One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

“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.