Fortune (42 page)

Chicago, Illinois,
1997

F
rom the moment Claire's plane touched down at O'Hare International Airport, thoughts of Skye flooded her mind. With them came a sense of urgency, of impending disaster.

Something terrible was going to happen. It was going to happen here, soon.

Claire walked down the jetway, working to shake off the feeling and clear her mind. She had been called to Chicago to help the police with the case of a girl abducted from a slumber party at a friend's home. The police had no leads, and the public outcry had been so loud it rocked city hall.

Claire had agreed to come to Chicago, though she had thought long and hard before doing so. She feared she wouldn't be able to help with this one. She had too much history here, too much of her own psychic trauma to be able to pick up on that of others. But they had begged her, and she had agreed. Now here she was, back in Chicago for the first time since escaping Adam and Pierce twenty-one years before.

Her contact, Detective Baker, met her at the gate. She recognized him instantly—she had spent so much time around cops that spotting one was easy.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Ms. Dearborn, thank you for coming.”

She took his hand. “I hope I can help.”

“Let me carry that.”

She handed over her garment bag gratefully. “Thank you.”

After exchanging the usual meaningless pleasantries about her flight and the weather, he filled her in on the case.

“As I explained on the phone, we've got another Polly Klaus here. Nine fourteen-year-old girls having a slumber party. Nice, quiet neighborhood. An affluent neighborhood. When they all fell asleep, everybody was accounted for. When the girls woke up the next morning, one was gone.”

“Becky Williams.”

“Yes.” The detective touched Claire's elbow, directing her to bear right. “At first the girls thought she had gone home. Apparently, Becky and one of the other girls had gotten into it the night before. A fight over some boy.”

“Obviously that's not what happened.”

“Obviously. When the host mother learned Becky was missing, she became understandably concerned. She organized a search of the house, just to make sure the girl wasn't playing a sick trick on her friends, then she called the other mother.”

“And all hell broke lose,” Claire murmured, empathizing with all concerned.

“To put it mildly.” They stepped onto the moving sidewalk. Above them, neon tubes of brilliantly colored moving light provided a spectacular, if dizzying, show. “We've followed every lead. We checked out both fathers, the neighbors. We even considered that, in a fit of pique, Becky had decided to walk the block and a half home.”

“She could have been abducted on her way,” Claire murmured. “It was the middle of the night; the streets were deserted.”

“Right. Ruled that out. Her coat was still in the front closet. Middle of January, she would have taken it even if she had been pissed as hell at the other girls.”

“The house was locked?”

“Nope. Front door wasn't. Neither were several first-floor windows.” He fumbled around for his cigarettes, then, as if remembering that the airport was designated smoke-free, swore and slipped the pack back into his jacket pocket. “As I said, we're talking a safe neighborhood. Low crime. Involved neighbors. Anticrime watch. The whole bit. This thing's thrown the entire community into turmoil.” They stepped off the moving walkway, and the detective made a sound of frustration. “We have nothing else to go on.”

Nothing else to go on.

Skye.

Claire brought a hand to her head, vivid thoughts of her daughter, like images composed of emotions, pressing in on her.

Her daughter needed her.

“Ms. Dearborn?”

She started. The detective was several steps ahead of her, looking back, his weathered face marred by a frown. “I'm sorry, Detective. I'm a little tired.”

“I asked, what do you think?”

That people could disappear in the blink of an eye and never be seen again.
“It's too early. I'll need to surround myself with her things, some of the last things she touched, her pillow and sleeping bag. I'll also want to tour the house. I'll need phone books and newspapers. Every one from a few days before Becky's disappearance until now.”

“Shall I take you directly to the station?”

“Like I said, I'm tired, Detective.” She smiled. “It helps when I'm fresh and well-rested.”

“Of course.” They stepped onto the escalator, going down. “We have a suite for you at the Knickerbocker, downtown. It's a classy old hotel in the historic Streeterville section of town.”

“I know the Knickerbocker. I'm used to more modest accommodations.”

“The hotel donated the suite. The community has really pulled together on this one.”

“How many people know I'm here? You did remember, Detective, that I insist on a low profile? As I explained, I'm not one of those Hollywood-type psychics who likes the limelight. I need quiet and solitude. Distractions block the process for me.”

“Not to worry. Only a few people know you're here, even within the department. The G.M. of the Knickerbocker is the girl's uncle.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

He cut her a questioning glance. “You say you know the hotel? You must be familiar with Chicago.”

“I used to live in Chicago, Detective Baker. But that was a long time ago.”

He smiled. “It's a homecoming of sorts, then.”

“A homecoming,” she repeated, remembering the past, seeing Adam above her, eyes bulging as he tried to squeeze the life out of her. His blood spilling across the gleaming oak floor; Skye screaming.

Claire rubbed the chill from her arms, feeling strongly that her daughter was alive and needed her, that something terrible was going to happen.

She looked at the detective. “I hadn't thought of it that way, but maybe you're right. Maybe this will be a kind of homecoming, after all.”

D
orothy's funeral was held at Cathedral of the Holy Name on Wabash. The church was filled to overflowing, the number in attendance stood testament to how much Dorothy Monarch had been loved and respected. After the Mass, she was laid to rest in the Monarch family mausoleum at Graceland Cemetery. The weather cooperated, the February day was bitterly cold but the skies clear and bright. Those closest to the family were invited back to the Astor Street house to express their personal condolences and share a meal.

Through it all, Skye was numb. Devastated. Over the past months, she had grown to care for Dorothy; she had been both mentor and friend; Skye had started to think of the woman as her aunt, too.

Through the entire ordeal, Griffen stayed by her right side, Adam by her left. Both men leaned on her, destroyed by grief. She had never seen either of them so, and she ached for them. Two deaths in less than a year, first Pierce, now Dorothy. They were a proud, clannish family, to see their number shrink to so few must be as frightening as it was heartbreaking.

“I need a drink,” Adam said hoarsely as they closed the door behind the last mourner. “Anyone else?”

Without a word, Skye and Griffen followed Adam to the library. He fixed them all a drink, pouring himself a stiff whiskey.

“I should have insisted she hire full-time household help.” Adam tossed back his whiskey, grimaced and poured another. “This wouldn't have happened.”

“No, it wouldn't have,” Griffen murmured, lounging on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling. “But we all knew how forgetful she had become. We're all to blame.”

“Stop it,” Skye said, eyes burning. “Both of you. Assigning blame isn't going to bring her back. It was an accident. A tragic, terrible accident. Even the police said so.”

Griffen threw an arm across his eyes. “I can picture her, going to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, then lying down to rest until the kettle whistled. Of course,” he added, his voice strangely choked, “the kettle never whistled. She never awakened again.”

“What are we to do now?” Adam sank heavily to the big, leather armchair, looking his age, Skye thought, for the first time. “What's Monarch's to do?”

She crossed to the older man, bent and hugged him. “It's going to be okay,” she murmured, heart hurting for him as he clung to her. “Everything's going to be okay.”

“That's right.” Griffen sat up. “Monarch's has Skye now. She's the future of Monarch Design, just as she's my future. She'll take Dorothy's place.”

“Oh…Griffen, no.” Skye shook her head, almost embarrassed by his suggestion. “I'm not ready. I don't have enough experience. I don't have enough knowledge. Dorothy did so much more than just create, she ran the entire—”

“Griffen's right,” Adam said, his voice suddenly strong. “You have the creative gift that's the lifeblood of Monarch's. The rest you can learn.”

Skye couldn't believe what they were suggesting. “But others in the department have seniority. They would have a much better understanding of how to keep us running smoothly. Or you could hire an established designer from—”

“The outside?” Adam cut in. “Never!”

Adam's adamance took her by surprise. “But Adam, only a few months ago, I
was
from the outside.”

“But you're family now. Period.”

Skye glanced imploringly at Griffen. “I'm not ready. It doesn't make any sense for me to take over.”

Griffen stood and crossed to her. He took her hands and drew her to her feet. “Darling, it does make sense. You're the one with the gift. And this was what Dorothy wanted. She talked to me about it. She talked to Adam about it. When she passed away, she wanted you to take the creative reins. She was even more convinced of that after the trip to Milan.”

Skye returned her gaze to Adam, only to find his on Griffen. He looked almost…frightened. “Adam?” she whispered, a prick of unease moving up her spine.

His expression cleared. “I agree. It's what she would have wanted.”

“We need you, Skye,” Griffen murmured. “You're family now. You're one of us. We need you to do this.”

Family.

The thing she had always longed for, to be a part of people who needed her, who loved her, people she could call her own. But how, after the other night, could she continue her engagement to Griffen? How could she remain one of them?

As the days since making love with Griffen had passed, the horror of the experience hadn't dimmed. It had clung to her like the aftereffect of a terrifying dream. She had begun to wonder if she hadn't been sick, as she had suggested to Griffen. What else could have caused such a strange and horrifying reaction in her? It wasn't natural.

She brought a hand to her temple. It had been as if he'd been raping her. Why? She didn't find him disgusting or ugly; he hadn't been cruel, hadn't used even a hint of force.

Adam stood, he took one of her hands and curled his around it, bringing it to his chest, his heart. “You're not going to leave us, are you, Skye? I don't think I could bear that now.”

“Of course she's not,” Griffen said, taking her other hand. “She's family now. She wouldn't break our hearts that way. Would you, love?”

Both men looked at her. A fluttery, panicky sensation settled in the pit of her gut. Trapped. She was trapped. After all, what could she say? Now was not the time to express her real feelings, her fears and uncertainties. How could she? Both men were in pain; both men needed her.

Instead, she concurred, speaking to Adam, unable to meet Griffen's gaze. “Of course I won't break your heart. And if my running the design department is really what you want, I'll try.”

Adam hugged her. “That's our girl. Isn't she, Griffen?”

“Our girl,” he repeated, hugging her, too. “Always our girl.”

T
he hemorrhaging of McCord Public Relations and Special Events had finally stopped. Chance owed Martha a huge debt of gratitude. She had helped him, refusing, she said, to allow Griffen Monarch to hold her hostage another moment. Nobody was going to blackmail her, she had decided. She'd had enough.

Once Martha's story began to circulate, Chance had been able to convince several of the clients he'd lost due to Griffen's smear campaign to come back. And working day and night, he had also managed to acquire a few new accounts.

During it all, Chance had realized some things. The first being that he, Chance, had built his own business—with ingenuity, hard work and his reputation for getting the job done, and done right. Griffen had not given it to him, Chance had earned it.

The truth of that had been freeing. It had brought him back to life. Brought back his will to fight and win.

But still, those realizations paled in comparison to another.

He couldn't allow Skye to marry Griffen. And not because he feared Griffen was unstable. But because he feared he couldn't live without her himself.

That was why he had come here, to Monarch's. To Griffen's lair, as he thought of it. He took the elevator up to the design department, greeted the receptionist, announced that he had popped in to say hello to Skye and, not giving the woman time to question his right to do so, he strode boldly down the hall.

Luckily, Skye was in her office, alone. She was at her jeweler's bench, her head bent over her work. She was using what Dorothy had called a flex-shaft, and she didn't hear him over the machine's low hum.

He closed the door behind him. “Don't marry Griffen.”

Her hands stilled. She turned off her buffer and hung it on the hook at the back of her workstation, then slipped off her safety glasses. Only then did she face him. “What did you say?”

“You asked me once to give you a reason not to marry him. I am. I'm here. Don't marry Griffen.”

“I'm buried in work here, trying to keep a studio that's been thrown into complete turmoil running smoothly. Trying to keep up with a job that I don't have enough experience to handle. And you want to play a competitive, sick little game with me. I'm not interested, Chance.”

He strode across the room, stopping before her. He caught her hands and drew her to her feet. “This isn't a game. This isn't about Griffen. It doesn't have anything to do with anything but you and me.”

He brought their joined hands to his chest. She wore Griffen's ring. Seeing it affected him like a punch to his gut. He wanted to yank it off her finger. “I don't want you to marry Griffen. Because of me. Because of my feelings for you.”

He tightened his hands over hers. “I can't let you slip away, Skye. I think about you all the time. I can't imagine living without you. But I want to be honest with you. I can't promise you forever, not yet, anyway. I can't promise you a perfect love. Hell, I don't even know what that is. But I think I love you. I want to give us a try.”

She searched his gaze, looking suddenly, impossibly vulnerable. She pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking. “The last time we saw each other, you told me that to keep me from marrying Griffen you'd even tell me you loved me. Now you've done it. Are you really that jealous of him?”

“I'm not jealous of him,” he said, realizing that he meant it, realizing how good it felt. “Look, Skye, I've spent my whole life working to be better than I was, different, more important. I spent my life looking at the Griffen Monarchs of the world and wanting what they had, wanting to be what they were. I'm sure there's some psychobabble bullshit reason for it, but I don't care about that. That's over, I don't want to be Griffen Monarch or anyone or anything besides who and what I am. But I do want you. I want to give us a try,” he repeated.

For what seemed like forever she said nothing, simply stared at him, her expression frozen. Then she yanked her hands free. “If that were true, if I could believe that some epiphany had brought you here instead of your competition with Griffen, what would you want from me? How am I supposed to respond to your little halfhearted commitment? Am I supposed to fall down in a faint of joy? Am I supposed to be…What? Honored? Grateful? Please. I'm not an idiot. And I'm not desperate.”

“I'm being as honest as I know how to be.”

“Bully for you.” She strode to her desk, stared at it a moment, then whirled to face him, furious, he saw. “Griffen has promised me his undying love and devotion. He's promised me forever, a perfect love for always. You start off with a disclaimer about not being able to offer anything.”

“Don't you get it?” Chance asked, as angry now as she. “When are you going to grow up? There's no such thing as perfect love, there's no such thing as forever—”

“Because you can't make a commitment,” she shouted. “Because you're too afraid to let yourself love anyone.”

“I'm afraid?” he said, disbelieving. “I'm not the one marrying someone I don't love so I can feel safe.”

“Get out. Get the hell out of my office before I call security and have you removed.”

“Do it,” he said, moving closer. “See if I care. You're pissed off because all I can do is offer to try. Don't you see that's all there ever is? Two people who love each other and are willing to try.” He looked her dead in the eye. “And you don't love Griffen.”

“Two people trying,” she mimicked sarcastically. “For how long, Chance? Until they don't feel like it anymore? Until they get the itch to take off?”

“Back to that well, Skye? My leaving you with Sarah and Michael was the best thing I could have done for you. And you know it. Or you would if you'd ever stop thinking like a thirteen-year-old and start thinking like an adult.”

She grabbed for the phone, he yanked it away and caught her to his chest. “You want me to promise I'll never hurt you, I can't do that. No one can. Being hurt is part of being a fallible human being, surrounded by other fallible human beings.” He pulled her closer, until she was pressed so tightly against him he could feel the wild beat of her heart against his. “You don't love Griffen,” he said fiercely. “You don't.”

“How do you know?” she whispered, her voice thick. “I'm madly in love with him. Wildly, passionately in love with him.”

“You're not.” He cupped her face in his palms. “You're in love with me.”

“I'm not.” She wedged her hands between them and flattened them against his chest, though she didn't try to push him away. “I refuse to love you. I refuse to allow myself to be—”

He caught her words with his mouth, kissing her deeply. He moved his hands to her hair, freeing it from its clip. The clip clattered to the floor; her hair tumbled to her shoulders. He tangled his fingers in it, the strands, soft and silky against his skin.

But instead of pushing him away, she made a sound deep in her throat and pressed closer, curling her fingers into his shirt as if holding on for dear life.

He kissed her again and again, one dizzying exchange after another, moving his tongue in and out of her mouth, wet, open, wanting. A true imitation of the sex act. She mimicked him, as hungry as he, as desperate.

“I've missed you,” he muttered against her mouth. He inched her backward, until she was pressed up against the wall.

She arched slightly, bringing their pelvises into stunning, breath-stealing contact. It was all he could do to keep from making love to her now, against this wall, not giving a damn who might hear them.

He slid his hand under her skirt and up her thigh. “You're so wet,” he whispered.

She bit back a moan, trembling. He curved his hand around her and she came. Just like that, almost spontaneously. Silently, for he caught the sounds of her pleasure with his mouth and tongue.

And then he let her go. She met his eyes, disoriented, still caught in the throes of her release. Her chest rose and fell with her labored breathing, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. He was so hard he hurt.

“You see how I know?” he asked softly. “You don't love him, Skye. If you did, your body wouldn't respond like that to me. All I did was touch you.”

He crossed to the door, stopping and turning back when he reached it. “Grow up, Skye. I'm sorry I hurt you all those years ago. But you're not a kid anymore. Get over it.”