Runaway: A One to Chase Prequel (One to Hold #6.5)

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“Runaway”

Runaway

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Further Reading: One to Chase

A
One to Chase
prequel

By Tia Louise

––––––––

J
ust in from Paris...

Just in from Chicago...

Neither Marcus Merritt nor Amy Knight are up for a wedding, especially when it drags one of them back home to old memories and a life left far behind.

A random hook-up seems like a good distraction—it is a wedding after all. Isn’t everyone supposed to hook up?

The latest Merritt-Knight pairing starts off with a bang, but neither party knows where this random is going to lead.

A ONE TO CHASE short prequel. Due to strong language and sexual content, “Runaway” is intended for readers 18 and older only.

One to Chase
is everywhere June 25, 2015. #SexyLawyer

For Mr. TL, my sexy lawyer,

always.

A
my

Returning from Paris, the last thing I’m in the mood for is a wedding. Still, Derek Alexander is the closest thing I have to a third brother. He’s also my favorite of Stuart’s friends—and Patrick’s, I guess. Anyone who can get those two to put down their arms and stop fighting is a master in my book. Also, Mom insists I go with her so she doesn’t have to go alone. I suspect she’s hoping I’ll meet someone as always. The woman is living for more grandchildren these days.

I’ve only been to Wilmington once, but it’s a precious little beach community. Sylvia, being the way she is, has found an exclusively plush bed and breakfast for us to stay in. It would be the perfect girls’ getaway, and I love spending time with my mother—except for the wedding part.

“Melissa is the dearest thing,” she says as she unpacks her black and white-patterned Vera Bradley luggage. “She’s in marketing, so if you have a chance, let her know that’s what you do.”

“I doubt she’ll want to discuss work on her wedding day.” I watch as she fiddles with the navy and red-patterned silk scarf tied neatly at her throat.

She steps back and runs her hands down her sandy-blonde bob. For her age, Mom is still a beautiful woman. It helps that she’s Coco Chanel-elegant in all things, the result of her upbringing. She survived the same elite childhood as my brothers and I. The nice thing is she’s not cold-hearted, passive-aggressive, or a materialistic bitch like so many of my friends have for mothers. We had dear old Dad to fill that role.

“How much time before the wedding?” I assess my long blonde hair and decide I won’t need to wash it. I would, however, like to freshen up.

“It starts at six, so we should probably leave in a half hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I step into the large bathroom and close the door. I haven’t had any time to come down from my sudden departure from Europe. I haven’t even given myself a moment to consider what Armand is thinking. I honestly don’t care to know.

Sinking into the warm bath, I close my eyes and allow the lavender-scented water to relax me. Armand made the fuck-up. I was always completely honest with him. It’s probably the reason he hasn’t called since I walked out, not that I really care for that to happen either. No, he knew before he even said the words how I would respond. Now here we are, and I’m not looking back.

Promptly half an hour later, I’m dressed and applying red lipstick as Sylvia fastens a chunky strand of pearls at her neck. She’s dressed in a beige, sleeveless shift with black accents at the shoulders and hips. Classic Coco. I on the other hand, am wearing a long slip-dress with high slits above each leg. It’s white with black leather accents, and I top it with a fluffy mohair vest. Very Valentino.

“You look fresh off the Paris catwalk,” Mom says with a smile.

I shrug. “Not much point living in Paris if you don’t indulge in the fashions.”

We’re out the door and headed to the beach in less than five.

* * *

T
he wedding is a stunning showcase of our nation’s finest. I still can’t believe both my older brothers are veterans. Patrick most of all. Stuart was always fighting his natural tendency to be exactly like our father, but my favorite brother is so playful and fun. It’s still hard to imagine him carrying a rifle, much less actually using it to kill someone. Of course, I’m pretty sure his stint in the Guard was intended to satisfy our father’s chauvinistic requirements while avoiding deployment. Poor darling. Talk about backfires.

“Looks like you came back from Europe a woman.” The familiar male voice surprises me with its cheerfulness. I turn to see my oldest brother actually smiling for the first time in my life.

“Looks like you came back from Saudi a happy man.”

He shakes his head. “I never went back to Saudi. That’s what made me a happy man.” I wait as he signals the bartender. A scotch neat for him, vodka rocks for me. “Have you met Mariska?” he watches me as he sips the amber liquid.

“I haven’t, but she’s very beautiful.”

“I asked her to marry me.”

That almost makes me drop my drink. “
Et tu, Brute
?”

“Yep,” he grins again. “Me too.”

“I go away and everything falls apart.” Taking a long sip of vodka, I watch as he chuckles. He’s so fucking happy, I can’t believe it. Stuart does not chuckle. Only now it seems he does.

“So what brought you back? I thought you loved Paris.”

“Oh, I do love Paris.” I take another, longer drink, finishing off my vodka as my mind races to find a suitable answer. I can’t say the truth: Armand asked me to move in with him, and I caught the first flight home.

“Even the City of Lights gets old after a while.” It’s not very good, and I can tell he doesn’t buy it. “And Mom’s not getting any younger.”

Stuart accepts that lie a little better. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. It’s good to have the family together again.” He pats my arm. “Come over and meet Mariska.”

“Mmm,” I nod, giving him a little wave. “Let me get a fresh drink.”

He strolls away, and I turn and flag the bartender down. “Vodka rocks.” I slide a tenner across the counter. It’s an open bar, but tipping ensures better service. I’ll need a few more of these if I have to deal with all the love going around.

Taking my drink, I turn my back to the bar and notice a tall, slender specimen of male waiting beside me. He orders a vodka rocks, and I quickly assess him. Dolce & Gabbana suit, fatigue-green and stainless Tag, light scruff on the cheeks.
Interesting
. Stepping back, he catches my inspection and pauses. I lift my chin and own it. After the house I grew up in, men don’t intimidate me.

Apparently, I don’t intimidate him either.
Even more interesting
.

He exhales a laugh, revealing nice white teeth. “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

“Hmm...” I realize I’m not sure how to answer that question. I’m equally acquainted with both. “Groom, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m friends with both, but I knew Derek first.”

“Ah,” he nods.

“You?”

“Bride.” Then he hesitates, taking a sip of his drink. “Actually, no, that’s not right. I guess my answer is the same as yours. Only in reverse.”

He looks out at the dance floor where the happy couple hasn’t stopped slow-dancing since they arrived. Something wistful is on his face, and I can’t resist.

“You have a history with Melissa?”

Blinking hazel-green eyes back at me he seems to wake up. “We were childhood friends. It’s unexpected to see them all married.”

“I’m never getting married.”
Good god, Amy, over-share much?
Looking down at my drink, I realize it’s nearly empty. I’m more relaxed than I realized.

My companion doesn’t skip a beat. “Is that so?” he chuckles. “And what are you? Eighteen?”

Irritation burns in my chest. Treating me like a baby is
not
a good idea. “I’m twenty five, and I guess that’s a compliment?”

“Baby,” he exhales, turning back to the bar.

“Old man,” I say, waving at the bartender and ordering another.

“Old man?” The guy turns to the side and leans on his elbow facing me. “You think ordering another is a good idea?”

“I can outdrink you any day of the week.”
No idea what I’m doing right now
.

He gives me a player’s grin. “I’m a lawyer.”

“So you’re an asshole who’s about to be outdrunk by a baby.”

Something flickers in his eyes. It’s a spark I’ve seen before, and it usually leads to naughty places. “I haven’t played drinking games since college.”

“Is that fear I’m hearing?”

“Line ‘em up.”

He slides a hand to his waist, moving his suit coat back to reveal a trim physique. Yes. Something naughty might be just what I need to get the funk of Paris off me. It is a wedding, after all. Isn’t everyone supposed to hook up?

“I have a better idea,” I say, waving to the bartender again. “We’ll take the bottle.”

The well-tipped server is happy to oblige, and I grab it, two glasses, and my black clutch. “This way, lawyer.”

A small billiards room is off the main ballroom, and it’s completely empty. The reception party is focused on the room where the food, drinks, and band are located. Striding into the cozy, dim-lit space, I place the full bottle of vodka and two slim glasses on a tall table with two bar stools.

“Do you play?” he asks, stepping over and sliding the cue ball across red felt.

“Not billiards.” Cracking open the bottle, I pour two glasses mid-way. “You’re up.”

Stepping to the counter, he lifts one. “
Skal
.” With a clink, he slams the entire contents back.

“Swedish?” My eyes only pinch a little as I do the same.

“No, I only figured if we’re shooting vodka, we should keep it real.”

I’m pouring another drink feeling looser than ever. “So if you’re not Swedish,” I glance up and give him a playful wink, “Where is home? Here in Wilmington?”

“Chicago.” He takes the glass, openly letting his eyes run all over my body. A warm tingle follows his inspection.

“I don’t believe it,” I say, sliding the fur off my shoulders to give him a better look.

“Why?” He moves a bit closer. “Too conventional?”

“Chicago is where I live now.”

“Now?”

“I spent the last year in Paris.”

His eyebrows rise. “The City of Love?”

“I prefer City of Lights.”

“Right.” He’s even closer. Close enough that I can smell the fresh linen scent of his cologne. “You don’t do love.”

“I do
other
things.” It came out as more of a purr than I’d intended, but I’ll go with it. I feel good, and I want to bury my face in his delicious scent while I tangle my fingers in those caramel-brown waves.

A pause. Our eyes hold each other’s a moment. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Marcus.” I like it. Marcus the lawyer. “What’s yours?”

“Amy.”

“Pretty.” Unexpected warmth simmers in my stomach. “What’s your game, Amy?”

The sound of his voice saying my name is a delicious vibration under my skin.
What’s my game?
It could mean anything, but I go with the less provocative interpretation.

“International trade and finance.” I push my lips out just a bit over the
S
sound, allowing my eyes to stay on his mouth. It’s a nice mouth, and I love the feel of scruff against my bare skin. “I’ll probably focus on PR now that I’m home.”

He’s not backing down, and a shimmer of excitement moves through my stomach. “Are you experienced at PR?”

“Why don’t you find out?” My voice has gone a little lower. It’s enough for him.

Another step forward, and our bodies are touching now. He’s warm, and that crisp linen fills my senses. Large hands slide up my hips, and I close my eyes, dropping my head back for him to kiss me.

He trails his lips lightly up my skin, more taking in my scent than tasting me. It makes me wet. When he reaches my jaw, he pulls a little nibble in his teeth, and a noise comes from my throat.

“You’re good at this,” I whisper, finding his eyes.

“I like surprises.”

“Surprises are one of my two favorite things.”

His hands span my lower back, lifting me onto the stool, before his mouth covers mine. The slits in my skirt allow easy access to my center. His lips force mine open, and our tongues curl together. It’s not frantic and grasping, it’s controlled and confident. He tastes like cinnamon and expensive vodka, and I feel his erection pressing against my thigh. It’s fantastic, strong and demanding. Another shiver moves through me as my fingers quickly unfasten the buttons of his shirt. I’m enjoying this too much for a random.