One to Chase (One to Hold #7)

by Tia Louise

  “It’s okay.” I give her mother a little smile.

  I’m back in the present, far from the crazy, and I remember why I walked over here. Stepping through the doors, I scan the maze of low, glass cases filled with various designs and selections of gemstones.

  A light, polished voice greets me. “May I help you, Miss?”

  “Yes,” I nod at the older man dressed in a dark suit. “I’m looking for a gift for my mother.”

  “Something in jewelry or accessories? We have a lovely Dégradé scarf in a fog silk and cashmere blend—”

  “I was thinking jewelry. A sort-of thank-you slash mother’s day gift.”

  “Of course. Right this way.” Across the glass cases from me, he moves through the maze, and I follow, stopping when he does. “The new Paloma Picasso collection has an olive branch design that’s very popular.”

  My lips curl in a smile. “I’m not sure I need to extend the olive branch just yet.”

  “And I’m sure you never will.” He smiles back, and I appreciate his gentle tease. “Elsa Peretti has this sterling Cabochon ring many women find playful.”

  I lift the chunky ring featuring a heart-shaped black jade and slide it onto my finger. “Hmm... it’s probably more my style than hers.”

  “Of course. She’s more Carolina Herrera.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I think I have just the thing.”

  He steps away, and as I wait, my mind drifts to the spring runway shows, the sheer floral-inspired prints, bright yellows, flowing corals, and swirling violets. I’m transported to a time before a certain man appeared and upended my neatly ordered life.

  I was in control in Paris. Chicago puts me off, makes me feel vulnerable. I need to leave this city. New York crosses my mind, but I brush it away. I’m here for Sylvia. She’s the reason I came back. I need to talk to her, make the past right.

  “Is this a possibility?” On the black velvet, he places a stunning Venezia Goldoni heart pearl ring cast in rose gold.

  “Oh!” My breath catches. “It’s perfect.”

  “Give me a moment to box it for you.”

  My work here is done. The tsunami in my chest has eased. I hand over my card, and I slip the pale turquoise box tied in a silky white bow into my bag. Tomorrow, I’ll finish my job with Marcus and move on to my next client. The end.

  Chapter 12: Collections

  Marcus

  My associate sips his coffee as he leans against my office doorjamb. Since the incident yesterday, I’ve dedicated myself fully to Fieldinghouse, blocking out my irritation over shit I can’t control. When I’m not at work, I contemplate all the other things I can be doing besides Amy Knight.

  “Bad news about McGruder,” Evan says.

  Reaching up, I pull off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, glad to direct my attention away from wastewater. “Something we can’t handle?”

  “CPA’s assistant dated an owner at Frank Metropolitan before the sale went through.”

  Shit. “How long?” Snatching up my Mont Blanc, I quickly make notes on the legal pad to my right.

  “It had only just started, but they were photographed around town. They attended the Joffrey Ballet gala in September. It made the paper.”

  “Shit.” My mind is filtering through the possible arguments. “How long has she been an employee?”

  “Three years.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I toss the pen onto my desk. I’m sure my frown mirrors my associate’s. “How’d you find out?”

  “Campbell, of course. That jackhole is gloating so hard, I’m surprised we can’t hear him from across the river.”

  “Don’t answer it yet.” Glasses on, I flip through the thick reference volume in front of me, searching for a name. “Make a phone call first.”

  The staccato click-click of heels I’ve been trying not to listen for all morning echoes in the hallway. Fixing my eyes on the page in front of me, I tamp down my reaction to her presence.

  “Good morning, Evan.” Amy’s soft voice fans the smoldering anger in my chest.

  She doesn’t stop, and when my associate turns back to me, I can feel his eyes monitoring my response.

  I flip a page, still searching, and he finally speaks. “What’s the latest on that situation?”

  A quick glance over my frames, a quick eyebrow flick, and I’m back to scanning the tiny font. “What situation?”

  He steps forward toward my desk, and his voice drops. “Don’t bluff me. I heard you two in here last week. Sounded pretty fucking hot.”

  Shit. Clearing my throat, I don’t look up this time. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Sarcasm drips in his reply. “Whatever, Marc.”

  I drop the book and stand, going to the shelf holding my bar association journals. “Do you remember the speaker from last year’s spring conference? He did a few panels on insider trading.”

  “Bryant Kelly?”

  Snapping my fingers, I point at him. “Give him a call, tell him you’re my associate. Get his advice.”

  “Good thinking.” Evan nods, and heads for the door. He pauses before leaving. “Stick with her. You make a good team.”

  “You know I don’t do commitment.” Rounding the desk, I pause before sitting. “Also, I’ve heard she’s a runner.”

  “Well, shit, Marcus. Chase her.”

  I don’t growl a response. Instead I’m back to business. “I want you to take the lead on this case. I’m here if you need me, but it’s yours. Make your mark.”

  “Got it. I’ll keep you in the loop.” Evan is gone less than five minutes when our bubbly receptionist interrupts me.

  “Mr. Merritt?”

  I’m so tense, I almost swear at the brunette pixie standing in my doorway, but I don’t. No use taking my shitty mood out on everyone.

  “Yes, Charity.”

  “There’s a Paige Goldfarb here to see you.” She hesitates, and I feel like the rug just got pulled. “She says she has an appointment, but it’s not on my calendar. What should I do?”

  Paige? As if this day could get any more unexpected. “It’s fine.” I stand and go to the door. “I’ll show her back.”

  Charity leads me to the front where Paige is standing in the anteroom, looking ready to fight. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a fuchsia pantsuit with what appears to be a black leotard-cami under the jacket. On her feet are strappy black heels. She the model of stripper-turned-kickass heiress, and I won’t lie, while Amy consumes my desires, Paige is fucking hot.

  “Paige.” I smile and extend my hand.

  Her posture relaxes, and she immediately moves to where I’m standing, giving me a shake. “Marcus, thanks for seeing me on short notice. We need to talk.”

  “This way.” I step to the side and hold the door for her. Thank god I’m used to strong women. The only feelings I have at this moment are curiosity mixed with a dash of gratitude for the distraction.

  She steps through the door into the hallway and waits for me to lead her back to my office. I nod and pass her. Amy’s standing at the other end of the hall facing us, and I’m a bastard, but her startled expression almost makes me smile. Are you worried, beautiful?

  Inside my office, Paige wastes no time getting to the point. “I said you’d be hearing from me. It’s time.”

  Pushing back in my chair, I cross an ankle over my knee and assess her demeanor. She’s not anxious or desperate, which isn’t good. She’s calm, and I know I’m not getting out of this easily. Or at all. I decide to do a little fishing.

  “Time for...?” My brow lines as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Merritt.” Paige leans back in her leather chair across from my desk, crossing her own ankle over her knee. “You’ll disappoint me. Everyone’s told me you’re a smart guy.”

  Touché, Miss Hotness. Scooting forward, I rest my forearms on the desk. “What exactly did you have in mind?”


  “Well, sadly, it’s like this.” She’s cool as a cucumber. “Karen Philpot has taken it into her empty head—which is normally lodged solidly up her ass—to ruin me because apparently I gave her fiancé a lap dance or I sucked him off back in the day. God, who can even remember all that?”

  A sly grin curves Paige’s slim lips, and her blue eyes twinkle. I can tell she enjoys getting under Karen’s skin, but that doesn’t explain why she’s here.

  I’m game, so I ask the obvious question. It’s my job, after all. “What the fuck do you care about Karen Philpot?”

  “Honestly?” She inhales deeply, lowering her foot to the floor. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what Karen Philpot does. I don’t care what half the hypocritical assholes in this town think.”

  “Then why—”

  “But...” Her eyebrows rise, and this is where she shows the smarts that made her the highest paid stripper back in the day. “I intend to get married at some point—and not to Ricky Bobby. I intend to have children. And I won’t have them treated like trash.”

  “You’re worried about being black balled?” My brow lines. “Move to another city. What about New York? Hell, you’d probably love it there, and I’m sure New York would love you.”

  “Chicago is my home. My mother’s here.” She looks at a well-manicured hand before cutting those ice-blue eyes to me. “And I’ll be damned if I let Karen Philpot bully me.”

  I can understand that at least. A deep inhale, and I’m ready to hear the worst. “So what do you want from me?”

  A smile lifts her cheek. “It seems you’re the Newland Archer of the Near North side.”

  I confess, I’m surprised she’s acquainted with Edith Wharton. Much less knows how to use the literary reference. “It’s a bunch of bullshit. I don’t wield that kind of power.”

  “Whatever, Marcus. I agree it’s bullshit. That doesn’t make it inaccurate.” She sits straighter. “You’re going to help me.”

  I’m pissed that I feel trapped. I didn’t ask her to follow me into that bathroom. I didn’t tell her to put my dick in her mouth. Still, it was so sweet seeing Cocksucker’s cheeks pink with rage, knowing I’d gotten a five-star hummer from the woman he’d been stalking. I do owe her.

  “How.” It’s not a question.

  “It’s shockingly easy. Apparently the one thing that can trump Karen’s bitch schemes is the seal of approval from one of you males, and apparently you’re the top dog in the bachelor kennel.”

  “You want me to take out a full-page ad in the Tribune?”

  “Don’t patronize me. Nobody reads the paper anymore.” I watch as she slides a platinum strand off her cheek and behind her ear. “We’ll, quote, date for a little while until everyone’s decided I’m acceptable—or until some new target comes along to make them forget me—then we go our separate ways. The end.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  Her fingers steeple, and she studies the shape. “Of course, it will have to seem real. I know because of your work I can trust you to keep this confidential.”

  “You mean attorney-client privilege? You’re not my client.”

  Crystal eyes cut to mine. “In this situation, I could be. You’ve even been paid.”

  I almost laugh. “Nice try. I could be disbarred accepting sexual favors as payment. Possibly jailed.”

  “Then we won’t tell anyone.” Her hands lower, and instead of a threat, I see teasing in her eyes.

  I decide to tease right back. “For a minute that sounded like blackmail.”

  “How negatively you think of me. I’m only asking for your word.” An exaggerated sigh. “Come on, Marcus. I’m not that bad.”

  Jaw clenched, I lean back again. “No, you’re not. It’s just shitty timing. I’m sort of... seeing someone.”

  “I’m sorry my problems don’t fit your busy schedule.”

  “Paige—”

  “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do.” Her eyes return to her nails. “If you can come up with a better idea, I’m all ears. I’m seeing someone I like as well, and if he finds out about all this shit... I’ll tell him eventually, of course. If I decide he’s worth it.”

  We’re quiet a moment, and I think about Karen. She’s such a fucking cunt. Then I think about Amy. She won’t understand. Not that I owe her an explanation after the way she’s acted, slamming all the doors shut in my face. Anger sparks in my chest anew. She said she wanted space, not me.

  Then I think about the woman sitting before me, asking this bizarre favor.

  “Why did you do it?” Her brows rise, and I clarify. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’re smart. Why go the porn route?”

  Her expression relaxes into a smart grin, and dammit. I’m so fucking right. Paige is legitimately gorgeous. She could’ve done anything she chose.

  “I appreciate your saying I’m smart.” She takes a breath and studies the book on my desk. “The truth is, I’m dyslexic.”

  “Dyslexic.” I filter through what I know. “I’m not up on learning disabilities, but I’m pretty sure schools have programs for that.”

  “I didn’t come from a privileged background.” She turns her palm up and opens it, then closes it into a fist. “Hell, Marcus, I came from a trailer park. A single mom raised me. She didn’t know how to get help for me. Shit, she probably had the same disability.”

  “So...” I’m trying to think of a diplomatic way to say it. “You did poorly in school?”

  “I flunked out. When I was sixteen I just said fuck it and walked away, started doing whatever I could to make money.”

  An entirely different light is shed on Paige Goldfarb. She’s not just gorgeous, she’s a fucking survivor, and she wants something better for her life. Even more, she wants something better for her kids.

  She wants the American dream, and so far she’s close to getting it—if not for bigoted trust-fund hypocrites more concerned with exclusivity than fidelity.

  We’re sitting, facing each other, and she’s waiting for my answer. God dammit, I’m going to help her. And damn it again, she’s right. I won’t be able to tell anyone about this—including Amy.

  My jaw is tight, and my forearms rest on my desk. “When do we start?”

  * * *

  Amy

  The woman following Marcus into his office is stunning. I don’t recognize her from the old Chicago group, but she clearly has money. A tinge of something I don’t like moves across my chest. I refuse to call it jealousy—especially after our discussion yesterday. I won’t call it an argument, even though Marcus was clearly pissed with me.

  So what if I’m hacking into the office server to check his calendar? I’m not stalking. I’m curious, that’s all.

  He doesn’t have anything scheduled for this morning, so it must be a personal visit. Leaning forward in my chair, I try to peek down the hall when my phone goes off. I scream and cover my mouth quickly.

  Snatching it up, I slide a finger across the face. “What is it?”

  “Damn, girl, bitch much?” C.J.’s voice feels too loud for my snooping, so I cross the conference room to slide the glass doors closed.

  “Sorry, you caught me off-guard.”

  “Banging the sizzling-hot lawyer you ditched me for Friday?”

  “You said not to worry about you.” I walk to the conference table that doubles as my desk, my back to the doors.

  “I love how you have such a phonographic memory when I’m being ironic.”

  “Is phonographic memory a thing? I’m pretty sure you made it up.”

  I can practically see C.J.’s hand wave through the line. “Whatever. Are you his secretary? Have you broken in his desk yet?”

  As a matter of fact I did. A flash of what we did in Marcus’s office twice heats my entire body. “I’m the firm’s contract PR person,” I say with finality. “Strictly business.”

  “You owe me some catch-up time. I demand a date-night do-over.”

  Chewing the side of my lip, that’s prob
ably not a bad idea if I’m trying to reestablish my footing. Distance, distraction, these are good things, especially when I find myself acting like a jealous girlfriend over a guy I just asked to give me space. God, I’m a mess.

  “Okay, text me the deets, and I’ll meet you.”

  “Yeah, you will!” C.J. is laughing, and I’m sure his voice is audible in the room. “And you’re going to tell me everything. Marcus Merritt is one hot piece of—”

  Man standing in my office! I jump, ending the call at the speed of light.

  “I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” His brow is lined, and I can’t tell if he heard that last bit.

  “Of course not! What’s up?” My voice is too high. I’m acting suspicious.

  His sexy-hazel eyes meet mine, and my insides clench. Dammit. I’m supposed to be finding my feet, not drooling over how hot he is or remembering how many times he made me come over the weekend.

  “I have to cancel that gala invitation.”

  Disappointment? Seriously, Amy? I am not disappointed by what he just said.

  “No problem! I completely understand!”

  The same flash of anger I saw yesterday flickers in his eyes, and guilt bubbles in my chest.

  “You understand.” His voice is short, and I clasp my now-trembling hands.

  At the same time... Hold the phone. Shouldn’t I be the angry one in this scenario? He hasn’t given me any reason why he’s suddenly taking back an invitation he extended only a week ago to an event he claimed he’d forgotten.

  Oh my god. I am truly insane.

  “I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, remember?” I blink a smile and he gives me a tight, completely insincere smile in response.

  “Right. Well, I’m sorry for the change in plans.”

  The muscle in his jaw flexes. His hands are in his pockets, and he turns to the door. A brief pause, and he leaves. Just like that.

  Collapsing against my desk, I let out an exhale and wring out my hands. I asked for time. I was honest about this thing between us being more than I can handle. Where has my independence gone? I don’t act this way.