by Sarah Andre
“I know.” Gretch sat taller, angling for a better view.
It can’t be. Please be hallucinating. Hannah’s pulse reached a crescendo as he turned and faced them. Devon. Clean-shaven, brutally handsome, and completely at ease. This couldn’t be happening.
“What are you doing back?” “When are you leaving?” If he’d answered any of her questions at lunch, she’d have put it together. Her breath sawed unevenly.
He stood before them on the dais, legs spread, scanning the room like a pirate captain surveying his prisoners. Without glancing at his partner, he held out a palm for the microphone. Hannah waited, lightheaded, as it was laid in his hand.
“Good evening. I’m Devon Ashby, chief executive officer of Ashby Enterprises, a privately held venture capital firm based in Manhattan.”
Gretch gasped at his name and swiveled to stare at Hannah. Even Sean frowned. He must have recognized Devon from this morning. She didn’t want to hear her friend gushing or asking about him. There was no way she’d acknowledge Sean’s questioning glance. Without taking her eyes off Devon, Hannah shook her head. She wanted to hear every word that came out of the bastard’s mouth. Her fists squeezed painfully.
“My company recently hired Peter O’Callaghan here as project manager for an extensive and elaborate multimillion-dollar renovation project.” That lush tone she’d wanted to drown in all day now sounded authoritative and clipped, the silence around her deafening. Maybe everyone was as thunderstruck as she.
“This is your home. You have a right to be angry. However, I’m here to offer each of you a chance to invest in staying in this neighborhood.” He paused; his take-no-prisoners glare scanning the audience as he let his sympathy sink in.
What a colossal fraud. Gretch emitted a dreamy sigh. O’Callaghan’s folding chair squeaked under his weight. The action and noise elicited zero acknowledgment from Devon, who remained ramrod straight and icy calm, like he owned the place, which technically he did.
This was not the man who’d gripped her hand tightly down the cliff steps. The guy who’d wiped off a dusty wrought-iron chair and held it out for her with twinkling eyes. This corporate persona was the epitome of Mr. Wickham: tone, body language, and that awesome fearlessness in the face of confrontation.
“You’ll be given priority rights to purchase one of the future townhomes or condo units before the presale opens to the public, and I’m offering each buyer here a ten percent discount.”
“Let me get this straight,” Sean piped up, languishing in his chair. “You’re kicking these people out of their apartments, then turning around and selling them right back?”
Applause and hoots exploded throughout the room. Devon zoomed in on the speaker and Hannah sat frozen, waiting for him to notice her two seats away. Her. Just another one of the neighborhood riffraff the rich man was evicting to become richer. Her nails bit farther into her palms.
Sean’s question was the kind her aunt would’ve asked, had she been healthy enough to attend tonight. She’d have stoked this crowd into a riot. No one went up against Aunt Milly’s whiplash tongue and walked away unscathed. But the outrage and worry over the eviction notice had deteriorated her already fragile health. Her oxygen level had sunk too low to risk coming. Hannah had promised to tell her every detail about the meeting. But how would she explain this? So, the guy I lost my heart to is behind our uprooting.
The noise died down. “Yes.” Devon quirked an eyebrow at Sean. “It’s legal for any company to buy and redevelop land. I’m simply extending an offer to invest with us.”
“Invest?” Hannah sputtered. Sweet baby Jesus, she’d said it out loud! Those piercing blue eyes landed on her. Shock flickered once before the corporate mask slid back into place. Her cheeks flushed hotly but somehow her mouth kept moving. “Most of us live paycheck to paycheck—we can barely afford the rent. Your offer is meaningless.”
More applause. He waited for the grumbling agreement to subside, maintaining that scorching stare-down, and she’d burn in hell before she blinked first. Gretch squeezed her arm. Maybe because she’d spoken up. More likely the intensity of his gaze.
What was he thinking under that icy veneer? Did he care at all about these displaced people, or was this just another humdrum meeting? Did he regret his Rogers Park purchase just the teeniest bit now that he knew a face in the crowd, or was he up there trying to decide between a juicy strip or rib eye for dinner?
When he had everyone’s attention again, he answered her, his voice gentle, as though he were explaining something to a child. “The banks are loaning again, and they’re eager for customers. I can’t imagine condo payments being very much more than what you pay in rent right now, Miss Moore.”
Her cheeks burned hotter at the formal title. Behind her, the crowd’s murmuring took on a few positive tones. He was swaying them with so little effort.
“Where would we go while all this is being built?” someone on the left side asked.
Hannah lost his answer as Gretch nudged her firmly and whispered, “I can see why your Internet dates are doomed. Who can live up to that?”
“This is my neighborhood,” she whispered back, finally as outraged as Aunt Milly. As eager to fight as the neighbors in this room. She glanced at the rolled-up poster under Bernice’s chair.
“Seriously. He belongs in a magazine hawking watches or cologne.” Gretch paused. “Or a little Parisian swimsuit.”
“He belongs in hell.” She said it quietly enough, but Devon paused in the middle of his sentence and threw her a hard frown.
Gretch whispered to Sean, who whispered something back. “Sean suggests selling one of the Wickham paintings so you can afford whatever he builds near the lakefront.” This was definitely said loud enough for Devon to hear, and Hannah focused on the fists in her lap as an even hotter blush covered the one already there. Her blouse clung wetly to her back in the uncomfortably hot room. You didn’t goof around about art theft in front of a Wickham. Jesus, what if it got back to Harrison? Moore and Morrow would be wiped off the map.
Someone directly behind her asked about timelines, and Hannah caught corporate-speak like “six-phase rollout” and “union issues,” but her mind was in turmoil, and she hadn’t stopped trembling since catching sight of him. She had to get out of here, or she’d go ballistic on his ass. The stifling humidity, his surreptitious glances at her, the air of impatience emanating off Gretchen to hear the details of this train wreck in her life… She was suffocating. “Let’s go. I’ve heard enough,” she muttered, rising from the chair an inch to retrieve her coat.
Gretch yanked her back down. “No way. See how he keeps looking at you? He’s totally coming over here after this. Damn, he’s hot. I can’t believe you dated him.”
“Gretch, he’s engaged—”
Devon cleared his throat, drowning out the last word. “If there are any further questions, please feel free to call or email Peter. We have handouts by the door with our numbered phases, and I believe his contact information is there too.” He glanced at Peter, who nodded once.
“Meet you outside,” Hannah said under her breath, and darted up the aisle, ignoring the grunts and “hey!”s as she pushed through the mass standing in back.
She’d cleared the door and ten feet of grassless playground when strong fingers gripped her upper arm and whirled her around. Her thick ponytail whipped in her face, and she clawed it back. Her panting breath misted the evening air as she glared at Devon. Once again he stood way too close, darkly handsome, and furious in the moonlight. She yanked her arm free and stepped away, fighting the primitive urge to beat her fists against his chest.
He leaned right back in, head cocked. “I belong in hell?”
“The seventh fucking circle,” she spat. Cripes! When she dropped the f–bomb, she was seriously out of control. He waved off someone behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. A security guard. The man stood uncertainly, and Hannah almost laughed that someone considered her a threat.
“It’s okay, I know her,” Devon called, then crossed his arms and studied her under knotted brows. “I didn’t know you were a tenant,” he said in a low voice.
“Fourteen A, Kraft Street. Would it’ve made a difference?”
“Not in the long run. But we could have talked it through at lunch.”
“Yes!” She puffed out a fake laugh and threw her arms up. “Instead, we shadowboxed around every subject about you. You’ve never been able to communicate, Devon.”
He raked a hand through his hair. Several disheveled tufts stayed up, infuriatingly adorable. “I’m trying to communicate right now, and you’re running away.”
“I’m not running! I’m tired, and I’m going home.”
“Even your friends think so.”
Hannah heard them jogging up behind her. She was their boss; she had to act like one. She stiffened her spine. “All right, Devon. What do you want to say?”
A screech of tires peeling down the block stopped his reply, and he glanced over at the noise. In the dull streetlight, his chiseled profile looked exhausted and strained. He swiveled back with a sigh. “Look, Hannah, it’s been a rough day for both of us. Would you like to get a drink with me before I head to the airport?”
Airport? Her heart betrayed her by squeezing painfully. She ignored it and held on to her anger. Good riddance! He was the corporate giant behind all her problems. A man with boatloads of money, probably a huge place to live, and that still wasn’t enough. “No. I would not like to get a drink with you.”
“And by no,” Gretch said brightly, “she means yes.”
“I mean no. I’m too busy finding a place to live.”
Those beautiful brows locked even tighter. Gretchen exhaled one short, harsh breath—friend-speak for “you’re an idiot.” Bernice was just arriving, out of breath. Oddly, Smart-mouth Sean stood off to the side, looking on in silence. The vise around her heart tightened as Devon stepped back. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry about all this, Hannah. It’s just business.”
“So tossing people out on the street is just business?”
He paused a second too long. “In the real world.”
Her upper lip quivered from the effort of holding in her emotions. It stilted her retort. “You’ve turned into quite a corporate monster.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
“Do you know your sister is on meds for serious depression and mumbles to herself?” she yelled. “Do you know Joseph is being blamed for the fire? Do you care about any of us at all?”
His jaw tightened and he glared down at her. “I cared enough to just invite you for a drink, Hannah. Your move.”
She couldn’t go. Sweet Jesus, how she wanted to. Have the last glimpse of him be the charming Devon from lunch. But she needed to hold on to this fury. He was about to walk out of her life again, and only rage would stop her from crumbling into a sobbing heap. Stupefying that her heart adored him while her mind despised him. God, she was so tired!
His lips shaped a syllable, then flattened back out as he shook his head. Shrugged. “It was a real pleasure reconnecting again.”
Her mouth slackened. While her heart had raced all day, even when she wasn’t with him, this was just “reconnecting.” A real pleasure. Just business.
“What?” His tone resembled a plea.
If she uttered a word she’d burst into tears, so she shrugged too. The man she wanted, the man she’d waited years for, was only in her fantasies. So stupid. So much wasted time.
He glanced at her friends, as if trying to find help there. Finally he lifted a hand in a weary wave and turned away.
He made it three yards before she found her backbone. She spoke softly to the boy she’d once known, the line she would’ve said that rainy night if she’d had an ounce of maturity and benevolence. “I hope you find happiness, Dev.”
Amid all the noise of departing neighbors, he couldn’t possibly have heard, but he halted mid-stride; his breath streamed out in a long mist. She gripped herself around the waist, silently pleading for him to turn around. To hug her good-bye and reassure her she still had a home.
She counted two more misty breaths before he began walking again. She tracked his long, even stride until he disappeared in the crowd. Salty tears blurred her vision. Too many emotions pummeled her, too fast to sort through, except for the familiar heartache; staying furious hadn’t kept it at bay. Like déjà vu, she felt the devastation as deeply as a love-struck teen.
“Tomorrow night,” Gretchen hissed, “when you’re listening to some dweeb Internet date blather on, I hope you remember how tonight could’ve ended.”
Hannah swallowed a lump the size of a grapefruit. She swiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and swiveled to face them. “He’s engaged, Gretch.” She shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t.
“Bullshit,” Sean retorted.
“What?”
“He’s not engaged.”
Her mouth hung open at the audacity in his tone. “Google it, Sean.”
“Then his future wife has a real problem on her hands. No guy looks at a woman the way he looked at you, and loves someone else.”
“I agree.” Bernice thrust the rolled-up poster at Hannah. “Here. A souvenir for your night of triumph.”
“Bernice, this was far from triumph.” Hannah’s voice cracked on the last word.
“You spoke up, sweetie. You said your piece.”
Oh, Bernice, how will I ever fire you?
Sean nodded in the direction Devon had disappeared. “You should’ve gone for that drink.” He flashed the back of two fingers—half salute, half gang sign. “Come on, Bernice. I’ll take you home.” Within seconds, they blended into the crowd as well.
“Convince me not to fire that guy.”
Gretch slipped her arm through Hannah’s. “You don’t let anyone go—that’s your problem. Besides, he’s our best employee, and I may have a crush on him. I haven’t made up my mind.” She pulled gently. “Let’s go to your place and drink lots of wine while you tell me everything.”
Hannah bonelessly let herself be pulled through the playground. As they crossed the street, up reared that odd twist of emotions again. She loved Devon, and hated him. She wished she’d never met him, and wished she’d said yes to that drink. Mostly she wished this godforsaken day would end.
Chapter 13
“I just want this fucking day over with,” Devon barked, bouncing through a pothole at the entrance to the tiny Chicago Executive Airport. He scanned the area for a car return sign.
Through the Bluetooth earbud, Eric grunted an acknowledgment. “How’d the community gathering go?”
Devon opened his mouth. I hope you find happiness, Dev. The look on Hannah’s face. Her anger. If she’d slapped him, he’d have been less surprised. Hannah didn’t get angry. She hated conflict. And he was fifty shades of shit to have been so stirred by those snapping green eyes, and how that tilted chin arched her slim neck. Her red-hot intensity had burned straight to his soul, stoking a need he’d thought he’d put out long ago. He shook his head. Christ, he could have handled their good-bye with so much more dignity than his pathetic plea to get a drink.
“It went fine,” he lied. It was one of the worst meetings he’d ever conducted. Once he realized Hannah was there, his attention had strayed back to her again and again. Gawking. Stunned. Enthralled.
His thumbs drummed the steering wheel. Men who were engaged to the perfect woman didn’t obsess over their high school sweethearts. “I got there late,” he continued, shutting the preoccupation down. “It was spiraling into a bloodbath. O’Callaghan was all but pissing in his pants.”
“Hmm. That’ll teach you to leave him alone for thirty seconds. Listen, Kevin came through on Wesley O’Brien.”
Finally. Something to refocus him. “And?”
“Typical Ivy League background. The right connections from Daddy landed him a junior VP position with Wickham Corporation seve
n years ago. How he climbed the ladder to the point where your father is grooming him to take control is beyond Kevin or me, but bottom line, there’s nothing suspicious there.”
Devon parked in the empty rental return lot. His head throbbed. “Every angle is a dead end.”
“Focusing on your father’s motivation is a complete waste of time. How do we stop this takeover?”
“By understanding Harrison’s mind games,” he answered impatiently. “He uses his wealth to shove people around their own lives like chess pieces.”
A hundred yards away, the sleek Gulfstream sat on the tarmac, cockpit door open, golden light spilling out into the night. Manhattan was just a few hours away. He should be more relieved. But deep in his gut, no matter what he felt for his father, a part of him wanted to return to the mansion.
Joseph being blamed for arson? Frannie on pills? Mumbling? He frowned. Was she spiraling back into that dangerous depression from her teen years? And how did Hannah know all this? Her project had started three days ago. He’d been back for two. “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “Maybe I should stay.”
“And how will that help us?” Eric sounded just as tired and impatient. “Just get back here and deal with Westcott and Tucker face to face.”
Devon stayed inside the running car without replying. Something urged him to turn around; he couldn’t put a finger on it. His mind flashed on the anguish in Hannah’s accusing eyes. No, that wasn’t it.
“Dude. Tell me you’re at the airport and getting on the plane.”
Devon heaved a sigh and killed the engine. “I’m at the airport and getting on the plane.”
“Cheese ’n’ rice…that makes me so mad,” Aunt Milly yelled, as loudly as an eighty-seven-year-old could with emphysema and a whooshing nasal cannula in her nostrils.
Gretch pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking, and Hannah threw her a warning glance. She’d have been amused by the “swearing” too, if she wasn’t so worried about how anger compromised her great-aunt’s breathing.
