Claiming Chase: (A Second Chance Stepbrother Romance) (2 page)

Don’t get me wrong. I see beautiful women all the time. When you’ve got money like I have, they’re attracted to you like magnets. But there’s something about
this
girl ... something different, but also strangely familiar.

There’s nothing special about her features. Brown hair and hazel eyes. But there’s something about the way she holds herself. She looks kind of awkward here, in that gown, those shoes — like she’s more of a sneakers and jeans kind of girl.

I wonder what she’s even doing here.

But I just can’t stop looking at her. It’s like she glows. She’s got life in her eyes. Most of the girls I know had that beaten out of them at finishing school.

I know I’ve just got to talk to her, find out who she is.

I
am
going to talk to her.

Because when I set my mind to something, I do it. But that doesn’t mean I just blunder straight in without thinking.

Instead, I hold back, take a sip of my champagne, and survey the room.

I didn’t get where I am today in business by making rash decisions, and seduction is a game I take just as seriously.

But there’s something about this girl that makes me feel like I’m not playing with a full hand of cards. There’s something odd about her … something 
hidden
. And yes, familiar. Definitely familiar. If only I could work out where I knew her from.

Focus, Chase.

These are mere details.

You’ve played this game long enough to know how to win. And besides, look at her. She’s completely out of her depth here.

Look at her long luscious hair. It’s beautiful, but she’s not had it professionally blown out like all the other women in this room. Her slender neck is tantalizingly bare, as if inviting me to sink my teeth into it. And I can feel my cock stirring and hardening the longer I drink her in. But where are her diamonds, her emeralds, her rubies? Her dress is off the peg. And I notice her ankles are rubbed slightly red — she’s definitely not used to wearing heels.

See what I mean?

Details.

It’s this kind of attention to detail that means tonight, she’ll be mine.

I take my time, sure, but I also know when to go in for the kill. And a girl that awkward? I don’t know how she got in here. Who she knows. Even now, she’s looking around, worried, like something is wrong. And she might leave any minute.

Now’s my time.

I start to move through the crowds.

It’s the usual scene. These fundraisers are all the same. I must have been to a thousand of them. The same black and white tuxedoed waiters, carrying the same trays of canapés and champagne, circulating amongst the same crowd: property developers and hedge fund guys like me in our three-thousand dollar suits, and the women who enjoy our money, dressed in the finest couture.

And to a less trained eye, this girl would pass as one of us.

But I know better. I keep my eye on her as I move through the assembled throng.

There she is, scanning the room nervously, and I make a beeline straight towards her, when …

“Chase! Congratulations on the profile!”

I turn in the direction of the voice; it’s Mark Lobenfeld, head honcho at Futura Capital, one of New York’s top hedge funds. He’s made a killing in just a few short years, and we play it friendly but he knows I’m after his throne.

“Thanks, Mark,” I say with a smile he doesn’t know is fake. “It was only a small article, but any publicity is good at this stage of my business. I want to take things to the next level.”

“And that photo of you,” Mark laughs, shaking his head. “That’s gonna have the girls knocking on your door just as much as the investors, not that you need any help in that department from what I hear!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “I’d rather keep out of the press, personally. But you know how this works. I have to be the face of my company.”

But I have no time for this small talk. All the way through this petty exchange, I keep my eyes firmly trained on my prize.

She’s got her back to me now, allowing me the view of her perfect ass. Her black evening gown might be off the peg, but it hugs her figure in all the right places, and again I feel the sharp rush of blood to my cock.

Mark carries on talking, but I’ve tuned out. Luckily, I’ve had these conversations a million times before, and I know how to nod in all the right places. And he hasn’t noticed that I’m not really listening; he’s too busy bragging about his latest deal.

As I watch her, the room seems to fade into silence, and I feel my senses sharpening.

It’s time to get out of this conversation.

“Excuse me,” I say to Mark, “but I have business to attend to.”

He pats me on the shoulder as I begin to move once more through the crowds, towards my target.

I see her scanning the room, and I notice her hands are empty. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it’s my perfect way in.

I take a slight detour, catch the eye of a waiter, grab two glasses of champagne, and then I’m back in for the kill.

I’m only a few steps away from her now. She has her back turned to me, her hair to one side, falling over her shoulder, giving me another view of that long slender neck.

I’m so close to her now, I can smell her perfume; a delicate floral scent.

I’m so close, I could kiss that slender neck.

But instead, I whisper gently in her ear, “Drink, madam?”

She turns around with a start, and when she sees me, her eyes widen. Wordlessly, she accepts the glass I hold out to her. As she does, I gently brush my fingers against hers. My mouth curls into a smile.

And I know she’s mine.

“Drink madam?”

I spin round, and when I see him there, so close to me, it’s like my heart stops beating. And when I try to speak, the words stick in my throat. I have no choice. My hand automatically accepts the champagne flute he’s holding out to me.

But as he begins to smile, I know it as surely as I know anything:

He doesn’t know who I am.

So what’s he doing here? Why did he seek me out if he doesn’t remember me?

And as if to answer my question, his eyes travel across my body, lingering for a moment on my breasts.

It’s suddenly so clear: I’m his prey, he means to have me, and he’s obviously done this before. And whatever he’s doing, it’s working. Because in these few seconds, I can feel all my resolve melting away. I came here for answers, but instead I’m ready to abandon it all and give myself to him completely — right here and now.

I try to fight back. To find the tiny scraps of strength within my body, to ignore the tingles that run down my spine just by looking at him. He’s even taller than I remember, but those sapphire blue eyes? How could I forget. They’re just as piercing as ever. Just standing this close to him feels dangerous. He’s exuding an animal intensity, and in the face of it, I try to stay strong.

So I’m about to tell him, tell him everything:
No, you don’t understand. It’s not like that between you and me. Don’t you remember, Chase?

I’m about to tell him just
who
I am, when something inside stops me. Because I realize that this knowledge is the one thing I have over him, and for now at least, I can find out more about him by keeping this secret close to my chest.

So instead I smile my sweetest smile, and reply, “Thank you, I’m parched.”

“Let me guess,” he says with a wry smile. “You’re a corporate spy?”

Oh God. Have I read this totally wrong?

I mean, I know that I don’t quite fit in here. Has he seen right through me? Has he simply come here to eject me, quickly and quietly from the room?

And I stumble nervously over my words: “A spy? No, of course not … I’m just here to … to …”

He laughs.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Most of the time, I feel like you do in this world, too. So I can spot a fellow outsider at fifty paces. But just tell me this. How did you get in? Bribe the doorman? Sneak past when he wasn’t looking? What’s your trick?”

I smile despite myself. He’s still the charming boy I remember, brimming with that brazen confidence that’s obviously got him so far in this world. And now I’m relieved that he’s not come over here to tell me to leave. For the next few minutes at least, we can talk, while I figure out my next move in this game of cat and mouse.

“Actually,” I explain, “I told them I had an urgent message for my boss inside. I looked like I was about to cry, and they took pity on me.”

“Nice work,” he replies. “You must be quite the actress.”

“And how do you know I’m not acting now?” I say, looking him square in the eye.

“I don’t,” he admits. “So
are
you an actress. You’ve certainly got the looks for it ...”

Wow. He’s not pulling any punches, is he? First he gets my secret out of me, making me vulnerable. Then flatters my vanity. He knows all the moves.

But I can’t help it; I
am
flattered of course. In the circumstances, though, what’s he talking about? There are a hundred girls in here more beautiful than me. Why isn’t he working his magic on any of those? For example, there’s a girl just to the right of us. Her tight red evening gown is slit right up to her thigh. Her mane of glossy blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders, while her bee-stung lips glow a bright, dramatic red. She’s stunning — supermodel stunning. So why is he here with me?

It would make sense if he
remembered me
, but he obviously doesn’t.

And as I process this fact, I feel a flash of anger.

All it took was that one photograph in
Business Insider
and everything came flooding back to me so clearly, as if it had all happened yesterday. I knew exactly who he was — almost instinctively. He might be wrapped up in different clothes now. Gone are the torn blue jeans and black leather biker jacket. But there’s no mistaking him. So why can’t he remember
me
too? Am I really so different now? Have I really changed beyond recognition?

Suddenly back in the moment, I realize that he’s still waiting for me to speak.

“Well?
Are
you an actress?” he repeats.

I can’t help but laugh. Because in a way he’s right, I am playing a role here tonight.

So what should I tell him?

I don’t feel ready to tell him who I really am just yet. And I still haven’t quite worked what game it is we’re playing.

“Quite the opposite,” I say. “Let’s just say, I’m more at home in the library than on the stage.”

“Oh,” he says, raising one eyebrow as he processes this new information. “A scholar? And if I asked you to make a study of
me
, what conclusions might you draw?”

“Let me see,” I say, looking him up and down. “Your shoes and suit, are expensive. Very expensive. So it’s clear you have money, and a lot of it. You’re comfortable in your clothes, and in this room. So this money isn’t new to you, either. Since this is a gathering of hedge fund guys and Wall Street money men, I’m guessing that’s your business.”

I pause for a moment, our eyes locked, my heart hammering.

“But there’s another side to you, too,” I continue. “A darker, faster side. I wouldn’t be surprised if under that suit, you’re hiding a tattoo … or two.”

“Very good,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

I still can’t quite work out who’s winning here, in this weird game we’re playing. I know
so
much more about him than I’ve just told him. He thinks I’m sizing him up. He’s looking at me right now like I’m a worthy advisory. But the truth is, in the face of his intensity, I’m melting.

I can’t fight it any longer.

I’m about to just blurt it out — to tell him the truth.

But then he speaks. “What do you say we get out of here? I know a quiet bar just around the corner where we can
really
get to know each other. ”