Chapter One
Chicago.
The sights, the scents, the noise . . .
Andrew Fairchild leaned back in the seat of his Challenger jet, taking in the lights flickering below. He could almost feel the wind, smell the damp air of Lake Michigan, hear the traffic, the pedestrians.
Chicago.
The city where he’d been born and hadn’t set foot in for over a thousand days. The city where he’d lost his virginity, had partied until dawn, the city where he’d become as rich as Midas. The city where he’d expanded his family’s empire—real estate, hotels, and oil, gas, and energy across the world. He owned thousands of acres of the most prized spots in Chicago. But Chicago owned him.
He’d seen the world when he was young, he’d been everywhere, done everything—nothing had rivaled what he’d found here. Right at home. In the arms of one beautiful young woman.
His chest swelled at the thought of her, and an insanely hard erection pressed against his tailored slacks. His mouth watered at the prospect of feeling her red hair—as fiery as her personality—wrapped around his flesh again.
Every nook and corner, every plane, every angle of her small, slender body, he knew it by memory. He’d drawn it in charcoal. He’d photographed it. He’d fucked it. He’d kissed it in its entirety, fondled it to his will and liking, loved it like there was no tomorrow.
What would she do when she saw him? Would she still scream in pleasure when he grabbed her hips down and pounded her? Hard. Harder. Harder than ever. Would she still bite him until he bled? Would she writhe like all those days and nights they’d tumbled in his bed, in the kitchen, on the couch, the floor, against the wall?
He stroked her name, which was tattooed on his wrist, and tried to picture her face, imagining how she might have changed, how she would look when she saw him again.
She’ll fight you. She’ll deny anything she feels for you . . .
He smiled sadly at the thought. He wanted to make love to her, not war. Time and distance hadn’t diminished his need of her. On the contrary. The need, powerful, consuming, had built and festered with every passing day until now there was a black hole inside him only she could fill. Now there was a roiling tornado of emotions, all of them for her, all of them at the thought of seeing her, feeling her, smelling her up close.
He’d told her that his work took him abroad, and that the search for new oil fields in the Middle East was dragging him deeper into unchartered territories, where communication was impossible.
He’d lied.
No amount of work, no amount of money, would’ve taken him from her for three years. Nothing. Except this.
His companies—he had a thousand things to do, and a thousand things to check up on. He hoped his CEOs had taken charge, and that his investments had proven fruitful. He hoped his friends were still well and thriving, hoped that nobody was dead, but more than that, what he prayed to his dying breath to find, alive and well and waiting for him, was Whitney Donahue.
Chest heavy with anticipation, he felt as his bird, a beauty that flew like a cloud in the air, hit the ground, and as soon as it taxied to a stop, Andrew unlatched his seat belt and stood.
“Home sweet home, right?” Air Marshal Gregory Johnson asked.
Andrew met his gaze and held out his arms, watching him unlatch his handcuffs.
“That’s right,” he softly murmured. Once his hands were free, he stroked his tattoos with Whitney’s name again. He’d never in his life been so grateful than when the pilots pulled open the plane’s door and the air—pure, crisp Chicago air—bit into his face with a frigid chill.
His hair flew in the wind as he climbed out of his jet to find his chauffer and assistant waiting for him. “Did you find her?” he immediately asked after greeting them, taking the five huge folders he was handed.
“Yes, sir. She’s at the Women for Women Gala tonight, sir, at the Four Seasons Hotel,” his primary assistant said.
He nodded in approval at the new suit his chauffer, Jerry, held out. “Drop me off at the first of our hotels; have a room ready for me to change. We’ll head over there right after,” he said, and hardened his voice when he added, “Burn whatever luggage is on the plane. I don’t want to see it again.”
***
“He’s on the way! Oh my God, what if he chooses me?”
“What do you even do with a billionaire?”
“Shut up! They say this one’s extremely good-looking and young, and that someone here will die when she sees him. Chloe says she already knows who he’s probably going to choose!”
Whitney Donahue laughed at all the fuss surrounding her. A mysterious billionaire was apparently on his way here. He’d ordered that no one leave the event, for he would bid for a kiss tonight and donate a million dollars in exchange.
Since all the ladies in attendance had gathered for the sole purpose of selling kisses to help abused women across the country, they all tittered in excitement over who it was that the billionaire would choose.
As one of the organizers, Whitney hadn’t planned to kiss anyone tonight. Not tonight, or any other night. Nor was Chloe Lexington, her good friend and fellow organizer, up for grabs.
Chloe’s kisses were strictly reserved for Graves Buchanan, the man she loved and who’d been at her side the entire evening. They made a striking couple. Chloe was fair, and Graves was dark, and when they were together, there was always a part of their bodies, even if only their little fingers, attached. And Whitney? Oh, no, she was not up for sale.
One time getting her heart broken had been good enough, thank you very much.
She’d devoted the past three years to expanding Women for Women so they could reach even more women in need, and she’d steered clear of men as much as she could. She’d been burned before by a man, and had no interest in any kind of contact with their species.
They were all the same.
They’d want sex . . . they’d make you burn like a thousand fires until you promised to belong to them forever . . . and then they’d leave.
Heart imploding at the memory, she stroked her fingers along a sable tattoo, the word ANDREW surrounded by an elegant Celtic ink bracelet that completely circled both of her wrists.
The brand was as permanent as the one he’d left in her heart, and now both marks lay nestled discreetly under the wide gold-cuff bracelets she used to hide them. Oh, no, she was not up for sale. How could she? After Andrew, she would never belong to anyone again.