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Chapter One
Harris & Hartley was three blocks down the street. I had ten minutes to make the trip with a portfolio of the most important drawings of my career tucked under my arm. Exiting my office building, a blast of Chicago cold wind whipped my face, and the damp pavement made me turn my heel. Splat! I was on the cement, looking up at six half-amused pedestrians, while the contents of my portfolio spilled, the breeze taking away a sheaf of papers like propaganda leaflets tossed into the sky.
I failed to react until they were sailing down the street, where they met KC Gable—a hip looking twenty-something actor/biker/all around unusual person—who, at the moment, was the only one on the street kind enough to retrieve my valuable documents.
Witnessing his painstaking efforts to fight the wind—and do it with a manly poise which made it look as though he plucked paper from the air as a regular practice—I didn’t bother to rise from my awkward sprawl as quickly as I might have. He approached me, trying to put my drawings back in order while I stared at his muscled chest and the slight swagger of his slim hips. He was wearing leather pants and a white tee shirt. I’d never seen a man in leather quite so close. He certainly wouldn’t fit with my circle of downtown friends. KC’s dark hair was trimmed short on top, shaved close at the sides, while a neat goatee outlined his lips and chin. Peering into the depths of his brown eyes, the shudder of fright that went through me was distressing, since I had no idea where it came from. Men like him had never attracted me before.
“Thank you,” I said, as he held my papers in one hand and lifted me to my feet with the other. “Dickerson said I should wear a short skirt,” I started to ramble, as my less than graceful rise was hampered by the tiny skirt beneath my pert suit coat. I’m sure I showed my ass to half of Chicago. “Says it would distract their attention.”
“Who’s Dickerson?” KC asked. (This all before I knew his name, or he knew mine.)
“Oh, I’m so sorry, just my associate—who sometimes has no common sense, and neither do I right now. We have an important meeting…” I checked my watch hurriedly. “Three minutes. I will be late. Thank you so much,” I caught his eyes again, shaken even more. He was standing close, looking amused. I found his gaze unnerving.
“I think I got them all. The papers,” he said pointing to drawings, as he noted my bewildered look. “You okay? You want to sit a minute, maybe? Have a cup of coffee?”
“No, no, I don’t have time. But thanks.”
“I was just going into the diner,” he said, pointing to McGill’s, a retro 50’s coffee shop where I often ate lunch.
“No, thanks. I do have to fly—if I could.” I laughed.
As I moved on, I turned back to see him staring at me. I waved, smiling, then turned to face the wind and fought my way down the street to Harris & Hartley.
An hour later I returned to the offices of Ripley & Wingardt, Architectural Engineering, much less rattled and more composed. About to walk through the formal doorway—the site of my earlier reckless plunge to the ground—I suddenly gazed into the coffee shop window next door spotting my benefactor of the day. I smiled. He smiled back, and then, in a move so impulsive I have no idea where it came from, I changed directions.
A minute later, I was standing by his table. “You’re still here? Still offering that cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” he said.
He was handsome, bold and refreshingly different from any man I’d ever been with.“KC Gable,” he offered his hand for me to shake.
“Gail Henry.”
“Did you get the job?” he asked next as I slid onto the vinyl seat opposite his.
“Job?”
“Job? Contract? Assignment? Your appointment was about money?”
“Yes, it was. And I’m not sure,” I paused. “I’m not sure I didn’t botch the whole deal.”
“Rushed in late, your hair a little messed,” he turned his head to inspect my short red curls, “but not too much, it does go back in place pretty easily. But then there was the run in your hose.”
I almost blushed. “I was in too much of a rush to change.”
“You probably keep an extra pair of pantyhose in your purse.”
He was amazing.
“What is your angle?” I asked, nervously trying not to spill the coffee just poured in my cup, while at the same time inspecting my sanity. Why was I having coffee with this man?
KC shrugged, saying, “Nothing. I observe, make judgments, and see if I’m right.”
“That sounds pretty smug to me.”
“Well, try me then,” he quipped. “We’ll see how well I do. Ask me what I’ve observed about you.”
He intrigued me: the charm, the smile, the leather, the look of casual confidence as though nothing could rattle him. Even if he was impossibly young for a thirty-two year old professional woman, this could be intriguing.
“Okay, tell me.”
“You’re an architect, that’s pretty obvious. But getting to your position hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been a fucking bitch for the past few years, maybe even longer. Sometimes you’re worn out. You’re often weary. And you never have enough time for anything. You have a wealthy family, but they’re distant and not too supportive; and I don’t think you’re in a relationship now—nor have you been for some time. Once, maybe twice you were serious about a man, but they were so complicated that you gave up and let your work consume you. You probably have a small but perfectly designed apartment in an expensive neighborhood. You eschew your family money and spend only what you make while a handsome trust fund/inheritance sits in the bank waiting for you to claim it.” He stopped abruptly, perhaps in response to my shocked expression. “Enough?”
“That’s amazing,” I whispered so quietly I’m not sure he heard, but I know he understood.
“What did I get right?”
“A lot,” I vented a deep sigh before beginning, “the overworked architect—which was probably pretty obvious from this morning’s fiasco, but the family, the men, even my apartment, you were almost dead on… I have, however, had four serious relationships, and almost married twice. But I haven’t had anyone special for over four years. There’s no trust fund—not yet anyway. But my parents are filthy rich and they travel everywhere but to Chicago—which is really all right with me. I see them in their New York condo once a year at Christmas.”
“And your apartment?”
“One bedroom, loft style and it’s perfectly home. The most perfect place on earth, and usually the only place I really like to be.”
He smiled.
“So, where do you like to be, KC Gable?”
“On my bike or at the theatre.”
“Really?” I’m not sure I was surprised, except that for a minute I think I viewed him as a regular person. These two bits of information put him in that other world again where I felt odd and uncomfortable. “What theatre?”
“ACT—Actor
s, Creators and Technicians Workshop.”
“I’m not familiar with it.”
“Experimental theatre, probably not your interest.”
“And why not?”
