Читать книгу After the Party - Jackie Braun - Страница 9

ONE

Chase Trumbull’s mood was in the toilet when he strode through the main doors of the New York skyscraper that housed Trumbull Toys’ corporate offices. It was a gloriously sunny Friday in June, just four hours shy of quitting time for those who punched a clock, with the weekend weather forecast calling for clear skies and highs in the eighties. But it felt like a cold and cloudy Monday given the rumors that were circulating and the grim financial news he’d just received.

Even so, he wasn’t blind, much less dead. So, in spite of his foul mood, his steps slowed and his gaze detoured south to take in the view.

As backsides went, the one on the woman who’d stopped midstride in front of him was one of the finest he’d seen in a long time. It was firm, nicely curved and packaged in a narrow zebra-print skirt that clung to its contours like a glove to the proverbial hand. The legs that extended from the skirt’s meager hemline were the perfect complement to a first-class ass. And the shoes—black with red soles that ended in daggerlike four-inch heels... Well, it was all he could do to hold back his groan. And that was before she bent over to retrieve something from the lobby floor.

Of course, this was neither the time nor the place to indulge base instincts, even if a toned butt, killer legs, animal-print miniskirt and stilettos ticked all of the boxes on his libido’s wish list. He concentrated on the company’s projected second-quarter profits. Those certainly were dismal enough to banish the triple-X fantasy that had started to play in his mind like the featured film at a bachelor party.

As it was, the sizable slump in sales from the previous four quarters had the board of directors on edge and stockholders beginning to defect. The finger was being pointed in a direction Chase didn’t want to look. And then there were those damned rumors.

The woman straightened, turned slightly and, catching sight of him, smiled apologetically, leaving asymmetrical divots in her cheeks. One dent was midway between her mouth and ear. The other, just to the side of her lips.

“I’m sorry. I hope I wasn’t in your way.”

“Not at all,” he lied politely. Another oddity in her features registered and good manners deserted him. He blurted out, “Only one of your eyes is blue.”

“The other is brown. It makes it a little tricky when I have to fill out any official forms.”

“I’m sure.” He realized he was staring, and asked, “Did you lose something just now?”

“Actually, I found something.” She smiled again and held out her hand. A single copper coin decorated its palm.

“That’s a penny.”

“A lucky penny,” she corrected. “It’s an omen.” When he frowned, she said, “You know, a sign. A good one in this case. I’m here about a job.”

The first layer of fantasy peeled away. Chase was too practical to put stock in omens. As for luck, he was of the firm belief that people made their own. His uncle was a case in point. Elliot Trumbull was the founder and creative genius behind a multibillion-dollar business that he’d launched four decades earlier with toys that remained beloved and collected the world over. Vision, passion, hard work—those were the ingredients for success. Not luck, even if Chase could admit that Elliot had run into a spate of the bad variety lately.

“And you think finding a penny on the floor in this lobby is going to help you with that?”

The woman shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Right?”

Well, she had him there.

Together, they started for the bank of elevators, where nearly a dozen people outfitted in conservative business attire waited. They greeted Chase with nods and murmured “Good afternoon,” before parting like the Red Sea. When the doors of the first elevator slid open, not one of them boarded it.

Chase was used to this. When Elliot had brought Chase back to New York from the company’s California office eighteen months earlier, he’d come with the express purpose of turning around Trumbull Toys’ flagging bottom line. Unlike his uncle, who was officially at the helm and remained the creative force, or Owen, Elliot’s son, who was known to flirt outrageously with female workers, Chase believed in running a tight ship. As a result, employees feared him. When possible, they went out of their way to avoid him. The young woman, however, stepped inside the elevator without a moment’s hesitation. Then she caught the doors before they could close.

“Isn’t anyone else coming?”

She directed the question to the crowd at large. Several of them flushed. A few of them stammered incoherently. An intern from the marketing department looked as if he might faint.

“They’ll catch the next car,” Chase replied on their behalf.

“Oh. Okay.” She released the doors and they shut.

Chase punched the buttons for floors two and seventeen. Human Resources was located on two. Top management offices, including his, were on seventeen. When the bell dinged and the doors opened one floor up, however, the woman made no attempt to leave.

“This is two,” he prompted. “Aren’t you getting off here?”

She blinked at him, one brown eye and one blue clouded with confusion. “No. I thought you were.”

“Why would I be getting off here?”

“Well, you’re the one who pressed the button,” she reminded him.

“The human resources department is on this floor.” He pointed down the corridor. “It’s the third office on the left. That’s where all job applicants check in to fill out paperwork before being sent on to department heads for their interviews.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“It’s all right.” He held the doors to keep them from closing. “You probably just misunderstood.”

“No, what I mean is, I’m not here for an interview. I’ve already got the job. I’m meeting with my client on the seventeenth floor.”

That was when it hit him. No...no...no.

Chase realized he’d muttered his objection aloud when she said, “Excuse me?”

He released the doors and they closed, sealing him inside the elevator with a woman who was every man’s fantasy and, now that he knew her identity, Chase’s worst nightmare.

Tone grim, he said, “You’re the party planner.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m Ella Sanborn.” She sobered slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re Mr. Trumbull. Er, I mean you sounded...different on the phone.”

He could only imagine.

“One of three. I’m Chase. You’re here to see Elliot. He’s my uncle.”

“I am so sorry to hear he’s dying.”

Jaw clenched, he replied, “My uncle is not dying.”

Her brow wrinkled. “But when he called, he said he wanted me to plan a wake. An Irish one. For him.”

Chase rubbed the back of his neck just above his shoulders where a tight knot was already starting to form. “My uncle isn’t Irish, either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A common occurrence,” Chase remarked.

His uncle’s quirkiness left a lot of people scratching their heads. Lately, he also had become unpredictable and absentminded to the point that some members of the board of directors were questioning his mental fitness and ability to continue as the head of the publicly traded company. Rumor had it that they were close to having the votes to do it. Chase didn’t want to think what the board members who were still on the fence were going to think if his uncle went through with this wake.

Too late Chase realized that Ella thought his comment was directed at her.

“I can be a little naive at times, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, my God. It’s all a joke, isn’t it?”

Chase frowned. In the span of a few seconds he’d gone from being contrite to being confused. “What?”

“The job, the supposed interview. Somehow Bernadette found out about my new business venture, and she put you up to this.”

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor. Three men from the product development department were waiting to board. With one glance from Chase they scuttled away like crabs at low tide.

When the elevator was under way again, he asked, “Who is Bernadette?”

“She’s my stepsister. Ex-stepsister, actually. Her mom and my dad are divorced now.” Ella paused to add a dramatic, “Thank God!” Then, “But that hasn’t stopped her from trying to make my life miserable.”

“Well, this is no joke. My uncle is serious about wanting an Irish wake.”

“Even though he’s not Irish and he’s not dying.”

“He has his reasons.” Ones Chase didn’t quite understand and couldn’t agree with. “My uncle can be... He’s often...” At a loss for how to describe the man who had raised him from the age of ten on, Chase finished awkwardly, “He’s just like that.”

Especially lately.

“Like what?” Ella asked.

Chase clamped his lips closed. He didn’t want to believe the rumors circulating about his uncle’s deteriorating mental capacity. He certainly wouldn’t help spread them.

Greeted with his silence, Ella said, “That’s okay. I’d rather meet him and make up my own mind anyway.”

Unfortunately, Chase had a pretty good idea of the opinion Ella Sanborn would form once she did.

* * *

The elevator dinged, heralding their arrival on the much vaunted seventeenth floor of the Trumbull Toys empire. Several years ago, Ella had seen a television special on Elliot Trumbull and his place of business. It had made toy stores seem drab and restrained by comparison. But when the doors opened, the sight that greeted her left her not only disappointed but baffled.

“Is something wrong?” Chase said.

“This is the fabled Trumbull Toy Company?” she asked before she could think better of it.

Chase frowned. “What were you expecting?”

Well, she hadn’t been expecting beige walls and a nondescript sitting area. Where was the life-size Randy the Robot that she’d seen in the TV special? And the basketball hoops? The foosball table and minitrampoline?

She laughed weakly. “I guess I was expecting toys.”

“Those are gone. I found they were too distracting and sent the wrong message to employees. This is a place of business.”

Yes, and that business was toys. But she decided not to press the point.

Two women and a man sat at a horseshoe-shaped reception desk talking into headsets as they tapped away on keyboards. All three were dressed as conservatively as Chase in the muted colors Ella associated with storm clouds. Admittedly, she liked bright hues and fun prints, hence her zebra skirt and the poppy-red blouse. Still...

As a unit, they glanced in Chase’s direction, but just like the group in the lobby, and the men who’d tried to board the elevator several floors later, not one of them maintained eye contact for very long. Ella’s gaze slid to Chase. She could see why. In his dark suit, perfectly knotted tie and polished wingtips, Chase Trumbull cut an imposing figure. She shouldn’t have found him approachable much less attractive. But she did. Oh, yeah, she did, all right.

She blamed the attraction she felt on his cowlick. She was a sucker for cowlicks, and his was a beaut. That little whirl of sandy hair just to the left of his part simply refused to go along with the rest of his fastidiously styled locks. It reminded Ella a bit of herself. She wasn’t one to go along with the crowd, either.

All sorts of superstitions were attached to cowlicks. Some people saw them as the mark of the devil. Others insisted they were a sign of good luck. Ella’s best friend, Sandra Chesterfield, meanwhile, claimed that men with cowlicks were exceptional lovers. She’d read an article to that effect on the internet. If that was true, a man with one displayed so prominently at his hairline must be...

Ella fanned herself.

“Hot?” Chase asked.

Yes, and that made two of them. But she smiled and said, “I’m fine. Cool as a cucumber.”

His brows furrowed momentarily. Then, to the woman seated on the left of the reception desk, he said, “This is Ella Sanborn. She’s here to see Elliot.”

“Yes. He’s expecting her.”

“My uncle’s office is the third door on the left.”

The door in question was closed. Ella asked, “Should I knock?”

“Just once and then go right in. If you wait for him to answer, you might wind up standing there all day.”

It seemed rude to barge in, even if she was expected. “You’re sure he’s not busy?”

Chase consulted his watch. “Oh, he’s busy. It’s nearly race time.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” One side of his mouth rose. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest she’d seen him come so far. It softened his features and left her a bit dazzled. It also made her wonder what Chase Trumbull would look like with a full-out grin plastered on his face and amusement lighting his eyes.

“Good luck. Of course you don’t need it,” he said solemnly. At her puzzled expression, he added, “You found that penny in the lobby.”

“I did.” Ella replied with an equal amount of seriousness, even though she was pretty sure that he was teasing her.

He disappeared into the first office, whose door bore a brass plate etched with Chase Danforth Trumball III, Chief Financial Officer.

She sucked in a breath and proceeded to the third door, passing one with a brass plate marked Owen Scott Trumbull, Chief Operating Officer. The nameplate on the third door wasn’t brass. It was bright red, and its white carnival-esque script read, Elliot Trumbull, Purveyor of All Things Fun. In spite of her nerves, she found herself grinning. After she knocked and the door opened, that grin changed into delighted laughter.

Now this was more like it.

It wasn’t an office. It was every young boy’s fantasy, complete with a race track that snaked under, over and around the spacious room’s eclectic furnishings.

“You’re just in time,” said a man teetering on the top rung of a ladder that overlooked the track.

Even though he was older now, she recognized him from the television program. Elliot Trumbull in the flesh. And he was indeed the purveyor of all things fun.

No stuffy business attire for him. He was dressed in a professional racecar driver’s jumpsuit, complete with half a dozen endorsement patches sewn on the sleeves and chest. In one hand, he held a flag; in the other, a bright orange starter pistol. As Ella stood transfixed, he fired the gun into the air—the bullet a blank, she assumed, since it didn’t take out any ceiling tiles—and declared the race under way. On the track, three vehicles about the size of her palm whirred into action.

“They’re sound activated by the pistol,” he told her. “After that, a computer takes over and ultimately decides the race. Care to place a bet on the winning car?”

“Ten bucks on number seventy-seven,” she replied, without stopping to wonder if she had enough money in her purse to cover her wager.

“Why that one?” he wanted to know.

“Because blue’s my favorite color and seven is my lucky number.”

“Sound reasons to pick it then,” he agreed without a trace of his nephew’s mockery in his tone. “I always go with red for the same reason. You must be Ella.”

After climbing down from the ladder, Elliot picked his way over the track to her. She placed his age at late sixties and his weight at one-eighty with most of it centered at his waist. He had a shaggy mustache and a mop of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a decidedly Einstein vibe.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Trumbull.”

She would have shaken his hand, but he took the one she extended and kissed the back of it instead. Make that Einstein meets Sir Galahad.

“Call me Elliot. We don’t stand on formality around here.” His bushy brows pulled together in a frown and he muttered, “At least I don’t. I run a toy company, for the time being, at least. That should be fun, don’t you think?”

“I do,” she agreed.

“Good. At least someone does. Would you like something to drink?” Instead of offering the usual coffee or tea, he said, “My secretary makes the best strawberry malts this side of the Mississippi. Probably the best on either side, come to think of it.”

Ella’s mouth watered at the offer, but she shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“All right. Then, have a seat and we’ll get started.”

The room didn’t have a proper sitting area. Instead, it boasted two white chairs that resembled hollowed-out eggs on clear plastic stands, and a cushioned porch swing that hung from the ceiling on a pair of thick chains. It creaked when Ella sat down and set it into motion.

“Comfortable?”

“Very. My grandmother has a swing like this at her house in New Jersey.”

Elliot beamed. “My grandmother had one, too. I loved that swing. Did some of my best thinking on it as a boy. That’s why I have one here. What do you think of my office?”

She glanced around and couldn’t hold back her smile. “It’s a lot fun.”

“Exactly. Let me ask you something, Ella. Do you think toys are only for children?”

She shook her head. “Aren’t we all children at heart?”

“Not all of us,” Elliot said. Then, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

She glanced over to find Chase looming in the doorway. His expression was one hundred and eighty degrees the opposite of his uncle’s inviting grin. He looked positively grim.

“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you that before this afternoon’s meeting with the board of directors we need to go over some reports.”

“Meetings and reports,” Elliot muttered before hooking his thumb in Chase’s direction and adding in a not-so-confidential whisper, “All work and no play, that one. I guess some good genes skip a generation.”

She bit back a smile. It was impossible not to find the older man charming, even if his humor came at his nephew’s expense.

Chase remained stoic. “It’s important. When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“Oh, it will be a while yet.” Instead of pointing out that they had barely gotten beyond introductions, Elliot said, “The cars are only on their third lap.” Then he whistled softly. “Look at your blue car, Ella. It’s pulled ahead of the silver, but my red one is still in the lead.”

“Come see me when you’re done in here.” Chase nodded politely in her direction.

When he turned to leave, however, Elliot said, “I’d like you to stay, Chase. I value your opinion.”

“You already know how I feel about the party, Uncle.”

“Wake, you mean.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Oh, but I am. Professionally speaking anyway.” To Ella, he said matter-of-factly, “My board of directors thinks I’ve lost my marbles. That’s ironic, don’t you think, given that I make toys for a living?”

“I...I...” At a loss for words, she glanced at Chase.

His cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red. “No one is saying that,” he ground out.

“To my face,” Elliot conceded. “But we both know what is being said behind my back.”

“When I find out who started the rumors we’ll sue them for slander,” Chase declared.

“I will be out of a job by then. Owen is only too happy to take my place. He’s my son,” Elliot informed Ella. “He has the head for this business, but not the heart. That apparently skipped a generation, too.”

“Ah.” She nodded, not knowing what else to do.

To Chase, Elliot said, “The writing is on the wall. Don’t think I don’t know it. I may be slowing down, becoming a little forgetful, but I’m not stupid.”

The older man sounded weary, resigned.

In contrast, Chase’s tone was infused with urgency. “That’s why we need to talk, put together a plan of action before this afternoon’s meeting.”

“All right,” Elliot conceded with a sigh. “But after I speak with Ella. Stay, Chase. Please.”

Chase was too tall to sit comfortably in either of the egg-shaped chairs, so he joined Ella on the swing. His feet remained firmly planted on the floor, bringing the swing to a halt. It was time to get down to business.

Calm. Collected. Confident. She chanted the three words in her head as she exhaled slowly and pulled a small notepad from her purse. She’d jotted down several questions she figured a party planner would ask.

In her most professional voice, she said, “Let’s start with the basics. When do you want to have your wake?”

“Memorial Day would have been fitting, but it’s passed.” He sighed. “What about the weekend before the Fourth of July? We could have fireworks at night.”

Ella might not have planned any parties, but three weeks to prepare seemed doable. Until she asked, “How many guests will there be?”

“Six, maybe seven hundred.”

Her mouth went slack. A party for sixty would have left her panicked. How on earth was she going to pull off a party for six or seven hundred? And in less than a month?

“Uncle Elliot, be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang. What do you say, Ella?”

“Well, the, um, timeline is a little tight for a gathering of that size.”

“You’re right.”

She relaxed until Elliot said, “Let’s push it to August. My Isabella died in August. August twenty-seventh.” His expression dimmed. In a bewildered voice, he asked, “Can it really be three years?”

“I’m sorry,” Ella told him.

“I couldn’t have started my company without her. She was my rock.”

The race cars whizzed past on the span of track that wound under Elliot’s desk. Just that quickly, his attention was diverted. He clapped his hands together, eyes once again bright, and crowed, “My red car is still in the lead! Have your ten dollars handy, Ella. There are only three laps left.” Afterward, he scratched his head. “Now, where were we?”

“The guest list,” she prompted, still feeling dazed.

“Right. Definitely seven hundred. In addition to friends and family, I have a lot of acquaintances in business and the community at large who will want to pay their respects.” He snorted before adding, “And my competitors will want to come and dance on my grave. The media, too.”

“Media?” Chase asked, sounding alarmed.

“That’s right. I plan to invite reporters from several news sources, both tabloid and mainstream. You can’t keep those vultures out anyway. I might as well open the doors and the bar to them. That way, they won’t be circling in helicopters overhead.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” she replied, thinking of her father’s treatment by some so-called journalists. She glanced up to find Chase studying her. Clearing her throat, she asked Elliot, “Do you have a location in mind, then?”

“My house. Estate, I guess is more accurate. It’s in the Hamptons. We could set up tents. The grounds are quite expansive.” He chuckled. “I just happened to think, the name of my estate is The Big Top. What about Three Ring Circus for the theme?”

“I thought the theme was Irish wake,” Chase and Ella said at the same time.

“Right, right.” Elliot nodded. “What if it’s both? What do you think, Ella?”

She nibbled her lower lip to give herself a moment to think. A circus-themed wake for a man who wasn’t dying? For the first time since seeing Elliot’s call, she wondered if perhaps Madame Maroushka had gotten her palm confused with someone else’s.

“Well?” Elliot prodded.

“While there is nothing wrong with a party that has two distinct themes, marrying them can become, um, tricky. That’s especially true when they are so, um, so...different,” she finished, hoping to sound authoritative even if she was making things up as she went along.

“But it can be done?” Elliot asked hopefully.

Uh-oh.

“It can be. But it would take a lot of planning. Months, say, to do it right. Are you willing to wait that long?”

“No.” He sighed.

Ella nearly did, too.

“I suppose that answers that question,” Chase said. He looked as relieved as Ella felt. Then he asked, “May I make a suggestion, Uncle?”

“By all means.”

“If you are determined to have a party, why don’t you go with the circus theme and save the wake idea for another time?”

Elliot scratched his head. “I don’t know. I really want to have a wake. Ella?”

She’d already done some research on wakes. Besides, she had a clown phobia, and was pretty sure any big top-type bash the size Elliot wanted would have to include at least a few of the painted-faced performers.

“The circus theme is overdone.”

“What?” Chase asked at the same time Elliot said, “I should have known.”

“An Irish wake will be very, um, cutting edge.”

Chase gaped at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Really?”

“Really. This is the first one I’ve ever planned,” she added truthfully.

“She should know, Chase,” Elliot said. “She’s the expert.”

Ella worked up a smile that she hoped didn’t reveal her newbie-ness.

“Look, Uncle Elliot, you claimed you want my opinion, so I’m offering it. Throwing a party right now—”

“A wake,” Elliot corrected.

“That only makes it a bigger mistake. Calling it that will feed the rumor mill.”

Elliot shook his head, his expression patient, but still resigned. “I appreciate your input, my boy. Really, I do. But if I am going to be turned out of the company I started, I will do it on my own terms.”

“But a wake?”

Elliot looked every year of his age when he replied, “It’s fitting. What is forced retirement but another form of death for someone like me?”

The whir of the race cars broke the stretch of silence that followed. Elliot’s sober expression brightened when the little vehicles shot into view.

“Ella! Look! Your fortunes have changed. I think you’re going to win the race!”

He hurried over to the ladder, arriving at the top step just in time to wave the checkered flag. As he’d predicted, the blue car marked with number seventy-seven was the first to cross the finish line.

“Congratulations, young lady!” To Chase, he said, “Pay her for me, will you, my boy? Our wager was for ten dollars.”

Chase stood to retrieve his wallet from the rear pocket of his pants. He pulled two fives from his billfold and handed them to her. Afterward, he didn’t return to his seat. He paced to the window, where he stood, arms crossed, back to the room, a quiet yet imposing presence whose mood she could not quite gauge. He wasn’t angry. That much she could tell. Frustrated? Perhaps. But something else was going on.

She did her best to ignore him for the next twenty-five minutes as she culled as much information as she could from Elliot. The task wasn’t easy. The man was full of suggestions for his wake, but he kept going off on tangents. One moment, he was talking about beverages and the next he was relating a story about a fly-fishing excursion in the Rockies, the only common thread between the two being grape soda.

As they wrapped up, they made plans to meet again the following week, by which time Ella promised to have a mock invitation ready for Elliot’s approval, and some menu suggestions.

What did one serve at an Irish wake? Surely the fact that Elliot was so offbeat gave her license to be creative.

“You haven’t discussed the budget,” Chase said, turning back from the window. They were the first words he’d uttered in nearly half an hour.

“Ella can spend whatever she needs to spend. Money is no object,” Elliot replied on a shrug.

A muscle ticked in Chase’s jaw and he shoved a hand through his hair. Every strand fell back into place, except for those caught up in the cowlick. They staged a rebellion and remained erect. Sandra’s claim about men and cowlicks had Ella sucking in a breath.

Chase’s gaze met hers. She swore the air crackled with electricity, almost as if he could read her mind.

“Well?” he challenged.

Her mind went blank except for X-rated thoughts. “Wh-what?”

“How much do you think you’ll spend?”

Money. Right. She would have been relieved, except that she had no clue as to the cost.

“I promise to show restraint,” she replied with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He looked far from reassured. “And what about your fee? What do you charge for your services?”

Her fee? In truth, Ella hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I, um, I charge a percentage.”

“Of what?”

“Of the overall cost,” she told him without stopping to wonder if that sounded reasonable.

“What about a contract? Did you bring one with you?”

“Good heavens, Chase. Stop badgering the young woman.” To Ella, Elliot said, “It’s the lawyer in him, I’m afraid. In addition to his business degree, he has a law degree, too.”

That made him handsome, imposing and apparently too educated for a sense of adventure.

“He has a point,” she told Elliot. “We probably should have something in writing.”

“Why? Did you know I sold my first toy to a store on Thirty-Fourth with a mere handshake?”

“Randy the Robot,” Ella supplied with a smile.

Not surprisingly, Chase was frowning. “That was more than four decades ago. We live in different times, Uncle.”

“Which is too damned bad, if you ask me,” Elliot replied. “I’m a good judge of character. I trust Ella.”

“Thank you for that, Elliot,” she began. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, really, but—“

“Oh, all right,” the older man broke in. “If it will make you both feel better, I’ll put it in writing.”

Chase relaxed visibly at the news. That was until Elliot reached behind him on the desk, tore off a square from the boxed calendar set and scribbled something on its back. He handed the paper to Ella.

It read: I, Elliot Trumbull, being of sound mind and body, promise to pay the delightful Ella Sanborn whatever the heck she decides to charge me for one Irish wake.

His signature was scrawled below it.

It was all she could do not to burst out laughing.

“May I see that?” Chase asked.

She gave him the paper and wasn’t surprised when he let out a soft curse.

After she and Elliot wrapped up their meeting, Chase accompanied her to the elevator.

“I guess you were right,” he said as he pushed the down button.

“About what?”

“That penny you found in the lobby. It really was lucky.” She might have smiled had he not added, “See that you don’t abuse my uncle’s trust.”

Incensed and offended, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “What a waste of a good cowlick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

When the elevator doors closed a moment later, however, she had the satisfaction of seeing Chase try to pat down his hair.