Julia
Chapter Seven
The problem with exclusive clubs is that they never look as ridiculous as they are.
They look tasteful.
That is how they get away with everything.
The one in question is the Halstead Club, a private country club outside the city with mature trees, manicured grounds, and the kind of long drive designed to make arrival feel like an event.
No sign announces it from the road. Of course not. A sign would suggest the club needs to be found by people who have not already been told where to turn, and that would offend the entire premise.
I have known about the Halstead Club for years.
I am not a member.
That is the problem.
My father belongs to plenty of places where important men pretend they are gathered for “tradition.” The Union League. The Saddle and Cycle. Two dining societies that host black-tie dinners and never actually accomplish anything useful.
The Halstead Club is simply not one of them.
Which is a long way of saying I cannot get inside.
I stare down at the file on my desk and resist the urge to press my fingers against my temples.
Mario needs a signature from Alistair Valecourt today.
The signature part is not complicated. A narrow consent attached to one of the licensing transfers for the museum-adjacent redevelopment project.
Valecourt is an investor with an old family name, an older trust, and the infuriating habit of treating his personal schedule as if it were classified material.
His assistant confirmed he would sign.
His assistant also informed me, with great apology, that Mr. Valecourt would be at the Halstead Club until midafternoon and unavailable afterward.
Lorenzo was supposed to go with me.
Lorenzo is now behind a closed conference-room door with department heads. Diego is already out of the office for the day on a personal task.
I could ask Mario directly, but the thought makes something inside me reject the option before I can fully consider it.
Mario gave me the task.
He expects me to solve it.
I want him to know I can.
That is absurd, probably. He has not made me feel incompetent once. He has never treated me like a girl playing assistant in a grown man’s office. He gives instructions, sometimes too many at once, then expects execution. It should be simple.
It is simple.
Except my brain has an irritating talent for turning a logistical problem into a moral referendum on my usefulness.
I look through the glass wall of my small office toward the corridor. Mario’s office sits behind me. Lorenzo’s office is down the hall. Diego’s is dark. Ricardo’s office is in the other direction, same executive floor, same stretch of polished tile and glass.
I know exactly where Ricardo’s office is.
I have known since my first day.
I have also avoided looking into it unless necessary, which has been a personal accomplishment considering how often my mind strays there.
I glance at the file again.
Alistair Valecourt.
Halstead Club.
Ask for something small, he told me.
Unfortunately, the small thing is not so small and involves walking into Ricardo Conti’s office and asking him for help.
I stand before I can talk myself out of it.
The hallway is quieter than usual. Midday movement hums behind closed doors: muffled voices, distant phones, the click of someone typing too aggressively. I carry the file against my chest, which feels defensive, so I lower it to my side, which makes me feel vulnerable.
This is ridiculous.
I am twenty-six years old. I went to Yale.
I have negotiated gala budgets with men who thought complimenting my dress counted as philanthropy.
I have convinced donors to increase pledges while their wives glared at me over champagne flutes.
I have survived dinner with my parents, a broken engagement with a politician, and one near-fatal encounter with Mario’s espresso machine.
I can ask Ricardo Conti for a car ride to a private club.
His door is partially open. I pause outside and knock lightly on the frame.
Ricardo looks up from behind his desk.
The office suits him. Dark wood. Leather chairs.
A wall of shelves holding files, books, and objects that look too old and too expensive for this century.
His jacket is off, folded over the back of his chair, and his white shirt is open at the throat, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs.
He has a pen in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other.
Oh God, he’s so sexy.
Have reading glasses always been that sexy?
His gaze settles on me, and the rest of the office becomes background.
“Julia.”
“Mr. Conti.”
A faint curve touches his mouth. “Have we returned to surnames?”
“Only when I need something.”
“Then I am already intrigued.”
I step inside before I can linger over those words for too long. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you?” He sets the pen down. “Yes.”
My stomach pitches.
I close my fingers more securely around the file. “Mario needs a signature collected from Alistair Valecourt today.”
“Valecourt.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
His tone reveals nothing.
“He’s at the Halstead Club until midafternoon,” I say. “His assistant said he will sign if someone brings the document. Lorenzo was going with me, but the lender issue came up.”
Ricardo leans back in his chair, watching me with that calm attention that always makes me feel as if he is hearing more than I'm saying.
“And you need a member.”
“Yes.”
He closes the folder in front of him and stands. “I’ll take you.”
Relief moves through me before I can stop it.
“Thank you.”
He reaches for his jacket, and I try very hard not to watch the way the movement changes him. One second, he is behind a desk in rolled sleeves and reading glasses. The next, he is all tailored suits and sexy authority.
“Do you need anything from your office?”
“Just my bag,” I say quickly, retreating backward toward the door. “And the whole thing should be quick. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Ricardo pauses with his jacket half-buttoned.
“Julia.”
I stop in the doorway.
“I said I’ll take you.” His voice is even. “I did not say I was doing it with a stopwatch in my hand.”
My face warms. “I know.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then his expression softens by a fraction, though nothing about him feels softer. “Get your bag.”
I nod once and turn before my face can give away anything else. Behind me, I hear him speak briefly to someone outside his office, and by the time I reach my desk, my pulse has become skittish.
I grab my bag from the back of my chair, check for my phone, then double-check because I'm paranoid.
The file is still in my hand; I put it in my bag. My keys are in the inner pocket. My wallet is in the side pocket. My lipstick is rolling loose near the bottom because I had tossed it in this morning when I was running late.
I ended up arriving ten minutes early.
I zip the bag closed.
Then unzip it and make sure I have at least two pens. I have five.
I lift my bag onto my shoulder and step out of Mario’s office suite. I meet Ricardo at the end of the corridor next to the elevator bank.
He presses the call button, and we wait.
Feels like a much longer wait than usual with him standing next to me.
I notice how much other people notice him.
A woman from Lorenzo’s team unconsciously straightens her posture as she walks past. Someone from Legal glances from Ricardo to me, then quickly back to her screen, suddenly fascinated by whatever is on it.
Two men walking lower their voices as they walk past us.
Ricardo does not react to any of it.
The elevator doors open, and we step inside. They close again, leaving us alone in the small mirrored space.
I become aware of too many things at once: the lower vibration of the elevator, the mirror throwing my image back at me. The fact that we’re in a space small enough for me to catch the very alluring spicy scent of Ricardo’s cologne.
I keep my eyes on the descending numbers above the doors.
“Have you met Valecourt before?” he asks.
“No.”
“He may keep you waiting,” he says.
I glance at him. “Even with you there?”
“Especially with me there.”
“Why?”
“He likes to believe he has the power to inconvenience people.”
“That’s a charming personality trait.”
“He has several.”
“Lucky us.”
The elevator arrives at the lobby with a soft chime.
Ricardo steps aside and lets me exit first.
The lobby is brighter than the executive floor, all polished stone and glass, with the usual midday current moving through it. Security near the desk, visitors waiting with badges, two associates walking quickly to catch the elevator before the doors close.
Again, people adjust when they notice him. Again, he barely seems to notice.
Or rather, he doesn't react to it.
He probably notices it all.
I walk beside him through the lobby, bag on my shoulder, trying to look like a woman on a routine errand instead of a woman who has spent the last five minutes being undone by the man next to her.
A discreet black SUV waits at the curb.
The driver steps out when he sees us approaching and opens the rear door.
Ricardo stops beside it and looks at me.
“After you.”
I could make a comment about old-world manners. I could make a joke about how unnecessary this is. I could say something to break this tension.
Instead, I nod. “Thank you.”
I slide inside, and he follows, bringing with him the cologne and the kind of presence that makes the car feel smaller than it is.
A moment later, Ricardo gets in beside me, and the door closes, sealing us inside together.
The sounds of the city dull around us.
For several seconds, there is only the soft purr of the engine and the faint scent of leather and Ricardo.
Ricardo gives the driver the address, though I am certain the man already has it, then settles back beside me. The partition remains down, but the driver looks straight ahead with the dedicated disinterest of someone who has been paid well to lose any possible curiosity.
I turn my attention to the window as we pull into traffic.
Chicago moves past in flashes of light and people.
For a while, neither of us speaks.