Liberating Lacey (11 page)

It’s just a party. A work event, really. Male colleagues bring girlfriends in the spring who
aren’t around in the fall, or even the summer. You’re not taking him to a wedding, or a family
dinner. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But to her, it did.

Lacey collected and organized the papers strewn around her body, laid them on the coffee table, then pushed herself upright. Normally so alert, Hunter didn’t even move.

Carefully sliding the remote from under his slack hand didn’t trigger a response, either, nor did turning off the TV. She stood and stretched, watching him sleep. Absent the energy normally vibrating under his skin, he looked like a younger, uncharacteristically vulnerable version of himself. Bruised shadows darkened the skin under his eyes. To avoid waking him she left him as he was, just covered him with the woven Indian throw draped over the back of the sofa and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

* * * * *

The first thing Hunter registered was the warm smoothness of leather under his face and the faintly acrid scent of tanning and dye in his nostrils. His brain coughed and whirred reluctantly, like a car starting after being parked outside in below-zero temps.

Not his bed. Definitely not Lacey’s bed, the only other place he’d been sleeping recently.

Then he smelled coffee, the seductive aroma dark, rich and right in front of his nose.

Not sure if he was dreaming, he opened his eyes and saw a pair of delicate knees, sheathed in flesh-colored silk stockings and primly pressed together under a black skirt.

A coffee cup bearing the logo of one of the local banks rested on the skirt between two pale hands, the nails tipped in pink polish. A whirl of steam rose from the mug, dissipating in front of a pair of gorgeous, lush breasts maddeningly both hidden behind and displayed by a tight green turtleneck.

He knew those knees, those breasts. Turning his head in search of full lips, waves of red hair and dancing brown eyes sent a bolt of pain through his neck, into his shoulder.

He clapped his hand to his nape.

“Shit!”

“Good morning to you, too.”

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Liberating Lacey

With a groan he turned from his stomach to his back, the blanket from the back of Lacey’s couch tangled around his legs. The sofa, the game, dinner with Lacey rushed back in a jumble of words and images.

Did he really agree to go to an event at the members-only Metropolitan Club tonight with her?

“Did the Cubs win?” Not the question on his mind, but probably one not likely to send dismay flashing through those sweet brown eyes.

“No idea. The game was in overtime when I went to bed at ten, tied at two runs each.”

“Extra innings.”

“That’s what I said.”

Damn, she was cheerful this morning. She offered him the coffee cup. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up. An experimental roll of his head and shrug of his shoulders reassured him he’d live to fight another day, so he took the mug from her hand. “Not decaf, right?”

“Full strength,” she replied.

He sipped. The liquid seared his tongue, throat and stomach. Within seconds a jolt of caffeine shot to his fingertips, and more importantly, his brain. “And then some,” he said.

“I have to go. I’m due at the office in ten minutes. There are scones from Great Harvest in the kitchen. Eat some so I won’t eat them all.” She gave him a quick kiss but stood and hurried out of reach before he could turn the brief caress of her lips into something more.

More coffee. He needed more coffee so he gulped half the mug and stared blankly straight ahead while she bustled around behind him, muttering about her keys.

Sounded like she was putting on her jacket and gathering her kit. BlackBerry, briefcase, purse.

The Metropolitan Club. He’d said yes to prove something, not to her but to himself.

He could walk in into that private club and be her date for an hour or two. He would not look like an intruder. He wouldn’t make her look like she was slumming.

Lost in thought he forgot about his neck and looked up when she stopped in front of him. “Ouch! Dammit!”

“Hot shower,” she said, then held her fist out, palm down. Assuming she didn’t mean to give him a fist bump, he put his hand out, palm up and open. She dropped a single key, the one from under the flowerpot, into his hand. “Lock up when you leave.” First an event and now a key? “Lacey, I…” he began as he got to his feet, but she was already moving, her heels clicking against the mahogany flooring.

“Leave it in the mailbox,” she said as she turned the deadbolt and opened the front door.

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“I’m not leaving it in the mailbox.” Not safe, no way. He’d as soon put it back under the damn flowerpot.

“Then keep it and give it to me tonight. Or don’t give it back,” she said. She blew him a kiss and closed the door behind her. Already on the BlackBerry as she backed out of the driveway, she bumped up over the curb and missed her neighbor’s mailbox by mere inches.

“Jesus Christ, beautiful. Who taught you how to drive?” He looked at the key, then at the cup of coffee, then at Lacey’s living room. The throw had fallen to the floor when he got up, so he folded it and laid it over the back of the sofa. The fireplace now held tulips. White tulips. Dozens of them. In September.

At a total loss he went into the kitchen, set the key and coffee on the counter and got a scone from the bag. Staring blankly out the window over the kitchen sink at the manicured landscaping that was Lacey’s yard, he ate the scone, leaning over the sink to contain the crumbs.

What the hell was happening here? He rarely spent the night with women, but he’d slept at Lacey’s half a dozen times. More. He couldn’t remember the last time he spent the night with a woman without fucking her. Last night they’d had dinner, hung out on the couch together and he’d slept there. Despite the ache in his neck he was grateful for that. If she’d woken him up to take him upstairs, he would have been up all night. His body clock was totally wrecked at the moment.

But he didn’t feel half as tired as he did the day before, or half as mentally exhausted. He felt strange, alone in Lacey’s big, solid, silent house. Not uncomfortable.

Just…alone.

So leave.

That seemed like the best, obvious option. He finished his coffee, dumped the rest down the disposal and took a scone for the road. Locking the door without crushing the scone tucked under his arm wasn’t easy, but he managed, then shoved the key into his front pocket. He’d give it back on Friday.

Across the street and two doors down, white curtains were pulled back from the front picture window. Mrs. Duffy probably had the phone in her hand, ready to call either Lacey or the gossip network about him. Every established neighborhood had an old bat like that, great for crime prevention and hell for privacy. He stopped on the porch and stared directly at her, faintly discerning white hair and a red sweater half-hidden behind the curtain. After a few moments the curtains twitched closed. He strode down the sidewalk and around the corner of the house to his bike.

Was it his jeans and t-shirt, he wondered as he turned the key and revved the bike’s engine. The boots? If he’d worn khakis and a shirt with a collar, driven a luxury sedan not a Dodge Charger or worse, the speed bike, would she have ignored him? Was she on the phone right now, telling all the neighbors about Lacey’s indiscreet lover, leaving by the front door at nine in the morning?

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Fuck ‘em
, he thought as he pushed back out of the driveway, remembering his advice to Lacey, but the words rang hollow in his head. He knew all about the power of women like Mrs. Duffy, keepers of the social order. Lacey did, too. She was the one who brought up Mrs. Duffy and the cougar comments.

The alone feeling didn’t lessen as he rocketed down the residential street toward Hanover and his own neighborhood. The uncomfortable feeling was back, too.

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Anne Calhoun

Lacey no longer expected the same Hunter every time every time she opened her front door, because any one of four or five outward personas might keep a cop’s watchful eye on the street while waiting on her porch. The uniformed patrol officer…the paint-and-dust-spattered construction worker…the t-shirt and baggy cargo shorts-wearing athlete…the biker…the business casual date for dinner or the movies or a walk in the park…all would be armed, either openly or concealed, and all would set her pulse pounding by looking at her like
lunch!
for a brief second before the civilized mask dropped into place.

Tonight she opened the door to a suit. She dropped one shoulder and pursed her lips, treating herself to a long, slow look, starting with his ruthlessly shaved jaw. A charcoal gray Italian wool suit emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders and his narrow hips, the pants legs breaking over brilliantly polished black wing tips. The dark blue tie that just grazed his belt buckle was knotted in a full Windsor, a very nice touch.

“Wow.”

“Back at you, beautiful.” His gaze flickered over the exposed skin of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. She wore a forest green raw silk strapless cocktail dress, the full skirt ending just above her knees, and had carefully tucked her hair into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. Strappy black heeled sandals, her grandmother’s gold hoops and a two-inch-wide thickly braided gold bracelet were her only accessories.

Hunter stepped forward to push the door open but she held her ground and lifted a hand. “No. Don’t even think about it. Every night you come in we have sex before we go out.”

The beginnings of a smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. “If you say so, but it sounds like you need to relax.”

She reached behind the door for her small beaded clutch and stepped onto the porch to lock up behind her. “I’ll relax when this is over. If you want I’ll relax in the back seat of your car. But I need to meet a very important potential client and if you turn me into a satiated, soft pussycat, I won’t be on my game.” At her entirely serious words he stepped back, hands in the air as if surrendering, then put one hand at the small of her back to escort her down the slate path to his Charger. “I thought this was a casual social thing.”

“It was, until I heard that a developer from Chicago is in town, looking for investment properties to diversify his holdings. He’ll need a local resource for permanent financing. I intend to be that person.” 80

Liberating Lacey

She slid into the passenger seat and fussed with her skirt as he closed her door, then she buckled her seatbelt while he walked around the hood and got in. He reversed out of the driveway and headed down Hanover toward the financial district.

Hunter’s capable driving and ease with silence left Lacey to her own thoughts, something she appreciated with a big opportunity in front of her. She closed her eyes and reached for mental focus. She’d compiled a list of properties likely to interest a buyer with Shane Baldwin’s capital and holdings and had her pitch down pat. A few phone calls to friends of friends and she knew he had gone to school at Cornell and B-school at Wharton and worked in Manhattan before returning to Chicago. Personal details, not tenths of percentage points, were her bread and butter. Anyone could arrange financing. Relationships still drove ninety percent of repeat business.

“Are there two baseball teams in Chicago?” she asked.

“Yeah. Cubs and White Sox. Why?”

“Because Shane Baldwin…oh, turn here! The corner’s kind of tight.” The Metropolitan Club in all its red-bricked, white-columned glory sat well back from the street, half-hidden behind a tall, manicured privacy hedge. Mature trees loomed over the property and lined the semi-circular drive. They pulled to a halt in front of the majestic white double doors, where a red-coated valet trotted around the hood to Hunter’s side of the car and opened the door for him. Another attendant already had Lacey’s door open and a hand out to help her out of the car.

Hunter worked the car key off his ring and handed it to the kid.

“Sweet car. Can’t beat American muscle,” the kid said as he slipped inside and zipped the Charger out of the drive, to the parking lot across the street.

Hunter stared after him as he slipped the valet tag in his pocket. “He must be about sixteen. I bet the parking lot’s full of luxury cars.”

“I think it’s a sweet car,” Lacey said with an arch smile. Adrenaline hummed in her veins. Hunter at her side, Shane Baldwin in her sights and the prospect of a deal on the table. She hadn’t felt this alive in a work situation in months.

“Tell me you don’t turn over your key ring when you use a valet,” he said as they walked up the wide brick stairs.

“Hello, Neil.” Lacey nodded a greeting to the white-gloved attendant checking invitations at the door. “I do, but since this friend of mine has an issue with keys, I’ll start using my valet key. The BMW came with one. It’s at home in the junk drawer.” Hunter said something under his breath, his hand hovering at her waist as they made their way through the foyer, into the crowded library, where waiters circulated carrying trays laden with plates of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. The crowd, already considerable, sat in dark leather wingback chairs and low sofas, or were clustered around tall wood tables. Glass cases lining either side of two massive fireplaces held leather-bound books. Two small open bars were set up under the windows between doors that opened to a deck overlooking the private grounds.

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“I thought this was a members only club,” Hunter said. He kept close, part protective, part clearing a path for her. The heat radiating from the hand at the small of her back sent a frisson of excitement through her as she strolled to the bar.

“It is, but anyone with an invitation can attend the event.”

“You didn’t show an invitation.”

“It’s at home in my junk drawer with my valet key. I’m a member,” she said.

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

A hint of discomfort at the trappings of wealth and privilege slithered up her spine.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a member because they managed to keep women out of the club until 1996 and because the power brokers in this town do deals here.

Chardonnay, please,” she said to the bartender, who looked inquiringly at Hunter.

“Water,” he said.

When they both had their glasses, she clinked hers to his. “Think of this as a tactical operation. Meet, mingle, socialize, get introduced to Shane Baldwin, leave.”

“To the motivational properties of back seats,” he replied, then sipped. “Who’s our target?”

Stifling a surge of pleasure at
our target
, she glanced toward the windows overlooking the fountain and hedges “Tallest man in the group in the middle of the windows, blond hair, wearing a red power tie.”

He adjusted the set of his shoulders, the same unconscious motion she’d seen him make to resettle his bullet-resistant vest. “Let’s do this.” For the next forty-five minutes she worked the room, Hunter a mostly silent, looming presence at her side, feeling not unlike a bodyguard. He answered direct questions but contributed little to the conversations as she guided them from one group to another, renewing acquaintances, catching up on industry gossip. When he went to get her a second glass of wine Lacey immersed herself in a conversation with Phil Hodges, the eighty-year-old president of the city’s oldest local bank.

She felt Hunter’s return before he said a word, heat once again radiating against her naked shoulder blades as he handed her a fresh glass and whispered in her ear.

“Baldwin’s alone right now. Look to your right.” She glanced over and saw him once again by the windows, either lost in thought or fascinated by the lawn. Perfect.

“Philip,” she said to the bank president, “I have yet to meet Shane Baldwin.”

“I mentioned you earlier, so please allow me, Laetitia.” He extended his arm to Lacey. “You don’t mind?” he said to Hunter, giving Lacey’s arm a fond pat. “I’m old and she’s very beautiful.”

An amused smile flickered across Hunter’s face as he shook his head. Phil made his slow, meticulous way across the parquet flooring, then introduced her and her “good friend” to Shane. Suddenly able to walk perfectly well on his own he excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.

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After a firm, warm handshake for both her and Hunter, Shane directed his attention back to her. “Lacey, Phil tells me you’re the mortgage broker I should be working with in town.”

A nice start, to the point, a professionally courteous smile. “That’s very kind of him, but he is a bit prejudiced. I got my start in his commercial lending division,” she said with the obligatory self-deprecating laugh. They ran through the basic set of business-related questions and answers before things turned personal. Shane turned to Hunter and said, “Somehow I don’t think you’re in real estate.”

“I’m with the police department.”

Shane smiled. “I recognized the look. My dad was a firefighter for thirty years and my uncle’s with CPD. You’ll never run out of work.”

“Can’t beat the job security,” Hunter replied. “I hear you’re a White Sox fan.”

“Yeah and if you bring up the Cubs, we’re done here.” Both men laughed, then chatted briefly about the White Sox/Cubs rivalry. The Cubs still had a chance to make the playoffs in a few weeks, but to Shane’s dismay the White Sox were out of the running. A detailed discussion about pitching lineups ensued, Hunter’s face actually somewhat animated. For the first time all night, Lacey breathed a sigh of relief, perfectly content to smile and listen. When the conversation ran its course she’d ditch her wine with the nearest waiter, get out of her spike heels and under Hunter.

A soft, heavy body jostled her elbow, nearly spilling her wine on her dress. She exclaimed and held the glass away from her body, managing to keep the liquid contained. Both Hunter and Shane looked up, Hunter’s eyes narrowing for a brief second.

Vince Jameson, a good-old-boy wealth manager in his forties wobbled at her elbow.

Despite the open windows the room was a bit warm and red flags stained his cheekbones. Recovering her poise, Lacey handled the introductions, expecting him to engage Shane in conversation.

Instead he turned to Hunter and said, “I know you.”

“I don’t think so.”

While he’d been reserved during introductions throughout the evening, he’d never so bluntly discouraged a conversational attempt. Lacey felt her own eyes widen. To cover her shock she lifted her wine glass to her lips.

“Nah. I know you. Did you go to Northwestern? Kappa Phi?”
Definitely too much to drink
, Lacey thought. Hunter’s youth wasn’t as obvious next to Shane’s, who’d clearly availed himself of a facial to go with his discreetly buffed nails, but next to the heavy-jowled, florid Vince, Hunter looked lean, tanned and young.

There was no way they’d been at college together.

“The U,” Hunter said. His words gave the shorthand for the local public university and his tone gave the shorthand for “back off”.

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Vince persisted. “You with Western States?”

Hunter shrugged again, the automatic resettling gesture, then shook his head. His eyes flashed to Lacey’s. The animation on his face while he talked baseball had been replaced by the unsmiling cop stare that initially obfuscated his identity when she saw him running the speed trap. A sharp edge of uncomfortable irritation simmered under the surface and warning sirens went off in her brain. She drew breath and opened her mouth to extract them from the conversation but Vince brought up one finger and pointed it at Hunter.

“I know you from somewhere…” Then his expression went from drunken bonhomie to a narrow-eyed distaste, his fingers tightening on a glass brimming the club’s best aged whiskey.

Hunter gave a sharp nod to Shane. “Nice to meet you,” he said and brushed past him. He skirted the edges of the crowd and disappeared through the door to the foyer.

“Did you bring him?” Vince asked her.

It was all Lacey could do to avoid wincing at the overpowering stench of alcohol on his breath. “Why, yes,” she said.

“He’s a street cop on a power trip. Six, maybe eight months ago he pulled me over on some bullshit pretense. Parked in a no-parking zone after the bars closed, or something. Instead a warning he arrests me. I had to call my wife at two in the morning to get out of jail. Probably behind on his quota. The charges were dropped.” A fine sweat had broken out at Vince’s hairline. He took a big gulp from the glass, his fingers trembling, and no wonder. The story made no sense at all. He was drunk, lying and slandering her lover, but leaping in with claws and fangs bared in front of a guest in her city and at her club simply wasn’t appropriate.

Shane shrugged, clearly finding Vince’s credibility somewhat dubious. “Seemed like a solid guy to me. Lacey, call me about that property tour. I’ll be back in town in a couple of weeks.”

“Of course. I’ll do that. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said. She turned her back on Vince and worked her way through the throng, back to the front door, searching for Hunter and a waiter to take the blasted glass of wine.

Hunter wasn’t in the foyer. She left the wine on a marble-topped table and hurried through the front door.

“Did you see my date?” she asked the harried valet as he struggled to sort out a mess involving a Lexus, a BMW and a midlife crisis Camero, three impatient men and three sets of keys.

“Yeah. Sorry, yes, ma’am. He took his key, said he’d get the car himself.” Lacey dug in her purse for a five to give the young man, but he declined. “He took care of that, ma’am.” She gave him the five anyway and set out through the warm early evening, her heels clicking against the sidewalk as she crossed the street to the club’s parking lot.

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Hunter leaned against the passenger side of his car, his dark head and broad shoulders bent in an attitude of pondering his shoes. The soft blacktop masked the staccato tap of her heels, giving her time and the welcome opportunity to study him as she approached. Both of his hands were shoved in his front pockets, his big hands balled into fists if she was any judge of such a thing. He’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of the dress shirt. For the first time she noticed that the suit jacket sat a little awkwardly, the center seam straining at his shoulders.