“I ain’t never beat up a guy in a tux before,” the grinning
thug commented, his outstretched hand closing around the
crisp hundred dollar bills.
“Enjoy yourself,” Alex Holt recommended, “just don’t break
my jaw or any other vital part.”
Dusk had settled on the parking lot next to the hotel, only
a few stragglers still making their way into the Gala. The
chill wind off Lake Michigan careened around the tall
buildings as evening fell, tugging at Alex’s dinner jacket.
“So you’re clear on what you’re to do?” he asked.
“Hell, yes. When this bitch,” he held up a photo, “comes to
her car, I do a snatch and run.”
“That’s right. Make sure you get the right woman. I’ll be
right behind her as she leaves the hotel. Then when you’re
mugging her, I come to her rescue. You run off, dropping her
purse as you go.”
The grin on the mugger’s face broadened. “I don’t usually
drop things.”
“Don’t worry about your reputation,” Alex told him
sardonically. “I’m paying you handsomely to botch this purse
snatching.”
The other guy shrugged, shoving the bills into his pocket.
“Weird way to try and impress a woman.”
“I’m a weird kind of guy,” Alex said. He’d never before done
anything as strange as pay to get assaulted in order to meet
a woman, but this was a special situation…and he suspected a
special woman. “You know which car is hers?”
“Yeah.” The thief looked affronted. “That black BMW sports
car over there.”
“Memorize the plate number I gave you,” Alex instructed. “I
don’t want any mistakes and if you mug the wrong woman,
you’re on your own. I never met you.”
“I won’t go handling anyone but your woman,” the mugger
assured him.
“Go easy on the ‘handling.’ I don’t want her hurt.” Alex’s
words were crisp. He might be coloring outside the lines by
approaching Eden Merritt this way, but he wouldn’t forgive
himself if he let her get hurt. “In fact, I don’t want a
scratch on her. Focus your efforts on me and make it look
realistic.”
“Okay,” the other guy promised, the grin still on his face.
***
Eden sipped from the glass in her hand, her gaze idly
surveying the glittering crowd. As these kind of charity
events went, it was a good party, but she had other things
on her mind. If her boss, Michele Broussard of Michele
Cosmetics, hadn’t gone on a protracted vacation, Eden would
be at home working on the details of the “Passions” ads.
The ad campaign had to be looked over before she could sign
off on it and she still had the latest report from Robert
Bergere to read.
Moving through the chattering crowd, the women beautiful in
designer gowns and jewels, the men looking elegant in
tuxedos, Eden worked her way around the room. She spoke to a
number of acquaintances, moving steadily toward the door.
Feeling tired, her feet aching in a pair of costly new
heels, Eden headed toward the exit. Through the ballroom
doorway she went, leaving the hotel.
The wind off the lake skittered around her, lifting
playfully at the skirt of her short green evening dress.
Because she was cutting out early, the sidewalk leading to
the lot where she’d parked her car was empty.
Her head full of plans for the new wrinkle-reducing product,
Eden didn’t notice the shadow beside her car until it moved
suddenly.
A startled shriek escaping her throat, she shrank back in
terror from the masked man, her heart rate tripling in a
matter of seconds. He seemed huge in the inadequate light,
looming up between her and the hotel.
“Your purse, lady,” her attacker said in a bizarrely genial
tone as his big, meaty hand latched on to her arm.
Involuntarily, Eden squeaked and pulled back from him, the
sensation of his hand on the skin of her arm panicking her.
The cold metal of her car behind her, her attacker in front
of her, she could see no escape.
Her hand shaking, she held out her purse.
“Hey!” A man’s voice called out from across the parking lot,
the sound of his footsteps coming closer. “Is someone in
trouble?”
Her power of speech suspended by terror, she couldn’t do
more than croak out a strangled plea, the sound seeming to
evaporate as it left her mouth. Turning toward the newcomer,
her attacker kept hold of her arm, her purse now in his huge
hand.
“What are you doing?” the other man demanded, his voice
sharp as he sprinted up to her car. “Let go of her!”
The last word was barely out of her rescuer’s mouth when the
attacker’s fist slammed into his face. His head snapped
back, but he blocked the bigger man’s next blow in a
surprisingly wiry move.
Frozen, Eden watched as the two men traded blows, in the
narrow space between the parked cars, her formally-attired
rescuer taking the worst of it. He was not quite as tall as
the mugger and not as heavy. Taking a couple of vicious
blows to his midsection, her rescuer doubled over. He fell
back against her car with a grunt of pain.
It was over in a matter of seconds. Without a glance at her,
the thief turned and fled into the darkness.
“Oh my God,” she said, moving to where he sagged against the
trunk of her little Z4. “Are you all right?”
“Did he…hurt you?” the man asked, his words painfully labored.
“No. Thank God, you came out just then.”
In the dim light, Eden couldn’t see clearly, but she could
see well enough to identify him. She knew her Sir Galahad
had a nice pair of muscular shoulders, short, dark hair and
the kind of blue eyes that got women in trouble.
He was Alex Holt, the big-dog businessman who’d been honoree
of the evening’s charity event. Feared and respected for his
business-acumen, tonight he had been lauded for his
significant donations to cancer research.
Looks, money and chivalry all in one incredible package.
Eden smiled inwardly. She might have gotten the bejeebers
scared out of her and lost her purse, but she couldn’t
imagine a better consolation prize. At least one area of her
life was looking up.
***
“You want four boxes of Payday candy bars?” the grocery
store clerk asked incredulously. “We don’t normally sell
them by the box, ma’am.”
“I know,” Eden Merritt said shortly. She stood in a discount
grocery in Buck Town which was far from River North where
she lived. Lately, her demand for her daily fix of Payday
bars and chocolate milk had grown to such proportions she
could no longer supply her need at her usual grocery. It was
just too damned embarrassing.
No matter how much she wanted to call Alex, go over to his
place and toy with the thought of having sex with him when
she'd only known him two weeks, she knew she wouldn't. Too
soon, and she was too damned distracted. A moment like that
she wanted to enjoy, if it did end up happening for them.
Now, she plunked down a hundred dollar bill on the counter
and said tersely, “Just ask the manager if you sell them by
the box, okay? And could you make it quick?”
It was already past ten o’clock in the evening and before
returning to her apartment, she had to stop at the grocery
two blocks over to pick up several gallons of chocolate
milk. There were worse addictions. At least, the
stress-relieving properties of Payday bars and chocolate
milk wouldn’t land her in jail, although diabetes was a
possibility.
She still remembered the day she ate her first Payday bar
when she was ten years old. Her father’s half-sister, Kim,
who was Eden’s age, had forgotten the salty-sweet treat
she’d left at the Merritt’s ratty apartment. After Kim had
gone, Eden had stuffed the pilfered candy bar into her mouth
as she lie on her narrow bed in the stifling, small room she
shared with her step-brother of the moment. Back in those
days, even treats as inexpensive as candy were hard to come by.
From that day on, Payday bars—soon joined with dark and
chocolaty milk—had been her drug of choice.
Collecting her change from the mentally-dense checker five
minutes later, Eden carried her boxes of treasure out to
where her BMW Z4 sat waiting. The lights overhead buzzed
noisily underlining the emptiness of the dark parking lot.
Eden had lived in Chicago so long, she discounted the
ever-present city noises.
Getting into her car, she locked the doors, shuffling her
boxed Payday booty into the passenger seat next to her slim
briefcase.
From the console between the seats, her phone beeped, an
indicator of a missed call. Despite her growing sugar
craving, Eden started the car and picked up the phone. She
ought not to care if anything were wrong at Michele
Cosmetics corporate headquarters, but habits died hard and
she knew any number of department heads would respond to an
emergency by punching in her number first.
Cocooned against the night as she sat in her locked car,
Eden listened to her voice mail.
“It’s me,” Jessica’s recorded voice proclaimed. “Just
checking in on how things are going in corporate hell. Sure
glad I’m not there anymore and wishing you weren’t either.
Call me.”
With a wry smile at her best friend’s message, Eden tossed
the phone next to the boxes on the passenger seat. She tore
into the top box, ripping the flimsy cardboard as she
struggled to get the lid off.
The candy wrapper opened easily and she sighed as the smell
of salty, roasted peanuts and candy nougat filled the car.
How could Michele have stabbed her in the back this way?
Biting into the Payday, she fought off the sense of
unreality and made herself grapple with the truth.
After years of devoting her life to her company goals,
Michele Broussard, Eden’s boss and mentor at Michele
Cosmetics, had gone off on a seniors’ cruise, found a
younger man and lost her mind. Those were the pertinent
facts as far as Eden was concerned.
The woman she’d looked up to and respected, the closest
thing she’d had to a successful female role model, had
apparently reconnected to her emotional side and given her
rational mind the heave-ho.
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