Chance (The One More Night Series) Read online

  CHANCE

  (The One More Night Series)

  BY

  CHRISTINA ROSS

  Chance, the first book in the One More Night series, is a full-length, stand-alone novel linked only by its characters.

  Each book in the series ends with an HEA. If you enjoy the series’ female supporting characters—Brooke and Elle—you may follow them in their own books while revisiting characters from the previous books. Specifically, after Chance, Elle receives her own stand-alone book in Aiden. Soon, Brooke will enjoy a story of her own in Eric. If the series is popular, others will follow.

  Chance focuses on Abby and Chance’s relationship.

  I hope you enjoy it!

  *DPGROUP.ORG*

  BOOKS BY CHRISTINA ROSS:

  BELOW ARE THE U.S. LINKS FOR THE “ANNIHILATE ME” SERIES, KNOWN AS “CAPTIVE-MOI” IN FRANCE AND “UNTER FEUER” IN GERMANY.

  ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 1

  ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 2

  ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 3

  ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 4

  ANNIHILATE ME, HOLIDAY EDITION

  BELOW ARE THE U.S. LINKS FOR THE “UNLEASH ME” SERIES, KNOWN AS “PROTEGE-MOI” IN FRANCE.

  UNLEASH ME, VOL. 1

  UNLEASH ME, VOL. 2

  UNLEASH ME, VOL. 3

  CHANCE

  AIDEN

  ERIC

  For my dear friends.

  And my family.

  And especially for my readers. I hope you enjoy Abby and Chance’s story.

  Copyright and Legal Notice: This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  First ebook edition © 2014.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Copyright © 2014 Christina Ross. All rights reserved worldwide.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Cover Reveal for Aiden

  Annihilate Me, Vol. 1 Tease

  Books by Christina Ross

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  CHANCE

  By

  Christina Ross

  CHAPTER ONE

  New York City

  July

  “I need six martinis, straight up, olives, one dirty. I also need three glasses of champagne and one Manhattan. And I have more coming, as if that’s a surprise. Look at this place. It’s crazy.”

  The handsome, thirty-something bartender standing behind the bar looked at the people milling behind me and then shot me a look of concern. “How about if you take the martinis first, and then come back for the rest?”

  I repositioned the black sequined mask that covered my eyes and damned it to hell. I could barely see out of it. I could see straight ahead without an issue, but when it came to my peripheral vision? The mask I’d been asked to wear for tonight’s masked ball was cutting it short. Too short. The room’s dim, amber lighting only worsened my sight issues.

  “I wish I could, but I have another drink order right behind this one,” I said. “I knew this was going to be a big event, but I never expected anything like this. There must be five hundred people here, all wearing masks—and all about as blind as I am because of them. Let’s just say that when I signed up for this, I also should have signed up for hazard insurance.”

  While he made the drinks, I pulled my long, dark hair away from my face, tossed it over my shoulders, and let it tumble down my back. I was wearing a simple, little black dress, as were the rest of the female servers.

  “At least it’s cool in here,” he said. “It was over ninety today.”

  “And it felt it. Where I live, my girlfriends and I check our air conditioner regularly to make sure it still has a heartbeat.”

  “Student?” he asked.

  “Grad. Columbia. Working toward my MA.”

  “Good for you. What’s your name?”

  “Abby.”

  He started to shake the martinis in two silver cylinders on either side of his head. “Nice to meet you, Abby. Steve Martel.”

  I smiled at him and decided that I rather liked his dimples. He was cute. “Abby Evans. Pleased to meet you, Steve.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since I came to the city—about a year ago. During the summer, I work whenever I can. During the school year, it’s pretty much the same, only with classes thrown in. But at least these sorts of gigs pay well. I’ll be able to meet the rent, which always is a bonus.”

  “That it is.”

  He poured out four martinis, made one of them dirty by adding a splash of olive brine, and then swiftly filled another cylinder to make the final two. As he started to shake the drinks, he leaned down and retrieved a bottle of champagne, likely from a refrigerator I couldn’t see, and placed it on the countertop.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “This kind of uppity crowd mostly wants martinis and champagne, so it’s not as if I’m dealing with a blizzard of mixed drinks, which would be a bitch. It’s hectic, but it is what it is,” he said. “No complaints—I’m happy for the job. Like you said, it pays the rent.”

  “Indeed, it does.”

  I looked around the room and tried to take in as much of it as possible, if only so I could have a better feel for it when I maneuvered into the crowd with the cocktails.

  We were in The Plaza Hotel’s decadent Grand Ballroom, which looked as if it had been layered in gold leaf. Above me was a row of massive, crystal chandeliers that were impressive in their size and twinkling beauty. An orchestra played at the far end of the room where some people were waltzing. And then there were the guests—all here in an effort to help support additional funding for HIV research, a noble cause I admired them for. But what was it with the masked ball theme? I didn’t get it. Maybe it was just a society thing, which I knew zip about.

  Still, the night’s theme offered a curious sight. Everyone was wearing a mask. They ranged from the tame for the men to the outrageously festooned for the women. The men wore black tie while the women were nothing if not a showcase of estate jewelry and either current or vintage couture.

  Who lives like this? I thought. It’s another world. Another universe.

  I was born into nothing—not that that had changed much since moving to Manhattan. My two girlfriends and I practically lived in squalor.

  But just like Brooke and Elle, with whom I’d been best friends since childhood, I knew that things would change for us. I was as determined to have a better life as they were. That’s why we left Vermont for Manhatt
an—because of the opportunities it offered. Graduating from Columbia with strong grades and hopefully stronger contacts would get me far, even if my student loan debt already felt as if it was suffocating me.

  “Just need to make the Manhattan,” Steve said. “After that, you’re good to go.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate all of your hard work, Steve.”

  He dropped a cherry into the bottom of a low glass, reached behind him for a bottle of Crown Royal, and started to mix the drink. “You know this tray is going to be heavy, right?”

  “I know it is, but what can I do? For some reason, there aren’t enough servers tonight. I need to hustle, or I’ll get fired, and I can’t afford that.”

  “You can barely see out of that mask. I can tell.”

  “It’s not so bad. At least I can see straight ahead of me.”

  “I think you should come back for the rest.”

  “I’ll be fine. While you were making the drinks, I was memorizing the room. I just need to cut through the crowds, remember who ordered what, and get the hell back here to give you my next order.”

  He gave me a curious look before nudging the tray toward me and turning to the next server, who already was spilling out a massive drink order of her own.

  * * *

  In an effort to balance the tray better, I went into the crowd with the rim of it pressed against my torso. Steve was right—I was carrying too much. But despite the heaviness of the drinks and feeling like I had horse blinders on, I kept my focus and moved forward into the buzzing, laughing, tittering crowd.

  Where is the group that wanted the martinis?

  I stopped for a moment, looked around the space, felt someone connect with my shoulder, and heard a wholly insincere “So sorry” breathed into my ear. Finally, I saw my martini peeps off to my left.

  They were only twenty feet away.

  With a sense of relief, I moved toward them as their heads lifted toward me and smiles flashed beneath their masks. I heard one of the women say, “Oh, look—here she comes now. Thank God!”

  Apparently they were thirsty.

  And who can blame them? After tonight, I plan on having a martini myself.

  What happened next should have surprised me, but given the crowd’s unhinged, undulating rhythm, and especially since not nearly enough people were paying attention to their personal space, it didn’t.

  When the older, lavishly dressed blonde woman at my right fanned out the material of her billowing red gown straight into my path, I tripped into the fabric and felt it catch on one of my heels. I heard a gasp, followed by the sound of something tearing, and then someone saying, “Not the Dior!” And then, there was an awful moment when I realized that I was about to do a full face plant in the middle of a gorgeous ballroom filled with hundreds of people who practically ran the city.

  As I began to stumble, I saw how it was all going to go down. My drinks would take flight. Glasses would smash onto the floor. Women would shriek.

  I’d be looking for another job.

  But then, out of nowhere, with a rush of air, a faint scent of woodsy cologne enveloped me and a firm hand pressed hard against my stomach, instantly righting me while another hand reached out to steady the tray before the drinks toppled over.

  Very close to my ear—so close that I actually felt someone’s lips brush against it—a man’s deep voice said, “Hold on to the tray. I’m going to let go of it, so don’t drop it. Before she pulls her dress out from under you, I’m going to lift you off of it. Are you with me?”

  Am I with who? I can’t even see you. “Yes,” I said, grateful for the help.

  The man moved behind me, and I felt two large hands grip my waist and lift me off the floor. A moment later, he put me down with ease in a crowd that was only interested in watching, not assisting.

  I saw people gaping at me and felt a rush of shame and embarrassment because I took pride in my work. Then, I heard that same deep voice again: “Marie, it’s just a small tear at the back. Unless you look directly down at the hem, you can’t see it. Send the bill to me and I’ll cover what it costs to fix it.”

  “You can’t repair vintage Dior.”

  “Then I’ll pay for the dress.”

  He’ll pay for a vintage Dior dress? Why?

  “It’s on loan to me. I don’t own it.”

  “Then I’ll pay the person who loaned it to you.”

  “It wasn’t a person who loaned it to me. It was Dior itself that loaned it to me.”

  “Perfect. I have contacts at Dior. I’ll speak with them in the morning. We’ll settle everything then, and I’ll call you. Fair enough?”

  I was about to turn to see who this man was—and also get a look at the woman who refused to take responsibility for tripping me up—when the group that had been waiting for their martinis came over and took their cocktails without saying a word to me. Because of the sudden redistribution of weight, the tray started to tip, and I had to quickly readjust the other drinks before another potential disaster occurred.

  Meanwhile, I listened to what was being said behind me.

  “There’s hardly any reason for you to get involved,” the woman said. “It was her fault, after all.”

  “I’m not sure that it was, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s done is done, Marie. Don’t you agree? How about if we have a dance later?”

  “I’m hardly about to stay here with a tear in my dress. And besides, this event is practically over, anyway. Good night.”

  Before she left, I turned to apologize to her, but she already was moving into the crowd with a group of other people, so I instead faced him.

  And when I did, everything that had just happened faded away.

  Only once before in my life had I come even remotely close to the sort of physical attraction I felt. It had been with my former boyfriend, Brian. But as good looking as Brian was, he had nothing on this man. Or his presence. Though his face was partly concealed by a simple black mask that framed his light blue eyes, I couldn’t deny the heat that corded through my body when his gaze met mine.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I looked up at him and moved to speak, but could only nod. For some reason, words failed me. His dark hair was parted on the side and it gleamed in the light. He was wearing a tux that had been so snuggly fitted to him, that I knew that beneath it was a body built for lust. There was a day’s worth of stubble on his face, his jawline was strong and square, and his lips were full. Though I couldn’t see all of his face, he looked to be somewhere around thirty—which was just five years older than I was. He was so tall, he towered over me.

  “Well, you’re talkative,” he said.

  I looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Everything happened so fast. I think I’m still catching my breath.”

  “You do seem to be breathing hard.”

  Was I? “When you lifted me, I think I had the wind knocked out of me.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “You’re strong,” I said. “And you surprised me. You lifted me straight up and over her dress as if I weighed nothing.”

  “You are light,” he said.

  I was so flustered by my attraction to him that I had to glance away. He was seeing more of me than I wanted him to. “Thank you for what you did,” I said after a moment. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m grateful.”

  “I actually saw it go down,” he said. “For whatever reason, she fluffed out her dress, and you steamrolled into it. I’m just happy that I was there to catch you before you fell.” He held out his hand to me, and the sex he exuded was so complete, it felt as if my hormones—which had caught a bus out of town for the past year—had just turned with horns blaring and lights flashing. “I’m Chance,” he said.

  As I shook his hand, I felt a jolt.

  His hand was warm and strong, but not smooth—there was a roughness to it that surprised me. It wasn’t a hand I’d expect to find in this crowd. It didn�
��t belong to someone who spent his days sitting behind a desk while thumbing through reports or talking on the phone. It also didn’t belong to someone who had received a trust fund in childhood, and then, in adulthood, decided that he’d live off the interest rather than work. Instead, it was a hand that knew physical labor, and for an instant, I imagined what that hand would feel like on my body. Or inside of it….

  What’s wrong with me?

  I never behaved like this. Among my girlfriends, who bemoaned my strict Catholic upbringing, I was considered the most conservative of the group. But I was second-guessing all of that now. Why was I so drawn to this man? What was it about him?

  I need to get out of here. I need to walk away.

  Still, for reasons that I couldn’t understand, I told him my name. “I’m Abby,” I said.

  “Abby—the conflicted young woman who has no idea how beautiful she is.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve been watching you tonight. I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of couldn’t help myself. You have no idea the affect you have on the men in this room, do you? And, frankly, on some of the women as well. It’s been refreshing to watch you. Most women know if they’re beautiful. You don’t. I wonder why that is.”

  What was I to say to that?

  “I’m just here to work.”

  “It’s been a tough crowd. You’ve been working hard.”

  “I’m just trying to get through school.”

  “School?”

  “Grad school. I’m working toward my MA. That kind of thing.” I paused. “What did you mean by conflicted?”

  “Your eyes gave you away,” he said. “You can feel it, can’t you? It’s probably as confusing to you as it is to me. And as surprising. But it’s there, isn’t it?”