There was more to it than her beauty, though. She was…defiant. That was the word. As though daring anyone to try to hurt her. She was staring straight at the camera. Challenging the world. Challenging him. Something inside him felt like she was being that way just for him.
His concentration moved from the news item when the room was filled with his six friends. Prentice, Chauncey, Ted, Malcolm, Jeff and Victor all filed in and took their seats in various spots around the large room. All were part owners of the club, just as Max was. It had become their meeting place. For some, it was like a second home.
“Max, you missed seeing Ted kick the shit out of Chauncey,” Prentice joked. Max’s eyebrows shot up, but not from surprise. They were all competitive, some more jokingly than others, but Chauncey was the worst. Even the simplest game of pool became a life-and-death struggle for him. Max wondered at times whether this wasn’t why Chauncey was already on his third soon-to-be-ex-wife at the tender age of thirty-one.
“No worries,” Ted answered with a hint of defiance. “I’ll have the last laugh yet.”
“Actually, Carter’s the one laughing now,” Prentice added. Carter Neville, Victor’s older brother, was not around tonight. He was still out in Lake Tahoe, and had not returned from their lodge since he hooked up with Missy, a pretty little local waitress he met during their annual winter retreat. The others already had a bet going on how many days it would take for Carter’s love connection, or whatever he was calling it, to fizzle. Three weeks had passed already, so officially they had all lost that bet.
Max shot a look at Ted as Malcolm stepped up to the box of cigars resting on a nearby serving table. “How’s your night been?” Malcolm asked Max with a sly grin.
“Fun,” Max answered, leaving it at that. He took a puff of his cigar. The usual banter didn’t mean anything to him right now. He couldn’t get that girl from the news out of his head.
“So listen,” Jeff announced, taking a seat with his glass of whiskey in hand. He settled in one of the buttery, deep brown leather chairs at the middle of the room, then looked at Max again. “We used the time while you were—busy—to talk about the debt you owe us.”
Max groaned. He’d known this was coming, of course. The man who lost the weekly poker game two nights before was tasked with doing one big thing for each of the other six. He couldn’t remember whose idea it was to add this new dimension to the bet. He turned out to be the big loser that night, unable to get a good hand if his life depended on it.
“I guess you assholes know exactly what you want, too, right?”
The six men chuckled, relaxing in their perches. All were young, rich, powerful. All handsome, all fit. Rulers of their own personal universes.
Malcolm was the first to speak up. He seemed to have been waiting for this all evening. His great-granddaddy had made his money in the Texas oil drilling boom, and although he had been living in Manhattan for most of his life, he still spoke with a little bit of a Southern twang. “There’s a Van Gogh painting my father’s been trying to get his hands on for decades. Every time it’s come up for auction, someone else won the bid. It’s now in the home of a certain New York family. Max, I want it stolen.”
“What?” Max asked, one eyebrow cocked. “That’s way above and beyond what we’ve ever done for these challenges.”
“We agreed this one is different. It’s time to step these up.”
“Okay. Let’s suppose I agree to this. Why a Van Gogh?”
“Call it a family thing,” Malcolm answered dismissively.
Max shook his head. It was probably all about pride. Malcolm probably didn’t even like Van Gogh himself.
Chauncey’s jumped in next being his usual animated self. His grandfather was one of the original Hollywood moguls, right up there with the Goldwyns and the Mayers, and the flair for dramatics seemed to have rubbed off on him. “Brianne’s hiding out in the Hamptons right now,” he said. Max noted how the man’s normally pleasant face twisted into a bitter scowl. Brianne was ex number three—or she would be once she finally signed the divorce papers. “She’s dead set against being served, the bitch. So it won’t be easy, but I want you to serve her the papers.”
Jeff spoke up, straightening his glasses as he did. Jeff was the only one of the seven who didn’t come from a wealthy family. He was a self-made tech billionaire. Still, for all his lack of family ties he fit in perfectly with the rest of the group. “I want a woman.” The other six laughed before Jeff joined them, laughing at himself.
“Man, you don’t need any help scoring pussy,” Ted stated.
“I know, I know. This is different.” Jeff turned back to Max. “I want a no-strings-attached, one-night-only experience. She’ll want nothing from me. No love, no money, not even a cuddle. I can ask her for anything—I mean anything. Whips, chains, ball gags, whatever I want.” Max nodded, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
Prentice spoke. “I want my father dead.” The room went silent. They had recently learned that Prentice’s father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and was fighting the bitter fight. Sadly, the treatments had not been effective. The man had advanced to stage four. “He’s suffering. They won’t let him die with dignity. He wants to go. I want you to help him.”
Max shook his head, then he gave Prentice a sideways glance. Yes, his friend was dead serious. He had to wonder if there was more to this request. Only a few months ago Prentice had been talking about getting his hands on his dad’s intellectual property consulting firm and company fortune sooner rather than later.
Ted went next. “I think I want to be there for Jeff’s challenge.” They all laughed again, the tension from Prentice’s heavy request broken. His slightly posh British accent, a holdover from his family’s country of origin, made it all the funnier. “You’ll have enough on your plate, Max ole boy. So I’ll let you off the hook, but just be sure I’m there when Jeff gets his hookup.”
“Just admit it, Ted,” Chauncey shouted out through laughter. “We know you. You like to watch. You like the idea of watching a woman be the sub. Just get it out in the open, Ted. It gets you off.”
Ted wasn’t laughing anymore. “That’s your thing, Chauncey, but whatever.” He turned to Max. “Make sure I get to watch.” After that he let it slide, probably from curiosity of hearing what Victor wanted.
Victor had a flair for doing wild and crazy things, so Max was sure his request would be out in left field. His family was undisputedly the wealthiest of them all. Their influence and power went right back to the American robber barons of the mid-nineteenth century. Max could only imagine what this special item might be.
“So what’ll it be, Vic?”
“Six years ago, something was stolen from me. I want it back.”
Max waited, eyebrows raised. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the item?”
Victor ignored the question. “I’m pretty sure I know who stole it, and who requested it be stolen. You have to figure out what it is, though. I want to keep this interesting for you.”
“Let me get this straight. Van Gogh, divorce papers, sex, assisted suicide, voyeurism, and return an undisclosed item. That’s all?” The question was laced with sarcasm, but all six men nodded.
Max took a sip of his whiskey, thoughtful. Then, the idea came to him.
“I’ll make this really interesting,” he said, his mouth curving into a slow smile. “I’ll find one person who can do all six of these tasks for me…or with me, if that’s what you want.”
His mind went back to the news report. He already knew the perfect woman for the job.
“Hire whoever you want, but let’s add some timelines to this,” Chauncey answered with a smile of his own. “You have twelve days to get it all checked off. Six to confirm you’ve found the right person, six to cover all the tasks.”
Max thought this over. “I accept. Now, not that this will be a problem, of course, but what’s if this all goes to shit?”
“Your family gets to cover the costs of this club for the next seven years. One year for each of us,” Prentice suggested. Clearly they’d thought about this already.
“No. Expulsion from the club,” Vic added.
Or maybe they hadn’t.
“Which is it?”
“Both,” Chauncey said with finality, to which the others nodded.
Max thought this over quickly. He was least interested in the request from Prentice, and figured he could talk his friend out of it if he had more time. He added, “One request. Prent’s request to be completed last. I don’t want to risk getting caught before we can finish the rest.” The other six looked at each other, and all nodded.
“Deal.”
“Fair enough,” Max smiled. “I can hardly wait to get started.”
2
Kat rolled over in her sleep, waking just before she fell off the narrow cot.
Damn. She’d forgotten where she was. She’d hoped it was a nightmare, No such luck. She was at the Rose M. Singer Center, women’s lockup on Riker’s Island, awaiting trial in New York. Her bail hearing had been two days ago and the judge set bail at half a million dollars.
Fuck.
She picked herself up off the floor, brushing off the orange jump suit they made her change into last night after she was processed. She was supposed to have been transported to a women’s prison at some point, but that didn’t happen. Looking down at herself, she wished she could be back in the camisole and jeans she’d been wearing when she was arrested. She probably would have been much better off in a sleek wrap dress, maybe jersey or something similar that would cling to her body. Maybe that would have given her more leverage during her arrest. At least she’d had time to get changed out of her all black work clothes before the police practically banged down her door. Spending the night in the tacky orange garb made her feel she could end up as someone’s prison bitch sooner than later.
Not if she could help it.
There hadn’t even been time to leave a message with her supervisor at her day job. Working at the third Avenue MAC counter wasn’t something she needed to do, but she enjoyed the change of pace. Those wrap dresses came in handy at that job. The sound of her supervisor’s throaty, aging voice popped into Kat’s head. She wasn’t supposed to try to seduce the customers, the older woman would remind her often, just sell makeup. Which went to show how clueless he was about the psychology behind sales. By now someone would have seen the news. She probably couldn’t show her face there again, but the idea of no more makeup discounts made her cringe.
Oh well.
Kat got to her feet, stretching out the kinks in her neck and back. Nothing like a cot to remind you of every muscle in your body. The long cinderblock hallway outside the cell was empty. She wondered if there were any other accused murderers behind the other locked doors. She wondered if they were actually guilty, because she sure wasn’t.
How the hell did this happen? It still made no sense. She’d been in the business for years without even setting off an alarm. No arrests, not even a police interview for questioning. To go from that to this? A fucking jail cell? A murder charge? She’d never so much as restrained a target, much less killed them. That was low-class stuff. She wasn’t some petty burglar. She took treasured items from people and supplied them to others. Sometimes it was for herself, sometimes it was a person who paid her for the job. She hadn’t met anybody yet who could convince her to commit murder.
Kat wasn’t interested in any of that dirty work. She was a liberator. Only now she needed somebody to liberate her. She sure as hell didn’t have a half a mil laying around for bail money.
She paced the length of the cell with its white walls and stark fluorescent lighting. How many people went crazy in places like this? They weren’t designed for comfort. Was she supposed to break down? Confess? Throw herself on the mercy of the jerkoffs outside who eyed her up and down and practically raped her with their eyes while she was being booked? Unlikely.
She wished she could shower, or at least brush her teeth. Splashing her face with ice cold water from the little metal sink in the corner, she did her best to get herself cleaned up. Now that the other inmates were beginning to wake up, she could hear banging, moaning, and cursing coming from the other cells. None of this helped her stay calm.
All Kat wanted right now was to feel like herself somehow. To be free. What she really needed was a way to think clearly about this, create a plan, but how could she set a new direction when she didn’t even know why she’d been charged with murder to begin with? Thinking back to what had gone down, she was sure she’d gotten away with the theft, just like she always did. The burner phone she had used to call the client and confirm things went smoothly according to plan, was destroyed and tossed away somewhere. After that she had gone home. Yesterday, the morning after the robbery, she woke up at her usual time, went to her day job, and returned home, just like any other day. She’d even had one of her highest sales days—she always sold well the day after a job. Her confidence would be over the moon after a heist.
There was no way she had been spotted at the Regent mansion, or at least she didn’t think she could have been. No alarms went off, no staff were around, and Mr. and Mrs. Regent were both sound asleep while she was in the house. There hadn’t been a single red flag, so how could the Regent wife possibly have identified her?
No matter how many times she went over it in her mind, none of it made sense. Considering that she didn’t have a friend in the world with the money to bail her out, there was nothing to do except think.
The large, heavy door at the end of the hall opened. Every nerve stood on end and she held her breath. Were they coming for her? She could only hope so, but then again, maybe it was time for breakfast, or maybe they were here to intimidate the female inmates into cooperation again. She had no way of knowing.
As it turned out, the guards had indeed come for her. A burly man’s face appeared in the little rectangular window of the reinforced jail cell door. Food, maybe? She was starving actually, and had only eaten half of her tray of food yesterday, mostly because the meal looked like crap, but also because of on the signs on the nearby common area wall. The sign read, ‘Slashings, Stabbings and Assaults will Result in your Immediate Arrest. Convictions will Result in Consecutive Sentences from 8 1/3 to 25 years’. That sign took away her appetite yesterday, and all she could think of was watching her back. Today, she was really hungry. Today she could eat whatever was on the tray. Today she could eat and watch her back. Eating jail food was better than starving. She’d experienced starving before, many years ago, and wasn’t ready to revisit that feeling anytime soon.
There was no invitation to eat this time, though. The door opened, and the male and female corrections officers just stood there and looked at her. Her heartbeat quickened, her muscles tensed, and her body braced as she waited, like an animal being cornered.
“McKinnon,” the tall, potbellied officer read off his clipboard. He had a white mustache stained with tobacco, full of tiny crumbs from breakfast or maybe even last night’s dinner. Kat’s stomach flipped, nauseated at the sight of him. “Your bail’s been posted.”
Kat’s eyes narrowed, darting from the man to the silent female officer standing behind him. Was this some sort of joke? The male officer stepped aside, clearing the way for her to step between him and the woman.
“I don’t get it,” Kat said, eyes going from one to the other. “My bail? You have the right person?”
The man smirked at her, just like he did when she was first brought in. She was used to men looking at her, naturally. This one was the type who made her skin crawl. The kind whose every nasty thought was written all over their greasy, lewd faces.
“You’re the only Katherine McKinnon we happen to have in custody at the moment, so I’d say there’s a solid chance you’re the one I’m here to escort out for transport…unless you think we’re in the habit of making mistakes around here.”
Kat bit
her tongue, hard, wishing she could get away with telling this jerk that yes, she did think the justice system was full of pricks who made mistakes. Why else would she be facing a murder charge?
Looking her up and down, he added, “As much fun as it’s been to have you here, it’s time for your sweet little ass to get the hell out of here. For now. Unless you love our hospitality so much you choose to stay.”
That was enough to get her feet moving. She sidestepped the officer to avoid brushing against his beer gut, following the female officer to the heavy door at the end of the hall. She held her head high, ignoring the catcalls, threats and whistles from behind the other cell doors.
In under two hours, Kat was back at the 43rd street precinct, dressed in the clothes she had been wearing when she was arrested. She looked around when she returned to the station where she’d first been booked. Had somebody come for her? With her belongings back in her hands, and almost a free woman again, she asked the female police officer, “Is there any way to find out who posted my bail? Are they here waiting for me?”
“No one’s here for you, McKinnon. Details of your bond are public record, so speak to your defense attorney or go down to the courthouse,” the officer answered, her tone clipped. “Check your belongings. There’s a note here that someone left you a message while you were being transported back here.”
Kat looked on each side of the see-through bag that held her wallet, watch, personal cell phone, keys, a few pieces of jewelry and a twenty-dollar bill from the back pocket of her jeans. There was a business card all right, which added to the puzzle. The card was black, embossed with gold letters, and only had an address printed on one side. There was no name, no phone number. She looked up at the cop, who looked past her.
The Billionaire and the Bad Girl Page 10