The Good Chase by Hanna Martine Page A

toward a set of open double doors set off the main room. “I’ll go find Isaac and tell him you’ve arrived.”
    Shea stepped through the double doors and felt like she’d been sent back in time. Or, at least, back to the country of her heart.
    The left wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The entire right wall was a bar. An ornate, polished-to-a-gleam wood bar with thick columns at the corners, heavy lintels above, and gorgeous stained glass all along the back. Perfect lines of fine liquor bottles stretched the entire length of the back shelf, and on top of the bar sat her chosen bottles of whiskey, all delivered safely.
    The whole room was gorgeous. Warm and inviting and high-end without being uncomfortable. But it was the sight of that bar that had her heart thudding and a wistful smile spreading across her face. She ran a hand down the wood, then leaned over and touched the tip of her nose to a finely carved column. Inhaled. The scent of the old wood and the sharpness of the stain reminded her so much of Granddad.
    â€œYou like it?”
    Shea turned around to find Isaac Yellin entering. He had one of those faces that appeared mean when he wasn’t smiling and like your best friend when he was. But she’d long since gotten over being intimidated by that sort of thing.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me so much of the pubs I used to go to back in Scotland.”
    â€œIt should.” He grunted. “That’s where I got it.”
    â€œYou bought a whole bar?”
    Yellin shrugged. “They were going to tear down this wonderful old hotel in Glasgow, and I couldn’t bear it. So I bought what I could, had it shipped here and restored. It’s my favorite room.”
    â€œMr. Yellin,” she teased. “You’re not Scottish, are you?”
    â€œOne hundred percent New York Jewish.” He grinned. “But perhaps Celtic by heart.” He tapped his chest, sending the ivory pocket square in his fine tuxedo askew.
    He went over to the bottles and palmed the Talisker 30 Year Old. “I knew you’d pick some good ones. I’d say I’m going to hate seeing the bill, but since the people coming here tonight are the reasons I can afford such incredible whiskey, you won’t hear me complaining.”
    She smiled down at him. Even at five feet nine barefoot, she hadn’t flinched about slipping into three-inch heels that evening.
    â€œYou just might be my dream client, Mr. Yellin. Most of these bottles I don’t even have in my personal collection, but I’ve been coveting them for years and years.”
    One had cost seven hundred dollars, another a thousand.
    Men like him liked to know they were special, and since this was her job, she was happy to oblige. Plus, she was hoping to snag a sip or three of some of the really great bottles.
    â€œSo tell me.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “How’d you get them?”
    â€œThe newer Japanese whiskeys I got through my favorite distributor. I really need to take a trip over there, taste them personally, see their distilleries. A couple of the big bourbons and Irish whiskeys I found through auctions, others through personal connections. But for the Scotch”—she winked—“I simply called up some old friends.”
    It was the truth. A few phone calls overseas had netted her some lucrative bottles and gave her the opportunity to hear voices she hadn’t heard in a long while.
    Yellin liked that. “You’ve made magic. Now make it special for my friends and acquaintances. Impress them with everything you’ve got up here.” He tapped the side of his head.
    â€œNo problem.” No problem at all.
    Two hours later, the entire apartment was packed shoulder to shoulder with men in tuxes and women in all manner of evening gowns. The mood was lively, the food never-ending, and she’d had a steady stream of Brown Veins and