Chapter 1 - The Man Who Already Knew Her Name
Christa Flores grabbed the falling orchid arrangement and shouted, "Somebody catch the other side!"
Dion Henderson stepped through the ballroom doors and picked up a photograph that had fallen from beneath the vase.
A handwritten date marked its back.
It was twenty years old.
And Christa's father was standing beside Dion's family.
Christa didn't see the photograph.
Not yet.
She was too busy trying to prevent twelve thousand dollars' worth of imported orchids from crashing across the marble floor of the Blackstone Grand Ballroom.
"Easy!" she called to one of the servers.
The young man caught the opposite end of the arrangement.
Together, they lowered it onto the pedestal.
Christa exhaled.
"Thank you."
"No problem, Ms. Flores."
She brushed a loose curl away from her damp forehead and glanced at her clipboard.
7:42 p.m.
The gala had been running for forty-two minutes.
That meant she had survived forty-two minutes without a champagne tower collapsing, a donor starting an argument, or one of Chicago's wealthiest families complaining that the truffle appetizers were three degrees too warm.
By Christa's professional standards, that qualified as a miracle.
She straightened.
Her deep-purple gown shimmered beneath the ballroom lights.
She had almost refused to wear it.
For most of her adult life, Christa had treated formal clothing as camouflage. Black jackets. Flowing tunics. Loose dresses. Anything that made her 240-pound, full-figured body easier to ignore.
Tonight, her assistant Elena had refused to allow it.
"You coordinate million-dollar events," Elena had told her that afternoon. "Stop dressing like you're apologizing for taking up space."
So Christa had worn purple.
Not lavender.
Not something discreet.
Deep, sparkling, unapologetic purple.
The off-the-shoulder gown followed her full waist, soft abdomen and broad hips instead of trying to hide them. Her thick dark hair had been pinned into a loose updo, and the gemstone at her throat caught the light every time she moved.
She had spent the first hour convinced everyone was staring.
Then she remembered she was working.
Work was easier than insecurity.
"Christa."
Elena hurried toward her.
"What?"
"Table nineteen wants to know whether the salmon is wild-caught."
"It is."
"They want documentation."
Christa stared at her.
"Documentation?"
Elena nodded solemnly.
"Apparently the salmon is on trial."
Christa laughed despite herself.
"Tell Chef Michael to show them the supplier invoice."
"Already did."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because watching you nearly commit murder over seafood improves my evening."
"Go."
Elena grinned and disappeared.
Christa shook her head.
Then she felt it.
Someone watching her.
She looked toward the grand staircase.
And forgot the clipboard in her hand.
Dion Henderson stood at the top.
He was impossible to mistake.
Six-foot-three.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair swept back from a face that seemed carved specifically to intimidate people across conference tables.
A midnight-blue suit fitted him perfectly. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing the upper edge of the black-and-gray tattoo traveling along his neck.
Dion was the principal owner of Henderson Holdings, the private investment group underwriting half of tonight's charity gala.
Christa knew his professional reputation.
Everyone in Chicago did.
He acquired companies other investors considered impossible to save.
He rarely gave interviews.
He never explained himself.
And according to every society column Christa had ever accidentally read while researching clients, beautiful women followed him everywhere.
Tonight was no exception.
A stunning woman in silver stood several feet from him.
Another in red had been trying to capture his attention since cocktails began.
Dion wasn't looking at either one.
He was looking at Christa.
She glanced behind herself.
Nobody.
When she looked back, his gaze hadn't moved.
"Oh, absolutely not," she muttered.
She picked up her clipboard.
Men like Dion Henderson didn't stare at women like Christa Flores.
She had learned that lesson early.
At fifteen, boys dared one another to ask her to dances.
At twenty-one, a man at a bar had bought her a drink because his friends had promised him fifty dollars if he could get her number.
At twenty-seven, a boyfriend she had trusted had admitted that he never introduced her to his coworkers because he was embarrassed by her size.
Christa had survived all of it.
She had built a career.
She had built a business.
And she had developed one useful rule.
When something looked too flattering to be true, it usually was.
She turned away.
"Ms. Flores."
The voice came from directly behind her.
Christa nearly dropped the clipboard.
She turned.
Dion stood there.
Up close, he was even more intimidating.
Not because he appeared angry.
Because he didn't.
There was an unnerving stillness about him.
"Mr. Henderson."
"You saved the orchids."
Christa blinked.
"Excuse me?"
He nodded toward the arrangement.
"That thing nearly fell."
"Oh."
She looked at it.
"Occupational hazard."
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
"Do you always catch falling furniture yourself?"
"Flowers."
"That vase weighs eighty pounds."
"Then apparently I should add weightlifting to my résumé."
That earned the smile.
It transformed his face in a way Christa hadn't expected.
She immediately disliked that she noticed.
"Is there something you need, Mr. Henderson?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Five minutes."
Christa glanced around.
"With me?"
"Unless another Christa Flores is running my gala."
"My gala."
His eyebrow lifted.
She swallowed.
"I mean, technically, you're hosting it. But my company is running it."
"I stand corrected."
The calmness in his voice made her suspicious.
"Why do you need five minutes?"
"Because there's something I'd like to discuss privately."
There it was.
Christa felt her defenses rise.
She pointed toward the private study beside the ballroom.
"I have to check the auction paperwork anyway."
"I'll walk with you."
"You really don't have to."
"I know."
He followed her.
That irritated her more.
Christa entered the wood-paneled study, crossed to the desk and checked the folder containing the auction certificates.
Everything was there.
When she turned, Dion stood in the doorway.
The ballroom glowed behind him.
Women in designer gowns moved beneath chandeliers.
Exactly his world.
Christa looked at him.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"You have five minutes."
Dion stepped inside.
"I've been trying to hire you for six months."
Christa's suspicion faltered.
"What?"
"Henderson Holdings is opening a hospitality division. I want you directing events."
She stared.
"You're offering me a job?"
"A partnership, potentially."
"Why?"
"You're good."
"That's it?"
"No."
She folded her arms.
"I knew it."
Dion looked almost amused.
"You assume there's a trap every time someone compliments you."
"You don't know anything about what I assume."
"I know more than you think."
The sentence landed strangely.
Christa lowered her arms.
"What does that mean?"
Dion glanced toward the ballroom.
Then back at her.
"Nothing you need to worry about tonight."
Wrong answer.
Christa's stomach tightened.
"You asked for privacy."
"I did."
"You said this was business."
"Partly."
"Partly?"
He stepped closer, but stopped several feet away.
Christa noticed that.
He wasn't crowding her.
Wasn't touching her.
Wasn't doing anything inappropriate.
And somehow that made the tension worse.
"I'd like to take you to dinner," he said.
Christa stared at him.
Then laughed.
She couldn't help it.
Dion didn't.
Her laughter died.
"You're serious?"
"Completely."
"No."
"Because I'm your client?"
"Because this is ridiculous."
"Why?"
Christa gestured toward the ballroom.
"Have you looked outside?"
"Several times."
"There are women out there who've probably appeared on magazine covers."
"Probably."
"And you're asking the event coordinator to dinner."
"Yes."
"The plus-size event coordinator."
His expression changed.
Barely.
But she saw it.
"Is that supposed to disqualify you?"
Christa's cheeks heated.
"You know exactly what I mean."
"No. I know what other people taught you to mean."
That hit harder than she expected.
She looked away.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Do that."
"What?"
"Talk like you've figured me out."
Dion was silent.
Christa turned toward him.
Years of humiliation rose in her chest at once.
She hated that.
Hated that this man could walk into her carefully controlled life and make her feel sixteen again.
"You don't know me," she said.
"I'd like to."
"You don't get it."
"Then explain it."
Christa laughed bitterly.
"Fine."
She pointed toward the ballroom.
"You could walk out there, point at practically any woman, and she'd probably rearrange her entire evening for you."
"I don't want practically any woman."
"Of course."
"I want you."
The simplicity of it made her angry.
"Stop."
Dion's face became serious.
"I'm not joking."
"Men like you always say that when they're playing."
"What kind of man am I?"
"Powerful. Rich. Used to getting exactly what you want."
"Three assumptions. Two are accurate."
"And women like me know what happens when men like you suddenly decide we're interesting."
His eyes narrowed.
"Women like you?"
Christa's voice sharpened.
"Don't make me say it."
"I think somebody already made you say it too many times."
Silence.
Christa felt something twist inside her.
She hated him for seeing it.
"You have beautiful women waiting outside," she whispered.
"I'm looking at one."
She stared at him.
Her eyes burned.
"No."
"No?"
"I'm not doing this."
She moved toward the doorway.
Dion didn't block her.
That surprised her.
But before she passed him, he spoke.
"Christa."
She stopped.
"You asked why."
She looked over her shoulder.
"Why what?"
"Why you."
She slowly turned.
Dion reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
For one strange second, Christa expected a business card.
Instead, he removed a photograph.
Old.
Creased.
Black-and-white.
He placed it on the desk.
Christa didn't approach.
"What is that?"
"The reason tonight isn't the first time I've heard your name."
Her heartbeat changed.
"Dion."
It was the first time she'd used his first name.
He noticed.
"Look at it."
Christa hesitated.
Then walked toward the desk.
She picked up the photograph.
Three men stood outside an office building.
One was much younger than Dion was now.
Another man resembled Dion enough that Christa assumed he was his father.
The third—
Her fingers went numb.
"No."
She brought the photograph closer.
The man's smile.
His eyes.
The slightly crooked nose.
She hadn't seen that face since she was six years old.
But children didn't forget the faces of fathers who disappeared.
"Arthur Flores," Dion said.
Christa looked at him.
"Where did you get this?"
"My father's files."
"My father didn't know your family."
"Yes, he did."
"No."
"He worked for my father."
"No."
"For seven years."
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
"Because my father was an accountant."
"He was."
"He worked for a manufacturing company."
"That company belonged to my father."
Christa stared at him.
The room seemed suddenly too warm.
"My mother told me he left."
Dion said nothing.
"She said he ran away with another woman."
Still nothing.
Christa's voice cracked.
"She said he didn't want us anymore."
Dion's expression softened.
"Christa—"
"Don't."
She placed the photograph down.
"Tell me why you have this."
"I can't explain everything tonight."
Her anger returned instantly.
"Then we're finished talking."
She walked toward the door.
"Your father didn't abandon you."
Christa froze.
Every sound from the ballroom seemed to disappear.
Slowly, she turned.
"What did you say?"
Dion stood beside the desk.
"Arthur Flores did not leave Chicago because he wanted another life."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because my father spent years trying to find him."
Christa felt sick.
"Why?"
Dion looked at the photograph.
"Fifteen million dollars disappeared."
She stared.
"What?"
"Your father was blamed."
Christa shook her head.
"No."
"The official records said he transferred the money and vanished."
"My father wouldn't steal."
"I don't think he did."
That stopped her.
"You don't?"
"No."
"Then why was your father looking for him?"
"Because somebody made it look like Arthur stole the money."
Christa gripped the edge of the desk.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You somehow know my father, you've apparently been researching my family, and tonight you decide to ask me to dinner?"
Dion's silence answered something she hadn't actually asked.
Christa's eyes narrowed.
"How long?"
He didn't respond.
"How long have you known who I am?"
"Three years."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Christa stepped backward.
"Three years?"
"I first saw your name while reviewing archived financial records."
"And then?"
"I investigated."
"Me?"
"Arthur."
"But you found me."
"Yes."
"Did you watch me?"
Dion's jaw tightened.
That was enough.
"Oh my God."
"Christa."
"You did."
"I needed to know whether anyone connected to Arthur had been contacted."
"You investigated my life."
"I had background checks conducted."
"Without telling me."
"Yes."
Christa grabbed her clipboard.
"You don't get to ask me to dinner."
"I understand."
"You don't get to look at me like—"
She stopped.
"Like what?"
"Like I matter."
Dion's expression shifted.
"You do."
"Not to you."
"You're wrong."
"I'm a name in a file."
"No."
"My father is connected to missing money, and I'm what? A loose end?"
"No."
"Then what am I?"
Dion didn't answer immediately.
That hesitation hurt more than anything.
Christa turned away.
"I knew this was a mistake."
"Christa."
"I knew men like you didn't suddenly notice women like me."
"This has nothing to do with your size."
"It always does."
"Not for me."
She turned sharply.
"Then prove it."
Dion went still.
Christa hadn't planned to say that.
Neither of them moved.
Then Dion crossed to the desk.
He opened a drawer.
Removed a key.
Unlocked a second compartment Christa hadn't noticed.
Inside sat a thick manila folder.
FLORES.
Christa's stomach dropped.
Dion placed it on the desk.
"I was going to show you this when I knew you could trust me."
"That's convenient."
"I don't expect you to trust me."
"Good."
"But you deserve the truth."
He opened the folder.
Bank statements.
Old photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
Corporate records.
Then Christa saw something that made her stop breathing.
A photograph of herself.
Three years old.
Sitting on Arthur Flores's shoulders.
She picked it up.
"Where did you get this?"
"Your father's storage box."
"What storage box?"
"It was found after my father died."
Christa looked beneath the photograph.
Another image.
Arthur.
Dion's father.
A third man whose face had been scratched out with black ink.
On the back were four handwritten words.
TRUST NO ONE INSIDE.
Christa's heartbeat pounded.
"Who wrote this?"
"Your father."
"How do you know?"
"We compared the handwriting."
Christa looked at Dion.
"Inside what?"
"We never figured that out."
A knock interrupted them.
Both turned.
Dion's expression immediately changed.
"Who is it?"
No answer.
Another knock.
Three slow taps.
Dion walked toward the door.
Christa noticed something strange.
For the first time all evening, he looked genuinely unsettled.
"Dion?"
He raised one hand, asking her to wait.
Another knock.
Then a man's voice came through the wood.
Quiet.
Old.
"Mr. Henderson."
Dion stopped.
Christa stared at him.
The voice continued.
"I believe you have something that belongs to Arthur Flores."
Christa's blood went cold.
She reached for the door handle.
Dion whispered her name.
May you like
The handle began turning from the other side.
Someone was coming in.
