Fortune (40 page)

Griffen turned back to the road. Up ahead it curved sharply. Beyond the road lay an elegant estate, protected by a brick wall. With a grim smile, Griffen tightened his fingers around the wheel and floored the Porsche, aiming the car directly at the wall.

Chance realized what Griffen meant to do and yelled for him to stop. The car took off like a jet. The wall raced up to meet them.

Chance threw his arms across his face.

Griffen slammed on the brakes and yanked sideways on the wheel. The car went into a wild spin; Chance was thrown against his door, his head against the window, cracking it. The car's back end smashed into the brick wall; the seat belt snapped tight, knocking the wind out of him.

Chance struggled free of the belt, wrenched the door open and stumbled from the car. Dizzy, sick, he doubled over, heaving up everything he had.
He had almost died just now. Dear God, Griffen had tried to kill him. He had almost killed them both.

When he caught his breath, he went around to the driver's side and yanked open the door. For a moment he thought Griffen was dead, he sat so still. But he wasn't dead, Chance saw. He was laughing. Silently, softly, with great pleasure.

The son of a bitch was out of his mind.

Chance grabbed him by his shirtfront and dragged him from the car. “You could have killed us, you crazy bastard!” he shouted, shaking him. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

Griffen knocked Chance's hands away, a small, satisfied smile curving his mouth. “Go to hell, buddy-boy,” he said evenly. “Go right to hell.”

Without another word, he slid back behind the wheel, started the car and drove off.

T
he image of the brick wall rushing up to meet him haunted Chance. As did the almost otherworldly quality of Griffen's laughter. After four days, it still rang clearly in Chance's head, causing him to shudder.

He had never come so close to death before. He had never looked into the face of pure evil before.

He had now. And he was frightened. For Skye. Griffen held himself accountable for nothing and to no one, not God or man. He believed himself all-knowing, all-powerful and without flaw.

Rich, powerful and twisted. A deadly combination. A dangerous one.

Dangerous to anyone who crossed Griffen's path. Or to anyone who refused to give him what he wanted.

And Griffen wanted Skye. He didn't love her; he was incapable of the emotion. He was obsessed with her, Chance realized. He thought of her as some sort of prize, as something that belonged to him.

If I can't have her, nobody will.

Those words, that threat, had played over and over in Chance's head. As had possible explanations for Griffen's bizarre behavior. Medication, for one. Or illegal-drug use. Or perhaps an undiagnosed physical illness of some kind.

None of those rang true. No, Chance sensed that Griffen had simply decided to reveal himself to Chance.

Chance felt stupid. And vain. He had completely fallen for Griffen's line. He had believed in their friendship, had believed that the other man was impressed with him and his abilities. Everything that had come his way, he had thought to be the result of his own hard work, his ingenuity and knowledge.

But Griffen had simply given it to him. All of it.

Then he had taken it away.

Chance stood in front of his office window, gazing out at the sunset and gathering dusk. The sky had turned a deep violet hue, the last fiery glow reflected off the side of the John Hancock and Nine Hundred North buildings. The image stirred him, reminding him of the way he had felt his very first days in Chicago, filling him with the memory of his excitement and ambition. Reminding him of his belief that in this city, this beautiful, ugly, vibrant city, he could make all his dreams come true.

He narrowed his eyes. He had been a fool. A dupe. Cocky, arrogant and too ambitious. He had never really asked himself why Griffen Monarch had initiated that first meeting, had never questioned why the other man would up and fire his firm of twenty years and hire him, a virtual nobody; he had never examined why Griffen had come on so strong and so friendly.

Because he had wanted what Griffen offered him. Because, as Skye had said, he had wanted to be Griffen. To have what he had, to be what he was. He had wanted that so badly, he had been blind to everything else.

Chance rested his hands on his hips, watching as office lights in the adjacent buildings began popping on. In the days since facing death at Griffen's hands, he had asked himself all those whys.

And when he did, he kept coming back to the only thing he and Griffen had in common: Skye.

Skye.
Chance frowned. He had always thought it too coincidental that Skye had shown up here in Chicago, on Griffen's arm, only weeks after Chance had told him about her.

Chance cocked his head, trying to fit all the pieces together. Griffen had been interested in his past, he had led the conversation around to it several times. But he hadn't been
too
interested. Just enough to keep Chance talking, but not so much that he found Griffen's curiosity out of the ordinary.

But how did it all fit together? What could Skye and Griffen possibly have had in common before she came to Chicago?

He didn't know, though he had thought about it day and night, sleeping little. And he had thought about his business, what was left of it, anyway, what his options were. He had made a decision.

He may have stupidly fallen for Griffen's twisted game, but he wasn't so stupid that he didn't learn from his mistakes. He wasn't going to just roll over. He wasn't going to let some demented, spoiled little rich kid take away what he had worked so hard and so long for.

He was fighting back. Starting now.

Chance checked his watch, then went to his desk. He dialed the preservation society, then asked for Martha. Moments later she picked up.

“Martha? Chance McCord.”

“Chance?” He heard her surprise. Her reluctance to speak with him. “How are you?”

“Look, I'm going to get right to the point, Martha. I know what Griffen did. He told me.”

He had her attention then, and he continued, “He also told me you refused to go along with his little smear campaign until he threatened pulling Monarch's annual donation.”

“I'm relieved you know,” she said. “I feel terrible about the whole thing. The bastard forced my hand, Chance. I'm sorry. You did a damn good job for the society.”

“I appreciate that, Martha. That's why I'm calling. I need your help.”

“I don't know what I can do.”

“Start by just hearing me out. I have a proposal for you, one that I think will work to both our benefit.”

She hesitated. “All right. But I can't promise to do more than listen.”

Chance outlined his plan. All Martha had to do was make a few calls, starting a rumor of her own—telling how a jealous colleague had set Chance up, telling how nothing that had been going around had been true and telling all that she had rehired him.

“I'd love to, Chance, but there's the little problem of the Monarch family donation.”

“I'm prepared to donate my services to the society. The money you save paying a public relations representative and special events coordinator will go a long way toward making up for the Monarchs' lost donation. Also, you'll be your own boss again.”

She was quiet for several minutes, considering, he knew, all he had said. “That slimy little bastard really pissed me off,” she said finally. “I don't enjoy being threatened. I resent being blackmailed, and I abhor an abuse of power. If it was just me, I would jump on this opportunity. But I have to act in the society's best interest. Let me think about this overnight, Chance. Let me crunch some numbers. If there's any way I can help you, I will.”

Chance thanked her, hung up and, smiling, turned back to the window and its view of downtown Chicago. While he had been on the phone, the fiery oranges and reds had begun to fade as the sun dipped lower, setting on Lake Michigan. But not on his dreams, he vowed. No way was he going to give up and die now.

With or without Martha's help, he would go to every client he'd had and lost. He would convince them, at the least, to hear him out. At the best, to take him back. Griffen would see who the best man was.

That started tomorrow. Tonight, he was going to find Skye.

He had to warn her about Griffen.

G
riffen waited for Dorothy. He sat on her couch, alternately still and agitated. A sense of urgency pressed at him. A sense that others conspired against him. One wrong move, he knew, no matter how small, and they, the others, would descend on him. And like vultures, they would rip the flesh from his bones. They would tear Skye from him.

He would not allow it. Not now. Not ever. Soon he would have everything under control, the way he always did.

The calm settled over Griffen once more. He checked his watch. Dorothy was due home any moment. Her plane, a direct flight from Milan, had landed on time, one hour and ten minutes ago.

By now, Skye was already home. He pictured her, checking her mail, talking to that disgusting dog of hers, already retrieved from the neighbor's. He could see her move to her bedroom, could see her standing in front of her closet, selecting her garments for their evening, then beginning to disrobe. He shuddered, imagining her naked, imagining the curve of her buttocks, the way they would feel cupped in his hands, the way her nipples would harden as he sucked at them, the way she would buck against him as he drove himself into her.

Tonight, he would have his answer. Tonight, he would make her completely his. Tonight, he would finish what had been begun so many years ago.

Then he would have to imagine no longer.

Griffen dropped a hand to his lap, to his erection. He toyed with it, with himself, barely brushing against the bulge, allowing himself to imagine it was Skye's hand, Skye's cry of frustration at having to wait.

He sucked in a sharp, steadying breath, willing himself to stop. He had waited a long time for the main course. He was not about to spoil it by having a snack first.

He heard Dorothy at the front door. Heard her key, her muffled oath, the door swinging open, then clicking shut.

“Hello, Dorothy,” he called softly. “I'm in here.”

She appeared in the doorway between the foyer and parlor, squinting in the dim light. “Griffen, darling, is that you?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy.” He reached up and turned on the light by the sofa.

She dropped her keys on the entryway table, blinking at the sudden brightness. “Don't you look handsome. I do so admire a man in a tux.”

“Thank you. Tonight's the benefit for the new museum.”

“That's right, you're meeting Skye there.” Dorothy flipped through the stack of mail her housekeeper had left for her, the junk mail already weeded out. “She's quite excited.”

“How was the show?”

“Marvelous, but exhausting. We won a gold for City Lights. Adam was beside himself.”

“Yes, I know. He called.”

“My bags are still in the car. I'm too exhausted even to try to bring them—”

She stopped suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that it was odd she would come home and find Griffen inside, waiting for her. She looked at him. “But Griffen, love, why are you here?”

“Aunt Dot,” he chided. “You didn't think I'd forget, did you? I made you a promise before you left for Milan. I'm here to fulfill that promise.”

“You thought about what I said? About Skye?”

“I thought about little else. And I said I would take care of everything, and I will.” He patted the couch. “Come. You're tired. Sit down.”

She crossed to the sofa as he instructed and sank onto it with a sigh. “You've thought of a way to make everything right?”

“I have.” He stood and plumped a throw pillow for her. “Lie down, I'll get you a cup of tea. We'll talk some more.”

“That would be lovely.” She slipped out of her shoes and stretched out on the couch. “These trips are getting too difficult for me. I'm too old.”

“I know, darling.” He took the throw from the sofa back and tucked it carefully around her. “Luckily, now you have Skye to take them for you.”

“She's such a blessing.” Dorothy sighed. “She has the gift. Just like we all knew.”

“She does.”

“Thank goodness you thought of a way. You take such good care of me, Griffen. Of all of us, really.”

“Because I love you, Aunt Dorothy.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I'll get that tea now.”

“Don't forget,” she said sleepily. “The pilot light is out. You have to use a match.”

“I won't forget, Aunt Dot.” He smiled at her. “I haven't forgotten.”

Griffen went to the kitchen. He filled the teakettle with water, then set it on the back burner. He got out her favorite teacup and her chamomile tea, and set them by the range. He turned the burner on high, heard the hiss of the gas pouring through the valves, smiling as the sweetly noxious smell stung his nose.

He ripped a paper towel off the roll and carefully wiped the teakettle's handle, the range and knob and anything else he had touched. He folded the paper towel and slipped it into his pocket.

He went to the parlor doorway and looked at her, deeply asleep already. “Aunt Dorothy,” he said softly. “Your tea is almost ready.”

She didn't stir. He tried again, this time loudly.

Still, she didn't move.

He smiled again and started for the foyer and the front door beyond. In the doorway, he stopped and looked back at her. “Sleep well, Aunt Dot. I love you.”