One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

Stepping around his office, I almost roll my eyes. You know how some men use cars to make up for inadequacies in other areas? This guy clearly uses his office. It’s ridiculous.

Arched, built-in bookshelves hold dozens of leather-bound law books. Recessed lighting casts gleaming reflections off shiny brass accents. High above them, a coffered ceiling adds to the cathedral-like quality of the space. A sanctuary to the law or to this guy’s ego? I have a pretty good idea which.

I go to a circular leather chair and take a seat. The man behind the desk has his back turned, a titanium iPhone pressed to his ear.

He’s tall, and his tan dress-slacks hang nicely on his slender waist. A matching suit coat is on the back of his chair, and a sleek, white button-down covers his broad shoulders. From the way he holds the phone, I can just make out the curve of muscle beneath his long sleeve, and a delicious heat fills my lower stomach. Interesting.

Caramel brown hair touches the top of his collar in slight waves, and I can’t keep the naughty thoughts from filtering through my mind. I wonder if this could turn into something better than a courtesy call.

I dismiss the idea at once. Edward Merritt is practically my brother-in-law. Is that even legal?

Still, I can’t resist the idea of threading my nails through those thick waves, his large hands spanning my ass like...

The Man in Wilmington’s.

A low growl vibrates my throat. It’s so impossibly ridiculous, I’ve given him a label: The Man in Wilmington. As if I would actually think twice about a random hook-up.

Edward chooses that particular moment to remember he has an eleven o’clock appointment and ends his call. Lowering the smart phone, he releases a short exhale and turns.

Everything stops.

The air in his cathedral office freezes.

Everything freezes, including my breath.

I’m pretty sure the shiny brass clock on his stupidly large desk stops ticking.

“What the fuck?” The man, who is most definitely not Edward Merritt, hisses softly.

Years of practice keep me from completely losing it in that moment. I cross my legs and channel all the Gwyneth Paltrow-cool hammered into me from finishing school.

“It’s... You’re...” The Man from Wilmington flicks his phone toward me, but he must not’ve had a good grip. It slips like a bar of soap from his hand and arcs through the air straight into my lap.

Thank god for small mercies. I’m snort a laugh, which cuts the tension at once.

With a teasing smile I lift the small black device and place it on the desktop in front of me. “You’re welcome.”

Going forward, I will never forget his response. It’s splendid in its precision. I can’t help but admire his control. Marcus Merritt sits in his leather-studded chair, and his face transforms into a mask of professionalism.

The slightest smile curves the side of his mouth, and a tingle moves across my stomach. “Good catch,” he says.

“It’s not every day I have expensive technology lobbed at me.”

“My apologies. Strenuous call.”

“Opposing counsel?”

“Dry cleaners. They keep breaking my buttons.”

My lips tighten against another laugh, and I fight every urge humming under my skin. Damn him for being as witty as he is attractive.

“You are not Edward Merritt.” It’s a nice, orienting statement.

“Edward is my father.” His brows knit over green-hazel eyes as he looks down at his desk. “Who the fuck is Amalie Knight?”

“My mother was going through a French phase.” I give him a teasing wink, and his eyes flick away from mine fast. If he weren’t so composed, I might take that to mean something.

“So Amy is short for Amalie?”