Chapter 12: Collections

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Marcus

My associate sips his coffee as he leans against my office doorjamb. Since the incident yesterday, I’ve dedicated myself fully to Fieldinghouse, blocking out my irritation over shit I can’t control. When I’m not at work, I contemplate all the other things I can be doing besides Amy Knight.

“Bad news about McGruder,” Evan says.

Reaching up, I pull off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, glad to direct my attention away from wastewater. “Something we can’t handle?”

“CPA’s assistant dated an owner at Frank Metropolitan before the sale went through.”

Shit. “How long?” Snatching up my Mont Blanc, I quickly make notes on the legal pad to my right.

“It had only just started, but they were photographed around town. They attended the Joffrey Ballet gala in September. It made the paper.”

“Shit.” My mind is filtering through the possible arguments. “How long has she been an employee?”

“Three years.”

Leaning back in my chair, I toss the pen onto my desk. I’m sure my frown mirrors my associate’s. “How’d you find out?”

“Campbell, of course. That jackhole is gloating so hard, I’m surprised we can’t hear him from across the river.”

“Don’t answer it yet.” Glasses on, I flip through the thick reference volume in front of me, searching for a name. “Make a phone call first.”

The staccato click-click of heels I’ve been trying not to listen for all morning echoes in the hallway. Fixing my eyes on the page in front of me, I tamp down my reaction to her presence.

“Good morning, Evan.” Amy’s soft voice fans the smoldering anger in my chest.

She doesn’t stop, and when my associate turns back to me, I can feel his eyes monitoring my response.

I flip a page, still searching, and he finally speaks. “What’s the latest on that situation?”

A quick glance over my frames, a quick eyebrow flick, and I’m back to scanning the tiny font. “What situation?”

He steps forward toward my desk, and his voice drops. “Don’t bluff me. I heard you two in here last week. Sounded pretty fucking hot.”

Shit. Clearing my throat, I don’t look up this time. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sarcasm drips in his reply. “Whatever, Marc.”

I drop the book and stand, going to the shelf holding my bar association journals. “Do you remember the speaker from last year’s spring conference? He did a few panels on insider trading.”

“Bryant Kelly?”

Snapping my fingers, I point at him. “Give him a call, tell him you’re my associate. Get his advice.”

“Good thinking.” Evan nods, and heads for the door. He pauses before leaving. “Stick with her. You make a good team.”

“You know I don’t do commitment.” Rounding the desk, I pause before sitting. “Also, I’ve heard she’s a runner.”

“Well, shit, Marcus. Chase her.”

I don’t growl a response. Instead I’m back to business. “I want you to take the lead on this case. I’m here if you need me, but it’s yours. Make your mark.”

“Got it. I’ll keep you in the loop.” Evan is gone less than five minutes when our bubbly receptionist interrupts me.

“Mr. Merritt?”

I’m so tense, I almost swear at the brunette pixie standing in my doorway, but I don’t. No use taking my shitty mood out on everyone.

“Yes, Charity.”

“There’s a Paige Goldfarb here to see you.” She hesitates, and I feel like the rug just got pulled. “She says she has an appointment, but it’s not on my calendar. What should I do?”

Paige? As if this day could get any more unexpected. “It’s fine.” I stand and go to the door. “I’ll show her back.”

Charity leads me to the front where Paige is standing in the anteroom, looking ready to fight. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a fuchsia pantsuit with what appears to be a black leotard-cami under the jacket. On her feet are strappy black heels. She the model of stripper-turned-kickass heiress, and I won’t lie, while Amy consumes my desires, Paige is fucking hot.

“Paige.” I smile and extend my hand.

Her posture relaxes, and she immediately moves to where I’m standing, giving me a shake. “Marcus, thanks for seeing me on short notice. We need to talk.”

“This way.” I step to the side and hold the door for her. Thank god I’m used to strong women. The only feelings I have at this moment are curiosity mixed with a dash of gratitude for the distraction.

She steps through the door into the hallway and waits for me to lead her back to my office. I nod and pass her. Amy’s standing at the other end of the hall facing us, and I’m a bastard, but her startled expression almost makes me smile. Are you worried, beautiful?

Inside my office, Paige wastes no time getting to the point. “I said you’d be hearing from me. It’s time.”

Pushing back in my chair, I cross an ankle over my knee and assess her demeanor. She’s not anxious or desperate, which isn’t good. She’s calm, and I know I’m not getting out of this easily. Or at all. I decide to do a little fishing.

“Time for...?” My brow lines as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Merritt.” Paige leans back in her leather chair across from my desk, crossing her own ankle over her knee. “You’ll disappoint me. Everyone’s told me you’re a smart guy.”

Touché, Miss Hotness. Scooting forward, I rest my forearms on the desk. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, sadly, it’s like this.” She’s cool as a cucumber. “Karen Philpot has taken it into her empty head—which is normally lodged solidly up her ass—to ruin me because apparently I gave her fiancé a lap dance or I sucked him off back in the day. God, who can even remember all that?”

A sly grin curves Paige’s slim lips, and her blue eyes twinkle. I can tell she enjoys getting under Karen’s skin, but that doesn’t explain why she’s here.

I’m game, so I ask the obvious question. It’s my job, after all. “What the fuck do you care about Karen Philpot?”

“Honestly?” She inhales deeply, lowering her foot to the floor. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what Karen Philpot does. I don’t care what half the hypocritical assholes in this town think.”

“Then why—”

“But...” Her eyebrows rise, and this is where she shows the smarts that made her the highest paid stripper back in the day. “I intend to get married at some point—and not to Ricky Bobby. I intend to have children. And I won’t have them treated like trash.”

“You’re worried about being black balled?” My brow lines. “Move to another city. What about New York? Hell, you’d probably love it there, and I’m sure New York would love you.”

“Chicago is my home. My mother’s here.” She looks at a well-manicured hand before cutting those ice-blue eyes to me. “And I’ll be damned if I let Karen Philpot bully me.”

I can understand that at least. A deep inhale, and I’m ready to hear the worst. “So what do you want from me?”

A smile lifts her cheek. “It seems you’re the Newland Archer of the Near North side.”

I confess, I’m surprised she’s acquainted with Edith Wharton. Much less knows how to use the literary reference. “It’s a bunch of bullshit. I don’t wield that kind of power.”

“Whatever, Marcus. I agree it’s bullshit. That doesn’t make it inaccurate.” She sits straighter. “You’re going to help me.”

I’m pissed that I feel trapped. I didn’t ask her to follow me into that bathroom. I didn’t tell her to put my dick in her mouth. Still, it was so sweet seeing Cocksucker’s cheeks pink with rage, knowing I’d gotten a five-star hummer from the woman he’d been stalking. I do owe her.

“How.” It’s not a question.

“It’s shockingly easy. Apparently the one thing that can trump Karen’s bitch schemes is the seal of approval from one of you males, and apparently you’re the top dog in the bachelor kennel.”

“You want me to take out a full-page ad in the Tribune?”

“Don’t patronize me. Nobody reads the paper anymore.” I watch as she slides a platinum strand off her cheek and behind her ear. “We’ll, quote, date for a little while until everyone’s decided I’m acceptable—or until some new target comes along to make them forget me—then we go our separate ways. The end.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Her fingers steeple, and she studies the shape. “Of course, it will have to seem real. I know because of your work I can trust you to keep this confidential.”

“You mean attorney-client privilege? You’re not my client.”

Crystal eyes cut to mine. “In this situation, I could be. You’ve even been paid.”

I almost laugh. “Nice try. I could be disbarred accepting sexual favors as payment. Possibly jailed.”

“Then we won’t tell anyone.” Her hands lower, and instead of a threat, I see teasing in her eyes.

I decide to tease right back. “For a minute that sounded like blackmail.”

“How negatively you think of me. I’m only asking for your word.” An exaggerated sigh. “Come on, Marcus. I’m not that bad.”

Jaw clenched, I lean back again. “No, you’re not. It’s just shitty timing. I’m sort of... seeing someone.”

“I’m sorry my problems don’t fit your busy schedule.”

“Paige—”

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do.” Her eyes return to her nails. “If you can come up with a better idea, I’m all ears. I’m seeing someone I like as well, and if he finds out about all this shit... I’ll tell him eventually, of course. If I decide he’s worth it.”

We’re quiet a moment, and I think about Karen. She’s such a fucking cunt. Then I think about Amy. She won’t understand. Not that I owe her an explanation after the way she’s acted, slamming all the doors shut in my face. Anger sparks in my chest anew. She said she wanted space, not me.

Then I think about the woman sitting before me, asking this bizarre favor.

“Why did you do it?” Her brows rise, and I clarify. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’re smart. Why go the porn route?”

Her expression relaxes into a smart grin, and dammit. I’m so fucking right. Paige is legitimately gorgeous. She could’ve done anything she chose.

“I appreciate your saying I’m smart.” She takes a breath and studies the book on my desk. “The truth is, I’m dyslexic.”

“Dyslexic.” I filter through what I know. “I’m not up on learning disabilities, but I’m pretty sure schools have programs for that.”

“I didn’t come from a privileged background.” She turns her palm up and opens it, then closes it into a fist. “Hell, Marcus, I came from a trailer park. A single mom raised me. She didn’t know how to get help for me. Shit, she probably had the same disability.”

“So...” I’m trying to think of a diplomatic way to say it. “You did poorly in school?”

“I flunked out. When I was sixteen I just said fuck it and walked away, started doing whatever I could to make money.”

An entirely different light is shed on Paige Goldfarb. She’s not just gorgeous, she’s a fucking survivor, and she wants something better for her life. Even more, she wants something better for her kids.

She wants the American dream, and so far she’s close to getting it—if not for bigoted trust-fund hypocrites more concerned with exclusivity than fidelity.

We’re sitting, facing each other, and she’s waiting for my answer. God dammit, I’m going to help her. And damn it again, she’s right. I won’t be able to tell anyone about this—including Amy.

My jaw is tight, and my forearms rest on my desk. “When do we start?”

* * *

Amy

The woman following Marcus into his office is stunning. I don’t recognize her from the old Chicago group, but she clearly has money. A tinge of something I don’t like moves across my chest. I refuse to call it jealousy—especially after our discussion yesterday. I won’t call it an argument, even though Marcus was clearly pissed with me.

So what if I’m hacking into the office server to check his calendar? I’m not stalking. I’m curious, that’s all.

He doesn’t have anything scheduled for this morning, so it must be a personal visit. Leaning forward in my chair, I try to peek down the hall when my phone goes off. I scream and cover my mouth quickly.

Snatching it up, I slide a finger across the face. “What is it?”

“Damn, girl, bitch much?” C.J.’s voice feels too loud for my snooping, so I cross the conference room to slide the glass doors closed.

“Sorry, you caught me off-guard.”

“Banging the sizzling-hot lawyer you ditched me for Friday?”

“You said not to worry about you.” I walk to the conference table that doubles as my desk, my back to the doors.

“I love how you have such a phonographic memory when I’m being ironic.”

“Is phonographic memory a thing? I’m pretty sure you made it up.”

I can practically see C.J.’s hand wave through the line. “Whatever. Are you his secretary? Have you broken in his desk yet?”

As a matter of fact I did. A flash of what we did in Marcus’s office twice heats my entire body. “I’m the firm’s contract PR person,” I say with finality. “Strictly business.”

“You owe me some catch-up time. I demand a date-night do-over.”

Chewing the side of my lip, that’s probably not a bad idea if I’m trying to reestablish my footing. Distance, distraction, these are good things, especially when I find myself acting like a jealous girlfriend over a guy I just asked to give me space. God, I’m a mess.

“Okay, text me the deets, and I’ll meet you.”

“Yeah, you will!” C.J. is laughing, and I’m sure his voice is audible in the room. “And you’re going to tell me everything. Marcus Merritt is one hot piece of—”

Man standing in my office! I jump, ending the call at the speed of light.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” His brow is lined, and I can’t tell if he heard that last bit.

“Of course not! What’s up?” My voice is too high. I’m acting suspicious.

His sexy-hazel eyes meet mine, and my insides clench. Dammit. I’m supposed to be finding my feet, not drooling over how hot he is or remembering how many times he made me come over the weekend.

“I have to cancel that gala invitation.”

Disappointment? Seriously, Amy? I am not disappointed by what he just said.

“No problem! I completely understand!”

The same flash of anger I saw yesterday flickers in his eyes, and guilt bubbles in my chest.

“You understand.” His voice is short, and I clasp my now-trembling hands.

At the same time... Hold the phone. Shouldn’t I be the angry one in this scenario? He hasn’t given me any reason why he’s suddenly taking back an invitation he extended only a week ago to an event he claimed he’d forgotten.

Oh my god. I am truly insane.

“I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, remember?” I blink a smile and he gives me a tight, completely insincere smile in response.

“Right. Well, I’m sorry for the change in plans.”

The muscle in his jaw flexes. His hands are in his pockets, and he turns to the door. A brief pause, and he leaves. Just like that.

Collapsing against my desk, I let out an exhale and wring out my hands. I asked for time. I was honest about this thing between us being more than I can handle. Where has my independence gone? I don’t act this way.

That’s it. What just happened is precisely why I should not be with Marcus Merritt. He changes my behavior in ways I do not like. He steals my resolve and leaves me acting like an insecure college girl stalking his calendar. He provokes this gross feeling in my stomach that makes me want to follow whoever that beautiful woman is and spill my drink on her.

I am not the jealous type.

If Marcus is dating someone new—less than twenty-four hours after declaring his deep feelings for me—it’s a good thing. Yes? I leave when things get too serious. It’s what I do, and I don’t leave in order to be followed.

Only, Marcus isn’t following me.

He’s driving me crazy.

* * *

C.J.’s loud voice cuts through the crowd noise. “You wouldn’t think all these trust-fund babies would care about something as gauche as ladies’ night, and yet here it is.” He slaps the shiny wooden bar. “Busiest night of the week.”

We’re back at Studio O, and it’s teeming with twenty-somethings and members of the old crowd. I lean toward the bar to sip my third French 75. I’m drinking way too much. More Marcus Merritt bad influence.

“Back in the day, they’d never be caught dead encouraging such a low-rent gimmick,” I say.

“Don’t be a snob,” he sniffs, finishing his third Poinsettia. I’m a psychic, and I predict we’ll be calling a car to drive us home tonight. “The Chicago dating scene is outrageously expensive.”

“That’s nothing new.”

His eyebrow arches, and his voice goes loud. “What IS new is me being allowed to participate in ladies’ night.” He throws both hands up, victory-style, and I nod.

“Very forward-thinking of the owner.”

My bestie takes another sip, lowering his arms. “Clever is more like it. He knows I’ll spend more sending drinks to guys once I’m drunk and horny.”

I laugh, but his eyes narrow. Pushing his beige linen blazer back, his fist rests on a narrow hip clad in tight coral pants. “Speaking of horny. What’s this new development in your love life?”

“No new development.” I take another sip. “Let’s do a shot.”

“Stop distracting me and spill.”

“I’m serious. It’s nothing. You know how I am.”

I’m about to say more when I’m cut off by a mini-buzz rippling through the crowd. A couple just entered, and I strain to see who’s causing the commotion. Maybe it’s a celebrity sighting, not that I care. When I see who it is, I almost drop my drink.

The woman from Marcus’s office stands at the entrance dressed in white-lace short-shorts and a black and white floral crop-top that plays peek-a-boo with her lined torso. She teeters on silver strappy heels, and her long, toned legs seem to go on for miles. Damn. Right behind her is none other than Marcus Merritt, sexy as ever in a grey blazer over a black tee and dark jeans. What the hell?

“Holy shit,” C.J. hisses, turning quickly toward the bar. “This might be the most interesting thing to happen all spring. Other than your return, of course.”

I turn fast beside him, and finish my drink. I’m blinking, trying to hide the cyclone of emotions spinning through me. He’s dating her? He’s actually dating that woman?

“Who is she?” I have to know.

“Wait, are you pretending to care?” he steps back, but I grab his sleeve and jerk him forward again.

“Don’t be a pill, Carlton.”

The bartender walks up, and my friend holds up two fingers then signals to us. “Vodka shots for Carlton and Amalie.”

The cyclone is tightening into rage as I wait for his answer. Cutting my eyes at him, he laughs and throws an arm over my shoulder. “Settle down, Beavis.”

Two short glasses appear, and he continues. “That long drink of sex is none other than Paige Goldfarb.”

I pick up my shot and sip it. “Who’s Paige Goldfarb?”

My friend slams his back and exhales a loud response. “She’s the newest addition to our world of high-stakes power-posing, but she carries quite the backstory, let me tell you.”

“Please do.” C.J. loves to be dramatic.

“She inherited Lady X cosmetics last year. Very out of the blue. Made her a millionaire several times over. And counting.”

I tilt my head to the side and sneak another glance. “Explains why I don’t recognize her. She’s very beautiful.” A cramp burns in my stomach.

“Oh, she’s more than that.” His eyes twinkle, and I can’t even imagine. “What everybody knows, and nobody’s saying, is before that bright day in November, our lovely Paige was swinging from the pole at VIPs.”

“What!” I hiss. I have to hand it to him. C.J. knows how to drop a bombshell. “She was a stripper?”

“Exotic dancer, please. And girl, she wasn’t just any stripper. Goldie Lux was a star.”

“Her name was Goldie Lux?”

“Stage name, darling, keep up.”

That burning cramp moves higher into my chest. “Well...” I have no idea what to say. “Good for her.”

“Good for all of us. I’ve been waiting to see how this was going to play out.” He looks back over his shoulder, and I can’t help it. I follow his gaze. “Smart move hooking up with Mr. Chicago himself.”

Paige and Marcus are standing very close together, facing each other. Her hand clutches his forearm, and she leans into his ear. Whatever she says makes him smile. She laughs, and I want to throw up.

“They seem very cozy.” My friend takes another sip and murmurs, “Well played, Goldfarb. Well played.”

I don’t mean to stare. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until our eyes meet and lightning flashes all the way to my toes. His hazel eyes widen, and he has the decency to appear stunned. I’m pretty sure shock and horror are plastered all over my slightly inebriated face.

“I’ve got to use the restroom,” I say, fighting my absolutely ridiculous response.

I laid the ground rules. I said no relationships. Fuck him if he wants to fuck her. Oh my fucking god, if he marks her body... I can barely see to walk.

“I’ll be here,” my friend calls after me.

Only one other woman is in the lavatory, which is unusual for a bar. I thank all that’s holy and step to the dark wood counter where two white basin-sinks are perched.

Amber-covered light fixtures separate two round mirrors, casting the entire space in a muted-yellow glow. My eyes are blurry with rage as I wash my hands. I have no idea why I’m washing my hands. I haven’t even used the restroom.

I’m not acting like this. Things were moving too quickly, and now the problem is solved. But I don’t understand...

The other woman leaves without a word, and I contemplate splashing cold water in my face. Clearly I’m drunk. It’s the only explanation for why I’m acting this way. I slide my palms down the front of the coral slip-dress I’m wearing. I chose it because it’s light and casual and reminds me of the spring shows. Now I’m wishing it were more substantial. I feel naked and vulnerable.

Scooping up my clutch, I head for the door. I’ll tell C.J. goodnight and go home. I need some rest. I need to spend some time talking to Sylvia. Get my head straight again.

I did not expect Marcus to be waiting outside in the small foyer, in all his sexy glory, leaning against the wall. I stop in my tracks and he looks up at me under heavy lashes.

“Amy.” His voice is a low vibration tingling under my skin.

“Hi,” I say, not stopping.

Crisp linen assaults my senses as I attempt to push past him, and he catches my upper arm. I have to fight a whimper.

“Wait.” It’s a sharp order. Stern, like that day on the boat. Stop it, Amy. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” I don’t meet his eyes and attempt to twist out of his grip. It only tightens.

“Fuck, Amy.” His voice breaks, and my insides feel like they’re being run through a pasta cutter set to spaghetti. “You don’t understand.”

“Nothing to understand.”

“Something came up. Something... unusual.”

Focus on his shiny black loafers. Don’t say it. “Is she your gala date?” Too late.

He exhales a breath. “Yes. I can’t explain why. Will you trust me?”

I can’t respond. Did he just ask me to trust him? Again? Sure, we’ve had several rounds of extremely intimate, blazing-hot sex, but what does that amount to? Clearly nothing. It amounts to nothing!

He catches my chin, lifting it so our eyes meet. Pain spirals down through my insides, twisting my heart as it falls. I hold on with everything inside me. Do NOT fucking cry, for God’s sake.

His eyes reflect the same out of control emotions ringing inside me, and without a pause, he pulls me to him. I exhale a little noise. Both his hands catch my cheeks and he consumes my mouth, pushing it open and finding my tongue. Heat floods my panties. My back is against the wall, and the same driving passion as last week, as this weekend, as on the boat blazes between us.

I can’t breathe. I want this, but at the same time... Turning my head, I break away, stepping out of his reach.

“No.” My heart thuds against my chest. “I’m not doing this.”

“Please.” His voice is an exhale.

All the emotions we’ve shared, the tiny things, the enormous things, the pieces we’ve given each other, are piling up on top of us, and—

We’re not alone.

A dark-haired female is at the corner, and I only just recognize the oversized houndstooth pattern on her black and white dress.

“How fucking familiar.” Karen’s voice saber-cuts through me. Her hands are on her hips, and her eyes narrow like a snake’s. “I guess some things never change, do they, Amy Knight?”

Shame scalds my insides. It’s all too much. “I’ve got to go.”

Pushing past Karen, I don’t stop until I reach C.J.

“Finally!” he complains. “You’re missing everything. Pill-butt walked in with her entourage, and the icy glares between her and Goldie... Hell, Elsa could reconstruct the Willis tower with them.”

“I can’t stay,” I manage, fighting tears.

His brow lines. “I take it this is not okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Pulling out two twenties, I drop them on the bar beside his hand. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“But it’s ladies’ night!” His voice chases me to the door. I only wave in his direction. “I’ll call you for lunch tomorrow!”

I’m out the door on foot. The car service can pick me up at the next block.