Fortune (23 page)

“That you did, Griffen. Though
surprise
is a rather mild word to describe how I feel. Truthfully, you've blown me away.”

“Chance, buddy, you haven't seen anything yet. I promise you that. The best is yet to come.”

T
he Old Chicago Brew Pub was located on Lincoln Park, across from the zoo. Noisy, packed with the young-professional, after-work crowd, it lived up to its name, boasting fourteen different beers and ales, all brewed on sight.

Griffen sat alone at a small table to the back right of the bar, a position that afforded him a clear view of everyone who came or went. He never sat with his back to a room, a habit he had learned from his grandfather and one that had served him well over the years.

Griffen checked his watch. He had been waiting exactly ten minutes for Chance, and he didn't like it. Nobody kept Griffen Monarch waiting, especially not some little upstart nothing like Chance McCord.

Griffen brought his beer to his lips, then set it back down, untouched. He worked to get a grip on his frustration. Since the night two and half months ago when he had confirmed that Chance was, indeed, the same boy who had known Grace and Madeline, he had learned nothing more that might lead him to his half sister. In fact, it seemed to Griffen that Chance had been particularly unforthcoming with information, and it was starting to piss him off.

His P.I. needed something to go on—a place, a name, a date, even. Short of outright asking and blowing his cover, Griffen's hands were tied.

He lifted his mug again, and this time drank. The dark ale was strong and full-bodied, one of the house specialties. Over these past months, he had carefully cultivated his relationship with Chance. At first they had met only on the pretense of discussing business. Little by little, Griffen had began to inject personal tidbits about himself and his life, requiring Chance to return in kind. He had invited Chance to several business-related social functions, they had met for drinks and dinner; they had gone to a Cubs game together.

He had done it all in the hopes of learning when and where Chance had last seen Grace or, rather, as he knew her, Skye Dearborn. He had done it to earn Chance's trust, to make the other man believe they were friends.

That part had worked. The other man thought they were friends. Just as Griffen wanted him to think. Griffen's lips lifted. And Chance thought he was Mr. PR. At least a half-dozen new accounts had come Chance's way, the man was damn near preening at his success.

He narrowed his eyes. He, Griffen, had given Chance those accounts. He had used his connections, his reputation, his standing in the community—allowing those bones, those carefully selected bones, to be tossed Chance's way. He was responsible for the way Chance's business had grown.

It had been fun to watch. It had been fun to see doors open for Chance, fun because he could close those doors as easily as he had opened them. Fun because he knew he could bring the other man down as quickly as he had brought him up.

And he would, when Chance had outlived his usefulness. Now the time had come for Chance to give him what he wanted.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

Griffen lifted his gaze. A blond woman wearing a denim miniskirt and a tight white tank top stood beside his table.

“I'm Trixie.”

He smiled and moved his gaze slowly over her, finally meeting her eyes once again. “I'm sure you are.”

“You looked kind of lonely. I thought we could keep each other company for a while.”

“Actually, Trixie, as much as I hate to say this, and I really do, I'm expecting a business associate. He'll be here any minute.”

She pouted. “Darn.”

“Darn, indeed.” He skimmed his gaze over her chest, spilling out of the tiny knit top. “Rain check?”

“Sure.” She leaned across the table and plucked his Mont Blanc pen from his breast pocket, then caught his hand and opened it, palm up. She wrote her name and phone number across his palm, then closed his hand over it. “I hope you use it.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

She tucked the pen back into his pocket, blew him a kiss, then turned, nearly running into Chance.

“Excuse me,” she said, ducking around him and walking away.

Chance watched her go, then slid into the seat across from Griffen. “Yeow. Hope my arrival didn't mess up a good thing.”

“Not a problem.” Griffen grinned and held up his hand, palm out. “I'm covered for later.”

Chance laughed. “Man, you're amazing. What is this thing with you and women?”

“Hummingbirds to nectar,” Griffen murmured. “Moths to flames. Bees to flo—”

“I get it.” Chance signaled the waitress. “All I have to say is, I never want to compete with you for the same woman. You'd kick my ass.”

“That's right, buddy-boy.” Lips twitching with amusement, Griffen brought his beer to his lips. “And don't you forget it.”

The waitress arrived and took Chance's order. After she walked away, Chance turned back to Griffen. “Sorry I'm late. I was on the phone with
Vanity Fair.
We got cover confirmation. February. Demi Moore, wearing Monarch's jewelry and little else.”

“Way to go. She pregnant, by any chance?” Griffen asked, referring the famous
V.F.
cover where she had posed nude and very pregnant.

Chance laughed. “Not that I know of. Though, I wish she were. That cover was an attention-grabbing knockout.”

Griffen saluted Chance with his beer. “Good work. Granddad and Dorothy will be pleased. Now, if we can just round up something befitting the occasion.”

“I'm sure Monarch's has a more than ample selection of pieces to choose from.”

“Sure. But it would be nice to have something knockout for the cover. Something really new and fresh. Unfortunately, Dorothy's not up to it.”

Chance drew his eyebrows together. “Is Dorothy ill?”

“No, she's just old.” Griffen frowned. “Too old to be doing what she is. She's easily fatigued, and her creative abilities seemed to have diminished with her energy. Her work is—” The waitress returned with Chance's beer and a basket of warm-from-the-oven pretzels. Griffen waited until she was out of earshot to continue. “Her work is dated. She knows it and it's depressing her. We're all concerned. Especially Granddad.”

“Have you started looking for her replacement yet?”

Grace. He had never stopped. He never would.

Griffen met Chance's eyes. “Dad started looking for one thirteen years ago. Grandfather refused to even consider it. You see, a Monarch has always headed up the design studio. Always. It's more than a tradition with us, it's more than a desire, it's—”

Griffen bit the words back, thinking of Grace, of Madeline and of how she had stolen their girl away from them. From him. His mouth twisted. “We no longer have another choice.”

“Wish I could help, man.” Chance took a swallow of his beer, his expression thoughtful. “I knew a jewelry designer once. A long time ago.”

“Give me her name, I'll call her.”

Chance laughed. “She wasn't even in the same league as Dorothy, more of a crafts artist. She taught adult-ed classes at N.I.U. Nice lady. She had a big heart.”

“Northern? In Dekalb?”

“Yeah.” Chance's lips lifted. “But the most talented artist I ever knew was a kid. She was amazing.”

The blood rushed to Griffen's head. “A kid?” he repeated. “What do you mean, a kid?”

“You know, a child. To this date, I've never seen anyone better. Here—”

Chance retrieved his wallet, opened it and slipped out a folded piece of paper. Thin and frayed, it looked to Griffen as if Chance had been carrying that paper around for years.

He handed it to Griffen. “She drew this for me.”

It was a fragment of a drawing, a detailed and lyrical rendering of a frog wearing a crown.

“She was only twelve when she did that.”

Twelve. Grace would have been twelve that summer they had almost found her.

Griffen worked to hide his excitement, a difficult task, considering that his hands were shaking. “No shit,” he murmured, handing the drawing back. “She was good. What's with the frog?”

“It was me.”

Griffen arched an eyebrow, and Chance laughed. “Long story.”

“Yeah, well, I've got nowhere to go.” He leaned back and lifted his beer mug. “I'm up for it.”

Chance proceeded to narrate the story of his first days with Marvel's Carnival and of how he had met Skye, the girl who had done the drawing. “She was following me around, making my life a bigger living hell than it already was, and finally nearly got me creamed by this group of carny thugs.”

Chance's mouth lifted into a half smile and Griffen could tell the other man was amused by the memory. “In total frustration, I picked her up, tossed her over my shoulder and carried her home. Man, was she pissed. Her mother was pretty pissed, too, but at Skye, not me.

“Anyway, she did the drawing as an apology. After that, the three of us became friends. We kind of hung out together for the rest of the summer.”

Grace. Dear God, he had found his Grace.

“They didn't really fit with the other carnies,” Chance continued, cocking his head in thought. “And neither did I.” He lifted his shoulders. “And there the story ends.”

“But it can't end there,” Griffen said, leaning forward, heart thundering. “What happened to the girl and her mother?”

Chance hesitated, then shook his head. “I've never told anyone what happened next, never talked about it. Though I don't know why. It can't matter anymore. It all happened so long ago.”

“Now you've really got my attention,” Griffen murmured, turning a book of matches over and over between his fingers. It was the only outward sign of his nervous excitement that he allowed himself. “It sounds like you were involved in some sort of intrigue.”

“Intrigue,” Chance said softly, as if deep in thought. “I suppose you could call it that. One stormy night, Claire—that was Skye's mother's name—asked me if I could watch Skye while she ran into town to make a phone call.”

He continued, telling about how Claire had returned, soaking wet and obviously terrified, and begged Chance to watch Skye until a friend came for her in the morning. He told Griffen that the woman never showed, but when a private investigator did, asking a lot of questions, he ran with Skye to protect her.

Griffen stared at Chance while he talked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. All this time, all these years, they had been searching for Madeline and her daughter. A mother with her child.

Madeline had accomplished what she had set out to do—she had fooled them, she had kept them from finding Grace. For thirteen long years.

No more. Now he had found her.

“I left her in Dekalb, with the jewelry maker and her husband. Sarah and Michael Forrest. I had to, she needed a life. A real family.”

Griffen dropped his hands to his lap, squeezing his hands into tight fists. “What's she doing now? Did you keep up with her?”

“No. I felt it was better for us both if I didn't. But I did call once, a few years ago. I don't even remember what urge prompted me to do it. Skye answered. I recognized her voice. And then I hung up. I knew she was okay and…and that's it.”

Griffen digested what Chance had just told him. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Did you ever learn what the mother was running from?”

“Nope.” Chance pushed away his beer. “Truthfully, I sometimes wondered if I'd done the right thing. I wondered…” He swore and looked away. “It crossed my mind that the mother had set me up, that there never was a friend coming, that Claire had never meant to come back for Skye.”

“But you don't believe that?”

“I knew how much Claire loved her daughter. She wouldn't have left her unless…unless she was afraid for Skye. She was definitely in some sort of trouble. And that P.I. did come around with some lame story about a family inheritance.”

“Maybe it was true. I mean, nobody has nobody,” Griffen murmured, feeling Chance out, trying to ascertain whether he had been completely honest with him. “Surely this girl had an aunt or a grandparent or somebody.”

“They didn't. At least that's what Claire wanted Skye to believe. She'd told Skye that her father was dead. And Skye had no memory of anything before her fifth birthday. Nowadays they call it repressed memory syndrome. It really bothered her that she couldn't remember. She always thought her mother was keeping something from her.”

Madeline had been keeping something from her daughter, all right.

Griffen bit back a smile.
If Chance was telling him the truth, this couldn't get any more perfect.

Grace didn't know who she really was.

“You're yanking my chain about this, right? Repressed memory?” Griffen made a sound of disbelief. “If you're not, it's like the plot out of a paperback novel.”