“Of course, but beautiful nonetheless, Ngozi.”
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She shifted her eyes away from his. “What type of trouble are you in?” she asked, seeking a diversion from her reaction to him.
“It’s a civil matter,” Chance told her, raising one leg to rest his ankle on the knee of the opposite one.
Ngozi set her pen down atop the pad. “I’m sure a man of your means already has proper representation for a civil case.”
“I may be interested in moving all my business here to Vincent and Associates Law...if this case is successfully litigated,” he said. “That’s a revenue of seven figures, if you’re wondering.”
She had been.
Ngozi steepled her fingers as she studied him, trying her best to focus on the business at hand and not how the darkness of his low-cut hair and shadowy beard gave him an intense look that happened to be very sexy. The news of the Harvard grad and successful financier inventing a project management app and reportedly selling it for well over $600 million had taken the business and tech sectors by storm, but it was his backstory of claiming success in spite of his humble beginnings that made Ngozi respect his hustle. He retained a small percentage of ownership with the deal and served as a well-paid consultant on top, making several large investments beyond the sale of his app to only increase his wealth and holdings.
Chance Castillo was a man to be admired for his brains. He made smart money moves that even Cardi B could respect.
The senior partners would appreciate bringing his legal interests under the firm’s umbrella, and it would take the assistance of other attorneys more equipped to handle matters outside her expertise...if she won the civil case.
“What is the case about?” she asked, her curiosity piqued as she reclaimed her pen from the pad.
Chance shifted his eyes to the window wall displaying the sun breaking through the heart of midtown Manhattan’s towering buildings. “I’m sure you heard about the end of my engagement last year,” he began.
Her eyes widened a bit at the hardness that suddenly filled the line of his jaw and his voice. Yes, she had heard. The story held almost as much prominence in the news as the sale of his app. Although she had avoided reading about gossip, it was hard to ignore as conversation filler at dinner parties and such.
“She was having an affair the entire time she planned a million-dollar wedding on my dime. The willingness to foot the bill was mine, I admit that,” he said, shifting eyes that lacked the warmth and charm they’d once contained. “But doing so after she ends the engagement to be with another man, that I can’t swallow. Not on top of the cost of the engagement ring, as well.”
Ngozi paused in taking notes. “And the cost of the ring?”
“A million.”
“Would you like that recouped, as well?”
“I wish I could recoup every cent I ever spent on her,” he said, his voice cold and angry.
Ngozi tapped the top of her pen against the pad as she bit the corner of her mouth in thought. “You understand that gifts cannot be recovered.”
He held up his hand. “That’s why I said I wish and not I want. I understand those things are lost to me.”
She nodded. “The name of your ex-fiancée?”
He frowned as if the very thought of her was offensive and distasteful. “Helena Guzman,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his blazer to remove a folded sheet of paper to hand to her.
Ngozi accepted it and opened it, finding her contact information. She frowned a bit at her work address, recognizing it instantly. “She works for Kingston Law?”
“She’s a real estate attorney,” he said, rising to his feet and pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he stood before the window. He chuckled. It was bitter. “I assume once she left her meal ticket behind, she put aside her plan to stop working.”
He was angry. Still. It had been nine months or more.
She broke his heart.
Ngozi eyed his profile, feeling bad for him. Gone were the bravado and charm. This was a man dealing badly with heartbreak.
“Are you sure litigation is necessary?” she asked, rising from her desk to come around it.
“Yes.”
She came to stand with him at the window, their reflection showing his stony expression and her glancing up at his profile. “Why the wait, Chance?”
He turned his head to look down at her, seemingly surprised by her sudden closeness. “I was out of the country,” he answered, his eyes vacant.
This Chance was nothing like the man she’d met two weeks ago, or even the one he’d been when he first strolled into her office. Which was the facade?
She gave him a soft smile.
He blinked, and the heat in the depth of his eyes returned, warming her. “With you looking up at me, I could almost believe in—”
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“Believe in what?” she asked.
He shook his head, softly touched her chin and then turned his focus back to the view splayed out before them. “Will you take the case?” he asked.
Ngozi swallowed over a lump in her throat and put the distance back between them. “Is this about anger over her not marrying you—which is breach of promise to marry and is no longer a viable defense in certain states? Or do you feel you’ve been wronged and would like a cause of action for strictly financial remedy?”
Chance flexed his shoulders. “The latter” was his response.
Ngozi reclaimed her seat, not admitting that she did not believe him. “I think a case of this nature is best presented before a jury. It will be a long way to go, particularly with Ms. Guzman being an attorney herself, but perhaps she will be willing to settle this out of court.”
Chance nodded.
She made several notes on her pad before looking up at him again. “I will need the details of your relationship and its breakup, and any receipts and invoices you have pertaining to the purchase of the ring and the wedding should be provided.”
He nodded once more.
“Chance,” she called to him.
He looked at her.
Their eyes locked.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“During the length of this case you are going to have to relive what was clearly a very difficult time for you,” she said. “It may become fodder for the news—”
“Again,” he injected.
“Right,” she agreed. “I just want to be sure you want to pursue this.”
He smiled at her. “I’m sure, Ngozi.”
“And you’re sure you want me to represent you?” she asked, ignoring the thrill of her name on his lips.
His smile widened. “I take any business or legal matters very seriously. Even the offer to move my interests to this firm was researched first. I joke and laugh a lot. I love life, I love to have fun, but I never play about my money.”
She stood up and extended her hand. “Then let’s get your money back, Mr. Castillo,” she said with confidence.
He took her hand in his but did not shake it, instead raising it a bit to eye her body. “We should celebrate our future win with dinner and a night of dancing, la tentadora,” he said.
Ngozi visibly shivered, even as she looked to her right through the glass wall of her office and, sure enough, discovered quite a few eyes on them, most widened in surprise and open curiosity. She jerked her hand away and reclaimed her seat as she cleared her throat. “Please make an appointment at the receptionist’s desk for us to review the details of the case,” she said, paying far too much attention to the notepad on her desk. “I will need that information to complete the summons.”
Chance chuckled. “Was I just dismissed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile.
“Hay más de una forma de atrapar al gato,” he said, turning to walk out of her office with one last look back at her.
His words lingered with her long after he was gone, while she futilely tried to focus on her work.
There is more than one way to catch a cat.
It wasn’t quite the proper saying, but nothing had been lost in translation.
Chance Castillo had made his intention very clear.
Ngozi put her chin in her hand and traced her thumb across the same spot on her chin that he had touched.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She released a stream of breath through pursed lips.
This was uncharted territory...for the last year, at least.
This attraction. This reaction. This desire.
An awakening.
Ngozi swore as the all-too-familiar pings of guilt and regret nipped at her, seemingly an integral part of her DNA.
Her brother’s death. Her parents’ grief. Her husband’s death.
She pushed aside her thoughts and focused on work, soon getting lost in the minutiae of motions, reviewing court minutes, and at the end of the day celebrating her latest win with a champagne toast from the senior partners.
That evening, behind the wheel of her caldera red Jaguar F-Type coupe, Ngozi put the five-liter V8 engine to good use once she was on I-80 West, headed to Passion Grove. The sky darkened as she passed the township’s welcome sign. She was grateful for the panoramic roof as she made her way toward her parents’ estate. She slowed to a stop and looked out into the distance at the town’s heart-shaped lake. Soon the chill of winter would freeze it over and the townspeople would enjoy ice skating, but tonight the stars reflected against the gentle sway of the water and she found the serenity of it comforting.
Following an impulse, she parked the car on the street and then climbed out to swap her heels for the pair of running sneakers she kept in her trunk. With her key fob in her hand, Ngozi made her way up the street around the brick-paved path surrounding the lake. She took a seat on one of the wrought iron benches, crossing her legs and leaning forward to look out at the water.
Ngozi, come on. Come skate with me.
Ngozi smiled a bit, feeling as if she could see her late husband, Dennis, before her at the edge of the frozen lake, beckoning her with his arm outstretched toward her. It was not a dream, but a memory.
Christmas night.
Maxwell’s “Pretty Wings” was playing via the outdoor surround system that streamed top pop hits around the lake during the winter.
Earlier, right after Christmas dinner, the lake had been crowded with townspeople enjoying snowball fights or ice skating, but now only a few remained as darkness claimed prominence and the temperature slid downward with the absence of the sun. Snow covered the ground, casting the night with an eerie bright glow as the moon and stars reflected down upon the sheen of the ice...
Ngozi had been happy just to watch Dennis effortlessly gliding upon the ice with the skill of an Olympian, but she slid on her ice skates and made her way to him, accepting his hands and stepping onto the ice. They took off together, picking up the speed they needed before gliding across the ice with Dennis in the lead and their hands clasped together.
When he tugged her closer, she yelled out a little until he held her securely in his arms, burying his head against her neck as she flung hers back and smiled up at the moon while they slid for a few dozen feet before easing to a stop...
A tear slid down her cheek, and she reached out as if to touch the all-too-vivid memory of better times.
Bzzzzzz.
She let her hand drop as the vibration of her phone brought her out of her reverie. Blinking and wiping away her tears with one hand, she dug her iPhone out of the pocket of her fitted blazer.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Ngozi?”
Her father.
She closed her eyes and fought to remove the sadness from her tone. “Hey, Dad,” she said and then winced because it sounded too jovial and false to her ears.
“Hey, congrats on the win, baby girl,” Horace said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “I thought you would be home by now. You didn’t say you had a meeting or event or anything.”
Her interpretation of that: Why are you late?
She was as predictable as a broken clock being right at least two times out of the day. Predictable and perfunctory.
“I’m on the way,” she said, delivering a half-truth.
“Good. Your mother had a council meeting and Reeds is serving up real food for us while she’s gone.”
Ngozi laughed. Her father disdained the vegan lifestyle as much as she did. “Steaks simmered in brown butter with mashed potatoes and two stiff bourbons on ice?” she asked as she rose to her feet and made the small trek back to her car, guided by the lampposts lining the street.
“Absolutely,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Hurry!”
“On my way,” she promised, turning and taking a few steps backward as she gave the lake one last look and released the memory.
Chapter 4
Two weeks later
Chance reached inside the jar of almonds he kept on his desk, gathering a few into his hand to toss into his mouth as he leaned back in the ergonomic chair. Since he’d hit his major windfall a couple of years ago and left behind his work in finance, he rarely used his home office, but for the last couple of days an idea for a new app had been nagging at him. So he took his morning run, returned to shower and then meditate, and then headed into his office to hammer out the details floating around in his head.
The normal blare of the music was gone. He needed quiet to focus, and his estate in Alpine provided him plenty of that.
Again, the app was a labor of necessity. Although he was no longer on an 8:00 a.m.‒8:00 p.m. job, he still found a need to be productive. Unlike his wealthy friends who grew up with staff, Chance preferred to do without. Many were not aware that the staff seen during his lavish dinner parties were not full-time nor live-in. He used a household staffing agency on an as-needed basis.
But for someone who preferred solitude, yet also had an active social life, traveled frequently and at times conducted business on the go, to have a virtual personal or executive assistant was as good as the real thing—or with the right analytics and algorithms, even better.
Ding.
He glanced at the email notification on the screen. It was from Ngozi’s firm. Another request for an appointment.
Chance ignored it with a chuckle as he rose from his chair and crossed the wide breadth of his office to leave it and enter the kitchen. He froze and frowned at the sight of his mother stirring a bowl at the island. She was so consumed with it that she didn’t even notice him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in the doorway before he cleared his throat.
Esmerelda looked up and smiled at the sight of him. “Hello, Chance. I thought you were sleeping,” she said, moving about his kitchen with ease.
He released a heavy breath. He loved his mother. Adored her. He was so thankful for her contribution and sacrifice to his success. He loved to gift her whatever she wished for, except...
“Ma,” he said, pushing off the doorjamb with his hand extended toward her. “Come on. Give it up.”
Esmerelda stared at him.
He bent his fingers as he returned her stare.
She sucked air between her teeth and wiped her hands clean with a dish towel before reaching in her designer tote bag for her key ring. She mumbled things in Spanish as she worked one of the keys around the ring.
Chance didn’t lower his arm until she came around the island and pressed the key against his palm with a jerk. “How many copies did you make?” he asked, sliding the key into the pocket of his cotton sleep pants. “This has to be the tenth key I have taken from you.
It has to stop. One day you’re gonna walk up in here and see way more of me and a lady guest than you want to.”
Esmerelda waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing I haven’t seen. I changed your diapers,” she said, stirring a spatula in the large ceramic bowl again.
“Things are not the same,” he balked.
“I hope not.”
Chance shook his head, walking up to press his hands against the marble top of the island. “Ma, I need my privacy,” he said, his voice serious.
Esmerelda avoided eye contact. “You need this stew,” she stressed.
Bzzzzzz.
He reached for his cell phone from the pocket of his sleep pants. Soon he smiled and then ignored the call from Ngozi’s assistant.
Will you walk into my parlor? said the Spider to the Fly.
“How is your case coming?” Esmerelda asked.
“It’s still in the early stages,” he said, raising his arms above his head to stretch as he watched her.
“Have you heard from Ese Rubio Diablo?”
Chance shook his head. “And I don’t want to,” he said with honesty. “The time for talking is over.”
Esmerelda nodded and glanced at him before she turned to set the bowl on the countertop next to the eight-burner Viking stove he rarely used. “It is no easy feat to overcome heartbreak,” she said. “Nothing but time can do it. Time and...forgiveness, mi amada.”
Chance had moved to the French door smart fridge for a bottle of water, but paused at her words and the softness of her tone. “You think I should forgive her and move on?” he asked in surprise.
Esmerelda turned from the stove. “In time, you will have to, for yourself if not for that witch,” she said. “Trust me, I know.”
He took a deep swig of the water before setting the bottle atop the island as he watched her. His mother was only in her late forties. Still young and beautiful, with an air and vibrancy that made her seem far younger than her years, but with a lifestyle of a woman twenty years her senior. As far as he knew, the only man in her life was his father, and that was a subject they rarely discussed. Yet it had not quelled his curiosity about the man he knew he favored in looks.
Tempting the Billionaire Page 5