Fortune (29 page)

“That's right,” Skye said, intrigued. “I'd love to see it.”

That settled, their attention turned to the meal, which was delicious. Baby field greens salad with creamy Roquefort dressing. Roast pheasant. Rice pilaf. A rich amaretto custard for dessert.

During the meal, their conversation was lively. They talked jewelry and other designers. They discussed the anticipated increase in the price of gold. The wine was superb, and Skye drank just enough to be encased in a warm glow.

After dinner, as promised, Griffen took her on a tour of the house. As they moved from room to room, her warm glow cooled. Her earlier unease returned, with it the sense that the house was pressing in on her, smothering her.

She fought to keep her rising panic from showing. This was getting ridiculous. First her claustrophobia in the elevator, then the nightmare, now this. What was wrong with her? She was turning into a neurotic.

Or maybe she was ill, she thought, bringing a hand to the back of her damp neck. Getting the flu. It was going around. Terri's daughter had had it last week.

Skye shook her head slightly, to clear it, trying to focus on what Griffen was saying. The house was amazing. An architectural wonder within as well as without. Around every corner was another painting, or artifact or antique, one that she would normally exclaim over.

And all she could do was count the seconds and pray the tour ended soon. She wanted to go home. She wanted her pajamas and Moo and bed. And she wanted never to set foot in this house again.

Dear God, she had completely lost it.

“You still with me?”

“Sure.” She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “There's just so much to see.”

“The nursery's down the hall. You're sure you're not too tired?”

She lied, saying that she wasn't and letting him lead her to the nursery's closed door.

“Voila.” He threw open the nursery door and flipped on the light. Adam was right; it was dusty and smelled stale. She swept her gaze over the room. White iron baby bed, white rocking chair in the corner, tiny table and chairs, shelves stacked with books and toys and games. At the room's center, a nearly life-size teddy bear sat on the thick, braided rug, his soft belly looking as if it had taken years of children's heads resting on it.

And then she saw the angel. She appeared to be hovering above the room, arms spread, expression celestial. Skye caught her breath. It was magnificent.

“In the morning, the sun streams through the window, bathing the room in jewel colors.” Griffen took a step into the nursery, then pointed. “We always put the cradle over there, so the infant can be directly under her watchful gaze.”

Skye realized she was sweating. It beaded on her forehead and upper lip. But her mouth was dry, so dry it tasted like ash. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and dragged her gaze from the angel to the floor.

A pool-like dark stain marred the pickled-oak flooring. As she stared at it, she realized in horror what it was. Not a stain, blood. Bright red. Wet. A cry raced to her lips, and she took a step backward.

“Skye? My God, what's wrong?”

“That…on the floor. It's…it's—”

He looked at the floor, then back at her as if she was crazy. “I don't see—”

“That!” Her voice rose; she turned and pointed. “It's—”

It was gone.
The light-colored floor gleamed brightly, not even a shadow darkening its surface.

She blinked. “But I thought—I saw…”

She was losing her mind.

“Skye, sweetheart, are you all right?”

“No.” She shook her head, her stomach rushing up to her throat. “No…bathroom, please.”

He pointed across the hall; she turned and ran, making it just in time. She bent over the commode and threw up her entire dinner, retching until she had nothing else to lose. Retching until her sides ached and her throat burned.

As she clung to the porcelain bowl, feeling as though she were dying, a dozen different thoughts went through her head, not the least of which was how she was going to face Griffen and his family again. She was embarrassed, ashamed; she felt foolish. Ridiculous.

And she was afraid, she acknowledged. Bone-deep frightened, for the first time in as long as she could remember. The problem was, this time the monster didn't have a name. This time, she feared the monster was inside herself.

E
ven though Chance had a dozen last-minute details to take care of before the Chicago Preservation Society's patron party guests began arriving, he watched the door, anxious for Griffen's arrival.

Except for business, he hadn't seen the other man lately. In several weeks, actually. He had a new woman in his life, he had told Chance. Someone special.

Griffen had been secretive, refusing to tell Chance more about her than she was The One. Chance had snorted his amusement—and skepticism—to his friend. Griffen, Mr. Bees-to-Honey, one woman? Right. And the Cubs were headed for the World Series.

But Griffen had been adamant. This woman was it, he'd insisted. The one. The Real Thing. Then he had knocked Chance's socks off by saying he intended to marry her.

He was coming to the party tonight. And he was bringing the mystery woman.

This was one woman Chance couldn't wait to meet. If what Griffen told him was true, she must be one hell of a special lady.

“Chance!”

He turned. Lisa, his assistant, was rushing toward him, round cheeks pink with exertion. She stopped before him, nearly overbalancing on her high heels. “The caterer's in a snit about where we want him to set up. He refuses to continue until he speaks with you.”

Chance smiled calmly. He considered Lisa a real find—she had experience and an abundance of both energy and enthusiasm for her work. Unfortunately, with both of those came a tendency to excitability. “I'll speak to him now.”

“Good, I'll go check on—”

She was already spinning away, preparing to rush to another detail. He caught her arm. “Lisa?” She met his eyes. “Take a deep breath. Then slow down. Everything will get taken care of.”

“But—”

“Trust me.” He smiled again and dropped his hand. “Hysteria never accomplished anything fast.”

She laughed, then nodded, took a deep breath and started off at a half run before she had completely released it. Chance watched her go, a smile tugging at his mouth. No one would ever say that Lisa Johnson didn't take her work seriously.

Chance went in search of the caterer. He found him, listened to his concerns, made a suggestion, an allowance, and was rewarded when the man, all smiles now, launched back into his work.

This event was the first Chance had handled for the society, and he wanted everything to be perfect. And so far, everything had gone without a hitch. No early fuck-ups or last-minute snafus: the caterer's dilemma was now solved, the jazz ensemble had arrived and was setting up; both the
Tribune
and
Sun Times
had confirmed a photographer;
Chicago
magazine was an almost sure thing, and not one of his “celebrity waiters” had pulled a last-minute cancellation on him.

Chance took a final assessing glance at the caterer's work, then went to have a word with the florist. From there, he spoke to Martha, the society's director, and Robert, her assistant. He told them to be on the lookout for the press. He had to make sure the society's most important patrons got into the paper, preferably photographed with one of the celebrities. After all, they wanted something more for buying an entire table than a two-thousand-dollar tax deduction, a mediocre meal and one too many watered-down cocktails.

He had gotten the Drake Hotel to donate their grand front lobby for the party tonight, even convincing them to agree to an outside caterer to provide the tidbits—typically a hotel taboo. He had landed some big stars for the event, including Michael Jordan, Mike Ditka and Oprah, among many others. His biggest coup had been convincing Cindy Crawford—who, he had been tipped off, was home visiting her family in Dekalb—to make an appearance.

It was for an important cause, after all.

Chance smiled to himself. Martha had been delighted with the concept of celebrity waiters from the beginning. At two hundred dollars a person, one hundred percent tax deductible, of course, the opportunity not only to mingle with a favorite sports, movie or television star, but to be served a meal by them, was just too inviting to pass up.

Indeed, they had not only sold out the two-hundred-dollar-a-person tickets, they had sold twenty of the special-sponsor, two-thousand-dollar tables.

Griffen had bought a table; the historical society was one of the Monarch family's charities. Thinking of his friend again, Chance shook his head. He simply couldn't imagine it. Griffen in love? Getting married? Only a matter of weeks ago he had been collecting phone numbers on any number of body parts.

If this was for real, Chance was happy for him. Griffen had been a real friend, the best buddy he'd ever had. He had Griffen to thank for this account, among numerous others. His personal recommendation had gotten him through the society's front door and into the director's office.

Of course, he'd done the work from there, but as he'd always known, he needed to look the part to get the shot, and connections were everything.

Griffen made him look the part. The Monarch's account made him look the part. They connected him to this city in a way that even twenty years of doing good business would not.

Chicago was an amazingly small city when it came to industry news. Ever since Griffen had handed him Monarch's Design and Retail, canning Price, Stevenson and Price in the process, the PR community had been abuzz with the news.

Most insiders had been shocked—Chance had a good reputation, but he'd always had Adams and Sloane behind him. But on his own, they said, who knew what he could do?

Griffen, obviously. That Griffen had believed in him enough to hand him the company's favorite child, Design and Retail, well, that had impressed.

The phone had begun ringing.

Five months later, it still hadn't stopped.

The friendship that had developed between him and Griffen had been a nice side benefit. And another surprise. The last thing Chance had ever expected was to become friends with the other man. Griffen was too rich, too powerful, too important.

After a while, their being friends had begun to feel okay. Then it had become easy. And somewhere along the line, Chance had begun to take the whole thing, if not for granted, then as a kind of lucky break. He had begun to feel like one of those fat-cat executives he had always looked at, wondering what it would be like to be them.

Now he knew. It was pretty damn great.

 

Pretty damn great, Chance thought again, an hour later as he surveyed the party, now in full swing. It was an unqualified success, judging not only by the attendance, but by the excited din in the room. People were having a good time. Special-events coordinators, especially when working for nonprofit organizations, sometimes forgot that part of the equation. Chance considered it the most important part. When people had a good time, they remembered. They told their friends. And selling the society's next event would be easier, not harder.

“You're a genius, Chance.” Martha caught his hands and squeezed them. “People have been stopping me all evening, complimenting me on the event. I sang your praises, of course.”

“I appreciate it.” He smiled. “By any chance, have you seen Griffen Monarch tonight? I need to speak with him.”

“Why, yes. I was just talking to him.” Martha turned and pointed toward the other side of the lobby. “He was over…yes, there he is. With his charming date.”

Chance looked in the direction she indicated and caught sight of Griffen. Thanking her, he started in that direction. He had been too busy to watch for the other man, but now that he had a moment, he was anxious to meet the mystery woman. She stood with her back to him, her arm tucked through Griffen's. She had shoulder-length, velvety brown hair. It fell in full, soft waves, seeming to almost float around her shoulders and upper back.

And quite a spectacular back it was, revealed by her dress, backless save for a jeweled strap that ran from her neck nearly to her waist. Chance arched his eyebrows in appreciation, skimming his gaze over the expanse of creamy skin. So far, impressive. No wonder Griffen had decided he was in love.

Smiling to himself, he worked his way around a tight cluster of Oprah's admirers. As he did, Griffen's date turned slightly in his direction. Chance's heart stopped. His world rocked.

It couldn't be, he thought. Griffen's date bore a striking resemblance to Skye, his Skye—but all grown-up and as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen.

But it couldn't be her. Only a couple of months ago he had told Griffen the story about him and Skye and how they had been on the run together. For her to show up now, on Griffen's arm, would be too weird. Too much of a coincidence.

He drew closer. She turned more fully in his direction. He stopped dead in his tracks.

It couldn't be, but it was.

Skye was here.

A rush of emotion moved over Chance: disbelief, surprise, pleasure. It really was her—his beautiful, pesky, know-it-all little Skye. As he gazed at her, his lips lifted into a smile. He recalled their days at Marvel's, the way she had followed him around, the way he had dumped her, sputtering and red-faced, on her mother's doorstep, remembered her thirteenth birthday and how she used to look at him, as if he were the most wonderful person in the world.

No one had looked at him that way before or since; no one had ever trusted and depended on him the way she had.

His throat tight, he swallowed hard. Damn, he'd missed that. He'd missed
her.

He only realized just how much now. This moment. He wanted to hug her, to laugh with her, he wanted them to talk for hours—so he could find out everything that had happened to her in the last thirteen years and what had brought her here, to Chicago.

He wanted to find out how she had ended up at this event on his best friend's arm.

Griffen.
Chance looked to the other man and found him watching him, his expression almost…amused. As Chance's gaze locked with Griffen's, his friend's mouth curved into a small, sly smile. The hair on the back of Chance's neck stood up.

What kind of game was Griffen playing?

He shook the thought off, though not without effort. Griffen could not have known who Skye was, or he would have told Chance. This whole thing was some sort of bizarre coincidence. Some weird twist of fate had brought them all together. They would laugh about it later.

Sure they would.

Griffen leaned toward Skye and whispered something in her ear, then pointed. Smiling, she turned in Chance's direction.

Her eyes locked with his. For one frozen second she gazed almost blankly at him. Then her smile faded and she stiffened, her face flooding with hot color.

Reality hit him like a thunderbolt. Skye wouldn't be happy to see him, let alone want to stroll down memory lane with him. He had hurt her. She might still be angry with him, she might hate him.

That would pass, he told himself. Once he explained, she would understand. After all, she had obviously done well, that was partly due to the decision he had made to leave her with Sarah and Michael.

He closed the distance between them, scrambling to come up with what he was going to say to her, scrambling for the best thing to say. Griffen took care of it for him.

“Chance, buddy.” He put his arm around Skye. “I'd like you to meet Skye Dearborn. She's the one I told you about.”

Chance looked at her, his heart thundering. “Skye and I know each other,” he said. “Hello, Skye.”

“Hello.” She looked at him, then away, her mouth set in a tight line.

“You two know each other?” Griffen glanced from one to the other, his expression disbelieving.

“From a long time ago.” Chance's words sounded choked, even to his own ears. “You look good, Skye. Really good. I can't believe it's really you.”

She met his eyes, hers glacial. “No, I suppose you can't,” she said stiffly. “But then, how could you?” She turned to Griffen. “Excuse me. I need to visit the powder room.”

Chance watched her walk away, frustrated, a dozen different things he could have said, things he wished he'd said, on the tip of his tongue. He turned to Griffen and found his friend watching him, again. Griffen looked as self-satisfied as a cat who'd cornered a mouse.

Chance narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Griffen, how did you two meet?”

“I could tell you, but I'm more interested in how you two know each other.”

“Are you really?” Chance rested his fists on his hips, spoiling for a fight. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Griffen's eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, what's with the attitude? Skye's our new designer. I saw her work at a show in New York, tracked her down, checked out her portfolio, Dorothy and I were impressed and offered her the job.”

“And that's it?”

“That's it. Except, of course, that I've fallen in love with her. If you've got some sort of beef with that, I think I'd better hear it now. But I warn you, my feelings for her are not going to change.”