Chased by the Billionaire 1 (3 page)

I gave Lance an appraising
look.

Everything firm, if not bulging—and I
knew he was a yoga devotee.

Yep, five minutes of Lance would
certainly send old Churchill to the grave.

I nodded vigorously, trying to get the
picture of the two of them out of my head.

“
So,” I said, trying to hit
the forward button on our little heart-to-heart, “Now you want to
go out and…
get some
? Well, I can understand that, sweetie. Seven months at your
age.”

Hell, I was only a few years older than
him and I was ready to climb the walls after only half that
long.

Lance sobbed.

Sobbed.

His eyes were brimming with tears as he
slowly shook his head.

“
I don’t want to be with
anyone if I can’t be with Churchill.”

Dear god…

“
I had no idea you felt like
that. I’m so sorry.”

Lance tried to take in a breath, but
kept on gasping. Just when he looked about to explode, he cried
out, “He wants me to sleep with other men!”

He melted into tears, his pretty green
eyes turning a watery bloodshot, his aquiline nose turning puffy
and red. He sniffled, looking about to wipe his nose with his
sleeve.

I couldn’t let my
best gay
ruin his fine
fashion standards. I reached in my bottom drawer for the boxes of
tissues I keep for clients—and Susan—and held one out to
Lance.

He took three and swiped his eyes,
ending in a very dainty, elegant blowing of his nose.

“
So he wants you to go out
and find someone to…”—How to word this?—“To satisfy your
urges?”

“
No…” Lance grimaced as if
he’d bitten into rotten fruit. “He wants me to bring someone home
so he can watch us fuck.”

Big oh…

“
So, Churchill is a…
voyeur?”

Lance crossed his arms over his chest,
looking so beautifully lost.

“
He feels I can’t keep this
no sex thing up, and wants me to stop it. But he also wants to see
me happy.” Lance gave me a beseeching glance. “
Literally
see me being
happy.”

I walked over and sat on his side of
the desk and took his hand in mine.

“
And you can’t go through
with it because you love him.”

He nodded, sniffling. “Plus, I’m afraid
that he might get excited and have a heart attack just
watching.”

I looked over at my window for a
minute, gazing out on Hyde Park Boulevard.

“
I’m not qualified to advise
you here.” I looked back to him.

Lance sniffled. “No shit.”

We both started laughing. I dropped
into his lap, entwining my arms around his neck, and then kissed
his blotchy, beautiful face. He wrapped his arms around me and we
sat there for a moment, just holding each other.

“
Aren’t we a pair?” I
said.

“
I can fuck anyone, just not
the one I want…” He kissed me on top of the head. “And you can’t
get laid to save your life.”

I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Asshole!”

He held me tighter. “Okay, I’m sure if
it was the fate of the world in the balance, you would pull a Hail
Mary orgasm out of your yoohoo.”

“
You do remember I’m your
boss, don’t you? I think a bit of respect is in order.”

Lance scoffed. “Do I hafta?”

I spied the lovely Howard Miller wall
clock I’d bought the last time I was in San Francisco and saw I was
indeed late. I had a meeting with a representative of the Chicago
Arts Council, and he wanted to meet at his office across
town.

“
I have to run, so you watch
the store while I try to get old musty pants to add us—finally—to
the council’s charity ball invite list.”

Lance coughed. “That guy smells like
rotten cabbage doused with Brut.”

“
But he’s the only member of
the council that’s even returned one of my phone calls.” It was my
turn to sigh. I’d been a major art dealer in this town for four
goddamn years, and yet I couldn’t get invited to their twice yearly
charity ball.

The list was so select that almost no
one on the outside of it knew who was on it.

Like freaking
Fight Club
.

I had to get on that invitation list!
The contacts, the mingling… the future sales to filthy rich
gajillionaires…

I hopped off Lance’s lap and grabbed my
purse and cell phone. “Call me if there’s a problem. I’m going to
go home right after, so lock up…” I thought of the collection of
zombie turkey oils hanging on my gallery’s exquisitely designed
walls, like road kill in a Rockwell canvas. “Or torch the place,
your call.”

I walked toward the door to the now
tainted gallery.

“
Don’t forget about
tonight,” Lance said.

I stopped in my tracks.
“Tonight?”

I looked back and Lance was standing
there with a miserably dejected look on his face.

“
You know, dinner with me
and Churchill at La Pampillon?”

Christ!
Could this day get any worse?

Not that I wouldn’t enjoy myself—Lance
and Churchill were two of my favorite people… even with my new
personal knowledge of their sex life. Or was it their non-sex
life?

Ah fuck it! I would probably need
cheering up after meeting with old musty pants.

“
Of course! We agreed on
eight, right?”

“
The reservation is for
seven.” Lance had a wary look on his face.

“
That’s it, seven. I’ll be
there, dressed to the teeth.” As I went through my office door I
saw the puppy dog look on Lance’s face.

“
I promise!”

“
Swear on your
shoes.”

I stopped again. “What?”

“
Swear on your shoes that
you’ll be there.”

“
That’s ridiculous.” I
cocked my head at him, hands on my hips. “I like these shoes, but
they’re hardly swear-worthy.”

Lance matched my pose exactly, and the
pissy look on his face was fierce.

“
Swear on all of
them.”

All my shoes?

I could just see him “letting himself”
into my apartment and kidnapping all my heels. There had to be
close to a hundred thousand dollars worth of Italian leather in my
walk-in closet. He’d need a U-Haul to transport them, but he was a
well-trained assistant. I put nothing past his skill
set.

“
I’ll swear on my Prada
mules and my Dolce and Gabbana pumps,” I countered.

“
The lace and jewel bow
ones?”

Damn, he did know my closet inside
out.

“
Yes, those
pumps.”

He smiled. “Fine, I believe you. No get
out of here and charm the pants off old musty pants.”

Chapter
3

Carson Gibson III (aka old Musty Pants)
not only kept me waiting in his reception area for nearly an hour,
but then had the nerve to tell me, once I was in his office, that
he only had five minutes to spare for me because he had “an early
tee time” at La Grange.

I siphoned every drop of
energy I had into making my smile and voice as sunny as possible. I
just kept thinking,
I really, really want
on this invitation list! I do, I do, I do!

Even when he decided to open his closet
and pull out his golf clubs and practically take off my foot when
he dropped them beside me—a none too subtle hint.

The man was as rude as he was
smelly.

He kept picking something in his teeth,
and interrupted me twice by placing phone calls to his golf
cronies.

The third time he interrupted me he
said, “What is it you’re getting at, Miss Hartford?”

My hands clenched into fists in my lap,
well out of his line of sight.

You rude, disgusting
asshat!

“
It’s Hamilton. Liz
Hamilton. And I own and operate New View Art Gallery on Hyde Park
Boulevard. My gallery has been featured in the
Sun Times
,
the
Tribune
, and
Chicago
magazine. I think I would be a
valuable addition to the Arts Council—”

Old Musty Pants laughed: a rancid
string of guffaws falling from his wrinkled, chapped
lips.

“
Miss Hamill.” He did it
again! Was I an Olympic figure skater now? “I’m sure your little
shop is… well, a quaint little venture. But here at the Chicago
Arts Council we strive to include only those who have left an
authentic mark on our beautiful city.”

“
But Mr. Gibson, I’ve shown
major artists for four years running.”—not including the upcoming
zombie turkey showing—“And I’m sure that if you call
around—”

“
I don’t need to ‘call
around’ Miss Hamill,” he cut across me. “I have never heard of you,
other than your persistent, desperate attempts to get me to let you
on the council’s charity ball invitation list.”

My face warmed, as if he’d slapped
me.

He opened his mouth to continue but I
stood up and stopped him with a raised hand.

“
I won’t waste anymore of
your time then, Carlton.”

His wrinkly mouth pursed in
disdain.

“
My name is Carson Gibson
the third. And if I were you—”

I should have been nice. I should have
been diplomatic and tactful.

Screw that!

“
If I were you, maybe you’d
remember
my
name.
It’s is Liz Hamilton. Not Hartford, and certainly not Hamill. And
I’d love to stay and listen to you pontificate on why I’m not Arts
Council material, but I have a business to run, and actual work to
do. So good day, Mr. Gibson.”

As I marched out of his office I
received a thumbs up from his assistant.

Smart or not—well, it had been pretty
damn stupid of me to have told the old goat off—at least I felt
better.

And I’d feel better until later tonight
when it sank in that I’d not only burnt my Arts Council bridge but
ripped out the still smoldering support beams as well.

I walked about ten blocks to cool off,
and then stopped at a Baskin Robbins for a Chocolate Chip Cookie
Dough double scoop. Calories be damned; I needed some comfort
food.

I ate my cone as I took a cab to my
apartment building.

Quincy, the doorman, greeted me with
his usual mischievous smile. He was in his early fifties, over a
foot taller than me, and was a native Chicagoan. He knew everything
about the city and its sports teams. And he had lifted my spirits
many times in the last six years I’d lived here.

He took one look at me and said, his
smile only dimming a fraction of a degree, “You didn’t get it, did
you?”

I shook my head. Misery dropped on me
like a hunter's net, and I felt my heart sink.

He placed his huge hands on my
shoulders and squeezed them in a fatherly way. My own father had
always been too busy to do the fatherly things, so moments like
this always made part of me swell with happiness.

“
I know what will cheer you
up,” he said.

“
I already tried ice cream.
Next will be vodka.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, no,
no. Nothing like that.”

He looked over his shoulder at the
front desk area, and a shiny red wrapped box.

“
You have a present, from
Mr. Walker.”

A present from Churchill?

I followed him to the front desk and he
handed me the package.

There was a hand written
note:
For tonight
.

I pulled the black ribbon from the box
and lifted off the lid. After some tissue paper I found what was in
the box.

A dress.

It was no ordinary dress: Blood red
silk, exquisite beading around the throat and bodice—vintage Dior
most assuredly.

There was also a matching silk clutch
bag, and a to-die-for pair of red velvet Chanel cork heel
pumps.

Quincy was right. I felt better just
thinking how wonderful I was going to look tonight.

“
Can you do me a favor and
call me a cab at six-thirty?”

It was official. I was going out
tonight.

“
Of course, Miss Hamilton…
where to?”

“
La Pampillon. I have a
dinner date.”

Chapter
4

The cab pulled up to the Lincoln Park
based restaurant. A valet opened my door—sighed as he watched me
slip out of the cab—and ushered me into the restaurant.

I never feel out of place.
Ever.

I’m always dressed to the nines and
feel comfortable in any setting, whether it be at a biker bar or a
five star culinary marvel like La Pampillon.