The Good Chase

PRAISE FOR THE HIGHLAND GAMES NOVELS

Long Shot

“A smart and thoroughly enjoyable series debut for fans and newcomers alike.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Realistic and hilarious.”

—
Harlequin Junkie

“An enjoyable read made even more so by the supporting cast interactions.”

—
The
Book Pushers

“Martine is just as good with her fantasy novel as she is with this contemporary novel. Very different from her Elementals series, Ms. Martine tackles a more realistic storyline . . . [A] light read that I highly enjoyed. I recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys Jessica Clare, Jennifer Probst, and Victoria Dahl.”

—
Under the Covers

“What's not to love? Men in kilts showing off skills and serious muscles equals
melt
! . . . A fun, light, and hot contemporary romance.”

—
That's What I'm Talking About

PRAISE FOR THE ELEMENTALS NOVELS

A Taste of Ice

“On my must-read list . . . Such a great read!
A Taste of Ice
is a perfect spring read while the ice outside melts. Xavier is a beautiful, intensely sexy hero with just the right touch of achingly tormented soul that you can't help but want to heal . . . Cat is a wonderful heroine; she's lovely, strong, talented, intelligent . . . and she's fun to read.”

—
The Romance Reader

“Hanna Martine did not disappoint as she continued to make the world of the Elementals even more intriguing.”

—
Under the Covers

“Savor the journey again and again. The characters are deep, with multifaceted loyalties, pasts, and personalities that drag a reader into the story . . . These books totally rock and I cannot wait for the next one!”

—
Coffee Time Romance

“New talent Martine's world of the Elementals is a gripping creation that pushes the envelope . . . Emotionally intense and riveting.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Liquid Lies

“An amazing start to the Elementals series and one I recommend.”

—
Under the Covers

“A fresh new voice with an unusual story premise that is both captivating and darkly disturbing . . . If this first book is any indication, this series has the potential to be a winner!”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A different spin on the paranormal.”

—
Dark Faerie Tales

“A really fun, sensual book. I'm excited about this world and I'm already eager to get the next one. A nice debut.”

—
Smexy Books

“A great deal of potential . . . I am excited to read the next book.”

—
Dear Author

“Fascinating and thoroughly intriguing . . . Martine's writing style is simplistically rich. Her storytelling is easy to follow and easy to lose yourself in . . . The new Elementals series shows extreme promise.”

—
That's What I'm Talking About

Berkley Sensation Titles by Hanna Martine

The Elementals

LIQUID LIES

A TASTE OF ICE

DROWNING IN FIRE

The Highland Games Novels

LONG SHOT

THE GOOD CHASE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

THE GOOD CHASE

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Hanna Martine.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62182-0

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / December 2014

Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This one is for Katie Oates Junttila, for so many reasons.

Thanks must first be given to fellow romance authors Heather Snow, Erin Knightley, and Anna Lee Huber, who helped me plot this book. The audio recording of that session is filled with my bumbling and their brilliance. And a lot of snacking.

Alyce Anderson, cop extraordinaire, assisted me with some crime and punishment details.

The Chicago-North chapter of the Romance Writers of America gave me extremely helpful critiques on my opening chapter and a spicy scene during our annual Hot Night.

The Aphrodite Writers let me lay it all out and helped keep me sane.

My brother-in-law told me the beef jerky story . . . which apparently is one hundred percent true.

Davia Lipscher got her Realtor's license specifically to answer my questions about buying and selling property . . . which is actually
not
true.

Eliza Evans and Shannyn Schroeder were fantastic beta readers with eagle eyes, as usual, and terrific cheerleaders.

Katie and Olav Junttila fed me so many details about big-time New York financial life (and the clothes that must go with it), as well as about the city itself. They told me all about private banking and entrepreneurship. Their input was invaluable and made the book what it is. Any mistakes are my own, because those two were a godsend.

Last but not least, I'd like to thank the Chicago Scots, whose wonderful annual Highland Games prompted the theme behind this series. I also attended their truly special “Feast of the Haggis” in 2012, from which I drew inspiration for the Scottish ball depicted in this book.

With regard to whisky/whiskey . . .

The Scots and Canadians spell whisky without the
e
. Therefore, the drink is
Scotch whisky
and
Canadian whisky
. Drinks distilled in other areas spell whiskey with the
e.
For example,
Kentucky bourbon whiskey
and
Irish whiskey
.

In this book, mentions of
whisky
refer only to Scottish bottles.
Whiskey
means either bottles distilled outside of Scotland/Canada
or
it's a general term encompassing malted grain spirits from a mix of locations.

1

I
need a hot guy in a kilt.

Shea Montgomery snorted a most unfeminine snort as she read the text that had just come through from her best friend, Willa.

Gently moving aside a box cradling some pretty divine bottles of Scotch whisky, Shea nudged back a flap of the white tent that would be her home for the day. Down an easy slope, out in the middle of a large, open field, a group of two-hundred-plus-pound men milled about, early morning sunshine on their faces, a brisk late-May breeze kicking up their kilts. Some of the men sat stretching on the grass, some rotated their arms in warm-up, some jogged slowly around the field's perimeter.

The first throw of the Long Island Highland Games would go off in about two hours.

Smiling, Shea texted back to Willa:
Funny, that's exactly what I'm looking at right now.

Bring one back to the city for me.

Shea peered hard at the massive guys gathering inside the flag ropes.
I take that back. Lots of kilts. None hot. Sorry.

Take a pic. Let me decide.

Shea laughed.
I'm working. And no way to be stealthy about it when no one else is over there.

You are dead to me.

Shea tucked her phone into the back pocket of her black pants.

“Always good to start the day off with a smile. Right, Big Boss?”

Dean, her best employee at the Amber Lounge in Manhattan, stepped into the tent, rolling up the sleeves to his white button-down shirt. She so rarely saw him outside her bar—and in daylight, no less—that she'd never noticed how much silver there was in his curling black hair.

“Hopefully it's a sign,” she said, blowing out a big breath. “Help me with the inventory, will you? The master list is right there.”

He read her the names of the bottles while she fingered the necks of each kind of Scotch whisky she'd curated for the day's tasting, making sure each had made it from the Amber's cellar to out here in Suffolk County.

When they were done, Dean stood back and admired her stash with hands on hips. He whistled in a high arc as he took in the bottles of port- and sherry-wood barrel-aged, and the twenty-seven-year-old single malt, and the eighteen-year-old blend.

“Nice choices,” he said. “Not exactly starting at the bottom, are you?”

Shea tossed an empty box underneath a billowing tablecloth. “Yeah, well, you have to pay a hundred dollars extra just to come in here for a tasting. It was made very clear to me I had to make it special.”

Dean's eyes bugged out. “A hundred bucks? No shit?”

Shea pulled her long hair back into her trademark ponytail and glanced with chagrin out at the blue velvet rope delineating the entrance to her tent. She sighed, snapping a rubber band around her hair and letting her arms flop down. “No shit.”

In the distance sounded the day's first bleat of a bagpipe, a little shaky at first, but then smooth and lovely as the piper warmed up and the notes took shape. Shea recognized the tune and it gave her pause, made her smile to herself.

This was why she planned to attend and do whiskey tastings—of Scotch and others—at so many New England Highland Games this summer. Because they reinvigorated her. Because they shaped her dreams of things outside the walls of the Amber Lounge. Because they brought back memories of Scotland. Because they recalled those days, so many years ago, when she'd actually begun to
live
.

It was a perfect day for the games. For the sun and laughter, for watching powerful, kilted athletes compete by throwing around heavy implements like the hammer and the caber. For lying back on your elbows and surrounding yourself with the heartbreaking, beautiful sounds of pipes and drums, telling history through song. For cheering on young folk dancers and obedient sheepherding dogs.

Even if these particular games had its nose up in the air as opposed to right down in the peat and heather where it should be, the reminders of her Scottish ancestry warmed her heart.

But alas, she would get to do none of the fun events. Today was about the whisky.

The white tent rippled and flapped around Shea and Dean as they skillfully set out short-stemmed tasting glasses and made artistic towers of boxes and glassware behind the makeshift bar. High, circular tables draped with white linen and tied with blue bows peppered the center space, with squatter tables and cushioned chairs set outside under a canopy.

And then there was the goddamn velvet rope.

Whisky shouldn't be untouchable, relegated to only a certain level of social drinker, but that's exactly what Shea and her bottles were today, hidden away in this too-fancy tent. No one could enter who wasn't wearing the yellow one-hundred-dollar wristband. Laughable for a Scottish festival.

Shea just wanted to talk whisky, just wanted to serve what she loved. Not for the first time, she wondered if opening up such an exclusive bar had been an error in her development as a businesswoman. It clashed too much with her personality. Maybe she was better suited to running a corner pub with worn seats and scary bathrooms, but with the same access to amazing drinks. Take away the hoity-toity atmosphere, but keep the rare, good liquor.

Throughout the day, she tended to the few tasters who did manage to wander into her tent. During the long lulls in between, she gazed out at the heavy athletic field, watching the massive caber flipping end over end and listening to the excited announcer and the enthusiastic crowd's applause. She ended up sending Dean back to the city to open the Amber.

In the early afternoon, two couples ducked out of the bright sun and came in laughing. The taller husband, the one in a plaid, short-sleeved button-down shirt, was holding a set of stacked, empty beer cups. A Drinker, Shea pegged him, who'd come in here chasing the buzz. The other man, the one in a blue T-shirt, headed right for Shea, nodding as though they already knew each other. He was either a Hot Air—someone who
thought
he knew a lot about the good stuff—or a Brown Vein—someone who really
did
know.

Of the women, one wore a red visor that parked itself around her ears and extended far over her face. The other had a short, blond ponytail. Neither woman looked particularly interested in why they'd come in here, though all four people sported wristbands.

Shea spread her arms across the table and gave them all a welcoming smile. Didn't matter why anyone came in, when it came down to it. They were giving the drink a chance, and educating newcomers was one of her favorite parts of her job. Sometimes that was the best kind of challenge, to win over someone who'd been skeptical—a Squinter—or someone who had cut their teeth on whiskey by sneaking their parents' ten-dollar plastic-bottled swill bought at the corner bodega.

“So what do these get us?” Drinker waved his yellow wrist.

Always genial, always polite. “Tastes of three amazing whiskies and a walk-through of each, by yours truly.”

“That's a big deal, my friend,” added the other man. To Shea he gave a deep nod, lips pursed. “Saw you on the History Channel the other night.” He didn't mention which special.

“Really? That's always great to hear. Glad you came by.” Perfected responses to almost every comment from almost every type of customer.

She turned to her artful setup of bottles beneath the large banner with the Amber logo, and swung back around holding a tray of glasses. She flipped each glass over and slid it across the white tablecloth with smooth, practiced ease. One glass, two, three, four—

A fifth yellow wristband appeared at the elbow of the blue-shirted man she was leaning toward pegging as a Brown Vein. This new wristband wrapped around an arm that was crusty with caked mud. The newcomer's fingers and palm looked like he'd tried to wipe them somewhat clean, but black still clung under his nails. Shea followed that arm upward, which widened out significantly at the biceps. He wore a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, soaked with the efforts of a recently completed match. His short, dark hair was sweat-damp and stuck out all over the place in a way that shouldn't have looked good but did. His cheeks and forehead were sunburned, and he leaned his elbows on the table with drowsy ease, leaving mud smudges behind.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the wives nudge the other.

“Welcome,” Shea told Rugby.

“Hi,” he replied.

She nodded at his shirt. His perfectly fitted shirt. “How'd you do?”

“Thirty-five to seventeen. We were not the higher number.”

She winced. “Ouch. You at least get a try?”

“I did, actually.” He blinked and straightened, looking pleasantly surprised that she knew rugby scoring terminology. “You know the game?”

“You could say that.” She returned the tray to its place off to the side and set out the three bottles she was guessing this crew would like. The uninterested wives were throwing off Shea's drink-matching radar, but she'd work with what she had.

She said to Rugby, “So what I'm hearing is that you need a drink.”

“Something a little finer than water, exactly.” Rugby let out a small laugh. He twisted one of the whisky bottles to read the label. “Whatcha got here? What does a hundred bucks buy—wow.”

“You know it?” Shea's turn to be pleasantly surprised.

“Heard of it, yeah. So that's why these things were so expensive.” He waved his wrist so the loose end of the yellow wristband flopped about. “Took out a second mortgage to buy one.”

Shea smiled.

The tall man in the blue T-shirt looked down his nose at Rugby and jabbed a meaty finger at the bottle in Rugby's hand. “That's made by a distiller in Scotland that still uses the original 1840 peat kilns to smoke the barley.”

Shea fought for a straight face. Hmmm, maybe this guy was more Hot Air than Brown Vein. He was correct, but who voluntarily spouted off that kind of information to a stranger?

“Impressive.” Rugby's eyebrows shot up exaggeratedly as he pursed his lips at Shea. Hot Air didn't get the subtle sarcasm, but she did and had to suppress another smile as she removed the bottle's cap. Customer equality and all that.

Out in the distant field, the athletes were taking a rest between events. A small contingent of pipes followed a line of old men dressed in military kilts as they marched onto the grass, Scottish and American flags whipping in the wind. The pipes started up, a wave of music drifting into the whisky tent.

Rugby cringed.

“No bagpipes, huh?” Shea teased.

“Sorry. No.”

“For shame. Leave my tent immediately.”

Rugby's cringe twitched toward a wan smile. And in that moment she became distinctly aware that he'd been monopolizing her attention, with four other tasters to entertain. How'd he do that?

“Why are you at the Scottish games,” said Hot Air, who was tipsier than he'd originally appeared, “if you don't like the pipes?”

Rugby plucked at his dirty and sweaty shirt. “I go where the team tells me, hit who they want me to hit. Run wherever there's a goal line.” He turned back to Shea. “You like bagpipes?”

Glancing out at the small parade making its way around the field, she felt the cool, familiar glass of the bottle in her hand and replied, “I do. Very much.”

When her gaze drifted back to the five people standing on the other side of her table, Rugby was staring at her so hard she swore he might have been the source of all gravity.

“So,” he said, throwing her a bright smile that tipped heavily to one side, “do you remember me?”

That blinked her out of that weird trance. She remembered regular faces, especially those who repeatedly visited the Amber Lounge, but with so many tastings and traveling and hired events and interviews these days, transient people tended to dissipate from her memory.

Yet there was something familiar about him. Something about his off-center smile set against the tanned skin layered with sweat and specks of dirt. But she couldn't place it right away, and she'd spent enough time away from the other four tasters.

She gave him one of her careful, noncommittal smiles. “I'm sorry. I don't.”

“I'm Byrne.”

A little cocky of him—but not quite obnoxious—to assume that she'd remember him based on one name. She didn't.

“Just Byrne?”

“Just Byrne.” His smile widened, tilting even more to one side. Holy crap. He was far too easy on the eyes. She hadn't dared to think that about
any
guy who'd stood on the other side of her bar since Marco, and look how that had turned out.

“Shea Montgomery,” she replied blandly, then turned to select a bottle. Too late, she realized she already held one in her hand.

“Yes. I know,” said Just Byrne to her back. And then he chuckled.

The sound of that laugh, soft and low, slid an invisible hand around the nape of her neck, took a featherlight hold, then dragged itself seductively down her back.