by Paula Roe
“Mr. Harrington—”
“Chase.”
“Chase,” she repeated, trying to ignore the intimacy of his name on her lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t discuss my personal life with complete strangers—even if that stranger probably hired someone to dig into my background.”
He blinked, scrutinizing her in a most disturbing way before he said, “I think I will have that coffee, thanks.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You did offer coffee, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“I can help if you show me where—”
“No! No,” she repeated more calmly. “How do you take it?”
“Black with one sugar.”
She nodded then whirled to the kitchen, her mind one big hot mess. Coffee. He wants coffee. She strode over to the cupboard below the sink, opened it to grab the box of Nespresso pods and began to prepare two cups.
The familiar task did nothing to settle her sudden disquiet. Cups from the stand… What was he up to now? Spoons from the drawer… Is he fishing for more information, maybe to go to the press with? Sugar from the cabinet…
You could try to convince him to sell you the manuscript.
She eyed his broad back through the archway as she warmed the first cup with hot water. Possible. She may not have Juliet’s stunning looks and killer negotiation skills but she was still a Partridge. Persuasion ran in her veins.
She dropped the coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Yeah, but how much “persuading” would he need?
The brief memory of their first meeting and that weird anticipatory…thing that had passed between them suddenly flared. The scent of his cologne. The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her head. The moment when he realized how close they were, the exact second his eyes had dropped to her lips…and lingered.
She sucked in a breath, held it for an eternity then exhaled with a snort. Her entire relationship with Dylan had been a secret, sordid affair designed to bolster his fragile ego. And prior to that, she’d been popular because of who her parents were. For once, it’d be nice if a man wanted her just for her.
So Chase Harrington thought he knew why she wanted that manuscript? He had no clue. He had no idea how Dylan’s rejection of her—of his children—had cut so deeply that it had only now just started to heal. No idea that she’d chosen this new life rather than spend a moment longer in her parents’ poisonous silent judgment. No idea how desperately she needed some kind of bond, some tangible proof that Erin and Heather’s father had been a living, breathing person to her.
As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, she took a second to think—really think—about her situation. One—she still wanted that manuscript and all it represented. Two—Chase was a businessman, and businessmen lived to make money, right? If she could make him the right offer—
Yeah, but with whose money?
She dropped sugar into his cup then started on hers. By the time she’d finished and returned to the living room, Chase had made himself comfortable.
He’d removed his coat, and it was now draped over the back of the couch. He sat, ankle crossed over knee, looking perfectly relaxed amongst the girls’ toys and her comfortable possessions, and her first thought was: he’d make a great portrait subject. Her second: that internet search had done nothing to appease her intense curiosity.
Hedge funder extraordinaire Chase Harrington was worth billions, which was not exactly a selling point given the current financial climate. Yet he was no high-profile Donald Trump: he didn’t spend money on expensive cars or private jets. And except for that one standout purchase of a beleaguered midtown office complex, no multibillion-dollar property deals either. For all his connections and wealth, her rudimentary search had come up with less than thirty accurate hits, and only after the usual ones featuring his recent purchase from Waverly’s. From those she quickly worked out that, while he owned a few properties around the world, he didn’t date supermodels, didn’t court the limelight and was intensely private.
Which meant a possibly interesting backstory in there somewhere.
“Tell me, what exactly do hedge fund managers do?”
He took the cup she proffered, palming it in one large hand.
“Well, in simplified terms, they manage a private pool of capital from investors and advise them on trading strategies.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“I put in a percentage, so when the investors make money, I do, too. Plus, there’s the investment and management fees.”
“So it’s like playing the stock market?”
“Sort of.” He blew on the coffee before taking an experimental sip. “The term hedging means reducing risk, so it’s all about getting as much money as you can for as little risk as possible, then getting out. All funds aren’t the same, and returns, volatility and risk all vary. You can hedge anything, from stocks and bonds, to currency, to downturns in the market.”
“Like what happened in the financial crisis.”
She noted the way his shoulders stiffened, his brow creasing. “Yeah. But that…that was the result of a bunch of arrogant, irresponsible people who—” he took a breath and gave a tight smile “—who aren’t really fit to mention in polite conversation. And the only money I manage now is my own and a few select investors’.”
She shook her head. “I’m okay at math, but you must have some kind of superbrain to do what you do.”
He took another sip of coffee then said slowly, “It’s called an eidetic ability.”
Her eyes widened. “You have a photographic memory? You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, I’m not. I was the most frequently requested party trick at college when word got out.” His sardonic tone told her it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, which was odd.
A college guy who didn’t want to impress everyone, be the life of the party and brag about himself? Intriguing.
“Your parents must be happy you’ve done so well,” she said now.
He made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, which was neither confirmation nor denial. There was a major story in his past, Vanessa surmised. One that probably didn’t end well, given his response.
So whose does?
In the awkward silence Vanessa sipped on her too-hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process.
“So how did you and Dunbar meet?” he finally asked.
Okay, moment over. “I think we established I’m not going to answer your personal questions.”
“I’m not about to go running to the press.”
“That’s not the impression I got in New York.”
He leaned back on the couch, those worry lines marring his forehead again, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with being rude? Or because she’d called him on it?
He sighed and suddenly his expression changed. “Vanessa.” His cup went down on the coffee table as he fixed her with his direct gaze. “I apologize for my behavior in New York. I was impolite and pushy and totally got the wrong end of the story. I’m sorry.” Oh. Those sincere blue eyes held hers and, after a few seconds, his singular attention started to make her giddy, the not-unpleasant feeling a little like a champagne buzz. “I must’ve come across as…”
She finally found her tongue. “Rude?”
He nodded, stunning her further. “Yeah. I tend to get steamed when people are trying to rip me off.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“I know. Look, this isn’t coming out right at all. I made an assumption about you and it turns out I was wrong. Normally I’m smarter than that.”
If that didn’t beat all. She sat there, unable to form a comeback. Truth be told, he was not at all what she’d first assumed, and she didn’t know what to think.
“What would it take for you to sell me that manuscript?” she blurted out.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You sure? Just about everything has a price.”
Was it her imagination, or did his expression turn bitter? “Not this thing. And anyway, I seem to recall you don’t have the money.”
“Not everything has to be about money.” At the look on Chase’s face, she added quickly, “Oh, wow, that came out so wrong. I didn’t mean… Did you think I…? Ewww.”
You weren’t thinking ewww two days ago, though, were you?
Obviously, he was disgusted by that thought too, because his expression tightened and he rose abruptly. “I’ve got to be going.”
She nodded, her face warm. “I’ll see you out.”
Vanessa honed in on his broad back as she followed down the stairs, gazing at the efficient haircut closely cropped at the nape. The skin was smooth and tanned beneath his collar—a jogger’s tan?
Great. Now she had an image of him running in a clingy, damp T-shirt, his pumped-up arms and legs gliding him effortlessly through Central Park.
Then he was at the last step and she was back in the real world.
Should she shake his hand? Thank him for coming? No, that wouldn’t be right. Say something, she urged herself as he reached the bottom then slowly turned back to her standing on the last step.
She was nearly eye to eye with him. A disconcerting thought.
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
She wrinkled her brow. “What’s on Saturday night?”
“The Library of Congress is having a thing and I’m on the guest list.”
“A thing?”
“A formal event. To celebrate some Egyptian display.”
“The Tombs of the Missing Pharaohs exhibit?” She crossed her arms, pulling her shirtsleeves over her hands as the cold began to seep in.
“That’s the one.”
“Aren’t you leaving your RSVP a bit late?”
“I’m a donor—I get a bit of leeway.”
“Right.”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m asking you to be my plus one, Vanessa.”
She blinked. She had not seen that one coming.
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well…” She felt warmth heat her neck again. “I said ‘ewww.’”
One commanding eyebrow went up. “I’ve had much worse, believe me.”
“And honestly, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Okay.”
“Really. I mean, you’re an attractive guy. A very attractive guy and I’m…” She trailed off, swallowing thickly as Chase’s lips quirked. Okay. I should stop now.
“So,” he said, thankfully glossing over her uncharacteristic loss of control. “Saturday? Just think of it as an extended apology. There’ll be food, champagne, culture, adult conversation.” His mouth curved again, giving her a tempting sample of devastating charm. “Have I sold you yet?”
“I…” She glanced back down up the stairs, her mind spinning at the sudden turn of events. Her immediate response was to say no. She should say no. Her world and Chase’s were miles apart. She’d been a part of that world—albeit not at Chase’s high end—and had turned her back on it. But deep inside, a gentle insistent tug had started and just wouldn’t ease up.
“I’d have to get a sitter,” she warned, finally stepping down and walking over to the front door.
“Of course.”
She added, “Why are you asking me?”
“Why not?” He tempered that statement with a smile.
She swallowed. “What if I say no?”
He slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Do you want to say no?”
Maybe that manuscript wasn’t completely lost to her after all. And if one party invitation was all it took to definitively find out, then she’d consider it a good deal.
“Okay. Saturday night.”
“Great.” He reached past her for the door handle and suddenly her personal space became way too cramped. She took a step back just for the room and air to breathe easier.
Yet his perfectly handsome face, now flush with male satisfaction, made her heart pound against her ribs.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve just so she’d stop staring at him.
I blame you, Mrs. Knopf. Her ninth-grade art teacher had encouraged a healthy appreciation of a well-put-together face, of shadow, form and color and it had stuck, even though Vanessa had long since made peace with her basic art skills.
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I thought I could just meet you there.”
“You’re not out of my way.”
I doubt it was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back. It would save on gas. She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she glanced past his shoulder. “Is it raining?”
Chase turned, his profile in stark relief against the porch light and the dark night. “It is.” He turned up his collar, dug his hands in his pockets and gave her a small smile. “Sleep well, Vanessa.”
She nodded, ostensibly crossing her arms to ward off the chill. But her goosebumping skin had more to do with the way Chase’s mouth had formed that little farewell—soft, almost intimate—followed by a small grin that had her wishing for more.
Four
The next few days passed with Vanessa occupied with her job and its familiar dramas—runny noses, sticky hands, finger painting and Bob the Builder. At night she fed, washed and cuddled Erin and Heather, steadfastly refusing to read more into Saturday night than what it was: a way to apologize for his bad behavior.
“A date?” Stella, Bright Stars’s office manager and Vanessa’s friend, had excitedly exclaimed when Vanessa finally owned up to it. “Who with? Not Juan?”
Their UPS guy? “No!” Vanessa had laughingly replied.
“One of the fathers, then. Alec Stein.” Stella clicked a button on the computer and the printer whirred into action.
“He’s happily married with three kids!”
“Tony Brassel?”
Vanessa shook her head. “Old enough to be my father.”
“Not for some of us,” Stella huffed, crossing her arms across her generous bosom. “John Bucholtz?”
“No. Look, it’s not anyone we know, all right? He’s from New York.”
“Is he rich?”
Oh, yeah. “I didn’t ask to see his bank balance, Stell.”
“Huh.” Stella turned back to the printer and bundled up the papers in the tray. Her tight black spiral curls bounced around her face, emphasizing her smooth caffe latte complexion. “Make sure you wear something nice.”
Something nice.
Hours later, after she’d put the girls to bed, she stood in front of her open wardrobe and sighed at the meager selection. Jeans, jeans, pants, jacket, shirt, shirt, shirt…
Reluctantly, her gaze made its way to the back, where a dozen sealed clothing bags hung on sturdy wooden hangers.
Dresses from another world. A world she’d decided never to set foot in again. A world that no longer held any attraction or relevance, not when she had babies to look after and her days were filled with a real job that involved real people. People who entrusted their babies to her.
She reached out, drew a finger across one hanger. It had been awkward, stepping back into the role of rich socialite in New York. Like putting on an ill-fitting outfit, something that wasn’t designed for her height, weight or coloring, then walking down Fifth Avenue and feeling millions of eyes staring at her. Did she really want to do it again?
But…
Her finger settled on the zipper and toyed with it. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that sometimes she missed wearing a pretty dress and high heels. There wasn’t much opportunity for dressing up these days. She hadn’t had anything resembling a date since before the girls were born.
Her mouth thinned. Even before then: Dylan was not a man who’d enjoyed going out in public.
She gently shook her head, scattering those thoughts. It wasn’t a date: Saturda
y night was her opportunity to convince Chase to sell that manuscript to her. An opportunity to use all the charm and social skills her parents had paid for. Her purpose as the daughter of Allen and Marissa Partridge had been to sway would-be clients to her parents’ practice, charm their colleagues, various political cronies, D.A.s and judges alike.
What was one more?
Ignoring a small tug of uneasiness, she pulled down the zipper with a determined swipe then yanked the cover off.
The Valentino gown sparkled under the light, the bodice of the striking tangerine halter-neck dress shot with silver thread immediately drawing the eye. She turned, pressed it up against her chest and stared at her reflection in the wardrobe door.
Orange generally clashed with red hair, but this particular shade didn’t. If anything, it picked up on her titian highlights and brought out the porcelain paleness of her skin. Her mother’s skin and hair.
She turned one way, then another. Right. Silver shoes, hoop earrings. A diamanté clutch.
She ran her eyes critically over the long pleated skirt, across the asymmetrical hem. When she finally met her gaze in the mirror, she was surprised to see a smile reflected back.
“It probably won’t fit,” she said aloud then paused to frown. A few seconds passed, then, “Well, let’s just see, shall we?”
* * *
The doorbell on Saturday night caught Vanessa on the tail end of her makeup ritual.
“Hmm…early. A sure sign he’s eager to see you, sugar,” Stella said as she bounced Erin in her ample arms.
Vanessa stuck her head out of the bathroom to glare at her friend. “It’s ten minutes, Stell.”
“Still, it’s interesting.” She cooed at Heather who was on her mother’s bed, making her way over to the long strand of pearls Vanessa had left on the edge. In one quick movement, Stella scooped them up and put them on the dresser, replacing the necklace with a Winnie-the-Pooh rattle.
“Goo!” Heather grabbed the rattle and gave it a healthy shake. Vanessa grinned.
“Can you go and let him in? I’ve got this one here.”
While Stella went to the door with Erin, Vanessa scooped up Heather, breathing in her newly washed baby scent all wrapped up in a pink onesie.
