“Cut the overhead by twenty percent.” With the cell phone tucked under his chin, Hudson’s free hand pushed up his sleeve. He stole a glance at the platinum watch peeking out from under his French cuff before turning his attention back to the hired suit billing by the hour on the other end of line. The bastard had the balls to feed him an endless stream of excuses.
“The ‘how’ isn’t my problem.” Hudson’s tone was razor sharp. “That’s why I pay your law firm a ridiculous amount of money.” He crooked a finger, tugging at his black bow tie. How long does it take to put on lipstick and a pair of shoes, anyway?
Just when he’d reached his limit, the limo door swung open to reveal a red dress and a set of legs splitting open a convenient slit to heaven. Goddamn if he didn’t plan to have his head in the clouds.
Sophia slid onto the bench seat beside him and adjusted her gown, optimizing his view as she languidly crossed her legs. The dress clung to her, accentuating voluptuous curves maintained by the top trainers in Chicago. Hudson’s gaze swept over every inch then settled on the Harry Winston nestled between her breasts.
The limo pulled away from the curb and he immediately hit the button to raise the privacy screen.
“Liquidate the assets we discussed,” he said, cutting off the suit from enjoying the sound of his own voice. His hand came to rest on Sophia’s knee. “This isn’t personal, it’s business. Start letting people go on Monday.”
As the limo picked up speed down Michigan Avenue, so did Hudson’s hand. He smoothed his palm up Sophia’s leg while listening to his lawyer fast talk his way back into good graces. Just picturing the sweat forming on the guy’s brow caused Hudson’s mouth to curve into a satisfied smirk.
“No, tomorrow. I’m attending an event tonight.” And hell if it was by choice. Hudson would have preferred to simply cut a check to the charity and spare himself the glad-handing. He’d been flying under the radar since his arrival in Chicago, but with his name going up on a building, his PR department decided it was time for him to make the rounds. Their persistence was the only reason he was sitting in a godforsaken limo being strangled by a motherfucking bow tie.
Hudson glanced at Sophia as she purposefully uncrossed her legs. His eyes flared slightly at the panties she wasn’t wearing. “Keep me posted,” he said, abruptly ending the call.
The limo rolled to a stop just as his hand slid between Sophia’s thighs.
Well, fuck.
The Field Museum of Natural History soared above them with stately columns lit from below and banners announcing the latest exhibits flapping in the late September breeze. Hudson climbed out as soon as the valet opened the door, eager to get this shit over with. Make a donation, shake a couple hands, then he was out of there. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket and offered Sophia his hand. She placed her palm into his, strategically exiting the limo without flashing the waiting photographers. He pulled her into his side and his lips brushed her temple. “We’re not staying long.”
She ran a finger along his jaw. “I hope not.”
Hudson cocked a grin that was more forced than genuine. He knew Sophia wanted to be more than just a leisurely fuck. She wanted to be Mrs. Hudson Chase and there wasn’t a chance in hell that was happening. He wasn’t interested in walking down the proverbial aisle. With anyone. Ever.
Sophia was nothing more than a current distraction.
They stepped onto the red carpet and cameras lit up like the damn Fourth of July. Sophia leaned into him, offering a seductive smile to each photographer who called their names.
She was in her element. Hudson was on autopilot.
This sort of thing grated on his last nerve. But he’d made the effort to be there, might as well document it. He let them snap some pictures, gave a few brief nods, and then was ready to move on.
With his hand on the small of her back, he guided Sophia up concrete steps littered with guests entering the building checkbook first. Once inside, he scanned the room for the nearest bar. He had expected endless rows of tables for ten where he’d be trapped for hours talking to whoever had been seated next to him for a dinner of rubber chicken under an indistinguishable sauce. But the room before him was far from anything he expected. Swathes of sheer fabric cascaded down walls, vaulted archways glowed with ambient lighting, and plush rugs formed seating areas where coffee tables replaced dinner tables and overstuffed couches replaced straight back chairs. The entire place had a high-end club vibe.
“Mr. Chase.”
Hearing his name, Hudson turned. An older gentleman was beating a path his way. His hand was already extended and judging by the look on his face, he was gearing up for a request.
Sophia touched Hudson’s forearm, but her attention was on the room. “I’m heading to the bar,” she said, her eyes already scanning the crowd. “Can I get you a scotch?”
For a moment he thought about following her simply to escape a conversation he already knew he didn’t want to have. “Blue Label. Make it a double.”
“Elliot Shaw,” the man said, somewhat out of breath, “executive editor, Chicago Magazine. So glad to run into you. I’ve left several messages with your assistant.”
Hudson shook his hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shaw?”
“I’d like to feature you in our annual ‘Power 100’ issue.”
“That’s handled by my PR department. I suggest you talk to them.”
“I have,” Shaw politely persisted, “but we want more than a standard press package. We’d like an exclusive interview.”
Hudson was about to cut him off when Shaw played his trump.
“In return we’re willing to offer you the cover of the issue and rank you number one on the list. Not every day someone moves to town with the clout to knock Oprah off her throne.” Shaw chuckled at his own joke then launched into a well-rehearsed spiel. “In the local market our circulation is larger than People . . .”
Hudson tuned the man out. He was scanning the crowd for his date, and more importantly his scotch.
And then he saw her.
His heart beat like he’d just finished the Chicago Marathon.
The hem of her black dress sat conservatively above the knee and the neckline was far from revealing, yet she was still the sexiest damn woman in the room. Sophisticated and elegant.
She turned towards a petite redhead, revealing the low cutout in the back of her dress and a whole lot of perfect skin.
Holy shit.
Hudson drew a sharp breath. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was wearing underneath. Or how her blond hair, once released from the pins holding it in place, would tumble in loose curls around her face. Soft waves that would brush like satin across his bare chest . . . his abs . . . his . . .
“. . . Of course the social media element can’t be minimized.” Shaw’s voice yanked Hudson right out of his fantasy.
“Do you know that woman?” He inclined his head in the blonde’s general direction. “Speaking with the redhead?”
Shaw followed his gaze. “Yes, that’s Alessandra Sinclair, the event chair. Her family—”
“Thank you, Mr. Shaw. Excuse me.” Hudson strode confidently through the room, reaching Sophia just as she turned away from the bar with two drinks in hand. He caught her by the elbow without ever breaking stride.
“Careful,” she warned, “this dress cost a fortune.”
Hudson snatched his scotch out of her hand and drained it, skidding the empty glass across a table as he passed. He steered them quickly towards the blonde, his awareness of her heightening with every step. When he was standing behind her, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction.
“Excuse me. Who should I see about making a rather sizable donation?”
* * *
Sizable donation? The words were music to Alessandra’s ears. A confident grin spread across her face. Convincing fat cats to part with their cash was her specialty. This guy wouldn’t know what hit him.