by Tia Louise
Table of Contents
One to Chase (One to Hold, #7)
Copyright
Chapter 1: Family Favor
Chapter 2: Surprises
Chapter 3: Reconnecting
Chapter 4: Professionals
Chapter 5: Old Friends
Chapter 6: Ghosts and Memories
Chapter 7: Deep Background
Chapter 8: Lawyer Bites
Chapter 9: No Strings
Chapter 10: On a Boat
Chapter 11: The Signal
Chapter 12: Collections
Chapter 13: Whispers and Wishes
Chapter 14: Surprise Guest
Chapter 15: Gala Explosion
Chapter 16: Aftermath
Chapter 17: Full Tilt
Chapter 18: Green Light
Chapter 19: Letting Go
Chapter 20: Settling Scores
Chapter 21: Flying
Chapter 22: Home
Epilogue
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Thank you for reading!
Extra! Extra!
Books by Tia Louise
Acknowledgments
Exclusive Sneak Peek
Exclusive Sneak Peek
About the Author
Further Reading: One to Leave
One to Chase
By Tia Louise
* * *
~ Marcus & Amy ~
Paris fashions,
Chicago nightlife,
Secrets and lies...
Welcome to the North Side.
Marcus Merritt doesn't chase women. He doesn't have to. But when the spirited and sexy blonde who left him wanting more shows up in his office looking for work, little things like the rules seem ready to be rewritten.
Amy Knight is smart, ambitious, and back home in Chicago to care for her mother. A courtesy meeting with one of the top lawyers in the city should be a boost to her career...
Until the polished green-eyed player turns out to be the same irresistible “random” she hooked up with at a friend's wedding in Wilmington. Bonus: He's the brother of her older brother's new wife. What the hell?!
Who's chasing whom? It all depends on the day. Or the night.
A STAND-ALONE, ONE TO HOLD NOVEL. Contemporary/Erotic Romance: Due to strong language and sexual content, this book is not intended for readers under the age of 18. #SexyLawyer
Copyright
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
One to Chase
Copyright © Tia Louise, 2015
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design by Steven Novak, Novak Illustration
Photography by Lauren Perry, Perrywinkle Photography
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.
For Mr. TL, my sexy lawyer.
And for everyone wanting more.
Chapter 1: Family Favor
Marcus
Leaning my head back against the door, a hoarse groan scrapes from my throat. “Fuck, yeah.” My eyes clench shut as the blonde head bobs faster on my cock, shooting currents of pleasure down my legs.
Shit.
Sidebar.
Okay, just for the record, blowjobs in the men’s room of five-star restaurants are not my usual lunchtime routine.
I’m not twenty-one, and I prefer the comforts of my penthouse condominium to blocking a narrow wooden doorway with my thousand-dollar loafers. Digital surround-sound speakers provide a far superior backdrop to kitchen noise, and when we’re done, we can share a glass of expensive wine before I call a car to drive her home.
My balls tighten in response to her rapid pumping. Her hand flies up, down, and over my dick. Paige Goldfarb is working me like a pro, and I thank the magic of the Internet for teaching our society gals how to give superior head.
Actually, that’s not correct. I know as well as anyone where Paige acquired her skills.
“Mmm,” she hums around my shaft as she pulls me deep, all the way down, the back of her throat closing around my tip.
“Fuck, that’s good.” A lock of shiny blonde hair has fallen onto her cheek, and I slide it back, gently touching her face. My knees are liquid.
So if this isn’t my usual routine, what the devil am I doing?
Glad you asked.
What’s happening right now is called Payback.
Not against Paige, mind you, against someone else. I’ll explain more when I’m not attempting to enjoy myself. Payback has no gag reflex, it appears. Hold that thought while I ride this one out.
“Yes,” I hiss. “I’m about to come.”
Her head bobs faster, and I feel my balls drawing up. Just then she pops out and gives them a teasing suck, her hand flying up and down my shaft. Shit shit. Teabagging.
My jaw tightens as I grind out, “Here comes.”
Just like that, she’s back on my cock, sucking me off like a damn Hoover. I can’t hold back, and she’s not stopping. With a shuddering groan I let go, and she goes all the way, her lips touch my torso. I shoot straight down her throat, again and again.
That’s one way to spare my Armani slacks.
The thought makes me laugh weakly as I exhale a deep breath. “Shit, girl. I’m pretty sure I saw stars just then.”
My back is against the door of the single-serve men’s room at The Q—Chicago’s finest lakefront restaurant—and no, this is not on the menu in case you were wondering.
Paige rises in one fluid movement and steps over to the lavatory. She’s tall and willowy, and I watch as she opens her clutch with slim, perfectly manicured hands to remove a rectangular plastic box.
“Tic tac?” A glance back, and a slim brow rises over one of her clear blue eyes.
Pulling my grey slacks up, I take a moment to fasten my alligator belt. “I’m good, thanks.”
As I said, this is payback for me, but I have no idea what our naughty little rendezvous means to Paige. This newly minted heiress is smart, and I’m sure she’ll use what we just did to her advantage.
“Who are you having lunch with?” I ask, watching her glide nude-pink lipstick over her slightly swollen lips.
“Karen,” she says, stepping to the door.
Karen Philpot is not a newly minted heiress. She’s as old money as they come, and a possible motive unfolds slowly in my mind. As a lawyer, it’s my job to read people, after all.
“No wonder you followed me in here.” I’m only half sarcastic. Karen is also the sjudgiest trust-fund baby on Riverside Drive.
Paige stops at the door before leaving and gives me a wink. “I’ll be in touch, Marcus.”
“I look forward to it.”
With that, she’s out the door. I only wait two seconds before following her. Remember, I had a reason for not stopping what just happened here. Well, that and my suspicion a former stripper-turned-heiress would give one hell of a hummer. (I was right, by the way.)
And now you know.
Or do I need to explain further?
Before Paige Goldfarb became the latest addition to the Chicago elite, she was the highest-paid stripper at VIP’s, which none of my upstanding married
male-friends are supposed to know. (All of them do.)
This is not judgment you’re hearing from me. I’m no Philpot. I admire Paige’s entrepreneurial spirit, and trust me, she was something to see working that pole.
Out of the blue, a long-lost relative died leaving her the owner in full of the second-largest cosmetics company in the world—I won’t say which one out of respect for her privacy—and just like that, she went from ringing our bells after hours to sounding the closing bell at the Board of Trade.
Life is funny, isn’t it?
Following her back into the dining room, my eyes drift from her ass down her long legs. Paige has great taste. She’s wearing nude Michael Kors pumps that flex her calves attractively as she walks. Her slim hips swish under knee-length navy matte-jersey, and I consider asking her to dinner.
I’m about to catch her arm, when just like that, a ghost floats through my mind to shut it all down. Paige is mentally pushed aside by a girl with long blonde hair, green-hazel eyes, straight white teeth... A mohair vest I shoved open roughly to reveal a soft breast... Easy access to her hot, clenching center through the high slits in her skirt.
I called her a baby. She called me an old man—it still makes me chuckle. She challenged me to a drinking contest then she rocked me like a hurricane. My lower stomach tightens at the memory.
She tasted like cinnamon and expensive vodka, and she felt like fucking heaven. I’d planned to spend the rest of the night getting to know her better, repeating what we’d done spectacularly in the private billiards room, but she disappeared without a word. Left me high and dry with a bottle of champagne waiting in my suite. Amy...
A pang of... something tweaks in my chest, but I shake it away. My jaw tightens against the persistent memory. Two weeks she’s been haunting my dreams, and it is not like me. I don’t allow past memories to spoil future good times.
Lack of closure is all it is, failure to put a period on the end of that sentence. It’ll pass with time, and I’m not in want for opportunity, as you can see.
I glance to my left and my satisfaction is complete: Payback.
Troy Cox is glaring at me with ice in his eyes and murder on his mind. He’s having lunch with another old-Chicago asshole, his law partner Roland Dickerson, and his eyes are blazing with anger. I give him a superior lip twitch.
Yes, Cocksucker. What you’re imagining is exactly what just happened.
Paige steps away, returning to her table, and the look on Troy’s face is priceless. He’s so pissed, he’s turning pink. I want to laugh out loud, but I won’t embarrass Paige.
See? I’m not such a bad guy, and I know you’re wondering why he’s on my list.
Let me explain.
Troy “Cocksucker” Cox was new blood in Chicago the same time as me, six years ago, and while I worked my ass off to establish a first-class client list and a respectable place in the hierarchy, he proceeded to fuck every single heiress in a ten-mile radius. He was a total bastard about it too, trust me. Still is, from what I understand.
I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just give you two words: John Mayer. Getting the idea? He even looks like the guy.
So once Troy made a pariah of himself, he realized he’d have to work for a living. None of that matters to me. I don’t hold peoples’ pasts against them. Everybody’s entitled to make mistakes. Until two weeks ago. Yes, the same time I met the sexy ghost—you’re quick.
Cocksucker went after my top client while I was out of town at the wedding of a close friend. That slick motherfucker took Charles Rimmel, the Charles Rimmel, to dinner at Longman and Eagle, as if I wouldn’t find out about it.
Janice, the world’s greatest secretary who also happens to be mine, is friends with the maître d’s at several of Chicago’s top restaurants, and she gets the heads up whenever one of my clients dines with the competition.
A shit-ton of whiskey was consumed that night, and I’d been trying to work out a way to pay Cox’s sorry ass back when the lovely Paige walked through that mahogany restroom door moments ago.
I turned around, and the look on her face said she had her own agenda. Her agenda was my revenge. Cocksucker’s been bragging how he was going to bag Goldfarb since she first stepped a black stiletto onto North Dearborn. Now the victor has been named, and it’s me.
Are you surprised the politics of Chicago’s upper class are so jaded?
You shouldn’t be.
Shit like this has been going on since the first courtesan traded the first kingly blowjob for an estate in Venice all the way back to the fourteen hundreds. Hell, it’s been going on longer than that. Ever heard of Bathsheba?
“That took long enough.” Evan Cole, my associate and right hand, leans back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. “Did I see Paige Goldfarb ahead of you looking like the cat who ate the canary?”
“More like who deep-throated it.” I mutter, leaning forward to take the last hit off my vodka.
He exhales a laugh. “Shit, Marcus, I hope you tapped that. Her body is fucking killer.”
“It is,” I cut him off. “Intercourse, however, was not a part of that transaction. Are you finished? We’ve got our phone conference at two.”
He tosses his cloth napkin beside his plate. “Done and paid for.”
“Good work.” I stand and only cast one final dominant smirk towards Troy before we’re headed to the door. You’ll always swim in my wake, Cocksucker.
Our offices are on the East Loop, an easy walk from the restaurant. Out on the street, we head south to cross the river. My associate has his phone in hand, and an article on the Wall Street Journal website crosses my mind.
“Enjoy these business lunches while they last,” I casually observe. “Apparently they’re going the way of the dinosaur. Your generation doesn’t have time for power deals over martinis.”
He glances up. “I don’t remember voting on that at our annual meeting.”
I laugh. “Damn Millennials. Established cafés all over New York are shutting down as a result.”
“New York is not Chicago.” His phone is back in his pocket, and I remember why Evan and I instantly clicked. He’s an old soul. “And our firm doesn’t follow the rules. We rewrite them.”
“We are pretty independent.” Our building near the corner of Wacker and Michigan comes into view, and I shift us back to planning mode. “Any final thoughts on McGruder?”
In our pending conference, I plan to shut down an over-eager prosecutor set on destroying my second top client for insider trading. Evan’s a smart young lawyer, even if his arguments are obvious. He’s learning fast, and he gets points for finding the arguments himself.
“The accusation alone will do more damage—” My phone buzzes, and I hold up a finger as I take it from my breast pocket.
“Hold that thought.” Only one group of individuals is allowed to interrupt me mid-meeting. My little sister never calls, but I just saw her at the wedding. “Elaine? Everything okay?”
“Marcus!” Her voice is loud and cheerful. I relax. “Hope you’re not busy?”
“Actually, I’m right in the middle of—”
“I won’t keep you but a second. I need a favor.”
Evan’s face is confused, but family comes first. “Make it quick.”
“Patrick’s little sister just moved back to Chicago, and she’s looking for a job.”
“Is she an attorney?”
“She’s in public relations, marketing...”
“We don’t need a public relations person.”
“I didn’t mean for you to hire her.” We’re getting closer to the office, and I glance at my watch. One-fifty. “You know everyone in Chicago. I figured you could introduce her around, help her transition, meet the top brass.”
“Lainey, I really don’t have time right now. If you’ll call Janice and get her on my calendar, I’ll see if I can fit her in.”
“That’s all I needed to hear! Thanks, Marc!” She’s so upbeat, I can’t help a sm
ile.
“How’s Lane?” Her little son has become her favorite topic of discussion in the last two years.
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe. He’s passed through the truck phase, and now he actually wants to paint! It’s amazing!”
“He’s a smart guy. Women love artists.” Evan pushes through the double glass doors, his mouth lined as he watches me making small talk. I know he’s right. We’ve got to finish planning. “Hey, I’m sorry, sis. I’ve really got to go.”
She exhales a laugh. “And now you know why I never wanted to be a lawyer. Careful you don’t wake up and find your life has passed you by.”
Shaking my head, I head for the elevator. “You would have made a fantastic lawyer, and I love my job.” End of discussion.
“Thanks for helping out.”
“I look forward to meeting you new little sister-in-law.”
“Oh! Don’t call her that. She’s very independent.”
“I will not call her your little sister-in-law. What do I call her?”
“I think she goes by Amalie now.”
“Fancy. Have her touch base with Janice.”
She sings out another thank you, and it’s the last thing I hear before disconnecting.
* * *
Amy
Pulling the coffee pod from the box, I drop it into the machine before sliding my mug in place and hitting the button.
“I don’t need Elaine’s older brother doing favors for me,” I grumble. The very idea makes me want to hurl. “I used to live here, remember?”
Sylvia (my mother) joins me in the kitchen already immaculately dressed in dark, form-fitted jeans and an oversized, white button-up blouse. Light-brown hair streaked with silver is clutched at the back of her neck, and her signature double-strand of chunky pearls peeks out of her open collar.
“I know, but pretend you do.” She smiles revealing straight white teeth. “Elaine wants to bond with you as a sister.”
“Sylvia,” I exhale loudly.
“Amalie,” she teases, using my full name. “Hold your own in a different battle.”
“You missed your calling, dear,” I kiss her head before sitting across from her at the small table. “You should’ve been an ambassador.”
