Fortune (31 page)

T
he conference room began to fill. Chance sat at the head of the table, Dorothy beside him, chatting excitedly about their upcoming project. Even as he listened to her, nodding at the appropriate moments, he watched the door. Waiting for Skye. Anxious for his first look at her, hoping it would break the spell he'd been under since he'd seen her at the preservation society's patron party.

For two weeks now he'd been unable to stop thinking about her, unable to put her out of his mind. He kept picturing the woman she had become, but at the same time remembering the girl she had been. Images of things they had done, conversations they'd had, the way it had been between them, had plagued him day and night. Things he hadn't thought of in years, he could now recall with perfect clarity.

He had become almost obsessed with her. It was nuts. Counterproductive. It made him feel like a jerk.

She was Griffen's woman now. His friend's woman. He had to remember that.

Chance lowered his gaze to his notes stacked neatly on the table in front of him. He had brought them, though he doubted he would use them. It was a thing with him, he always liked to have his hard facts close by, just in case.

He smiled at something Dorothy said, then returned his gaze to the doorway, his thoughts to Skye. He and Skye happened to share a past. It shouldn't be a big deal. So much time had passed, their lives had gone in totally different directions. It shouldn't matter to him that she thought he was a bastard.

But it was a big deal. It did matter to him what she thought.

Dammit. He cared about her. He always had, contrary to what she thought. He wanted her to forgive him, to realize that what he'd done, he'd done for them both.

Skye arrived finally, walking in with another woman he recognized from seeing around the store. They were deep into a conversation and Skye didn't notice him. It gave him a moment to simply gaze at her. She was radiantly, exotically beautiful. She walked into the room and lit it up. She had done the same when she was a kid, only the energy had been different.

Now it was sexual. Now he felt it like a punch in his gut—only dead south.

Damn but he was in deep, deep shit.

Skye caught sight of him and stopped, frozen, her gaze locked with his. He smiled, he couldn't help himself. She stiffened, her face flooding with color. Dorothy cleared her throat. The woman beside Skye nudged her. Still Skye didn't move.

Griffen slipped into the room, coming up behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, and she whirled. The connection was broken, and quickly Chance jerked his gaze away.

Everyone took their seats, Griffen selecting a chair beside Skye instead of coming to the head of the table. Chance couldn't help noticing the proprietary way the other man acted around her, the possessive signals he sent to those around them.
Hands off,
his body language said.
This is mine.

Chance had never seen the other man act that way before. Indeed, Griffen had been mostly indifferent to the women he dated, callously so. This was completely out of character, as far as Chance was concerned. It seemed almost weird.

Dorothy stood. “I called this meeting,” she began, “because we have some exciting news to relate to you. I've asked Chance McCord, from our public relations firm, to tell you about it as he's the one directly responsible for this coup. But before I turn the floor over to him, I'd like to take a moment to talk to you about the Milan design festival, in which we've decided to once again participate.”

Chance cocked his head slightly, only half listening to Dorothy, instead using the moments to surreptitiously study Skye and Griffen. They made a handsome couple, no doubt about that. His smooth sophistication and her classy bohemian worked well together. Their coloring was quite similar and they were both unusually attractive people.

He drew his eyebrows together. But still, he couldn't see the two of them together. It felt wrong, off somehow, though he couldn't put his finger on why.

Maybe he simply had a bad case of sour grapes. He frowned. He had never been jealous of Griffen's ability to draw and charm women. He had never wanted to compete with Griffen.

But none of those women had been his Skye.

His Skye?

Jesus, what was wrong with him? Chance lowered his eyes to the table, to his notes for today. She wasn't
his
Skye—or his anything else, for that matter. She hadn't been in a long time.

He needed to get that fact firmly fixed inside his thick skull. And fast.

“And now,” Dorothy said, turning to him, “I'll give the floor to Chance McCord. Chance?”

He thanked her and stood. “For over a century,” he began, “Monarch designs have been a major force not only in the world of retail jewelry, but Monarch's artisans have always been at the forefront of the American Arts and Crafts movement.

“And yet,” he continued, “Monarch isn't a household name. The public knows our designs, however, from pictures of originals on public figures like Jackie Kennedy Onassis and Elizabeth Taylor, from the many mass-market rip-offs over the years, from Monarch's ability to put their finger on the pulse of the nation. Monarch's creations are, quite simply, a part of the American consciousness.”

He swept his gaze over the room, hesitating on Skye. For a moment, he lost his train of thought, for that one moment in time he could only think of her, how she looked and moved, how she had smelled the other night, like a sweet, virgin forest, of how she had changed.

Dorothy cleared her throat, and he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand, though it took effort. “For years Monarch's has been, in essence, hiding its light under a bushel. When Griffen hired me to handle publicity and public relations for Monarch's Design and Retail, I promised to get rid of that bushel and let Monarch's light shine. I promised him that people would know the name Monarch the way they know the name Tiffany.”

He shot Dorothy a smile, then turned back to the group. “The light begins shining today. The University of Chicago Press has agreed to publish a hardcover, coffee-table book celebrating Monarch's one-hundred-and-ten years of innovative design. They've slated it for a Christmas ninety-eight release.”

For a moment the room was completely, breathlessly silent. Then the excited chatter began, the questions and congratulations. He held up his hands. “Dorothy, Griffen or I will be happy to answer each of your questions afterward. First, let me anticipate some of them. Belinda Constantine, curator of arts and crafts for the Art Institute of Chicago, has agreed to write the book's foreword. David Argyle, who art-directed the last Tiffany book, will design both the cover and the interior layout. A photographer hasn't been selected yet, but we're talking to a couple of the best tabletop shooters in the country.

“Dorothy will, of course, oversee the entire project, from selection of pieces for inclusion, based on historical or design significance, to curating the last section of the book, which will focus on a look forward.

“Don't kid yourself, this will require overtime from everybody. It will be a group effort.” He looked at Skye. “For example, as the newest member of the team, Skye, not as much will be required of you in terms of—”

“I'll carry my weight,” she cut in stiffly, cheeks pink. “You don't have to worry about me. I'm a quick study.”

“I'm not worried.” He arched his eyebrows. “I was going to say, not as much will be required of you in terms of historical significance. However, Dorothy tells me you're working on some interesting new things. We'll need them finished. And we'll need more.” He shifted his gaze to the other artists. “Plans, sketches, working models. Whatever you've got.”

“So, in other words,” Skye murmured, sounding angry, “get busy?”

“Exactly.” He narrowed his eyes. “You don't have a problem with that, I hope?”

“Not at all. I love my work.”

“Good, because you're going to have a lot of it to do.” He returned his attention to the rest of the group. “Mickey Spelling is writing the text. You might recognize him from his work on the Frank Lloyd Wright book, among others. He'll be interviewing each of you about your job, your thoughts about working for a company as old and prestigious as Monarch's, things like that.”

He drew in a deep breath. “I'll be happy to talk to you about what we're looking for, in terms of your interviews. I'm sending press releases to the
Tribune
and
Sun Times,
as well as the local TV affiliates. We'll probably get some media interest with our announcement of the project, but even more when the book comes out.” He smiled. “Now, for your questions.”

For the next thirty minutes, Chance, Dorothy and Griffen answered questions. Dorothy, in particular, was questioned about her ideas for the book's focus and look, and about which pieces she had already decided to include. One of the guys, Martin, Dorothy called him, had asked if the artists' pictures would be included.

Through it all, Skye remained curiously, stonily silent, her arms folded across her chest. He knew it wasn't the book she had a problem with, it was his involvement with it.

Tough shit. He wasn't going anywhere.

As soon as the meeting broke up, he crossed to where she stood talking to a couple of the other artists. He touched her arm. “Excuse me. Skye, may I speak with you a moment?”

“Of course.” She smiled politely and let him lead her away from the others. When they were out of earshot, she looked at him, furious. “How dare you single me out that way. I'm a member of this team, an equal member. And I didn't appreciate your implication that you'd have to coach me on what I needed to do or say.”

“Still the know-it-all brat, I see. I guess you haven't changed that much, after all.”

“I don't have time for this.”

She started to move past him; he caught her arm. “We're going to be working together, if indirectly. Can't we bury the hatchet?”

“Only if I can bury it in your back.”

He lowered his voice. “Doesn't it bother you at all that people think you got here by sleeping with the boss?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Not because he didn't think it a valid question, but because he'd had no right to ask it. He wasn't her big brother, or anything else, anymore.

For a split second she looked as if he had struck her, then she flushed, obviously furious. She wrenched her arm free of his grasp. “You, Chance McCord, are a complete pig.” She smiled sweetly at an associate who moved past, then leaned closer to him. “Stay out of my way, Chance,” she said softly. “I'm not feeling very friendly.”

“What's this?” Griffen said, coming up to them, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “My two favorite people fighting?”

“We're not fighting,” Skye said, lifting her face to Griffen's. “I was just telling him to keep the hell away from me.”

Griffen laughed and looked at Chance. “Isn't she the greatest?”

“The greatest,” Chance repeated, deciding he wanted to puke as she looked up at Griffen in complete adoration.

“Did you get my message?” he asked her.

“I did.” She smiled. “That sounds great. I'll meet you in your office. Now, I've got to go.”

Without sparing Chance another glance, she walked away.

“So, buddy,” Griffen said, turning back to him, “how's it going? Your kahoonas still intact?”

Chance dragged his gaze back to Griffen's. “Barely.”

Griffen laughed, the sound almost girlish. “She's crazy about me. Have you noticed?”

“Yeah,” Chance muttered, “I noticed. Congratulations.”

Griffen leaned toward him, his eyes alight with self-satisfaction. “I told you before, man, bees-to-honey. They can't resist me.”

Chance checked his watch, unreasonably irritated. “I've got things to take care of, Grif, if there's nothing else—”

“Actually, there are a few things I need to discuss with you. But I've got to run. Can you stop by my office, noonish?”

“Sure,” Chance said, anxious to be away from the man. Something in his eyes and tone affected him the same as gooseflesh crawling up his arms. “See you around noon.”

Chance was nearly to the door when Griffen called his name. He stopped and looked back. Griffen smiled. “Don't forget what I said. Bees-to-honey, man. You just can't compete.”

“H
ello, Ashley. Griffen and I are going to lunch. Is he ready?”

Ashley smiled. “Hi, Skye. He's on the phone and asked me to tell you he's going to be just a few minutes.”

Skye checked her watch, thinking of everything she had to do, her mind still on that morning's meeting and the upcoming international jewelry festival in Milan. Three months was not that far off. “Should I wait?”

“He said yes. He really won't be long.” She slid a couple of folders into her briefcase. “Isn't it something, about the book?”

“It's something, all right.” Skye wondered if she looked as sour grapes as she sounded, and forced a smile. “Fabulous for Monarch's.”

“I tell you,” Ashley said, “Griffen's instincts are amazing. He hired Chance, basically, from a cold call.”

“Really?”

“And fired the store's existing firm. After twenty years of working together.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

The way he had fallen for her, Skye thought, a ripple of unease moving over her.

“He was interested from the moment I handed him Chance's card. Actually, intensely interested.” She glanced at the time and stood. “I thought he was nuts, which shows what I know.” She laughed. “I've got to go, lunch date. I'm thinking this one might be Mr. Right.”

Skye told her goodbye and to have fun, then sank onto one of the two couches that graced the waiting room, thinking about what Ashley had told her. She drew her eyebrows together. Griffen had been “intensely interested” in Chance from the moment he saw his card.

Just like that.
Odd, she thought. Different.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Skye looked up. Chance stood in the doorway, smiling at her. She frowned. “What I'm thinking is none of your business.”

“Still as charming as you were this morning.” He ambled into the waiting area. “Consistency can be a very good quality in a person. But it can be boring, too.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she muttered, selecting a magazine and flipping through it. “But I'm doing just fine, thanks.”

“Mmm, I see that.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Where's Ashley?”

“Lunch.”

He glanced toward Griffen's closed door. “Griffen wanted to see me. Is he in?”

“He's on the phone. But you must be mistaken, he and I are going to lunch.”

“I'm not mistaken. I'll wait.”

“It's your time.”

“Yes, it is.”

She thought she heard a smile in his voice and looked at him. She was right and her blood boiled.

“By the way,” he murmured, taking a seat on the opposite couch, “that unprofessional display of yours in the meeting this morning, what was that all about?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Right.”

“Screw you.”

“Very adult. And congratulations on the dirty mouth you developed. Attractive.”

She wanted to hit him, so badly she could picture herself drawing back, then slugging the hell out of him. “I learned it from you. Don't you remember?”

“You know, Skye, as much as I enjoy this verbal to-and-fro, we're going to be working together. Can't we at least be civil?”

She got to her feet, too angry to sit. She crossed to Ashley's desk and stared down at its uncluttered top a moment, then turned to face him. “Is that all that matters to you? That we can ‘indirectly' work together. That we can be civil when we see each other?”

“It would make life easier.”

“You're good at that, aren't you? Making life easier for yourself?”

For a moment he said nothing, did nothing. Then he stood and crossed to stand before her. “The time's come, Skye. You're going to listen to me. We're going to talk.”

“Guess again.”

She started past him; he caught her hand. She tried to tug hers away, but he laced their fingers. “You'd rather go on this way? Angry and hurt? What good is that doing you?”

“Let me go.”

“No. You're going to listen to me. For once, you're not going to act like a hotheaded little brat.”

She narrowed her eyes, furious. “How dare you. You're the most odious, overconfident—”

“I'm sorry, Skye,” he said softly, cutting her off. “I'm sorry I hurt you. I am. And I missed you after I left. I missed you a lot.”

His words affected her like a blow. She struggled to keep it from showing. “Sure you did. That's why you never looked back. Why you never even called.”

“How do you know I never looked back? You weren't there, you weren't with me.” He moved his thumb softly, rhythmically, along the side of her hand. “I looked back a lot. And I wondered how you were doing, if you'd forgiven me. But I couldn't come back, Skye. I couldn't take care of you. It wasn't right for either of us.”

“You loved me so much, you left me behind?” she said, her voice thick with tears. “The same as my mother did? That's so convenient, Chance. And it's so wrong.”

“I can't speak for your mother, but leaving you hurt like hell. You were my best friend, Skye.”

She fought for an even breath. Her heart hurt; her eyes burned. “If you had loved me, you would have fought for us to stay together. To stay a family. Instead, first chance you got, you took off.”

“It wasn't like that. Think about those days before Sarah and Michael's. Remember Kevin? Remember what happened that last day in Boyton? Remember how you felt? Can you remember those things and not admit that we couldn't go on together? You were a kid, but you were starting to grow up. I couldn't protect you anymore. But I couldn't keep you locked up, either. Something had to change.” He caught her other hand and brought them both to his chest. “Remember what it was like.”

She did remember. How she felt, the way he had made her feel—hot and achy and confused. She recalled, too, the way she had tried to kiss him, and how he had pushed her away; she recalled the way his image had filled her head sometimes, in the darkest part of the night, and the way, flooded with a trembling kind of shame and excitement, she had brought her hands to herself, pretending they were his. The way she had exploded, her soft cries muffled by her own pillow.

Those memories swamped her. Bittersweet but potent. More potent than anything she had experienced before, or since. She lifted her gaze to his, remembering…everything.

In that moment, as their gazes met, something changed between them, shifted subtly but cataclysmically. The past fell away and the present became clear.

Suddenly, he was a man. And she was a woman.

Chance tightened his hands over hers. Beneath them, his heart began to thud heavily against the wall of his chest. He lowered his gaze to her mouth. She lifted her face, the breath shuddering past her parted lips.

“Skye…” He brought her closer. Her name on his lips sounded part prayer, part curse. He said it again.

And released her.

She stared blankly at him, not quite able to believe what had just happened. She had tried to kiss him. And he had pushed her away. Again. He had done it to her again.

“I can't,” he said thickly. “I just…Damn.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Tell Griffen…tell him I'll call him later.”

And then he was gone.