One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

Corinthian columns and natural vines are arranged near the exterior walls, and tulle hangs in curves and flows around the tables and chairs. Clearly the theme is Ancient Greece. I didn’t even check the invitation. I never cared about events like this growing up. They’re nothing more than an opportunity for people like Karen and her entourage to go on record as being so deeply humanitarian. We walk in on a red carpet as if we’re celebrities and have our photographs splashed all over the Sunday society page.

Armand is impressed by the spectacle, as he should be. Looking up and around, I try to remember the first time I attended a gala here, but it’s been too long ago.

“You’re beautiful, mon petit.” His voice is low, and he hasn’t stopped complimenting me since our car picked him up at the Drake.

“Thank you.” I run my fingers over the mint chiffon of my skirt. It’s thigh length with a wide, Aztec-inspired neckline that is high in the front but scoops deeply in the back, showing off my tanned skin. My hair hangs in loose waves over my shoulders and down.

Sylvia might have forced my hand on inviting Armand here tonight, but the desire simmering in my stomach for someone else sealed the deal. Try as I might to push him out, our weekend on the boat made a lasting impression on me.

I spent the week working from home, finishing up the bios for Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly. Donnelly is the classic small-town boy turned big-city attorney. He’s salt-of-the-Earth, good people. Hampton is prep-school turned frat-boy, but he isn’t a wanker. He’s legacy, don’t rock the boat, conservative. Went to law school, got married, toed the company line. They’re both exactly the type of partners I’d expect Marcus to have.

I’d spent more time on Marcus’s bio than was wise, lingering over every detail as if they were precious heirlooms or clues to a cherished treasure. On paper, he’s a private-school national merit scholar. Scholarship to Yale Law, but instead of joining his father’s firm, he started his own. He’s a pioneer, but he avoids the limelight. He’s private, but he’s bold. He’s also fucking hard as nails in the courtroom, and I read more profiles lauding his ability to turn a persuasive argument on a dime than I could count.

Sylvia added her two cents—heard second-hand from Stuart, of course—about Marcus’s closing A Few Good Men-style speech to the prosecutor, resulting in Derek Alexander’s near-immediate release.

Add to all of it the off-the-record details he’d shared with me. A small-town southern boy, mother runs out when he’s eleven, father and older brother bury themselves in work. He’s left to care for his baby sister and himself, raising them both on his own.

All of these thoughts tangle together in my mind as I wait for Armand to return with my drink. I’m here because of Sylvia. I’m here because Armand needs to feel like he got a fair shake. I’m here because I need to see Marcus.

“French 75.” The deep, accented voice is at my shoulder, and I turn to take the pale-yellow drink from his hand.

“I’m surprised they’d heard of it.” Taking a sip of the citrus-gin-laced champagne cocktail, I smile up at him. “Usually Chicago bartenders only know the basics.”

Armand gently taps his tumbler of amber liquid against my glass. “Such as scotch rocks?”

I smile, looking down. “What did you do these last few days?”

He’d called me a few times inviting me to dinner, but I’d begged off, claiming to be too busy. I didn’t ask him to come to Chicago, and I wasn’t giving him false hope. I didn’t mention my early dinner with C.J. We’d sneaked off before it was fashionable to have one’s evening meal, and I’d managed to have a night out as a result.

“The usual, I suppose. John Hancock, Field Museum, Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Bean.” A sexy grin. “Now I’m at the Navy Pier.”

Nodding, I blink away, taking another sip. “Sounds like you’ve done the full Chicago lineup.”

“Still, I didn’t do the one thing I wanted most of all.”

“What’s that?”

His dark eyes narrow. “You.”

A flinch in my chest. Yes, his words still provoke a reaction in me, positive and negative. I can’t believe I walked right into that one.

“Armand,” I exhale. “Please don’t.”

“Dance with me.”

“I’d rather not.” Taking another sip of my drink, I let my eyes wander the large ballroom.

My drink is removed from my hand, and he replaces it with his large, warm one. “You’re not afraid?”

Interesting how much people learn about each other in relatively short amounts of time. A flash of annoyance floods my cheeks. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

He chuckles and leads me to the floor. Armand is an amazing dancer. It’s one of the first things I admired about him. A small ensemble on the stage provides the music, and we simply slow-dance.

His hand is on my lower back, holding me firmly against his tight body. A finger traces the exposed skin there, and our chests are together, faces close. Our hands are clasped at my shoulder.

It’s impressive how sexual dancing is, yet everyone does it without a second thought. Or perhaps I’m only thinking about it because I’m with someone I regularly slept with not so long ago.

His cheek touches my temple, and he speaks softly near my ear. “This reminds me of our picnic on Montmartre. Do you remember that day, ma chou?”