One to Chase (One to Hold #7) Page 3

  Picking up my phone, I look at the little red indicator saying I have a text. Sliding my finger across the face, I stare at her number and without hesitation save it to my contacts.

  I don’t need to read her resume to know she’s good at what she does. She sat in that leather chair across from me in that silver business suit looking as fierce as her older brother Stuart when we faced the prosecutor together, hoping to get his business partner off the hook for murder.

  She’s smart, sexy, and bold. It’s a killer combination. I had to divert my eyes when she crossed her long legs. I barely heard her words for fighting the memory of them wrapped around my waist. Every detail of that night in Wilmington had raced to the front of my brain.

  Amy Knight. She left me hanging at that hotel in Wilmington, but perhaps we can revisit what happened between us. In the meantime, I’ll check with Paul and Chris. Perhaps it’s time Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly revisited our corporate marketing plan.

  Shaking my computer awake, I flip over to the firm’s website. Looks pretty dated. Maybe we should add a short interview section with the founding partner, i.e., me. Perhaps we need a slogan.

  A total brand revamp such as this requires full-time work, planning, meetings. Lots of meetings. Brainstorming over dinner and drinks, and perhaps a visit to my loft. I like this idea more by the second.

  The way she left puzzles me. Women don’t run from me. Not when I want to catch them. She projects a hotshot image in her power suit and heels, but one thing I know about runaways. They’re afraid.

  What are you afraid of, beautiful? What will it take for me to find out?

  Chapter 3: Reconnecting

  Amy

  I’m back out on the street, breathing fast. A warm spring breeze pushes my light blonde hair away from my face, and I try to calm my nerves.

  I’m over-reacting. Marcus Merritt doesn’t warrant such a response. I am not hung up on him. In fact, he seemed as surprised as me by what just happened in his office.

  My response to our interaction in Wilmington is easily explained. I was weak emotionally, and I put too much emphasis on a random hook-up. It was the shock of Armand’s proposition, being back in the States for a wedding, and my brother Stuart’s sudden transformation into a nice guy.

  You think I have problems with relationships? Stuart only perceived women as a means to an end. He had a need; enter random woman after random woman to sate it.

  The memory of that night at the bar still shocks my system. Stuart chuckling and talking about love. Stuart getting married... It literally blew my mind, and trust me, my mind does not get blown. I’ve seen too much.

  Next thing I know, I’m challenging Marcus Merritt to a drinking contest. I was in full Amy Knight-mode: Sex kitten, claws out. I had no idea who he was, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was he was gorgeous. Perfect body—for someone ten years older than me—all lined and tanned. I would’ve assumed he was gay, but he fucked me with all the aggression of the straightest alpha I’ve ever known.

  Naturally, I ditched him at the hotel.

  What? You thought I was going to stick around after that? Best way to maintain my “no strings” philosophy was to get the fuck out of there. Fast. Sylvia needed to get back to our bed and breakfast anyway, and I was her ride.

  Speaking of Sylvia, I’m outside Millie’s, and I can’t meet her flustered. A quick look at my watch tells me she’s inside waiting. Punctuality is in her breeding.

  Pushing my long hair away from my face, I take a series of cleansing breaths, then I pull open the door and stride into the resto-lounge.

  Millie’s is a liquor bar, but they serve classic French cuisine, which my mother loves. Sure enough, as I follow the host through the dim-lit and leather space, I find her at a booth table, an order of buttery snails and pomme frites waiting in the center.

  “Darling,” she stands and gives me a brief hug. “I ordered escargot.”

  She’s wearing black slacks and an oversized, two-button, hounds tooth vest over a white tee. Several chains are looped around her neck, and I want to take her photograph.

  “I love the Annie Hall chic,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her, my Marcus-moment pushed to deep background.

  “I’d forgotten how fun Millie’s is, and I didn’t want to look like an old grandma in here with all the kids.”

  She laughs, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand. “You never look like an old grandma.”

  Even if I lied to Stuart in Wilmington and said my reason for coming home was to spend more time with her, I mean it now.

  “So,” she says, picking up a three-pronged fork. “How did it go with Edward?”

  The waiter appears, and I order a Chardonnay. “It was not Edward.”

  My mother’s eyebrows shoot up, and I can tell she’s curious.

  “Elaine’s brother is Marcus Merritt. Sparkling Edward is their father.”

  Her mouth clear, she nods. “Oh, dear, you’re right. I remember now. Elaine calls him Marc. I can’t believe I forgot that.”

  I try not to frown. Any time Sylvia references casual forgetting these days, a clutch of fear hits my stomach. “Regardless, he didn’t have anything on-hand, but he said he’d try to help me.”

  “What a darling. I told you. Elaine is such a dear. She’s absolutely perfect for Patrick, and her family seems equally wonderful.”

  “You’ve never met a person you didn’t like,” I mutter, pulling a skinny French fry from the pile.

  “That’s not true. I despise that awful Pamela Blackwell, and for years, Linda Harwood...” She’s trails off when a familiar face is spotted crossing the dining area, headed straight for us.

  “Amy?” Karen Philpot is dressed in a flared pink skirt and long-sleeved burgundy blouse covered in a white, windowpane plaid. A tiny pink clutch is in her hand, and her wine-colored strappy heels complete her deceptively innocent look.

  “It IS you!” She’s practically shouting, and I want to slip under the table.

  “Karen, Hi.” I try to put some enthusiasm in my voice, but I know this is going to lead somewhere I’m not interested in going.

  “You look amazing! I can tell you’ve had a generous dose of Paris fashion, lucky duck.” Karen stands beside our table, and my mother smiles up at her.

  “I was just telling Amy she needs to reconnect with the old group. You two should have lunch.”

  Good god, Sylvia! “Oh! I’m sure you’re busy with your own... ahh... things.” Good god, Amy. I nearly said spies.

  “Of course not! I’m never too busy to catch up with old friends.”

  No shit.

  Karen arches a slim brow at me, and I notice her brown eyes perfectly match her long brown hair. She only seems a day older than when I last saw her, even though it was more than six years ago.

  “I want to hear all about Paris and what you’ve been doing. Why don’t we meet for brunch tomorrow at the Palm Court?”

  I am not prepared for the Inquisition, but I can’t find a way out of it. “Of course. That would be lovely. What time?”

  “Eleven thirty?”

  “Sure.” I give her a practical smile. I grew up in this world. No use pretending it doesn’t function the way it does.

  Karen’s grin resembles Maleficent. “We’ll have you caught up in no time.”

  She’ll have the information she seeks, more like it. “See you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Marcus

  Friday night, and Evan and I are celebrating. Opposing counsel on a merger case attempted an end run at the regulatory board, and I managed to put my morning shake-up with Amy out of my head and block that maneuver.

  I have no way to prove it, but I feel sure Cocksucker Cox was behind it. An urgent call from me to the official in charge was enough to get things back on track before the full board took action. We were even able to convince the administrative judge to postpone the final hearing date without setting a new one.

  Sorry for
the shop talk.

  Trust me. It was sweet.

  “To cool-handed diplomacy.” Evan passes me a tall, slim flute of Cristal.

  “And regulatory secretaries who are great in bed.” I can’t resist teasing my young associate. His liaison with Cindy Hanson, who handles the paperwork downtown, alerted us of the move before the ink was even dry.

  “By way of being an old friend.”

  “Right. Small-town USA pays off again.”

  Evan is from Bradley and has unexpected links to several state government employees. He’s a very useful fellow. Glancing around Studio Orleans, I see several of our crowd is already present.

  “Speaking of old friends,” Evan’s voice is low as he turns back to the bar.

  I catch the tilt of his head and look toward the direction. Paige Goldfarb stands across the small club with a dark-haired beauty I don’t recognize.

  “Will you ask her out?” Evan looks down at his whiskey.

  My encounter with Amy in my office this morning still lurks in the back of my mind, but I’m not letting that ruin our celebratory night.

  Blinking back to my young associate, I crack a smile. “Planning to live vicariously?”

  “A guy can dream.”

  The vodka I ordered is nearly empty. I lean forward and catch the bartender’s attention. “Refill for me, and send a Prosecco to the blonde over there. In the back corner?”

  The man glances over my shoulder and his eyebrows rise. When he nods, he gives me an appreciative smile, and I turn to the side to consider the prospect of an evening with Miss Goldfarb.

  A long skirt that starts out light blue and ends in navy—ombre, I believe is the term—covers her bottom half, which I already know is fantastic. Her bare midriff displays a lined torso, and her long-sleeved top is navy lace. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders, and when she smiles, blue eyes sparkle under heavy black lashes.

  “She’s a pretty girl,” I say, thinking.

  “She’s more than that.” Evan’s in full-on lust-mode, and I almost feel guilty.

  Paige is not doing it for me, and the way we left it—she will call me with whatever she needs—makes her feel more like a co-conspirator than a romantic possibility. Vodka refreshed, I watch the waitress approach her, a slim glass of Italian sparkling wine on a tray.

  “The least I can do is say hello. It’s better than spending all night with you.”

  My young associate shakes his head and laughs, and I head toward the back. Studio Orleans is a small room with several double-sided black couches arranged around the space. Small tables sit in front of each, and the walls are enormous old windows with no drapes. They provide a stunning view of the Chicago skyline. Techno plays softly in the air, and I’m halfway to her when my entire direction shifts.

  The entrance is between us, and at that exact moment, in a swirl of blonde on black, Amy Knight enters the room. She’s hanging on the arm of a man dressed in skinny jeans and a white tee. His fedora tells me all I need to know of his sexual orientation. Well, the neon pink wayfarers also help.

  “The bar is this way!” her escort practically shouts, and she laughs as he drags her to the bar.

  I make a U-turn and go back to where my young associate stands, confusion lining his face.

  Amy’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a matching black short-sleeved shirt. An enormous necklace covers the top of her chest in a bib of clear crystal, and her light-blonde hair is swept up in a high ponytail. The slightly curled ends dance around her shoulders, and my mouth waters as I imagine wrapping them around my fist as I take her from behind.

  “What?” Evan’s face is pure disappointment, but I know what I want tonight. Nothing lukewarm where that baby is concerned.

  “I have something better in mind for tonight.”

  He follows my gaze to where Amy stands in black stilettos, grinning at her friend while she sips a pink martini. She’s not Goldfarb stripper sexy. She’s all-American sexy, and I know from our encounter in Wilmington she feels like heaven.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t wait around for me.” No time to explain. This little Runaway will be mine tonight, and I plan to finish what we started.

  * * *

  Amy

  Friday night, and I’m alone in my bedroom at Sylvia’s. For two weeks I’ve been in Chicago, and I’ve done my best to stay close, help my mother with whatever she needs, keep a low profile. Mentally, it’s been a much-needed break. I haven’t been entirely sure I want to stay in Chicago, but I’m considering it more and more.

  The only downside to my hermit-like behavior is I haven’t been laid in two weeks. It’s messing with my head, making me second-guess my decisions, causing me to put too much emphasis on a random in Wilmington.

  Meeting Marcus this morning knocked me off balance a bit, but I’m thankful to Elaine for getting me out. It’s time to find a job, find my own place, leave my mother’s condo...

  The ominous brunch with Karen hanging over my head will fast track the rest. I’ll be forced to walk across social bridges I’d nearly nuked when I left, and once again, I’ll face frenemies who would rather see me sink than swim. It’s inescapable, and it has me wanting to curl under the covers and stay in my cave.

  I’m not a coward, but I know any slip-up I make will be around the world faster than I can say That’s not what I meant. Scrubbing my forehead with my fingers, I wrestle with my thoughts as my phone buzzes.

  For a moment, I don’t move. The last time I got a text it was Armand pouring out words I didn’t want to read. Paris isn’t my home, at the same time Chicago doesn’t feel right either.

  It buzzes again, and the pressure to peek, to see who’s trying to find me grows.

  Nobody knows I’m back—other than Sylvia, Marcus, and... Karen. What the hell is wrong with me? Everyone knows I’m back.

  With a heavy sigh, I sit up and lift the shiny gold tracking device, anticipating the worst. The squeal is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  Bitch, how dare you sneak back into the city and not tell me?

  The words of my oldest friend C.J. Berman blaze like his personality, lifting my spirits. I don’t even bother replying, I hit the button to call.

  “I know you haven’t been at Sylvia’s this long without telling me.” His sassy voice fills my ear, causing me to laugh.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “Except Pill-butt? Please! Paris couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “Oh, shit,” I drop back onto the bed with an exhale. “She spotted me at Millie’s having lunch. I wanted to slide under the table, but Sylvia would never allow it.”

  “Your mother is the model of strength we should all aspire to emulate.”

  “What the hell did you just say?”

  We both laugh, and my flashy friend emits a kitten sigh. “I’ve changed since you left. I’m tragically encyclopedic in my linguistics.”

  “I’m not sure you’re even making sense,” I reply. “How did this happen? I checked in pretty regularly with you.”

  “You missed the day to day struggle living under an Orwellian regime.”

  My brows knit. “Propagated by... whom?”

  “Karen, of course. Once you left, Pill-butt installed herself at the top of the ladder, and all the drones fell in line. It was ghastly.” The sound of sliding doors is in the background, and C.J.’s voice loses the tragi-comedy. “But enough of that. Let’s go out. Studio Orleans is tres chic—although you’ll think it’s too fou just in from Paris and all.”

  “Tonight?” Mentally, I’d already prepared to cuddle on the couch with a good book and another Chardonnay.

  “Tonight.” His tone is firm. “Everyone goes to Studio O. You can get the jump on Karen and remind her who’s the baddest bitch in town.”

  “Oh, good god, we’re not starting all that again.”

  “Of course not. I was only teasing.” More sounds of movement behind him. “The p
ast is the past, darling.”

  My lips tighten as the memories try to come back. “Perhaps, but it seems the players are all still in place.”

  “Either way, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  With a sigh, I concede defeat. I’d come back to Chicago for Sylvia, but if I planned to stay, I’d have to own my past and be the woman I’ve become, stronger than my mistakes, better than social snobbery.

  Studio Orleans sits atop an interesting-looking French bistro, and it’s anything but fou. It’s actually modern and geometric. Black triangular couches with white leather cushions are dotted around square metal chairs. The marble-tiled floor is deep black, and a set of tables is reserved for bottle-service only.

  By the time I arrive on C.J.’s arm, it’s crowded, and he drags me straight to the bar. Techno is playing in the background, and I pick up the strains of “Dangerous” by my favorite French DJ.

  He places a cosmopolitan in my hand, and I wink. “You know me so well.”

  I watch C.J. take a long sip of mojito, holding up a slim index finger before he answers. “I know after two of those, you’ll be ready to dance.”

  Grinning, I shake my head. “I’ve changed my game. I’m much more sophisticated now.”

  My friend removes his tan fedora and passes a hand over his glossy black hair. “You mean you’re a heavyweight?”

  “Exactly.” Taking another sip of martini, I assess his boyish face sprinkled with the lightest scruff of a beard. Ice-blue eyes behind hot-pink glasses. “I don’t remember you wearing glasses. Are those real?”

  “Of course not. My vision is 20-20.” He shakes his hand in a theatrical maneuver and takes another sip. “It’s my curse.”

  “I seem to remember Karen frowns upon flamboyance.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Pill-butt thinks. You’re back.” Another long hit of mojito. “She’s probably in her condo bathroom right now wailing and scrubbing her hair. Full-on Faye Dunaway freak-out.”