Complicated Creatures: Part One Read online

  “And by the time you were a senior, you were running the house on sports and running a tidy little gambling operation out of your fraternity,” Sam concluded.

  Mitch grinned. “That part was actually Jack’s idea. He was a card shark from the get-go. Grew up playing poker with Chicago politicians. Nobody stood a chance against him.”

  “And between your head for running books and his contacts—”

  “Let’s just say we figured out early on we’d make good business partners.”

  “And because of his connections…no chance of getting caught,” she said, brows raised. “That may be the best undergrad job ever,” she marveled.

  “Beats slinging coffee,” he shrugged. “Now is it my turn to ask the questions?”

  “Sure.” She smiled.

  “I couldn’t find much on your military career. I know that you worked in counter intelligence and that you specialized in interrogation.”

  Sam tilted her head, admiring. “I’m surprised you found out that much.”

  “Why interrogation?”

  Sam shrugged, nonchalant. “I’d always been decent at languages, but that propensity combined with the nature of being a woman made for a good interrogator, I guess.”

  Mitch looked puzzled. “The nature of being a woman? How do you figure?”

  “Come on now, Mitch,” she teased. “You look like you know your fair share of ladies. And though you may be too gentlemanly to say it, you know we like to ask complicated questions with no-win scenarios. Consider it a genetic predisposition.”

  Mitch laughed heartily. “Finally a woman who admits it! I always wondered how I could never win an argument and never figure out what I did wrong at the same time.”

  “Well, don’t go telling trade secrets of the fairer sex,” Sam smiled. “It’s a delicate art that takes years to refine.”

  “Let me guess. That’s why you decided to become an attorney,” Mitch said, tucking his hand under his chin, rapt.

  “I believe you’re trying to take my turn again, Mitch,” she chided.

  “By all means…” He gestured casually. “Ask away.”

  “Why has Jack kept the penthouse empty for so long? The real reason.”

  Mitch considered her, swirling his drink. She wasn’t sure he’d tell her, but she figured she had nothing to lose by asking.

  “Jack has a younger brother, Jaime,” Mitch finally answered. “His wife died tragically a couple years ago, as we were finishing the renovations on the Whitney.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Sam inclined her head.

  “Thank you,” Mitch acknowledged. “Cassie was a lovely girl. Jack has always been close to his brother. He was hoping Jaime would agree to move in once the shock had passed.”

  “That makes a good deal of sense.”

  Mitch nodded. “So you see why Jack’s been remiss in filling the space quickly.”

  “But Jaime doesn’t want it,” she deduced.

  “I’m not certain,” he answered smoothly.

  Too smoothly, she thought. If he’d had two years to make a move and hadn’t, the place was hers to lose.

  “To your continued success in seeing opportunities on the playing field and closing good deals,” she toasted.

  “And to your intelligence-gathering and interrogation of unsuspecting men on sunny afternoons,” he smiled in return.

  “Only a fool would consider you unsuspecting, Mitch.”

  “So how does one go from being a Naval interrogator to an attorney?” Mitch asked after a moment.

  “It was at my commanding officer’s recommendation, actually,” she admitted. “He thought I’d make a fine JAG. When I decided not to go that route, he suggested law school.”

  “I’m not familiar with a Jag if it doesn’t involve four wheels,” Mitch responded.

  That made her chuckle. “Sorry—bad habit. Everything gets cut down into acronyms, particularly in the military. It stands for Judge Advocate General. It’s the legal arm of the Navy.”

  “And that wasn’t for you?”

  Sam shrugged. “Honestly, by the time I got the recommendation, I felt like I’d learned what I needed to learn from serving. I’d done a couple tours already, and I knew it was time to switch careers.”

  “I can’t condone your choice of the University of Chicago for law school as a Northwestern grad,” Mitch teased.

  “Well, I hope that’s the only black mark against me in that file of yours,” she replied.

  “So far,” Mitch grinned.

  “I’d better redeem myself pretty quickly then and point out we have another thing in common,” she replied.

  Mitch’s brow popped up. “Oh?”

  “We both appreciate Marc Chagall.”

  Mitch blinked in surprise. “How did you know I like Chagall?”

  “I’m in insurance, Mitch. Lennox Chase insured the The Concert before you bought the piece. I especially like that you had it installed at the Whitney.”

  “It’s the foyer separating the penthouses,” he murmured. “But then, you already knew that.”

  Sam smiled.

  “You do your homework,” he commented.

  “So do you.”

  “But there’s still something I don’t know,” Mitch responded, shifting forward.

  Sam’s brow lifted in question.

  “You join up with Gage Pearson directly after graduating. Their one and only new associate that year. Yet you only stay for two years? And you leave mergers and acquisitions at one of the top law firms in the country for…insurance?”

  “You sound incredulous, Mitch.”

  “I am incredulous, Sam.”

  She laughed softly. “It makes sense, believe me.”

  “Not from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t.”

  “I enjoyed the negotiations,” she admitted. “But all those hours trapped in conference rooms, breathing recycled air, counting hours like sand…” Sam shook her head. “I couldn’t go from high-stakes operations to just stacking chips in the back. Wasn’t my scene.”

  “Fair enough,” he commented. “But how did you fall in with Lennox Chase? I didn’t know they were even in the security business.”

  “They weren’t,” she replied. “They insured high-value individuals for things like accidental death, but the kidnap and ransom business has become a much bigger issue in the past fifteen years, particularly in politically unstable countries where the multinational corporations Lennox insures like to operate.”

  “So you decided to change the game.”

  Sam savored her martini, nodding. She considered the start of her business. The thrill of starting something from the ground up.

  “A close friend of mine had a private protection firm for businessmen and politicians,” she continued. “I’d occasionally accompany clients who leveraged his services on business trips. The first time I was asked to sign a K&R agreement—I saw the opportunity to fill a niche and expand his services.”

  “You had all the ingredients,” Mitch surmised.

  Sam nodded. “I had the business negotiations, the language skills, and the connections. My partner brought the security know-how and all the ex-military resources business people were willing to pay top dollar for. We help facilitate deals, negotiations, and transfers, whatever makes the process smoother in less-than-ideal situations.”

  Mitch’s gaze sharpened. “And Lennox Chase was already a significant underwriter for companies that would require these types of services.”

  “Exactly.” Sam smiled. “Immediate clientele. And easy to package.”

  “That’s pretty damn brilliant,” Mitch murmured.

  “Isn’t it?” she smiled, sipping her drink. “So now that we have a mutual admiration society going, let’s get down to brass tacks. Do I get the penthouse, Mitch?”

  He considered her for a moment, ignoring the question. “That’s a very different path from a Texan debutante,” he observed.

  “Yeah, well… I never did like
white dresses much.”

  Mitch laughed softly, regarding her.

  “My daddy always said if you can’t find peace out in the pasture, you’ve got a lifetime of looking for trouble ahead of you,” she admitted ruefully.

  “And will you be trouble?” Mitch asked.

  “I guess that depends on how much you’re going to try to charge me for that penthouse.” She smiled.

  “Why do you want it?” he asked instead. “You’re wealthy. You could live anywhere you like, and yet you want the Whitney. Why?”

  Sam shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s a stunning building. Your renovation and attention to detail is bar-none. I like the idea of living in a building with such a gorgeous history. And between us,” she confided, “I used to walk past it nearly every day when I was going to law school and thought to myself, ‘That’s it. I want to live in that grand old dame,’ and that was years before you renovated it.”

  Mitch considered her, his gaze assessing. “We’ll give you a five percent discount on your cash offer,” he said after a moment. “You have to guarantee not to sell within five years, and we’d need to sign off on any sale. It would be your residence and yours alone. No subletting or people we aren’t aware of living there.”

  “Ten percent, and I’ll better your offer by agreeing not to sell for at least seven years,” she countered blithely. “This isn’t a Pied À Terre, Mitch. It’d be my haven. The place I recharge and relax. Of course I wouldn’t sublet or have randoms in there. I’m not hosting the Real Housewives of North Shore.”

  Mitch’s smile was assuaging. “Jack values his privacy.”

  “A sentiment we share.”

  “Seven percent,” he answered softly, eyeing her through his tortoise shell rims.

  “I’m giving you more than what you asked for on the other clauses, Mitch,” Sam tutted. “It’s not compromise if it doesn’t sting just a little bit on both sides, now is it?”

  Mitch looked bemused. “I hate to see you not get the penthouse, but we both know Jack doesn’t need to discount the space at all,” he responded. “Besides, I was never much for sting.”

  Sam finished what was left of her drink. “Well,” she sighed. “I hate to walk away from the Whitney, but I have to say, I don’t think Jack Roman would find a better neighbor than a woman who travels seventy-five percent of the time and has a penchant for sleeping off jet lag the few times she is home.”

  “The glamorous life of an international jet-setter.”

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I swear I’m not complaining.” She smiled ruefully. “I will also say that you and I both know that you priced that penthouse higher than market value from the get-go, so my offer isn’t so much a discount as it is leveling the playing field.”

  “You pointed out yourself—I’m an ex-bookie. Level playing fields aren’t my interest.”

  “A good reason I won’t ever invite you to poker night,” she laughed, standing. He stood alongside her, ever the gentleman as he helped her with her chair.

  Sam hid a smile as she picked up her handbag. First rule in negotiations. Always be able to walk away. Second rule, dangle something delicious in your wake.

  “Tell you what,” she began. “I’ll give you a bead on the next Chagall that becomes available before word’s out, and we’ll call it a deal. Sleep on it and get back to me,” she told him, shaking his hand.

  Mitch smiled, his eyes bright. “Does this mean I also get an invitation to poker night?”

  Sam shook her head, laughing. “You’ll have to earn it.”

  “That would be a pleasure,” he murmured, releasing her hand. “I enjoyed meeting you, Sam.”

  “The feeling’s mutual, Mitch. You know where to find me when you come to your senses.”

  They exchanged warm smiles.

  Sam had a feeling she’d be hearing from him within the week.

  *

  August—Later that night

  Washington, D.C.

  J A C K

  “Wyatt came up on the years of sale but is holding out for ten percent on the cash deal.”

  Jack frowned for a moment, listening to Mitch on the other line. “Why would I agree to that?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure this is your dream neighbor. Never home. Seven years before sale, will stick to agreed parameters, and may actually be the most ideal candidate we’ve seen in two years,” Mitch answered. “For a variety of reasons.”

  Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day of politicking and glad-handing, and he could feel a headache gathering strength. “Why are you pushing this so hard, Mitch?”

  He heard Mitch sigh. “One, the money.”

  “We don’t need the money.”

  “Of course not. Neither does Mark Cuban, but that doesn’t prevent him from accumulating cash any more than it should us.”

  Jack stood in the study of his parents’ Georgetown home, the place they spent the majority of their time while Senate was in session. He walked to the wall of shelves, running a finger over his mother’s legal journals and law books. “Another reason then?”

  “You’re in a stasis, Jack. If you don’t want someone else up there in that crystal castle of yours, you need to convert the whole thing to one penthouse. When you move on to the next thing, we’ll make a killing selling it to some professional athlete or a daytime TV mogul.”

  “Who says I’m moving?”

  “That’s why I said stasis, Jack,” Mitch replied. “Look, I wouldn’t recommend this if I didn’t think it was a great situation. Wyatt’s eager to move. We could close fast and move on the South Loop property in conjunction. Just consider it.”

  Jack paused at the edge of the study’s desk. “Any other reasons?”

  Mitch laughed into the phone. “Again, you should see Wyatt.”

  “Do I need to meet this person?”

  “It’s your call, but I think you’d go for this either way.”

  Jack sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose again. “Dad wants me to stay the weekend. Go duck hunting. Go ahead and close this. I trust your judgment, and I want the South Loop lot tied up before anyone knows it’s coming up.”

  “Duck hunting,” Mitch snorted. “That’s just his excuse to sit outside and smoke cigars all weekend. I never understood the wisdom in drinking bourbon and wielding a shotgun.”

  Jack chuckled. “I think he imagines the ducks are the house speaker sometimes. It’s his way of letting loose some steam.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so if you come back one of these days with an ass full of buckshot and a bad hangover,” Mitch commented.

  “Buddy, if I came home with an ass full of buckshot, I think a hangover would be the least of my worries,” Jack replied, wry.

  “I’ll have to talk to Wyatt about cutting you some good rates on personal liability insurance.”

  “You do that. See you in a week or so, Mitch,” he signed off, sighing as he closed his eyes. He heard his mother walk into the study, carrying a glass of wine.

  “You look tired, Gianni,” she commented, calling him by his nickname as she sat on the couch. “How much have you slept this week?”

  Jack shrugged as he sat beside her, slanting her a smile. He’d struggled with insomnia most of his life. He needed about four hours a night to function, though it wasn’t unheard of for him to get by on a handful of hours on a stressful week.

  “I slept a little on the flight here. I’m okay, Ma—”

  She smacked his shoulder. “Don’t lie to your mother.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a fond look. “You always catch me anyway.”

  “True. How was your day?”

  “Good. Productive. Had a few meetings. Lunch with Dad on the Hill. I just got off the phone with Mitch. I have a buyer for the penthouse.”

  His mother sipped her wine, considering him. “You should sell it.”

  Jack fiddled with his phone for a moment before looking up at her. “I want to talk
to Jaime again.”

  “No, Gianni,” she countered, her mouth hardening into the expression she got whenever her position had been decided. She’d changed out of the suit she wore under her judge’s robes, but she looked no less formidable in a button-down and dress slacks. “You need to respect his choice. He and Maddie are fine where they are.”

  “He should be closer to me,” Jack replied, facing her. “And it’s closer to his office to be downtown. I can help take care of Maddie. It makes more sense.”

  “You can’t decide for him, Gianni,” his mother responded, her tone softening as she patted his arm. “I know you want to protect him, but he’s doing better. He and Maddie are fine. You need to sell the penthouse if you have a good buyer. Keeping it open sends him the wrong message.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It does. It tells him you don’t think he’s okay. It tells him you don’t believe in him.”

  Jack sighed, closing his eyes again, his head dropping back on the sofa. “You know I don’t think that.”

  “I know you love him. I know you want everything to be okay. He’s seeing his way back. We have to give him space,” she told him, straightening his collar.

  “So says the Italian mother,” he replied, opening his eyes to smirk at her.

  “Sell the penthouse,” she ordered gently. “He’ll be secretly relieved.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know everything,” she answered sagely.

  Jack laughed, picking up her hand and kissing it. “You don’t, but if God had a consigliere, you’d be it.”

  She chuckled. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Through the weekend. Dad wants to go hunting.”

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Poor ducks.”

  “Poor ducks? Poor me,” Jack replied in mock annoyance. “I’m the one that will have to sit in the swamp with him for hours on end.”

  “You’re a good son,” she commented. “Now tell me about this actress you’re dating.”

  “God, Maaa…” Jack groaned.

  “What? I’m allowed to ask questions about my son’s love life.”

  “No. No, you’re not,” he argued. “Leave it alone. She’s just someone I’m dating. It’s nothing serious.”