Page 1 of Seven Nights

Katelyn

Bruised,bleeding and disheveled, I stand sentry on the alley side of a wrought iron gate in Chicago's financial district. On the other side of the barrier, flowers colored from ice pink to deep violet float on the surface of an obsidian reflecting pool.

A spring breeze randomly plucks blossoms from the lone magnolia tree. The white petals slowly sink in the air to delicately litter the dark cobblestone courtyard. Beautiful and tranquil, the corporate garden of billionaire Griffin Montgomery contrasts as sharply with my appearance as it does with the surrounding glass and steel buildings that loom over the alley.

Glancing at the cracked face of my watch, I count how many minutes remain before Montgomery’s limo is scheduled to pull into the alley. If I am lucky, security won’t grab me before then. If I am downright blessed—an unlikely status given today’s events—Montgomery will leave the building slightly ahead of time to spend a few minutes at the reflecting pool before his limo arrives.

I know there is nothing I can do to change how I look before he appears. But I try anyway because my nerves won’t let me stay still. I brush at the dirt speckling my white blouse. I run my fingers through the soiled brown hair that I so carefully crafted this morning into thick waves cascading down my shoulders.

I consider, then quickly discard, the idea of grabbing one of the shredded nylons hiding inside my leather satchel to tie off the mess. Instead, I twist the hair in a loop and hope the weight keeps it in place. One head tilt later and the locks are back to looking like a Halloween fright wig.

Taking another glance at my watch, I expel a stubborn sigh. This is not how I envisioned my job interview. Dodging more obstacles than a row of NFL linebackers, I reached the building a few minutes before my allotted time. But a sour blonde at the security desk turned me away after one look at my clothes and face. When I insisted I had an appointment, thewitchthreatened me with jail should I ever step foot on company property again.

Stepping on company property is exactly what I am doing. Montgomery reportedly bought the entire alley to put a little distance between him and the paparazzi who stalk him day and night. So even though I am on the alley side of the gate, I am trespassing.

Shifting my weight to my right leg, I wince and shift back. I stare at my ankle in silent rebuke. The flesh where the open-toed pump hugs the back of my foot is swollen and so lumpy I would almost welcome a ride in a cop car. I certainly can’t afford a cab, and the walk from the alley to the nearest rail station and then to my apartment promises to be pure hell.

Catching a flash of metal at the far end of the reflecting pool, I look toward the exit door. I expect security, maybe the blonde, but likely one of her cohorts. A male, no doubt, with his hand on his gun and an authoritarian smirk on his face.

Instead, I see Griffin Montgomery emerge from the dark interior.

He has the kind of presence capable of making most women breathe a little harder, flush a little warmer. He is tall, broad chested with a waist that narrows athletically. The face is angular but refined. Sharp cheeks cut the air around him, but the lips are decadently full and the nose perfectly proportioned. The scrub of facial hair along his jaw and around his mouth adds a dangerous element to his handsome features.

His gaze hooks mine. The eyes narrow as he prowls the length of the pool. My hand flexes with the need to cover the fresh bruise and scrapes that curve along my jaw from where my face met concrete three hours earlier.

A fresh surge of worry chews at my nerves. The blonde security guard was right—I look like a homeless person. I am going to spend the night in jail, longer if the judge won’t release me on my own recognizance.

Reaching the end of the long, narrow pool, Montgomery places his briefcase on its edge and approaches the gate. His hand disappears into his pants pocket. An electronic lock disengages a second later with a metallic click. As the gate slowly rolls open, he steps through and stops a few feet from where I stand. Folding thick arms across the bulging chest, he stares and says nothing.

I keep my face impassive as Montgomery's gaze travels my body. In preparation for the interview, I studied pictures of the women photographed in public with him—particularly the small handful who lasted more than one event. I did not do so because I am a stupid, starry-eyed girl who wants to tack his last name onto mine. I did it to tailor a business look to styles he likely finds pleasing. I settled on suede pumps, the color a warm spice. Above that, I have on a black skirt that narrows down to a hemline just below my knees and a crisp white top with a tabbed collar and faux-pearl buttons.

He seems to like classic with a touch of daring. The mirror’s reflection this morning offered a perfect, yet professional, meld of just that style. Right now, with the impeccably dressed Griffin Montgomery scowling at me—I feel like I am wearing raw meat run through a blender.

Reaching the reddish-orange pumps, his gaze lingers before slow crawling up the bare flesh of my legs then jumping to my face.

“My four o'clock?” he asks.

I nod. Color flares across Montgomery’s cheeks, the unexpected heat in his expression unsettling me. He steps another foot closer, his hands dropping to his sides. His mouth flattens as his gaze traces the bruise along my jaw.

“Hit by a bus?”

God, do I really look that bad?

Starting to smooth one of the pleats on my skirt, I stop, square my shoulders and smile.

“Attempted mugging,” I tell him.

Ever so slightly hopeful that he has decided against having security haul me away, I reach for my resume.

Montgomery stops me with a raised hand. “You should have called. I filled the position an hour ago.”

I release the paper and dig deeper into the satchel, coming up with the remnants of my cell phone. Electronic guts spill from the hard plastic shell. I may have successfully resisted the mugging, but not without paying a heavy price.

“Pity,” he says. “I was inclined to hire you.”

His gaze drops again. Standing less than an arm's length from me, there is nothing discreet or impersonal in the way his attention hugs my hips before seizing on my lower legs.

“Still a runner, Katelyn?”

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