Derrick glanced up. “I thought you were just a negotiator. Where the hell did you learn how to do that?”
Sam glanced at him. “Which part?”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Derrick snapped, realizing distantly his sudden fury was misplaced. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself, his words erupting from him. “An hour ago you were drafting fucking contracts for chrissakes! Now you’ve got a 9mm under your suit and you’re interrogating would-be assassins. Who the hell are you?”
Derrick saw a brief flash of her teeth as she grinned. “I’m still Sam, Derrick. The only difference between me and typical corporate counsel is that I don’t just push around paper.” She leaned forward, extending her hand. “Formerly Lieutenant Commander Samantha Wyatt of the United States Navy. Now it’s just Esquire,” she smiled reassuringly. “Pleasure protecting you today, Mr. Markham.”
Derrick shook that slender, manicured hand, still feeling dazed and confused. “You saved my ass,” he breathed.
“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna leave you there,” she teased, her eyes gentling.
Derrick nodded before he sat back, allowing his head to fall against the headrest as his eyes closed. “I was almost shot today, and now I find out my general counsel can kill people with her thumbs,” he muttered, trying to calm down.
“True story,” Carey grunted next to him.
Derrick’s head whipped around. “Seriously?”
Carey shrugged.
“I was kidding. You were kidding, right?” Derrick asked, looking back at Sam.
Her dark eyes lit with amusement, as she tried to suppress a smile. “I find weapons more effective, but I can use my thumbs in a pinch,” she replied, leaning back to examine her silky dress shirt. She noticed blood on one of the cuffs, cursing. “Damn. I love this shirt,” she muttered.
Derrick looked to Carey again. “I thought you were the one in the military.”
Carey snorted. “I followed her. This one makes GI Jane look like a Cabbage Patch doll.” He smirked, watching Sam roll up the sleeves of her blouse.
“You said you were going to interrogate the sniper’s backup?” Derrick asked. “The spotter?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll find out as much as I can and let you know more.”
“Are you turning him in? To the Jakarta police?”
Carey laughed softly beside him. “Derrick, I doubt he’s Indonesian, based on the physical descriptions our men have given us. These assassins were highly trained marksmen. It’s a friggin’ miracle Chow didn’t die in that conference room. My guess is they’re wanted for crimes in other countries. Jakarta police will be the least of their worries, trust me.”
Sam nodded in agreement. “Like I said, we’ll let you know more when we know more. You have my word on that.”
Derrick remained silent for the rest of the short flight. When the chopper landed near a private jet on a quiet airstrip, he exhaled a relieved breath. A man in fatigues approached the chopper as it landed. Before he opened the door, Derrick gripped Sam’s arm.
“Samantha, thank you. Seriously,” he told her, releasing a shaky breath. “You saved my life.”
She smiled, patting his hand gently. “You’re welcome, Derrick. Now giddy up. Your jet is waiting.”
“I can never repay you—”
“Sure you can,” she replied. “Invoice is in the mail.” The door to the helicopter opened. “You’ll be home in no time, Derrick. Enjoy your family.”
With that, Sam hopped out before Carey escorted him toward the waiting jet. Derrick glanced back one last time as he reached the stairs to the aircraft. The sun had set, the darkening skyline ablaze in cinnabar and orange. Jakarta looked like it was on fire in the distance. Derrick realized again how much had happened since he’d stood at his windows, looking down at it all, oblivious of the sudden impact in the minutes to come.
“I could have died,” he murmured to himself.
“But you didn’t,” Carey replied from beside him.
“I had no idea she was capable of that.” Derrick shook his head, wiping an unsteady hand down his face. “But thank Christ for it,” he murmured as he paused at the steps of the waiting jet. Derrick’s eyes found her again. Samantha leaned against the Sikorsky, conferring with the man in fatigues, hand tucked into her trouser pocket, poise relaxed.
“She’s impressive, that one.”
Carey laughed softly behind him. “You don’t know the half, Mr. Markham. You don’t even know the half.”
Chapter 1
Early August—Present day
Jack Roman’s office in the Loop, Chicago
J A C K
“We’ve got a buyer I like for the penthouse duplex.”
Jack looked up from his paperwork, surprised. “Must be good for you to bring it up when you know I don’t have any intention of selling it,” he replied.
Mitchell Gartner, Jack’s long-time friend and business partner, ignored his comment as he sat down across from Jack. He flicked open a file on his lap. “S. Wyatt. Senior partner with Lennox Chase. Looking for a fifteen percent discount with a cash offer. Background checks out. I think you’d like this neighbor.” Mitch’s eyes were bright. Jack knew that look was either from a done deal or trouble to-be-had.
Jack Roman sat back, steepling his fingers as he regarded Mitch. The building he owned and lived in was an exquisitely renovated neoclassical brick building with Beaux-Arts architecture. The Whitney was a legendary landmark in downtown Chicago, just off of Michigan Avenue, with lush views of Grant Park and the windswept waters of Lake Michigan. The penthouse level was over ten thousand square feet, featuring two duplex penthouses with wide limestone terraces and breathtaking views of the city, park, and water. The penthouses shared an entertainment area with a large pool that separated the two spaces. Jack had resolutely kept the second penthouse unoccupied since the renovation was completed nearly two years ago, though not for a lack of interested parties.
“You know I want Jaime in there,” Jack said, his voice flat.
Mitch slipped the file in front of Jack. “I know, but he doesn’t want to leave the house in Oak Park. It’s a better place for Maddie to grow up in anyway. A real neighborhood with other kids, and she can ride her bike.”
“I want to talk to him again about it,” Jack answered, glancing at the closed file.
“Okay, but it’s a good offer. I know you want your brother in there, but if he says no, I think it’s an ideal situation.”
“A fifteen percent discount is pretty steep, even for a cash offer,” Jack commented drily, looking for more reasons to block the deal. “And don’t think for a minute I don’t recognize that look in your eye. What’re you up to?”
Mitch shrugged. “What’s not to like? Comes from money, excellent reputation, obviously good with business, and we could use this cash in hand to pick up that lot in the South Loop before word even gets out.”
“And?” Jack prompted, head tilting ever so slightly.
“And you should see the picture of Wyatt,” Mitch grinned.
Jack couldn’t help the smirk from rising. Canary. Meet your cat, he thought. Mitch was what you could call a switch hitter. Mitch enjoyed his fair share of lovely women, but the certain allure of a good-looking man could turn his head from time to time. Mitch had excellent taste. Couldn’t fault him on that. Jack had no doubt this S. Wyatt would be a looker if Mitch’s eye had that glint.
“I’m sure,” Jack responded. “I need to catch a flight to Washington tonight. I want to talk to Jaime first. If I decide to go through with it, it’s a five percent discount, they can’t sublet, and they can only resell in five years on my terms.”
Mitch let out a low whistle. “Hardball, huh? You know the price we set was outrageous from the get-go. This offer is more than fair.”
“I know it. I just want to set the terms early on that we’re playing by my rules. Set an early precedent for neighborly conduct if it gets that far,” Jack replied. He fingered the paperwork sitt
ing in front of him, already shifting his attention to the plots and land developments he was considering.
“You may have met your match with this one,” Mitch said after a moment, refusing to drop the subject.
“Oh?” Jack’s dark brows popped up. “And why’s that?”
“Wyatt’s recent promotion to Senior Partner at Lennox Chase is based on performance under, shall we say, high-pressure situations. Don’t think this one will be someone you can steamroll.”
“I thought Lennox Chase was an insurance company,” Jack replied, his brows rising. “What kind of high-pressure situations do insurance companies have? Too many claimants all at once?”
“Wyatt leads a division called ‘Human Asset Protection.’ That’s fancy terminology for kidnap, ransom, and assassination attempts on executives and government officials, that sort of thing. Basically a private protection agency for big-wigs situated within an insurance company.”
Jack felt mildly intrigued at the prospect of having a James Bondish-type neighbor. He had to admit it had been a while since he’d found anything outside of work interesting. Having a neighbor whose idea of a Monday staff meeting involved fielding ransom demands was probably the most excitement he’d seen in months.
“I had lunch with Michael Lennox at the Union Club the other day,” Mitch continued. “The numbers aren’t public, but the Human Asset Protection division is Lennox’s bread and butter these days,” Mitch told him. “Lennox Chase is now one of the top three businesses that provide this sort of service in the world, whereas five years ago, they were just underwriters.”
Jack wasn’t surprised Mitch had managed to ferret this information out over lunchtime drinks. Mitch traded in confidences like Jack gathered favors. Everyone had their own currency.
“All the more reason Wyatt shouldn’t get a discount,” he replied. “I’ll talk to Jaime tonight and let you know if he’s a definite no. You can handle the interview and the negotiations if I decide to pull the trigger.”
“I’ll wait for your word,” Mitch acquiesced.
“Good.” Jack glanced down at the watch. “Let’s switch gears. I need to head out in an hour. Let’s work through the latest on construction updates.”
*
August—A week later
North Gallery District, Chicago
S A M A N T H A
The Sixteen Restaurant, inside the Trump Tower and Hotel, arguably boasted the most stunning panoramic views of lakefront Chicago. The warm afternoon sun hit the Chicago River and Lake Michigan at that perfect angle, making the water shimmer like crystal-cut glass in the distance. As Sam followed the hostess through the restaurant, her attention shifted from the quarter arc, three-story vistas to the man waiting for her in the bar.
Mitchell Gartner had the lean, androgynous look of a dandy from a bygone era. His dark golden hair was pushed back from his face in an attractive wave. Vintage Oliver Peoples perched on an elegant nose. She pegged him to be in his early-to-mid-thirties, around her age. Spotting her approach, Mr. Gartner stood, a smile curving his mouth as he reached out to shake her hand. She admired the impeccable summer-weight suit and custom Oxford shirt.
“Ms. Wyatt, great to meet you in person,” he smiled, moving to pull out her seat.
“Likewise. And please, call me Sam,” she answered, settling in the chair. She gave him a moment to check her out unobstructed as she placed her drinks order with the waiter who’d appeared at her side.
As she turned back to him, she noted the appreciative look in his eyes. She hoped that boded well for her bid.
“So, Mr. Gartner,” she began. “I’m glad you reviewed my offer. Are we drinking to celebrate or are we drinking to negotiate? I hope it’s the former.” Sam smiled. “I don’t usually get to kick back and enjoy a view like this with a cocktail on a weekday afternoon.”
He laughed a little, a pleasant sound. “Well, I suspect it’ll be a little bit of both. And please, if you allow me to call you Sam, please call me Mitch. It’s only fair.” His eyes were warm.
A charm offensive. She liked it.
“I have a strong feeling you probably don’t play fair, Mitch,” she teased. “Especially if you want to negotiate on a cash deal while plying me with what I’m sure will be some powerful cocktails.”
Mitch laughed at that. “Who says I don’t simply want to enjoy the company of a lovely woman after a long day?”
“I’ll admit I was wondering about that,” she replied. “Our offices are a stone’s throw from each other, and yet you invite me to drinks at a neutral location with a breathtaking backdrop—nice choice, by the way,” she said, admiring the view. “I’m guessing you like me for the penthouse.”
“I do,” he admitted.
“But there’s a catch.”
“There is.” Mitch inclined his head. “Your offer is good,” he continued after a moment. “But we’re in no hurry to fill the space.”
“Oh, I know.” Sam smiled. “That penthouse has been vacant since you completed your renovation a couple years ago.”
Mitch shrugged, his face belying nothing. “Finding the right kind of person to share that gorgeous space is top of mind for the owner.”
“You mean Jack Roman.”
Mitch smiled.
“And may I ask what defines the ‘right kind of person,’ Mitch? Other than the willingness to put their long-term money where their mouth is. So to speak,” Sam asked, slanting him a curious look.
“Well, there is that,” Mitch replied. “Jack enjoys a great deal of privacy. He’s had that space to himself for quite a while now. He’s…understandably picky about who he’ll be sharing it with. You understand.”
“So this is an interview,” she surmised.
“Interview isn’t the word I’d choose,” Mitch replied casually. “Consider it a get-to-know. And I’ll admit a personal curiosity. You have such an interesting background.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Ah, but yours more so than others.” He smiled, eyes amused behind his glasses.
The waiter returned to their table holding a long-stemmed martini glass, the tiny chips of ice swirling through a perfectly-executed martini.
Sam hummed her appreciation as she sipped her drink. Crisp and delicious. “Fair enough. What would you like to know before you try to gouge me, Mitch?” she asked affably.
“Gouge you?” Mitch chuckled. “I pity the man who tries to gouge you. Besides, I’m completely curious from what little I know. Truly.”
“What would you like to know?”
He touched the condensation on his glass as he watched her. “First, how did you get into…ah…insurance?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, feigning surprise. “I take it I don’t come across as your typical adjuster?”
Mitch grinned in response, shrugging.
“I’m willing to bet you have a nice little file on me, Mitch,” she told him, cocking her head. “I’m also willing to guess you’re looking for the color behind the facts?”
Mitch nodded, sipping his drink.
“Well, all right,” she agreed. “But let’s make this fair. If you get to interview me—”
“You mean ask you questions in a friendly effort to get to know you,” he corrected with a grin.
“Right. What you said,” she grinned back. “Then I get to ask you questions too. Turnabout’s fair play and all that jazz.”
“But I’m not trying to buy something from you.”
“No, but you are trying to take something from me, Mitch,” she replied easily. “My money. And the skinny on my…shall we call it unusual backstory. A little give-for-get never hurt,” she reminded him, her face pleasant.
Mitch considered her for a moment. “You have a deal. Ladies first,” he gestured.
“I’d like to know how a good Indiana farm boy becomes one of the sharpest bookies in Northwestern University history.”
Mitch nearly choked on his drink. “How did you find that out?”
/> “I worked in military intelligence for years, Mitch. I have a feeling you and I have information-gathering in common,” Sam replied, sipping her martini.
Mitch coughed behind his hand. “You were a Navy officer, I recall.”
“Yup. Joined up young. A family legacy, though I’m sure you know that.”
“Still, that’s rare. Why did you join?”
Sam smiled, turning to admire the lake. “I liked it. Not the discipline, mind you.” She slanted him a look. “But the physicality of it. The problem-solving required in…shall we say ‘tense’ situations.”
“A woman who enjoys danger.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m no hell-raiser. I just enjoy the discernment and decision-making that comes with having to be on your toes all the time. Wins are that much sweeter when you know the severity of the consequences.” Sam took a pleasant swallow of her drink before turning back to him. “Now back to my earlier question, Mitch. How does a kid who grew up in corn fields get into running an underground betting and gambling ring in one of the most prestigious colleges in the Midwest?”
“So you know I was a farm boy,” he replied, his smile a little self-deprecating. “And you were kind enough not to point out I was a poor farm boy. I went to Northwestern on scholarship. But it was pricey, and I had expensive taste, even back then,” he chuckled.
“I noticed. Nice watch.”
He glanced at his Hublot, his dimple showing. “So, among my scholarship deals with the school was sports. I was pretty good back then. The Big Ten Conference that Northwestern competes in—well, let’s call it a small world. It’s easy to figure out who’s who—”
“I think I see where this is going.”
Mitch nodded, eyes twinkling now. “…Including who was hung over from the night before. Whose girlfriend left him for another player. Who was getting cortisone shots. That sort of thing. I started taking bets sophomore year.”
Complicated Creatures: Part One Page 2