Page 1 of Smoke Screen
1
“So, you’re a repo guy.”
Phin stood smack in the middle of Kayla Krowne’s living room—the one inside her massive twelve-thousand-square-foot home—peering out over her small private beach and the still waters of Lake Norman.
He’d expected more boat traffic. Particularly with the streaks of purple and orange lighting up a summer sky. Who wouldn’t want to be floating around watching that spectacular sunset?
He supposed Tuesday nights in June weren’t big boating nights. He didn’t mind so much.
The entire scene gave him a sense of peace. And quiet.
At least on the lake.
Inside Kayla’s house?
Les Blakely, the Senate majority leader from Charlotte, put his finger on Phin’s hot button and pressed that fucker hard enough to break it.
Phin dragged his gaze from the lake, looking down at Blakely, who—eh-hem—happened to be a good six inches shorter.
“Asset recovery,” Phin said.
The senator shrugged a bony shoulder and … snorted.
Seriously?
Phin cocked his head and hit the guy with the flashing, toothy smile his brothers said caused men to shit themselves and women to lose their clothes. Either way, Phin had perfected it, learned to use it in a variety of ways.
A tool in his arsenal.
At times, like now, it kept him from pounding men like Les Blakely into the ground. And that was something because Phin still burned, a damned month later, about Blakely vaporizing a domestic violence bill that Kayla had lobbied hard for. Shelters around the country needed that funding and Blakely had managed to bury the bill for probably another year.
Fucker.
“Asset recovery,” Blakely said. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
Phin focused on keeping his face neutral. No hard stare, no clenched jaw or pressed lips. He stood there, shoulders back, doing his Mr. Smooth thing, while a hot knife carved up his intestines.
Fucker, fucker, fucker.
“Gentlemen.” A hand clamped on Phin’s forearm, dragging him from the near-homicidal rage brewing inside him.
He glanced down at the hand squeezing his arm, then at its owner.
Kayla—thank you, sweet baby Jesus—stood beside him. He’d known her for years now and, as usual, her timing couldn’t be better.
Accompanying Kayla was an exceptionally noticeable, not-quite-petite woman with a mane of dark curly hair and deep blue eyes. And who might this lovely creature be?
Maybe she was what Phin needed to relieve his now-pissy mood. Female company. Never a bad thing. Especially if it led to Phin’s hands rifling through those wild curls.
“Kayla,” Blakely drawled. “Lovely party.”
“It is,” Kayla agreed. “Senator, could I pull you from my good friend Phin? I have an important matter to discuss that requires a bit of privacy.”
Ha. Privacy his ass. Clearly, Kayla had overheard the exchange and wanted to keep Phin from getting blood on her marble floors.
As one of the country’s premier lobbyists, Kayla had power. Not the kind Blakely had. Hers was subtle. Backroom influence where she’d wheel and deal senators and congressmembers on behalf of her clients.
A world Phin had left behind three years ago.
