One to Chase (One to Hold #7) Read online

“To France? I would have loved it, but your father hated the French.”

  “Right.” I fight my visceral response to the mention of my late father, the anger burning deep in my stomach at the thought of how much she sacrificed for that man.

  Her blue eyes twinkle with her laugh, and I push the past down and away.

  For her. Always for her.

  My mother is the wisest, most diplomatic person I’ve ever met. She had to be, living with that man as long as she did. It’s a path I will never follow. Women don’t need men, and I will not be held hostage the way my gorgeous mother was for years, her dreams and desires taking a backseat to his.

  Stirring cream into my coffee, I take a long sip of the soothing hot liquid. We’re well into spring, but I still enjoy the warm embrace of a good cup of coffee in the morning. “Who is Elaine’s ridiculous older brother anyway?”

  “Not so ridiculous, from what I understand.” She flips through a paperback on the table. “He’s quite impressive. He’s the attorney who helped get Derek out of that murder charge.”

  My eyebrows go up, but I only concede a Hmm.

  She proceeds to have a mini-rant. “As if Derek Alexander could ever be accused of such a crime. It’s a sure sign our legal system is broken when a man of his character and reputation is—”

  “Mom,” I gently interrupt her. You’d think Derek Alexander was her own son the way she goes on about him. “What’s this impressive attorney’s name?”

  Shaking her head, her agitation dissolves. “I can’t remember. Edward, I think? I only met him briefly at the wedding.”

  Nodding, I swipe an apple out of the basket. “If it makes you happy, I’ll meet with Edward. Does he sparkle?”

  “Why would he... Oh! Is that the new slang for gay? I don’t actually know. He didn’t seem to be, but I never can tell anymore—”

  “No!” I can’t help laughing. “It’s a book! Nevermind. Should I call first?”

  She’s still mildly confused. “Elaine said she’d take care of the whole thing. You just have to be at his office at eleven, and he’ll meet with you there.”

  A quick glance at the clock says I have a few hours. “At least it’s Friday. Please tell Elaine I said thank you. And I can only hope she deserves my favorite brother.”

  “That’s my girl. When you’re done, let’s have lunch at L15.”

  My nose immediately wrinkles. “Good god, is that place still in business?”

  She glances up concerned. “No good?”

  “It’s the classic joke—the food is terrible, and the portions are too small!”

  Now she laughs, a sweet, musical sound. Our mother really is too good to be true. “Then you pick the place. I won’t treat you like a tourist.”

  “Is Millie’s still around?”

  “On the East Loop?” I nod, and she concedes. “See you there at noon.”

  Chapter 2: Surprises

  Amy

  The law offices of Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly are an easy walk from Sylvia’s Near North condo. I’m thankful for that as I head south on Michigan. I love my mother, but I need to clear my head this morning.

  Armand started messaging me last week.

  I know why you ran. The words still glow in my brain. I’m not angry. Tell me when you’re coming home.

  Home. An uncomfortable tightness clutches the back of my neck, like someone lightly grazed his fingernails across the skin of my shoulders and then snatched my neck as hard as he could.

  I shiver in the warm air.

  Coming back to Chicago was supposed to end my Paris problem, but with cell phones and social media, I feel like I can never get far enough away anymore.

  Armand is not my home. How could he even say that? He ruined everything.

  Our relationship was strictly sexual from the start. As a chief executive at Arnys, one of the leading men’s fashion houses in Paris, he was dripping with wealth and access, not to mention always impeccably dressed.

  We met during fashion week. I sat on the front row across the catwalk from the dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonis who wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Naturally, I had my roommate Celeste introduce us once it was over. Celeste is French cool, but I knew her well enough to see she was star struck by him.

  She interned at Vogue, which was how we scored our great seats. I could afford to buy tickets, of course, but her position seated us two chairs down from Donatella at the Atelier Versace show.

  The fashions were amazing—solid black pantsuits with swirling or asymmetrical patterns cut out of the necklines, go-go red dresses with glittery geometric shapes and arrows crossing the bodice. And of course, Donatella’s signature white slacks and blazer. All set to the techno-chic musical backdrop of David Guetta.

  Then my eyes landed on Armand’s black ones. The slightest grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and my insides sizzled. He was older, sophisticated, a touch of grey at his temples.

  After Celeste introduced us, he took me to dinner at Epicure and then to his apartment near Sacre Coeur where we fucked the night away. The next morning, he sent me home in his car, and that was the beginning of what I thought was our mutually beneficial arrangement.

  We both had demanding jobs, we both had plenty of money, and we both had a taste for the finer things. Not to mention Armand was fantastic in bed. He was older, but he kept my needs met.

  Six months in and he presented me with a key to his maison, and with a sly grin revealing straight white teeth, he practically insisted I give up my place with Celeste and move in with him.

  First, I would not leave Celeste high and dry like that. What kind of friend would I be?

  (Actually, Celeste had just told me she was moving in with her boyfriend Brys at the end of the month, so I was either looking for my own place or a new roommate anyway.)

  But seriously, what the hell?

  The first conversation Armand and I had after I realized I would be sleeping with him more than once concerned how I do not do relationships. Yes, he was a fabulous lay, but the very idea of someone wanting to own me made my blood run cold.

  Did he listen? Clearly not.

  So typically French.

  I packed my bags and left that day for home—my real home.

  Sure I could’ve lived alone in Paris, but that’s just sad. I like having someone to chat with in the evenings.

  Another deep inhale of late spring Chicago air, and I’m standing in front of an imposing steel skyscraper. I’ll figure out the Armand situation later. For now, I have to do my familial duty.

  Pulling the shiny brass handle, I go through the double doors, cross the grey marble floors, and punch the elevator button.

  I don’t need this meeting. I grew up in Chicago. I know all the connected assholes in this city and all their children, too. If worse comes to worse, I can dial up Karen Philpot and invite her to lunch.

  Karen. The very idea makes my skin crawl. You know how every group has one person with all the gossip? One person who knows which businesses are failing, which executives are cheating on their wives, and which socialite was spotted covertly leaving rehab? In the old Chicago group that person is Karen.

  I swear, the woman does nothing all day but lunch with her spies. While some of us actually focus on our careers or worthwhile endeavors...

  Honestly, I don’t give a shit.

  The bad blood between Karen and me is ancient history, I’m sure. Enough time has passed, enough water under the bridge, and I trust I’m the only one who remembers those days with a cringe.

  No, Karen is not an option. Instead, I’ll meet Edward Merritt. Non-sparkling Edward Merritt. My lips curl in a smile, the Karen problem momentarily forgotten.

  Edward is clearly a newcomer to the Chicago scene. He wasn’t here when I left for Cornell. Good god, what a grueling penance that was. Ithaca is as cold as a witch’s tit half the year, and the spring does not make up for it. I should’ve opted for Berkley instead.

  “May I help you?” A petite brunette
with a fashionable pixie haircut greets me from behind the receptionist’s desk.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Merritt,” I say, choosing to be formal. Don’t want him to think I’m the typical, narcissistic Millennial.

  “Are you...” Her eyes flicker to her computer screen. “Amalie Knight?”

  She actually got it right. “Yes,” I say with a smile. “You speak French?”

  Her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she rises from her seat. “I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris.”

  “You should do it!” So often Americans put European trips on this high pedestal, as if they’re impossible to accomplish or would take so much effort. The truth is, traveling to Europe is relatively easy once you have a passport.

  “I know.” She shakes her head and looks down as she goes to the wood and glass double doors. “I’ll let Mr. Merritt know you’re here.”

  I watch as she strides through them and down the mahogany-paneled hallway. While I wait, I take in the reception area. It’s very traditional, with brass, wood, and leather everywhere. Dark, cherry-wood paneling and stained oak floors. Not a speck of dust or a fingerprint in sight. The entire place smells like a library.

  I’m glad I opted for my steel-grey crepe suit. The pencil skirt keeps it from being too masculine, and trust me, such details matter in the Midwest. I’m a feminist, but I also know how to play the game.

  “Miss Knight?” Pixie is back. “If you’ll follow me?”

  I nod, taking my tan clutch with me. The hall is as elegant as the reception area, and when she arrives at what I assume is Edward Merritt’s office, she steps to the side, allowing me to pass.

  “He’s on a call, but he’ll be right with you.”

  “Thanks.” I give her a smile. She can’t help it if her boss has no manners.

  Stepping around his office, I almost roll my eyes. You know how some men use cars to make up for inadequacies in other areas? This guy clearly uses his office. It’s ridiculous.

  Arched, built-in bookshelves hold dozens of leather-bound law books. Recessed lighting casts gleaming reflections off shiny brass accents. High above them, a coffered ceiling adds to the cathedral-like quality of the space. A sanctuary to the law or to this guy’s ego? I have a pretty good idea which.

  I go to a circular leather chair and take a seat. The man behind the desk has his back turned, a titanium iPhone pressed to his ear.

  He’s tall, and his tan dress-slacks hang nicely on his slender waist. A matching suit coat is on the back of his chair, and a sleek, white button-down covers his broad shoulders. From the way he holds the phone, I can just make out the curve of muscle beneath his long sleeve, and a delicious heat fills my lower stomach. Interesting.

  Caramel brown hair touches the top of his collar in slight waves, and I can’t keep the naughty thoughts from filtering through my mind. I wonder if this could turn into something better than a courtesy call.

  I dismiss the idea at once. Edward Merritt is practically my brother-in-law. Is that even legal?

  Still, I can’t resist the idea of threading my nails through those thick waves, his large hands spanning my ass like...

  The Man in Wilmington’s.

  A low growl vibrates my throat. It’s so impossibly ridiculous, I’ve given him a label: The Man in Wilmington. As if I would actually think twice about a random hook-up.

  Edward chooses that particular moment to remember he has an eleven o’clock appointment and ends his call. Lowering the smart phone, he releases a short exhale and turns.

  Everything stops.

  The air in his cathedral office freezes.

  Everything freezes, including my breath.

  I’m pretty sure the shiny brass clock on his stupidly large desk stops ticking.

  “What the fuck?” The man, who is most definitely not Edward Merritt, hisses softly.

  Years of practice keep me from completely losing it in that moment. I cross my legs and channel all the Gwyneth Paltrow-cool hammered into me from finishing school.

  “It’s... You’re...” The Man from Wilmington flicks his phone toward me, but he must not’ve had a good grip. It slips like a bar of soap from his hand and arcs through the air straight into my lap.

  Thank god for small mercies. I’m snort a laugh, which cuts the tension at once.

  With a teasing smile I lift the small black device and place it on the desktop in front of me. “You’re welcome.”

  Going forward, I will never forget his response. It’s splendid in its precision. I can’t help but admire his control. Marcus Merritt sits in his leather-studded chair, and his face transforms into a mask of professionalism.

  The slightest smile curves the side of his mouth, and a tingle moves across my stomach. “Good catch,” he says.

  “It’s not every day I have expensive technology lobbed at me.”

  “My apologies. Strenuous call.”

  “Opposing counsel?”

  “Dry cleaners. They keep breaking my buttons.”

  My lips tighten against another laugh, and I fight every urge humming under my skin. Damn him for being as witty as he is attractive.

  “You are not Edward Merritt.” It’s a nice, orienting statement.

  “Edward is my father.” His brows knit over green-hazel eyes as he looks down at his desk. “Who the fuck is Amalie Knight?”

  “My mother was going through a French phase.” I give him a teasing wink, and his eyes flick away from mine fast. If he weren’t so composed, I might take that to mean something.

  “So Amy is short for Amalie?”

  “Patrick couldn’t say Amalie when he was a little boy.”

  His eyebrows rise and he leans back nodding. “Right. Patrick... and Stuart’s little sister.”

  His playfulness shuts down, and I refuse to let disappointment rise in my chest. So we have a nice, teasing banter to go with our blazing-hot hook-up sex. I will not be hopping out of any frying pans into any fires. My moment with this “Man in Wilmington” will remain precisely that. A moment. In Wilmington.

  Lightening my tone, I force a bright smile and lay it all out there. “My mother and your sister think you can introduce me to all the right people in Chicago.”

  “I doubt you need my help with that.” His eyes don’t meet mine. In fact it seems he’s avoiding my eyes now.

  “I don’t, but it means a lot to them.”

  That makes him look up, but only to my neck. “You’re looking for something in marketing?”

  “Yes.” I swipe the screen on my phone. “Give me your number, and I’ll send you my resume. I have a finance degree from Cornell, but I minored in marketing. One of my graduate projects was a rollout for a software design company located in Ithaca. My team won an ADDY for it.”

  He leans forward and reaches across the desk. “It’s probably easier if I enter my number.”

  His white cuff ends just above his large hand. Neatly trimmed nails... My lip involuntarily catches in my teeth at the memory of those fingers clutching my bare ass, those large hands pulling me against his rock-hard cock, driving deep between my thighs. My back slammed against the wall, his groan in my ear as he came. Shit.

  “Sure.” I blink fast, dismissing that red-hot memory as I pass my brushed-gold phone to him. “I’ve opened Messenger. Just enter your number, and I’ll send it to you.”

  “We don’t have a full-time PR function in our office.” His voice is apologetic.

  “Most smaller firms don’t. It’s a contract service.”

  He passes the device back, watching our hands. Our fingers brush lightly, and I swear to god it sparks. Get it together, Amy.

  Looking down, I see the digits and debate whether to save them. It’s a recipe for trouble, but I do it. Then I attach my resume and hit send.

  “You’ve got it now.” I lift my chin, and... eye contact.

  Shit on a stick. He was right in avoiding it. Looking into his smoky hazel gaze, I see all my naughty thoughts reflected right back at me. />
  “It’s probably best we don’t work together anyway.” Why did I say that?

  An eyebrow arches, and that damn sexy grin is back. “Really? How come.” He thinks he’s got me.

  “Nepotism.” He can’t honestly think I would grow up in the house of alphas I did and be weak.

  “I think we’d have to be related to be accused of nepotism.”

  “We practically are. I mean, with Elaine and Patrick and all.”

  “My sister, your brother. There’s no relation between us.”

  “I suppose that’s a good thing.” Damn my mouth. Standing, I decide it’s time for me to get the hell out of here before I say anything else. “I know you’re busy. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”

  “I’ll give you a call if I hear anything.” He stands just as fast. “And maybe I’ll see you around.”

  My eyes sweep his too-large office as I think. “It seems likely our paths will cross.”

  “I hope you’ll let me buy you a drink. I seem to remember owing you one.”

  “It was an open bar.” It’s the closest I’ll let him get to that night at the wedding reception. “If you owe anyone a drink, it’s Derek Alexander.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink, and then you’ll owe me one.”

  “That could go on forever.”

  “Interesting idea.”

  Good god, Amy. Proposition much?

  For a moment, I’m caught in the doorway. He’s close enough that his familiar, clean-linen scent fills my nose, reminding me of every touch, every taste—salt on my tongue when I lightly bit his shoulder.

  My cheeks heat and my stomach sizzles, and I note something new. None of it feels like an invisible hand snatching me by the neck. I don’t feel trapped. I feel hungry for more.

  Which is why I have to leave.

  Now.

  “Thanks again,” I say, turning quickly and walking as fast as my heels will allow back down that hall, through the wooden doors, and out of his office.

  No looking back.

  * * *

  Marcus

  Amalie Knight.

  Amy.

  The girl from the wedding.

  What are the chances?

  I guess the chances are pretty damn good, considering our families are connected. She’s just back from Paris, and she’s living in Chicago. God, she was so fucking gorgeous walking in here, throwing out that confident act same as the night at the bar when she called me an old man. It still makes me chuckle. Old man. Baby.