Wealthy Playboy (Cocky Suits Chicago Book 7) Read online

  I stand there, basking in the fact it now has red spray paint across it that reads, “ONE PERCENT NOT WELCOME!”

  The press continues to snap pictures of me and the wall.

  Lipsy turns to me. “Already spoken to several experts, it can be restored and, of course, it’s insured.”

  I shake my head. “Not worried about the money or the wall.” I glance at the reporters and back to Lipsy.

  He nods. “I know.”

  Two officers approach me. “Need you two to come with us, please.”

  I nod, happy to get away from the reporters. The officers lead us around a corner, and there’s a young woman in a room. I can’t get a very good look at her, but so many things are obvious about her. She’s dressed like one of those hippie Occupy Wall Street protesters, and she’s confined to the small room.

  “She did that?” I ask, gesturing back to where my defiled wall stands.

  One of them shakes their head.

  Lipsy starts toward him. He’s used to more concise information being offered up to him from junior analysts and not city bureaucrats dragging things out. “Well what the fuck is she doing here then? Get to the point, Mahoney.”

  The guy looks at his partner and shrugs, obviously missing the Police Academy reference. “We think she was an accomplice. The artist, so to speak, ran away, but we caught up with her. The silent alarm tripped when they broke in.”

  I can’t stop staring at the woman in the room. She looks calm as can be, almost like she’s enjoying this experience. I want a better look at her, to see her reactions, read her mannerisms.

  Lipsy looks like he might have an aneurysm dealing with the two officers. “Okay, let’s slow this down then. You got here. Artist ran. She stayed behind? She tried to run, but you caught her? So, what the fuck? She’s been Keyser Sӧzeing you in there with a goddamn barbershop quartet in Skokie?”

  I interrupt him. “Can I go in there?”

  The two men look at each other. One of them shrugs. “Sure, I suppose.”

  I walk off, leaving the three of them there while Lipsy chews their asses out trying to get facts. I’ll get more out of five seconds just watching her up close.

  As I walk through the door, I realize she’s way hotter than I thought.

  When her light golden-brown eyes meet mine and I finally get a look at her face, it stuns me for a second. Just a second, though. There’s something familiar about her. Something I can’t place. I quickly recover. She’s the most non-threatening person I’ve ever seen in my life. Looks like a grad student working on a Ph.D. in something like intersectionality.

  Surprisingly, her breathing stays completely steady. No elevated heart rate. She’s one hundred percent relaxed, considering I hold her future in the palm of my hand. Even though she’s sitting down, I can tell she’s short, maybe five three at best. Light brown hair that would usually fall to her shoulders, but she has it up slightly with a rainbow bandana. There’s a hemp necklace around her neck.

  I take a seat across from her, a desk separating us. The top of her t-shirt tells me it’s from Yellowstone National Park.

  She doesn’t say a word, but I see her eyes searching me for the same types of clues. Certain people, you can look at them and you recognize something kindred, you can tell when they’re calculating, the same as you. There’s some kind of unquantifiable force at play, a sixth sense of sorts.

  She doesn’t say a word, though. Remains completely silent.

  Fuck, she really is beautiful, in this natural, down-to-earth kind of way. She looks like a genuinely nice person, who means well, but has never had to scrap in the real world, fight for anything. So, she picked wealth inequality as her cause. Everyone needs a cause, something that drives them, something to fill their calendar with as the earth spins and revolves around the sun over and over.

  Finally, I break the silence. “You ruined a very expensive wall, Ms…” I intentionally leave the sentence hanging, waiting for a response.

  Silence fills the room, and I find my anxiety about the situation rises, much more than hers seems to. What the fuck is happening here?

  I wait a bit longer.

  Finally, I say, “The police will give me your name. For someone whose life is in my hands at the moment, it’s no time to be shy.”

  It’s like my words don’t even register, even though I’m certain they do. Why is she so disarming? Why am I on the defensive here? I already know I’ll spend my entire night trying to analyze this encounter, something that should take me no longer than three seconds to sum up.

  “Meadow.”

  Her voice is soft, feminine, almost like a purr, but with a side of innocence along with it. It’s clear and concise, but there’s no malice. Her actions are so unlike the person she’s trying to sell me right now. It might not be obvious to a couple rookie cops out there, but the nuance sets off all kinds of warning signs with me. She’s no hippie tree hugger. There’s more under there, somewhere. She has leadership written all over her.

  “Ms. Meadow? That’s your last name?”

  “Meadow Carlson.”

  Has to be a fake name. It’s the most hippie-sounding shit I’ve ever heard.

  “Okay, Meadow. Why did you attempt to destroy my wall?”

  She smiles, and it should make my blood boil, how smug she is, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t hot. Her confidence is off-the-charts doing something for me. I crush grown men like the CEO earlier, day in and day out, but Meadow Carlson might just be a worthy opponent. Only time will tell.

  “I didn’t.” She shrugs.

  “Then who did?”

  She laughs.

  I grin back at her. “Something funny?”

  “I mean… yeah.” She stares at me like the question was the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

  “Enlighten me. I’m bad at social cues. Don’t always catch the joke.”

  “I have no doubt you’re always a step behind.” She raises an eyebrow, sarcasm oozing from her words.

  Two things happen simultaneously inside me. One part of me rages, wanting to lash out about this project losing money every day, the fact I can’t get a full read on her, and it’s taking me far longer than normal to figure out what’s happening here. The other half of me is strangely aroused, and not just sexually, though I would love to bend Meadow Carlson over my bed and spank her faux-hippie ass until she begged for it over and over. It’s more than that, though. Yes, she has a nice body, young and firm. But there is something a million times more attractive about an intelligent woman who can hold her own in a room with me, giving off minimal clues as to her motivations. Who calls me on my bullshit, because yes, I see exactly what she’s doing.

  “Never mind. And there’s no need.”

  For the first time, I get a reaction out of her. She’s on her heels.

  “For?”

  This time, it’s me who grins. “Oh, I think you know. What you were about to ask for.” I stand up and walk out. I have all the information I will receive, and it’s time to make sense of some of it. She was two seconds away from telling me she wasn’t saying anything else without a lawyer present. She knew I’d counter with an intimidation tactic about the size of my legal team. I could see it playing out in my mind, started to get a read on the flow of the conversation.

  Now, she’s wondering what I’ll do.

  I already know.

  I walk up as Lipsy continues berating the officers and their bosses who have just shown up, telling them all the things he’ll do to their family, like it’s some kind of scene from a mafia movie.

  He’s very protective of me and the business, and I sometimes wonder if he’s actually serious about the things he says.

  “Cut them some slack, Lipsy. It’s all good.”

  He immediately morphs into a cheerful mood. “Okay, fellas. Well, good chat.”

  They stare at him like he’s nuts.

  One of the bosses, I’m assuming because he’s in a suit and not a police uniform, approaches m
e. “We can book her on B&E, vandalism—”

  I hold up a hand. “Let her go.”

  Lipsy’s eyes widen. “Go?”

  The cop looks at me the same way.

  I shrug at both of them. “It’ll clean off and it’s insured.”

  The officer stares back and forth at us, then finally says, “Okay then.” He drags out the words like he can’t believe his ears, then turns to his coworkers. “Let her go.”

  I don’t stick around for any more of the conversation. Lipsy and I march past the media who continue to snap pictures, and there are actual video crews here now, complete with reporters standing with microphones talking into bright lights.

  I shake my head at the situation and walk past, ignoring the questions, Lipsy matching my pace.

  When we’re out of earshot from everyone, marching toward the car, Lipsy continues looking straight ahead, but says, “Minimize press coverage?”

  The driver opens the door for me and as I step in, I say, “Yep.”

  Lipsy glances around. “Office?”

  I nod. “Office.”

  Meaning we’re not saying shit else about any of this until we get there. I roll down my window as he starts to walk away. “Lipsy!”

  He spins around. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s get Decker Collins in on the meeting with Dexter and Paisley. He’s the PR wizard there.”

  Lipsy cocks an eyebrow up. He doesn’t even need to say the words for me to know what his concerns are. Decker likes to stick his nose in our business sometimes.

  “It’ll be fine. I think he may be able to help. And I need to drive home a message.”

  Lipsy shrugs. “Done.”

  “Good.”

  The driver starts to pull away, but I hold up a hand and tell him to pull around to the side of the building. About five minutes later, the police open a door and Meadow Carlson is released into the alley.

  I roll my window down, making sure she takes notice. There’s still something about this woman. Even the way she walks; there’s authority in it. She doesn’t carry herself like some kind of activist.

  She glances over and catches me staring right at her.

  It doesn’t rattle her at all, not that I expected it to at this point.

  I’m pretty sure her lips curl up into the tiniest smile, then she turns and heads the other way.

  I know that smile. I know that look.

  I’ve seen that look of confidence on plenty of people, in boardrooms across the world. It’s a welcome-to-the-battle smile.

  There’s way more to this woman than what she’s letting on, and I’ll know everything before the sun goes down.

  I haven’t had a good challenge in a while. My blood pumps through my veins, adrenaline flooding my limbs.

  Shots fired. This feels like the beginning of a war.

  And I’m going to enjoy it.

  Meadow Carlson

  I finish typing a blog article under one of my several pseudonyms, covering the vandalism at the Parker building and lambasting Covington for another monstrous, benefit-the-wealthy endeavor of his. I’ll spread this through all the small grassroots outlets I own, and it’ll catch fire with big media by the end of the day. I’ll give it a little extra shove to take it national. My small network has that ability.

  I look around the office of my impact fund. It has no real mission per se, other than each investment must provide positive social change. Yes, I run a fund. Yes, I make profits for my clients. That’s how I retain a large supply of capital to create change. Some people go the nonprofit route. This is how I make a mark on the world. All of us have a skillset. This is what I’m good at. It’s how I protest for change, and I prefer to do it under the radar, drawing minimal attention to myself.

  The only person who needs to know I helped change the world is me.

  My assistant and three junior analysts are aware too, of course, but I couldn’t run this place by myself. They were carefully chosen and know how to keep their mouths shut and not brag about our achievements.

  I hit publish on the article, share it across my small media outlets, and it should trend on Twitter within two hours. Not a bad morning’s work.

  I stand up, stretch my arms over my head to work out the knot in my shoulders from sitting in that interrogation chair for two hours, and head over to the coffee maker. When I’m halfway there, I hear raised voices from the other side of my door.

  “You don’t have an appointment.”

  “No worries, she’ll be happy to see me.”

  Shit. What in the hell?

  I know that condescending, sarcastic voice. It’s been imprinted on the hard drive that is my brain for the past twenty-four hours.

  I can’t even register his name before the door opens and his six-four figure fills up the frame. It’s so weird. Most men his height are proportioned differently. They’re either very lanky, or very wide. They always look out of place in a room.

  Wells Covington is just hot and built perfectly, like a larger version of a GQ model.

  That’s beside the point.

  A million questions fill my brain at once. What does he know about me? What is he doing here? Why’d he not press charges? That was the plan. It was the only reason I went to his building and allowed the police to find me there.

  I was in complete control of our little confrontation until the very end. The winds shifted, his demeanor changed, then he just let me go. I’m not used to things not going to plan, though I’ll recover easily. He’s a perplexing man, but I’ll still win. I always win, and for the better of the world, not to enrich myself.

  “How’d you find me?” It’s a stupid question, and I regret it the second I ask it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly rattled when he’s in the room?

  It’s his eyes. They’re calculating. He’s intelligent, but there’s a hint of danger every time I see his irises too. Perhaps I underestimated him? Not likely, but I don’t like a single shred of uncertainty.

  He doesn’t reply. Just cranes his head around, taking in the room, then starts toward me. “Don’t worry. It took no real sleuthing efforts.”

  He’s such a smug asshole. Who the hell talks like that?

  “I have a feeling everything takes real sleuthing efforts with you.”

  He walks right past me, stands in front of a chair in front of my desk, then holds his arm out as if asking me to have a seat. “A discussion is warranted, Ms. Carlson.”

  Amused, I grab my coffee and head around to my desk. I shouldn’t entertain this. I should tell him to leave, but there’s something about him. He’s like a good book you can’t put down, even if you want to. Despite his arrogance and the way he wields his wallet for power over the world, he’s interesting, magnetic. He could probably be a damn cult leader.

  Surprisingly, he waits for me to sit at my desk before he takes a seat. The devil apparently enjoys playing the role of a gentleman. It’s somewhat comical. He’d crush me under his Berluti heel at the first opportunity if one presented itself. I’m highly aware of this fact.

  The second my butt hits the chair, he speaks.

  “March of last year, I acquire the former Parker Hotel with my one-billion-dollar investment projecting a return of five hundred and thirty-two percent over the first five years. Three months post-acquisition, a licensing issue occurs through political back channels that receives local media attention, lowering projected ROI to four hundred and sixty-five percent.”

  Do not smile. Do not give him the satisfaction of you boasting through facial cues.

  “Still an acceptable return, and unforeseen circumstances and market forces can affect projections. That’s why they’re called projections in the first place. Yet, four months after that, contractor rates for construction in downtown Chicago enterprises rise ten percent out of nowhere, due to causes no one has yet deciphered, lowering my projected return to two hundred and twenty-four percent. Are you noticing a pattern here?”

  I offer a shrug, like
sorry you’d only make two point four billion dollars in your first five years.

  “Magically, the Wall Street Journal caught wind of this and asked for comment on my decision to still go forward, and I spent an entire day fielding calls from investors who still read the paper.”

  “It’s tough doing business, Mr. Covington. So I’ve heard anyway. I don’t know much about the economy.”

  He continues like I didn’t even speak. “I think we both see where this is going. Additional financial audits, government interventions—” His face hardens and his teeth grind. “Additional bullshit, nagging details I don’t appreciate, to the point where miraculously my high rise might end up in the red now, especially after a picture of your little wannabe Banksy artwork ends up plastered across the web.” He relaxes a little and fakes a smile at me. “Let’s get to the point. What is it that you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smirks. “You may think you’re operating under some guise of stealth, but I sniffed out the pattern in one night. So I repeat. What do you want?”

  Damn, he’s pretty good. A little smart, I’ll give him that. I allow myself one small, smug grin as I lean back a little in my chair. “I didn’t think I was stealthy at all. My friend wrote what we meant on the wall. I think the meaning of it is obvious. It’s more about what we don’t want.”

  He leans in a little. “And what is that?”

  I narrow my eyes on him. “A monument to corporate billionaires in the middle of our city. A giant monolith to capitalism, where the wealthy rest at night, looking down on all the hardworking people from above, lording over Chicago. Men who calculate the bare minimum they can pay employees using an algorithm, and hire the best lawyers in the country to get them out of paying any tax possible, while ravaging the environment so shareholders can have an extra vacation home.”

  Covington smiles. “Ahh yes, an idealist. It’s cute, really. You turn rich people into a cartoon so you have someone to blame for the world’s problems, ignoring the amount of jobs created, the generation of wealth, the business it brings to your beloved city, providing the very economic engine that fuels the working class. My fund is privately held, as are the companies responsible for this high rise. You have no idea what wages will be paid because employees have not been hired yet.”