Runaway: One to Hold

By Tia Louise

NOTE: A specially packaged, short, HOT prequel to ONE TO CHASE. 

Just 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TLM Productions
• Release date: Apr 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780692429556

Tia Louise

Tia Louise is the USA Today best-selling, award-winning author of the “One to Hold” and “Dirty Players” series, and co-author of the #4 Amazon bestseller The Last Guy. She loves all the books as long as they have romance, all the chocolate as long as it’s dark, strong coffee and sparkling wine. After years as a teacher, a book editor, a journalist, and finally a magazine editor, she decided to start writing love stories and never stopped. She lives in the Midwest with her trophy husband, two teenage geniuses, and one grumpy cat. Learn more at www.AuthorTiaLouise.com

Book preview

Family Favor

Marcus

Leaning my head back against the door, a hoarse groan scrapes from my throat. Fuck, yeah. My eyes clench shut as the blonde head bobs faster on my cock, shooting currents of pleasure down

my

legs

.

Shit.

Sidebar.

Okay, just for the record, blowjobs in the men’s room of five-star restaurants are not my usual lunchtime routine.

I’m not twenty-one, and I prefer the comforts of my penthouse condominium to blocking a narrow wooden doorway with my thousand-dollar loafers. Digital surround-sound speakers provide a far superior backdrop to kitchen noise, and when we’re done, we can share a glass of expensive wine before I call a car to drive

her

home

.

My balls tighten in response to her rapid pumping. Her hand flies up, down, and over my dick. Paige Goldfarb is working me like a pro, and I thank the magic of the Internet for teaching our society gals how to give

superior

head

.

Actually, that’s not correct. I know as well as anyone where Paige acquired her skills.

Mmm, she hums around my shaft as she pulls me deep, all the way down, the back of her throat closing around

my

tip

.

Fuck, that’s good. A lock of shiny blonde hair has fallen onto her cheek, and I slide it back, gently touching her face. My knees are liquid.

So if this isn’t my usual routine, what the devil am I doing?

Glad you asked.

What’s happening right now is called Payback.

Not against Paige, mind you, against someone else. I’ll explain more when I’m not attempting to enjoy myself. Payback has no gag reflex, it appears. Hold that thought while I ride this

one

out

.

Yes, I hiss. "I’m about

to

come

."

Her head bobs faster, and I feel my balls drawing up. Just then she pops out and gives them a teasing suck, her hand flying up and down my shaft. Shit shit. Teabagging.

My jaw tightens as I grind out, Here comes.

Just like that, she’s back on my cock, sucking me off like a damn Hoover. I can’t hold back, and she’s not stopping. With a shuddering groan I let go, and she goes all the way, her lips touch my torso. I shoot straight down her throat, again and again.

That’s one way to spare my Armani slacks.

The thought makes me laugh weakly as I exhale a deep breath. "Shit, girl. I’m pretty sure I saw stars

just

then

."

My back is against the door of the single-serve men’s room at The Q—Chicago’s finest lakefront restaurant—and no, this is not on the menu in case you were wondering.

Paige rises in one fluid movement and steps over to the lavatory. She’s tall and willowy, and I watch as she opens her clutch with slim, perfectly manicured hands to remove a rectangular

plastic

box

.

Tic tac? A glance back, and a slim brow rises over one of her clear

blue

eyes

.

Pulling my grey slacks up, I take a moment to fasten my alligator belt. I’m good, thanks.

As I said, this is payback for me, but I have no idea what our naughty little rendezvous means to Paige. This newly minted heiress is smart, and I’m sure she’ll use what we just did to her advantage.

Who are you having lunch with? I ask, watching her glide nude-pink lipstick over her slightly

swollen

lips

.

Karen, she says, stepping to

the

door

.

Karen Philpot is not a newly minted heiress. She’s as old money as they come, and a possible motive unfolds slowly in my mind. As a lawyer, it’s my job to read people,

after

all

.

No wonder you followed me in here. I’m only half sarcastic. Karen is also the judgiest trust-fund baby on Riverside Drive.

Paige stops at the door before leaving and gives me a wink. I’ll be in touch, Marcus.

"I look forward

to

it

."

With that, she’s out the door. I only wait two seconds before following her. Remember, I had a reason for not stopping what just happened here. Well, that and my suspicion a former stripper-turned-heiress would give one hell of a hummer. (I was right, by

the

way

.)

And now

you

know

.

Or do I need to explain further?

Before Paige Goldfarb became the latest addition to the Chicago elite, she was the highest-paid stripper at VIP’s, which none of my upstanding married male-friends are supposed to know. (All of

them

do

.)

This is not judgment you’re hearing from me. I’m no Philpot. I admire Paige’s entrepreneurial spirit, and trust me, she was something to see working

that

pole

.

Out of the blue, a long-lost relative died, leaving her the owner in full of the second-largest cosmetics company in the world—I won’t say which one out of respect for her privacy—and just like that, she went from ringing our bells after hours to sounding the closing bell at the Board of Trade.

Life is funny,

isn’t

it

?

Following her back into the dining room, my eyes drift from her ass down her long legs. Paige has great taste. She’s wearing nude Michael Kors pumps that flex her calves attractively as she walks. Her slim hips swish under knee-length navy matte-jersey, and I consider asking her to dinner.

I’m about to catch her arm, when just like that, a ghost floats through my mind to shut it all down. Paige is mentally pushed aside by a girl with long blonde hair, green-hazel eyes, straight white teeth… A mohair vest I shoved open roughly to reveal a soft breast… Easy access to her hot, clenching center through the high slits in her skirt.

I called her a baby. She called me an old man—it still makes me chuckle. She challenged me to a drinking contest then she rocked me like a hurricane. My lower stomach tightens at the memory.

She tasted like cinnamon and expensive vodka, and she felt like fucking heaven. I’d planned to spend the rest of the night getting to know her better, repeating what we’d done spectacularly in the private billiards room, but she disappeared without a word. Left me high and dry with a bottle of champagne waiting in my

suite

.

Amy

…

A pang of… something tweaks in my chest, but I shake it away. My jaw tightens against the persistent memory. Two weeks she’s been haunting my dreams, and it is not like me. I don’t allow past memories to spoil future good times.

Lack of closure is all it is, failure to put a period on the end of that sentence. It’ll pass with time, and I’m not in want for opportunity, as you

can

see

.

I glance to my left and my satisfaction is complete: Payback.

Troy Cox is glaring at me with ice in his eyes and murder on his mind. He’s having lunch with another old-Chicago asshole, his law partner Roland Dickerson, and his eyes are blazing with anger. I give him a superior lip twitch.

Yes, Cocksucker. What you’re imagining is exactly what just happened.

Paige steps away, returning to her table, and the look on Troy’s face is priceless. He’s so pissed, he’s turning pink. I want to laugh out loud, but I won’t embarrass Paige.

See? I’m not such a bad guy, and I know you’re wondering why he’s on

my

list

.

Let me explain.

Troy Cocksucker Cox was new blood in Chicago the same time as me, six years ago, and while I worked my ass off to establish a first-class client list and a respectable place in the hierarchy, he proceeded to fuck every single heiress in a ten-mile radius. He was a total bastard about it too, trust me. Still is, from what I understand.

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just give you two words: John Mayer. Getting the idea? He even looks like

the

guy

.

So once Troy made a pariah of himself, he realized he’d have to work for a living. None of that matters to me. I don’t hold peoples’ pasts against them. Everybody’s entitled to make mistakes. Until two weeks ago. Yes, the same time I met the sexy ghost—you’re quick.

Cocksucker went after my top client while I was out of town at the wedding of a close friend. That slick motherfucker took Charles Rimmel, the Charles Rimmel, to dinner at Longman and Eagle, as if I wouldn’t find out

about

it

.

Janice, the world’s greatest secretary who also happens to be mine, is friends with the maître d’s at several of Chicago’s top restaurants, and she gets the heads up whenever one of my clients dines with the competition.

A shit-ton of whiskey was consumed that night, and I’d been trying to work out a way to pay Cox’s sorry ass back when the lovely Paige walked through that mahogany restroom door

moments

ago

.

I turned around, and the look on her face said she had her own agenda. Her agenda was my revenge. Cocksucker’s been bragging how he was going to bag Goldfarb since she first stepped a black stiletto onto North Dearborn. Now the victor has been named, and

it’s

me

.

Are you surprised the politics of Chicago’s upper class are so jaded?

You

shouldn’t

be

.

Shit like this has been going on since the first courtesan traded the first kingly blowjob for an estate in Venice all the way back to the fourteen hundreds. Hell, it’s been going on longer than that. Ever heard of Bathsheba?

That took long enough. Evan Cole, my associate and right hand, leans back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. Did I see Paige Goldfarb ahead of you looking like the cat who ate the canary?

More like who deep-throated it. I mutter, leaning forward to take the last hit off my vodka.

He exhales a laugh. Shit, Marcus, I hope you tapped that. Her body is fucking killer.

It is, I cut him off. "Intercourse, however, was not a part of that transaction. Are you finished? We’ve got our phone conference

at

two

."

He tosses his cloth napkin beside his plate. "Done and

paid

for

."

Good work. I stand and only cast one final dominant smirk towards Troy before we’re headed to the door. You’ll always swim in my wake, Cocksucker.

Our offices are on the East Loop, an easy walk from the restaurant. Out on the street, we head south to cross the river. My associate has his phone in hand, and an article on the Wall Street Journal website crosses

my

mind

.

Enjoy these business lunches while they last, I casually observe. Apparently they’re going the way of the dinosaur. Your generation doesn’t have time for power deals over martinis.

He glances up. I don’t remember voting on that at our annual meeting.

I laugh. Damn Millennials. Established cafés all over New York are shutting down as a result.

New York is not Chicago. His phone is back in his pocket, and I remember why Evan and I instantly clicked. He’s an old soul. "And our firm doesn’t follow the rules. We

rewrite

them

."

We are pretty independent. Our building near the corner of Wacker and Michigan comes into view, and I shift us back to planning mode. Any final thoughts on McGruder?

In our pending conference, I plan to shut down an over-eager prosecutor set on destroying my second top client for insider trading. Evan’s a smart young lawyer, even if his arguments are obvious. He’s learning fast, and he gets points for finding the arguments himself.

The accusation alone will do more damage— My phone buzzes, and I hold up a finger as I take it from my breast pocket.

Hold that thought. Only one group of individuals is allowed to interrupt me mid-meeting. My little sister never calls, but I just saw her at the wedding. "Elaine?

Everything

okay

?"

Marcus! Her voice is loud and cheerful. I relax. "Hope you’re

not

busy

?"

"Actually, I’m right in the

middle

of

—

"

I won’t keep you but a second. I need a favor.

Evan’s face is confused, but family comes first. Make it quick.

"Patrick’s little sister just moved back to Chicago, and she’s looking for

a

job

."

Is she an attorney?

She’s in public relations, marketing…

We don’t need a public relations person.

I didn’t mean for you to hire her. We’re getting closer to the office, and I glance at my watch. One-fifty. You know everyone in Chicago. I figured you could introduce her around, help her transition, meet the top brass.

"Lainey, I really don’t have time right now. If you’ll call Janice and get her on my calendar, I’ll see if I can fit

her

in

."

That’s all I needed to hear! Thanks, Marc! She’s so upbeat, I can’t help a smile.

How’s Lane? Her little son has become her favorite topic of discussion in the last two years.

Oh, you wouldn’t believe. He’s passed through the truck phase, and now he actually wants to paint! It’s amazing!

He’s a smart guy. Women love artists. Evan pushes through the double glass doors, his mouth lined as he watches me making small talk. I know he’s right. We’ve got to finish planning. "Hey, I’m sorry, sis. I’ve really got

to

go

."

She exhales a laugh. "And now you know why I never wanted to be a lawyer. Careful you don’t wake up and find your life has passed

you

by

."

Shaking my head, I head for the elevator. You would have made a fantastic lawyer, and I love my job. End of discussion.

"Thanks for

helping

out

."

"I look forward to meeting your new little sister-

in

-

law

."

Oh! Don’t call her that. She’s very independent.

"I will not call her your little sister-in-law. What do I

call

her

?"

"I think she goes by

Amalie

now

."

Fancy. Have her touch base with Janice.

She sings out another thank you, and it’s the last thing I hear before disconnecting.

Amy

Pulling the coffee pod from the box, I drop it into the machine before sliding my mug in place and hitting the button.

I don’t need Elaine’s older brother doing favors for me, I grumble. The very idea makes me want to hurl. I used to live here, remember?

Sylvia (my mother) joins me in the kitchen already immaculately dressed in dark, form-fitted jeans and an oversized, white button-up blouse. Light-brown hair streaked with silver is clutched at the back of her neck, and her signature double-strand of chunky pearls peeks out of her open collar.

I know, but pretend you do. She smiles revealing straight white teeth. Elaine wants to bond with you as a sister.

Sylvia, I exhale loudly.

Amalie, she teases, using my full name. Hold your own in a different battle.

You missed your calling, dear, I kiss her head before sitting across from her at the small table. You should’ve been an ambassador.

To France? I would have loved it, but your father hated the French.

Right. I fight my visceral response to the mention of my late father, the anger burning deep in my stomach at the thought of how much she sacrificed for

that

man

.

Her blue eyes twinkle with her laugh, and I push the past down

and

away

.

For her. Always

for

her

.

My mother is the wisest, most diplomatic person I’ve ever met. She had to be, living with that man as long as she did. It’s a path I will never follow. Women don’t need men, and I will not be held hostage the way my gorgeous mother was for years, her dreams and desires taking a backseat

to

his

.

Stirring cream into my coffee, I take a long sip of the soothing hot liquid. We’re well into spring, but I still enjoy the warm embrace of a good cup of coffee in the morning. Who is Elaine’s ridiculous older brother anyway?

Not so ridiculous, from what I understand. She flips through a paperback on the table. He’s quite impressive. He’s the attorney who helped get Derek out of that murder charge.

My eyebrows go up, but I only concede

a

Hmm

.

She proceeds to have a mini-rant. "As if Derek Alexander could ever be accused of such a crime. It’s a sure sign our legal system is broken when a man of his character and

reputation

is

—

"

Mom, I gently interrupt her. You’d think Derek Alexander was her own son the way she goes on about him. "What’s this impressive

attorney’s

name

?"

Shaking her head, her agitation dissolves. I can’t remember. Edward, I think? I only met him briefly at the wedding.

Nodding, I swipe an apple out of the basket. If it makes you happy, I’ll meet with Edward. Does he sparkle?

"Why would he… Oh! Is that the new slang for gay? I don’t actually know. He didn’t seem to be, but I never can tell

anymore

—

"

No! I can’t help laughing. It’s a book… Nevermind. Should I call first?

She’s still mildly confused. Elaine said she’d take care of the whole thing. You just have to be at his office at eleven, and he’ll meet with you there.

A quick glance at the clock says I have a few hours. At least it’s Friday. Please tell Elaine I said thank you. And I can only hope she deserves my favorite brother.

"That’s my girl. When you’re done, let’s have lunch

at

L15

."

My nose immediately wrinkles. Good god, is that place still in business?

She glances up concerned. "

No

good

?"

It’s the classic joke—the food is terrible, and the portions are too small!

Now she laughs, a sweet, musical sound. Our mother really is too good to be true. Then you pick the place. I won’t treat you like a tourist.

Is Millie’s still around?

On the East Loop? I nod, and she concedes. "See you there

at

noon

."

Surprises

Amy

The law offices of Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly are an easy walk from Sylvia’s Near North condo. I’m thankful for that as I head south on Michigan. I love my mother, but I need to clear my head this morning .

Armand started messaging me

last

week

.

I know why you ran. The words still glow in my brain. I’m not angry. Tell me when you’re

coming

home

.

Home. An uncomfortable tightness clutches the back of my neck, like someone lightly grazed his fingernails across the skin of my shoulders and then snatched my neck as hard as he could.

I shiver in the

warm

air

.

Coming back to Chicago was supposed to end my Paris problem, but with cell phones and social media, I feel like I can never get far enough away anymore.

Armand is not my home. How could he even say that? He ruined everything.

Our relationship was strictly sexual from the start. As a chief executive at Arnys, one of the leading men’s fashion houses in Paris, he was dripping with wealth and access, not to mention always impeccably dressed.

We met during fashion week. I sat on the front row across the catwalk from the dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonis who wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Naturally, I had my roommate Celeste introduce us once it was over. Celeste is French cool, but I knew her well enough to see she was star struck

by

him

.

She interned at Vogue, which was how we scored our great seats. I could afford to buy tickets, of course, but her position seated us two chairs down from Donatella at the Atelier

Versace

show

.

The fashions were amazing—solid black pantsuits with swirling or asymmetrical patterns cut out of the necklines, go-go red dresses with glittery geometric shapes and arrows crossing the bodice. And of course, Donatella’s signature white slacks and blazer. All set to the techno-chic musical backdrop of David Guetta.

Then my eyes landed on Armand’s black ones. The slightest grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and my insides sizzled. He was older, sophisticated, a touch of grey at his temples.

After Celeste introduced us, he took me to dinner at Epicure and then to his apartment near Sacre Coeur where we fucked the night away. The next morning, he sent me home in his car, and that was the beginning of what I thought was our mutually beneficial arrangement.

We both had demanding jobs, we both had plenty of money, and we both had a taste for the finer things. Not to mention Armand was fantastic in bed. He was older, but he kept my

needs

met

.

Six months in, he presented me with a key to his maison, and with a sly grin revealing straight white teeth, he practically insisted I give up my place with Celeste and move in

with

him

.

First, I would not leave Celeste high and dry like that. What kind of friend would

I

be

?

(Actually, Celeste had just told me she was moving in with her boyfriend Brys at the end of the month, so I was either looking for my own place or a new roommate anyway.)

But seriously, what

the

hell

?

The first conversation Armand and I had after I realized I would be sleeping with him more than once concerned how I do not do relationships. Yes, he was a fabulous lay, but the very idea of someone wanting to own me made my blood

run

cold

.

Did he listen?

Clearly

not

.

So typically French.

I packed my bags and left that day for home—my

real

home

.

Sure I could’ve lived alone in Paris, but that’s just sad. I like having someone to chat with in the evenings.

Another deep inhale of late spring Chicago air, and I’m standing in front of an imposing steel skyscraper. I’ll figure out the Armand situation later. For now, I have to do my

familial

duty

.

Pulling the shiny brass handle, I go through the double doors, cross the grey marble floors, and punch the elevator button.

I don’t need this meeting. I grew up in Chicago. I know all the connected assholes in this city and all their children, too. If worse comes to worse, I can dial up Karen Philpot and invite her to lunch.

Karen. The very idea makes my skin crawl. You know how every group has one person with all the gossip? One person who knows which businesses are failing, which executives are cheating on their wives, and which socialite was spotted covertly leaving rehab? In the old Chicago group that person is Karen.

I swear, the woman does nothing all day but lunch with her spies. While some of us actually focus on our careers or worthwhile endeavors…

Honestly, I don’t give

a

shit

.

The bad blood between Karen and me is ancient history, I’m sure. Enough time has passed, enough water under the bridge, and I trust I’m the only one who remembers those days with a cringe.

No, Karen is not an option. Instead, I’ll meet Edward Merritt. Non-sparkling Edward Merritt. My lips curl in a smile, the Karen problem momentarily forgotten.

Edward is clearly a newcomer to the Chicago scene. He wasn’t here when I left for Cornell. Good god, what a grueling penance that was. Ithaca is as cold as a witch’s tit half the year, and the spring does not make up for it. I should’ve opted for Berkley instead.

May I help you? A petite brunette with a fashionable pixie haircut greets me from behind the

receptionist’s

desk

.

I have an appointment with Mr. Merritt, I say, choosing to be formal. Don’t want him to think I’m the typical, narcissistic Millennial.

Are you… Her eyes flicker to her computer screen. Amalie Knight?

She actually got it right. Yes, I say with a smile. You speak French?

Her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she rises from her seat. I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris.

You should do it! So often Americans put European trips on this high pedestal, as if they’re impossible to accomplish or would take so much effort. The truth is, traveling to Europe is relatively easy once you have a passport.

I know. She shakes her head and looks down as she goes to the wood and glass double doors. "I’ll let Mr. Merritt know

you’re

here

."

I watch as she strides through them and down the hallway. While I wait, I take in the reception area. It’s very traditional, with brass, wood, and leather everywhere. Dark, cherry-wood paneling and stained oak floors. Not a speck of dust or a fingerprint in sight. The entire place smells like a library.

I’m glad I opted for my steel-grey crepe suit. The pencil skirt keeps it from being too masculine, and trust me, such details matter. I’m a feminist, but I also know how to play

the

game

.

Miss Knight? Pixie is back. "If you’ll

follow

me

?"

I nod, taking my tan clutch with me. The hall is as elegant as the reception area, and when she arrives at what I assume is Edward Merritt’s office, she steps to the side, allowing me

to

pass

.

"He’s on a call, but he’ll be right

with

you

."

Thanks. I give her a smile. She can’t help it if her boss has no manners.

Stepping around his office, I almost roll my eyes. You know how some men use cars to make up for inadequacies in other areas? This guy clearly

Reviews for Runaway

[Anne Baker · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Can't wait to read Marcus and Amy's story. In fact the wholecseries

[Deb Pden · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

There was good banter and a good storyline..old money..new money..a sexual assault.. cheating..the bad behavior of those in social standing. AND steamy, hot, smoldering sex.