Thief:A Bad Boy Romance(92)

 

“You think I don’t know what it means to not do what you want? You don’t want to be here, and then you have to be. But you see I want to do this job. I want to be here at the White House, but then I won’t be able to.” I arch a brow at her, hardening my look. “Life is unfair, princess; deal with it.”

 

“Yeah, well I’ll deal with it without perverts like you lingering outside the bathroom listening to me pee, got it?”

 

My stern look cracks into a grin as she points a finger at me before whirling to stomp away. And I can’t even help it — even if this little brat’s just managed to get under my skin and piss me right off — when my eyes drop to that perfect, sculpted ass encased in that tight little cream skirt. The jacket, the nude heels, the pantyhose, the fucking Kennedy pearls — all that formal shit just somehow gets my cock rock hard in my suit and my brain a million miles from where it should be, which is not thinking about my new stepsister’s ass like I am at this very moment.

 

“And quit staring at my ass, dick.” She hurls back over her shoulder, before she ducks into one of the side offices and slams the door.

 

Yeah, this is going to be an interesting job alright.

 

 

 

 

 

5.

 

 

 

 

 

This whole situation is ridiculous.

 

All of it. As if being the first daughter wasn’t going to change my life enough, I’m walking into it on day one with one of the biggest secrets in the county.

 

I slept with my new stepbrother. Well, or at least a man who now happens to be my stepbrother. Oh, and who also happens to now be my fucking bodyguard.

 

Wonderful.

 

I have a secret bottled up inside that could topple a government if people knew about it, not to mention ruin me. And that’s a terrifying thought, especially in a place like this which is designed to suss out secrets. I mean the White House is the central nervous system of the whole government; this is a place where you’re not supposed to be able to keep things from anyone.

 

I glance nervously around my new bedroom — my lavish, elegant, princely and practically fairy-tale-esque bedroom in the East Wing of the White House. Yeah, I’m living in a place with wings; it’s all a very far cry from my one-room student housing in Chicago with a view of a brick wall, I’ll say that.

 

But as nice as it is, as elegant as the cream-white accents, the tastefully framed black and white photographs of former residents, and the carefully arranged flowers in the crystal vase by the window are, as much as I grin like an idiot at the four-post bed that looks like something directly out of every princess fantasy I’ve ever had, something seems off.

 

And just like the tick-ticking of the heart beneath Poe’s floorboards, I know what it is.

 

It’s guilt. Guilt and shame, and they’re gnawing at me, clawing at me, and maddeningly making me paranoid as I sit in the silence of this room. I find myself frowning at the flowers by the window, wondering if there’s some sort or listening device in there — something that’s going to read my mind and let everyone know about my horrible little scandal.

 

I’m dying to change out of my ridiculous get-up and back into something I can relax in like jeans and a sweatshirt, but I also realize with a chill that I’m actually not sure if I’m really alone in here. I mean this is the White House; who the hell knows where the hidden security cameras are?

 

You’re being paranoid; there are no “hidden cameras” watching the first daughter change.

 

Maybe not, but I also know that Hunter is probably right outside my room, that cocky little shit-eating grin on his face.

 

‘What, afraid I might see something I’ve already seen before?’

 

I groan for probably the hundredth time in the last hour, slumping back onto my lavish new bed and scowling at the door on the far side of the room. It’s as if glaring hard enough will somehow erase the man and the history and the horrible, dirty little secret standing right on the other side of it.

 

I knew the party was a mistake.

 

 

 

“Maddie, these things are SUPER exclusive.”

 

“Yeah, and it sounds sketchy as shit! I mean they flat out told you it was a SEX party?”

 

She rolls her eyes and shushes me, as if anyone can even hear us in the back booth of the practically empty mid-afternoon bar. “Okay, YOU’RE saying ‘sex party’ and that makes it sound super gross, by the way.”

 

“It is gross!”

 

“It is not!” She laughs, sipping at her chardonnay. “Dude, it’s like nothing you can even imagine. It’s all gorgeous people, everyone’s rich, and vetted for, the drugs are fantastic, and the whole thing is all really safe.”