LITMIR.BIZ

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“Thank you.”

      He had nothing to gain by tracking down that baby. The child wouldn’t bring him more power or money. The baby boy wouldn’t be able to return a favor when Marcus wanted.

      But he’d made a promise to Liberty.

      He was going to keep it.

      * * *

      The ad mock-up for Rock City Watch drifted out of focus as Liberty wondered about that little baby. It’d been four days since she’d held him to her chest. Was he still in the hospital? Was he okay?

      She shouldn’t be this worried, she decided as she tried to refocus on the ad. Worrying wasn’t going to help anything. And besides, Marcus had promised he’d look into it and she had to have faith that he’d keep that promise to her.

      Of course it’d also been four days since Marcus had wrapped his strong arms around her and told her he’d find the baby because the child was important to her and she was important to Marcus.

      Since that time, there’d been no hugs, no long looks. There’d been no more mention of the wedding, although that would have to change soon. If he continued to insist on going, he needed to pick a date. A safe date, she mentally corrected herself. Someone who wouldn’t look at him and see nothing but a hot body and a huge...

      Bank account.

      The phone rang. “Warren Capital Investments. How may I assist you?”

      “Ms. Reese.” The coquettish voice of Mrs. Marisa Warren floated from the other end of the line. Liberty gritted her teeth. So this was how today was going to go, huh? “How is my son today?”

      “Fine, Mrs. Warren.” But Liberty offered no other information.

      When she’d first been hired, Marcus had made it blisteringly clear that she worked for him, not for Laurence or Marisa Warren. If he ever caught her passing information to his parents about his business, his prospects or his personal life, well, she could pack her things and go. End of discussion.

      Luckily, Liberty had gotten very good at telling people what they wanted to hear without giving anything away.

      “I was wondering,” Marisa simpered, “if my son has settled on a date for the Hanson wedding? It’s a few weeks away and he knows how important it is.”

      When she’d first started fielding these nosy calls, Liberty hadn’t entirely understood why Marcus was so determined that nothing of his life leak out to his parents. After all, she’d grown up dreaming of having a mother and a father who cared about her. And Marisa Warren seemed to care about her son quite a lot.

      But appearances were deceiving. “Mrs. Warren,” she said in her most deferential tone because it also hadn’t taken her long to realize that while Marcus might treat her with respect and dignity, to his parents she was on approximately the same level as a maid. “I couldn’t speak to his plans for the wedding.”

      “Surely you’ve heard something...”

      Liberty focused on keeping her voice level. “As you know, Mr. Warren doesn’t share personal information with me.”

      She wasn’t sure at what point this wedding had crossed from personal to business and back again. When Marcus’s relationship with Lillibeth had blown up in the media, she’d read what she could—but he’d never once broached the topic during office hours. It was only when they were running that he’d even touch on the subject—and even that was more about damage control than “feelings” and “sharing.”

      He’d asked her to prepare a roster of acceptable women with whom to attend this wedding. And then he’d asked her—however jokingly—to be his date.

      “Hmph,” Mrs. Warren said. It was the least dignified sound she was probably capable of making and, in her honeyed voice, it still sounded pretty. “Have him call me when he’s free.” She never asked to speak to Marcus when she called his office number. That was the thing that Liberty had realized about that first call. Mrs. Warren wasn’t calling to talk to Marcus. She was calling to talk to Liberty about Marcus.

      Liberty knew where her loyalty lay, even if Mrs. Warren didn’t. “Of course, Mrs. Warren.”

      She hung up and finished analyzing the Rock City Watch ads. If Marcus was going to push them as a high-end luxury good, then the ads needed to be slicker. There was too much text talking about Detroit’s revival, and the photography needed to give off a more exclusive vibe, she decided.

      What rich people wanted was exclusivity. That’s what she’d learned in the three years she’d worked in this office on North LaSalle. Not only did they want the best, they wanted to be damned sure that it was better than what everyone else had. It wasn’t enough to own a great watch or a fancy car or live in an expensive building. Rich people wanted to make sure that theirs was the only one. She figured that was why they spent so much money on artworks. By definition, those were one of a kind.

      This world was all still foreign to her, but after three years she felt as if at least she was becoming fluent in the language.

      She was just finishing her notes when Marcus called out, “Ms. Reese?”

      “Coming.” She grabbed her tablet and the ad materials and walked into his office. This place, for example, was a perfect example of how a rich person simply had to have the very best. Even though Warren Capital was a relatively small operation—Marcus employed fifteen people to handle the finances and contracts—the business was located on LaSalle Drive on the top floor of one of the most expensive office buildings in Chicago. Marcus’s office sat in the corner behind walls of glass that gave him expansive views of downtown and Lake Michigan. Warren Capital was the only company on this floor—no one else could claim this view. It was the best—and it was his.

      And through sheer dint of will, Liberty managed to carve out a place where she could fit in this world. Sure, it was as an assistant and yes, she had to buy new running shoes every six months. It didn’t matter. She loved this office, this view. Everything clean and bright. There were no holes in the wall, no critters scurrying about. If something broke, maintenance had it fixed within hours, if not minutes. The lights were always on and the heat always worked. This office was as far away from the apartment in the Cabrini-Green projects as she could get.

      “Your mother called,” she said, taking her usual seat in front of Marcus’s desk. His office furniture reflected a modern sensibility—black leather seating, glass-topped desks of ebony wood and chrome. Even the art along the wall was modern. Among others, he had an Edward Hopper and a Mark Rothko—names she’d had to look up online because she certainly hadn’t heard of them before. Marcus had bought the Rothko for $35 million.

      Yes, he had one hell of an impressive...bank account.

      “I assume to pump you for information about my wedding plans?” he asked without looking up.

      “Correct. She’s concerned about your date. Or lack thereof.”

      Marcus sighed heavily. “I’ve had an update on the baby, if you’re still interested.”

      “What?” Her heart began to pound as he glanced at her in surprise. She tried again. “I mean, of course I’m still interested. Why wouldn’t I be?”

      “You hadn’t asked.”

      She blinked at him. “You promised you’d make some calls. I didn’t want to bother you.”

      He gave her a look that was partly amused. But she also thought she saw some of the tenderness beyond why he’d made that promise to her in the first place.

      “Liberty,” he said in a gentle voice. A creeping flush started at the base of her neck and worked its way down her back. Was it wrong to like how he said her name? Was it wrong to want him to say it some more? “You are not a bother to me.”

      She swallowed, willing her cheeks not to blush. They were getting off track. “What did you hear? About the baby?”

      “Ah,

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