and ruthlessly sculpted.
I didn’t even fancy attractive men. Blokes like him were so inaccessible, so out of reach, that I regarded them like aliens. With a Huh, so you do exist approach. As opposed to Why yes, I’d love to be kidnapped, then anally probed by you.
Besides, well-bred men with receding hairlines and trust funds were more my speed, and this bloke had very few clothes, all of which seemed in poor condition.
“Relax.” Demigod wrapped her hair around his fist and tugged teasingly, his biceps flexing. Even his body language could trigger a spontaneous orgasm. “Little Mary Poppins won’t breathe a word.”
Gretchen swatted him away on a bark. “Easy for you to say. You have nothing to lose if she walks out of here and starts singing to the press. You’re single.”
“That I am. The best state to be in, and I’ve visited all of them.” He winked as he ambled to her fridge and plucked out one of her ginger juices. Leaning a narrow hip against the counter, he took a long sip before pointing at me with the bottle. “Does Mary Poppins have a name?”
“Daphne Markham.” Gretchen twisted her mouth in repulsion, as though the very thought of me depressed her. “She’s my assistant.”
Now I was standing there in my flowery Ellie Nap jigsaw dress—I couldn’t leave my flat in the same jammies I’d collected biscuit crumbs on—being roasted by these two cheaters. The amount of rock bottoms I’d hit today had me sinking to a whole different galaxy.
“Assuming your temper out of bed is as ferocious as it is inside it, I’m guessing there’s not a whole lot of motivation on her part to keep her mouth shut,” Demigod said to Gretchen.
“Please. As though if she liked me, it’d have made a difference.” My boss began buttoning her torn blouse. “Money is money, and she’s very fond of it.”
What gave it away? My weakness for designer clothes or the fact I dated BJ Abbott, the heir to a real estate mogul?
Formerlydated, I reminded myself.
“Then how ’bout we grease her palm a little?” Demigod suggested. “Make it worth her while to keep her pretty little mouth shut.”
My eyes ping-ponged between them. For once, I held back my snarky remarks. I wanted to see where this was going.
Gretchen huffed. “Take it seriously, Riggs!”
Riggs.What a peculiar name for a peculiar person.
And a single one too.
“I am serious.” Riggs flashed a perfect set of teeth. “As you said, money is money, and you’ve got a fuck ton of it, babe.”
Riggs had a tattoo of a mountain on his inner bicep, and beneath it, a list of famous mountains: Mount Everest, K2, Kangchenjunga, Lhotse, and so on. The entire list had been crossed off, other than Denali.
He was a mountain climber. How odd that the only major mountain he hadn’t climbed was in Alaska.
How odd that you’d be thinking about his mountain-climbing career while contemplating blackmailing him.Which, by the way, was the direction I was currently leaning toward.
“Fine!” Gretchen swiveled, training her venom-filled gaze on my face. “What’s your price?”
“Take me with you to DC,” I blurted out.
It was the only way I could stay here and wait for BJ, which, for a reason beyond my grasp, was something I was still entertaining, even after he’d screwed me over tonight.
She stared at me for a long moment before tossing her arms in the air and bursting into a tearless sob.
“They won’t let me bring my own staff. Let alone consider a foreigner for a White House job.”
“I need someone to sponsor my visa.” I laced my arms over my chest.
“I can do that!” Gretchen’s eyes lit up. “I can get you interviews with all the networks in Manhattan.”
I shook my head. “I’m not talking interviews. I’m talking about a visa. One I could use to gain employment anywhere. No strings attached.” I was done being metaphorically squeezed by the bollocks by a network that knew I depended on it to stay in the country. Plus, I wanted to make my own hours and negotiate a better salary. And though my inclination was to remain in the news industry—it was fast paced, glamorous, and full of opportunities—I couldn’t help but internally admit to myself that I found the news . . . well, quite boring.
I turned to look Riggs in the eye. “Mary Poppins here isn’t thick.”
“But I am.” Riggs winked mischievously. He was in the process of rolling himself another joint, licking the edge of the paper with expertise. “And no offense, but smart people don’t usually work for tyrants.”
“At least I’m not sleeping with one,” I said pointedly.
He offered me the spliff. I shook my head. He shrugged. “Assholes make great lovers and shitty employers. Source: science.”
“I don’t think you know what science means.” I glared at him.
“Of course I do. It’s that thing with the test tubes and smoke bubbling out of them. Oh, don’t forget the funny goggles.”
He treated the entire thing like it was a joke.
“So you’re okay with this behavior?” I motioned to Gretchen, who was busy crying into her palms theatrically, producing zero tears and loads of drama.
“She’s my fuck buddy, not my mother.”
“Back to the topic!” Gretchen interjected, not seeming to be bothered by how she’d been openly labeled as an abuser by both of us. “How am I supposed to secure you a visa? The last thing I need is to meddle with the immigration office while I work for POTUS.”
“There are other ways to secure a visa.” I examined my fingernails, which were squarely trimmed and cream colored. I idly wondered if I’d lost my mind, with what I was about to propose. It was possible. Probable, even. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“There are?” Gretchen eyed me warily.
“I could marry him.” I pointed at Riggs.
The man was so surprised he actually whipped his head around to see if there was another person behind him. He turned back to me, stubbing his bare chest. “You weren’t talking about me, were you?”
“Indeed I was. You’re American, aren’t you?”
He lit up his spliff, taking a long drag. “I’d like to think of myself as a citizen of the world.”
“Do you travel said world with a blue passport issued in the United States of America?” I arched an eyebrow.
His flat-lined expression said it all. “If you want to get all technical.”
“Good enough for me. So. When’s a good time for us to get married?” I asked, businesslike. I produced my phone from my purse and checked my calendar. “I have a mani-pedi tomorrow after work, and a facial on Saturday, but otherwise I’m free.”
Though I could probably cancel the facial if he needed me to be flexible. Teamwork was one of my fortes.
“Sorry, it might be the accent.” He fished his black tee from between the pillows of the couch, then slid it on. “But it sounded like you just dropped the m-bomb.”
“Marriage is not profanity.”
“No. It’s not.” Riggs slam-dunked his empty bottle into a bin across the room as he sucked on his rollie. “Marriage is worse than profanity. Profanity is fun, creative, humorous; take cum dumpster, for example. Great word, right?”
“You mean two words.” I wrinkled my nose. “Let’s hope you don’t pass your dazzling math skills to our children.” Now I was just being cheeky. Since sperm was mentioned, and all.
Riggs shuddered. “The c-word. You really are a sadistic creature, Poppins.”
Gretchen looked between us, growing desperate. “Riggs, please.”
He sneered. “You’re nuts if you think I’d ever entertain this, sweet cheeks.”
“It’s just a piece of paper. She could destroy my career!” Gretchen threw herself at him suddenly, like a damsel in distress. I stood there, having the distinct feeling tonight was stretching over approximately five months. Was Mercury in retrograde?
But Riggs gave no indication he was about to cave in, instead shaking her off his arm. “Find another career then. I’m sure there’s a small repressed country in need of a new authoritarian. I’m not marrying anyone, for any reason, at any time.”
“You owe me!” Her palms collided with his chest, and she seemed more mental than ever. “Please. This can’t be the end of my career. You know there’s no going back from a sex scandal for a woman in politics.”
She slid down his body, begging him on her knees now.
He stared her down, his jaw square, his eyes dead. What was it that revolted him more, I wondered—the fact that she’d begged him to sacrifice his freedom for her, or the prospect of marrying me?
I knew I wasn’t the sort of woman men like Riggs went for. While I was perfectly decent looking, I wasn’t as in-your-face sexy as Gretchen, who, at forty, looked like a Hollywood bombshell, with curves for miles, luscious blonde hair, and a pout that had seen more syringes than a drug addict. I’d taken the Kate Middleton route. With fresh brunette locks, conservative dresses, and a willowy frame without much to grab. Le sigh. If only anxiety and insecurities were grab-able.
Riggs clasped her chin, tilting her face up.
“This is not the kind of begging I’m into, and my mind won’t change.” His voice was soft but final. “Now get up and dust off.”
“Bloody hell!” It was my turn to lose my temper. “I was just joking about the children part. I’d rather remove my own teeth with a pair of tweezers than have you contaminating my DNA pool. Give it up, mate.”
“Sorry, Poppins, I don’t do monogamy.” He finished the last of his spliff.
“I don’t do delusional,” I responded with an eye roll. “It’s going to be completely fake. On paper only.”
“It is not going to happen.”
“I’ll pay you,” I blurted out in a fit of desperation.
His jaw dropped mockingly. “You mean I’ll have access to the unfathomable wealth and splendor accumulated by a lowly cable news assistant?”
“National,” I corrected. “And judging by your clothes, you could use all the help you can get.”
His shirt was faded, his belt halfway torn off. My comment left a sour taste in my mouth—commenting on people’s clothes was bad form, but the adrenaline coursing through me made me say and do unlikely things.
Riggs’s eyes widened, and I had a feeling that his funds, or lack thereof, were a very serious business for him. “You’re the shallowest, bitchiest, meanest woman I’ve ever met—and I’ve met plenty.”
My belly slithered with venomous snakes. I was usually thick skinned, but Riggs’s impression of me hit home, because . . . well, because I rather agreed with him.
“Just go, Riggs.” Gretchen’s voice cracked. Her head lolled between her shoulders, like she was boneless. “You’re not going to help me, and you’re not making things better.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” He shoved his feet into dirty army boots and slung an old backpack over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
He stormed away, leaving both of us to stand there, like we were in a duel.
Maybe it was a duel. Maybe it had always been a duel between Gretchen Beatty and me.
Only now, one thing was for certain.
She knew my gun was cocked, loaded, and ready to fire.