Heart Thief (Black Market Billionaire Book 1)

by Skylar Sweeney

  “Wesley,” I said nervously, “are you sure that you don’t want to look for someone else? Someone who knows what they’re doing? Someone who won’t get caught? I… I’m not sure about this. I do want Rex to pay, but I really don’t want to get arrested in the process.”

  Wesley shook his head firmly. “Even if I could find a professional, I don’t trust anyone else to do this. You want Rex to suffer as much as I do, and you understand how important it is to me that my father gets that heart. And Mason… deep down don’t you want to be the one to steal his heart like he stole yours?”

  My fists clenched and I nodded slowly.

  “You’re right. Let’s show the heart thief what it really means to be heartless.”

  - MASON -

  The morning was cheerful for a Monday in Manhattan, with only a touch of smog in the air and a glimmer of sunlight dancing across the dirty sidewalk. This solidified my belief in universal irony since cheerful was most definitely not in my vocabulary today. Worried, edgy, and scared shitless, maybe. Not cheerful.

  I stared up at the sixty story example of what happens when architects aren’t comfortable with their penis size, trying to gather the courage to head inside. It was getting close to my ten o’clock interview time, and I’d been sitting at the Starbucks across the street from the Brotherhood Building for over an hour now, playing with my Undercover Vibrator, as I had nicknamed the security override device, and wondering if the thing would actually get through security.

  What if they found it? What would they say? What if Rex saw it? How the hell was I supposed to explain that? The sister of the boy he killed, showing up for her interview in a tight skirt with a vibrator in her purse? Somehow I didn’t think I’d be able to talk my way around that, and considering what I’d heard about the man’s playboy tendencies and disrespect for the law, he’d probably be climbing on top of me before I even had time to explain. According to the gossip mags, the man was the king of wooing vulnerable women, refusing to pay his prostitutes, and having brutal sex with strangers in very awkward places. I wasn’t even sure he knew what a healthy relationship was.

  Nice to know that we had that one thing in common.

  I scowled at the thought, pushing it away. My dating life wasn’t that bad—Luke could just be a little… coarse sometimes. Definitely not like the psycho Rex was known to be. He was just busy at work, and it made him sharp when we were together. He would never break my hands, that was for sure. Though he did shatter my favorite wineglass against a wall when I said I didn’t have an orgasm the last time we had sex.

  I sighed and picked up my purse, pulling out my smartphone and Googling the Brotherhood Building. Maybe finding out a little bit about the security would give me enough confidence to waltz in, vibrator in hand, without pissing myself in the process.

  There was a Wikipedia page for the building, which I was fairly certain had been written by the obviously undersized architect, if the endless commendations on its ‘striking and inspiring size’ were any clue, but the only notes about security was that a camera filmed the lobby’s indoor wishing fountain 24/7. Good to know that the billionaire who owned the building was so protective of his spare change. A man never knows when he might need a quarter or two.

  The website for the building itself said absolutely nothing about security, just that they reserved the right to search all property. I winced as I glanced down at my not-a-sex-toy. I really hoped they didn’t like to get down and dirty in their searches, because as far as I could tell, the thing didn’t actually vibrate.

  The next site wasn’t technically about the Brotherhood Building but was some kind of conspiracy theory site about a group called the Brotherhood, a secret fraternity that supposedly owned the Brotherhood Building. Never mind that everyone knew it was owned by Harrison Wentworth, the richest man on earth.

  The site’s creator called herself the Shady Lady, not helping her credibility there, and claimed that the Brotherhood was made up of former super spies who were trained to do mercenary work as teens and now used their super duper soldier spy skills to rule the black market, controlling everything from prostitution to assassinations to the sales of things like forged art and stolen arms.

  Some of the stuff she claimed was so crazy I had to hold back a laugh. According to her, the group had seven members, including a hitman with no first name (“Jones, Mr. Jones”), a forger who signed his work Bob Ross (think he’s from the 90s?), a hacker dubbed the Saint by the FBI because he likes to literally crucify trolls (I know the feeling), and a European prince who’d been missing for twenty years and was presumed dead by his country (but was alive and spying-well according to the Shady Lady).

  The last three, though, were probably the funniest of all. Due to the fact that their offices were in the Brotherhood Building, Ms. Shady was certain the group must include local Manhattan celebrities and well known A-Listers Rex Bennett (who was indeed an ex-con—arrested for attacking someone at Walmart), Harrison Wentworth (because even rich men need hobbies, and spying’s a great one), and beloved New York State Senator Brawn Patrick (can you imagine what congress would be like without an ex-super spy to vote on the funding for those new traffic lights?)

  I glanced at my watch, sighing as I clicked the site closed, making a note to come back later and look more closely at the really freaky looking surveillance pics she had posted—I was pretty sure I’d seen a blurry image of Rex’s rooftop hot tub. Not, of course, that I had any idea what Rex’s home was like, because I was way too mature to break in while he was out of town and replace his conditioner with spoiled milk.

  Yeah, right.

  With only fifteen minutes left until my interview, I made the decision to quit procrastinating and get my ass inside before the chance passed me totally by. I stood, tossing my coffee cup into the trash, and straightened my black pencil skirt. Taking a deep breath, I jostled my mess of red curls into some semblance of order and stepped into the street.

  “Hey, watch it, ya dumb bitch!” a taxi driver screamed at me, like he wasn’t the one cruising through a red light, hand on the horn.

  I ignored him, except for the flipping him off part, and made my way into the building, flashing a bright smile at the first doorman I saw.

  He gave me a steely nod and opened the door for me, simultaneously updating his social media page with what looked like a Bert and Ernie meme. Now that’s what I call multi-tasking.

  “We’ll need to search your purse, m’am,” a very tough looking security guard sporting a military haircut and a boxy black suit informed me politely.

  I nodded and handed my Gucci knock off to him, wondering if my smile looked as much like cardboard as it felt. I held my breath as he rifled through it. I winced as he froze, head raising slowly toward me and an almost frightened look on his face. I gritted my teeth, forcing my smile wider as he swallowed hard. After a moment he shook his head and went back to searching.

  “If you’ll step through the metal detectors, your purse will be returned to you on the other side,” he informed me, his cheeks bright red as he zipped the bag back up. I let out a sigh of relief. I was home free.

  I stepped through the metal detectors with my head held high, holding my breath. It remained as silent as Helen Keller, and I grinned, feeling energized by my success. I could do this. I was strong and powerful and confident and would make an amazing criminal. I was the Harley Quinn of workplace women, minus the whole bit where she was obsessed with a man to the point of literal insanity. I had the kick ass attitude and the killer cleavage going for me, though.

  In fact, now that I was looking around, I was starting to think maybe I’d gone a bit too heavy on the cleavage. Mind you, it wasn’t anything beyond my usual glimpse and was perfectly appropriate for an office which was a good mix of middle aged women and men who spent their bonus cash on blue pills. Here, though, the lobby was positively teeming with hyper-masculine men dressed in matching boxy black suits with Army haircuts.

  And wow did
they have big guns. There were lots and lots of guns, just visible under their jackets. I wish I meant that in the metaphorical, Freudian sense, but everywhere I looked another real, live gun seemed to appear. It reminded me of my cousin’s bachelorette party in Dallas.

  I licked my lips as I scanned the elegant marble foyer in search of some clue where to go from here. There was a cafe, along with the well-guarded wishing fountain and what looked like a six foot metal sculpture of a vagina—or a taco—but I didn’t see anything resembling an information desk or even a directory. The last thing I wanted to do was ask one of the militaristic penises rising in my direction where to go, so when my eye caught a young janitor on his hands and knees washing the marble floor over by the fountain, I headed that way.

  He didn’t look up as I came to a halt beside him, fully focused on scrubbing a floor that looked perfectly clean to me. I wasn’t sure why he was washing it at all, much less with what looked like a toothbrush and a rag instead of the mop hanging out of the cart next to him, but then I wasn’t exactly an expert on cleaning. I used Windex and a back scrubber to clean inside my toilet.

  “Hello.” I flashed him a bright smile. “I was wondering if you could help me find the King Corp offices? I have an interview.”

  The man looked up, and my mouth formed an ‘o.’ This was one hot janitor. I wasn’t sure why he was cleaning when he could be modeling. He was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen at most, and had the kind of face you expect to see in movies. Sharp jaw, full lips, straight nose, brilliant green eyes, exceptionally long lashes… you name it, he had it. The blonde stubble on his jaw made it clear that his nearly white blonde hair was natural, and while man-buns weren’t usually my thing, it fit this kid perfectly.

  Would it be totally wrong to date a nineteen year old? I was only twenty-five, after all. And Luke never cleaned anything.

  Yikes, was I really crushing on a teenaged janitor? I really needed to get my libido under control.

  “I would be happy to help you, m’am,” the young man said sweetly as he pushed himself to his feet and set his cleaning utensils on the cart. His arms bulged with the motion, and I noted that he had some nice muscles for his age.

  I glanced at the little name patch on his baby blue coveralls and my lips curled in amusement. His name was Valentine? The things people named their kids these days.

  “You said that you have an appointment with Mr. Rex?” His voice was cheerful and relaxed, just like his smile. It wasn’t a look I’d ever seen on an office maintenance man before—not without the assistance of marijuana, anyway.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m applying as his personal assistant. My name is Mason Dansley.”

  The kid’s eyebrows went up, and he nodded slowly. “Of course, Ms. Dansley. King Corp’s executive offices are on the thirty-second floor.” He nodded toward a metal door against the far wall. “Stairs are through there.”

  I choked, eyes going wide. “I’d prefer to take the elevator, if that’s okay.”

  “They’re broken,” he replied, smile widening. “I’m really sorry.”

  I glanced over at the lifts in question, eyeing them suspiciously. “All six of them?”

  Valentine nodded, still smiling. He sure was a happy one. “The repair company is on strike.” He sighed. “This is why I don’t believe in unions. They should be grateful for what they have. I’m not getting paid at all, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

  I blinked. “You’re not getting paid?” What the hell?

  “My foster father’s friend owns the building,” he said simply. “He says working will keep me out of federal prison.”

  “Oh,” I said, not sure what to say to that. “I guess working is good. But getting paid is nice, too.”

  Valentine shrugged. “The cleaning company Mr. Sonny hired before me was terrible. They used hardwood floor cleaner on marble. Can you imagine?” The boy looked as if he’d just stepped in a pile of T-rex shit, the idea was so horrifying to him. “Besides, I don’t mind being slave labor. I make a pretty good slave. My foster father says so.”

  …

  In case you’re wondering, ‘dot dot dot’ was literally the response in my head. The poor kid. Could you call social services for someone who was over eighteen? I was starting to think he might be ‘special.’

  “You know what?” I said weakly, ready to get this all over with. “I suppose I can take the stairs.”

  Valentine smile widened, and it was totally worth agreeing to the stairs to see it. He really should be a model. Or a porn star. At least he would be paid well for that.

  I turned and headed toward the stairs, managing to go ten whole feet before I marched right into a patch of wet marble and my feet flew out from under me.

  I let out a shriek, sure I was about to break half the bones in my body, but Valentine grabbed me before I could fall on my butt in the fountain, his perfect smile somehow growing even broader as he giggled.

  Smooth, Mason. Very smooth.

  “Be careful, Ms. Mason,” he said, strong arms still wrapped around my body. “Mr. Rex really does need a new assistant. We wouldn’t want you to die before you make it upstairs.”

  I blushed, giving him a sheepish smile as he set me back on my feet.

  “Well, if I get the job, be sure and stop by and say hello,” I said, giving him a little wave, and he nodded sagely.

  “I’ll do that, Ms. Mason.”

  I made it safely through the marble swamp this time and pulled open the door, sighing as I stared up the seemingly endless spiral of stairs. My poor, poor vintage Prada heels. I guess it was time for those three aerobics classes I took last month to finally pay off.

  chapter TWO

  THE INTERVIEW

  -mason-

  Thirty-two floors seems like forever when you’re stuck in an elevator, watching them tick by, one by one, the cheap canned music sticking in your ears. But when you’re climbing stairs, it’s amazing how quickly the levels go by. As your heart pounds in your chest and sweat drips down your body, pooling in your butt cheeks and turning your hair into a swampland, the steps fly by, along with your sanity.

  I was so getting my money back for those gym glasses.

  I let out a groan as I used the rail to haul my aching body up the last stair, coming close to climax as my eyes latched onto the sign declaring I’d made it to Level 32. Alive. With my feet still attached and my precious Prada heels unbroken (only because I’d stuck them in my purse for safekeeping next to the Undercover Vibrator).

  Sucking in a deep breath to soothe my aching lungs, I did my best to pull myself together, running my fingers through my soggy curls and tugging down my pencil skirt, which had ridden halfway up my ass by now. I considered pulling out my compact and attempting to fix my face, which no doubt looked like Pennywise the Clown at this point, but I decided I was better off not knowing how bad it was. This way I could at least start the interview with a teaspoon of dignity. A fifth of vodka would be more helpful, but unfortunately I didn’t have any in my purse.

  Sticking my feet back into my heels, I hobbled over to the door, shoving it open and making my way into the very impressive lobby. Like something out of an interior design show, the room was filled with modern sofas in vibrant colors, abstract art pieced together from metal and glass, and a large black receptionist desk backed by an enormous glass wall with an equally massive King Corp logo frosted across it, the cartoonish looking crown with KC carved into its jewels glinting down at me.

  A small Asian lady with a severe haircut and a deep scowl sat behind the desk, her eyes locked on me like I was an incoming missile. I cleared my throat, a little disturbed by the harshness of the glare, then gave her my best smile as I made my way up to the desk.

  “Hi, my name’s Mason Dansley,” I said in my best interview voice. “I have an interview with Mr. Bennett at ten.”

  The woman glowered at me as I came to a halt before her desk, lip curling up slightly. “You stink.”

 
; My mouth dropped open, and my already warm-and-sticky face grew even hotter and stickier. What was with this place? First slave labor janitor, now bitch secretary? Talk about weird staff. “Excuse me?”

  The woman sneered, waving a hand back in forth in front of her nose pointedly. “You stink. Restrooms for clients only. You want wash in sink, you go to Starbucks across street. Bye-bye.”

  You had to be kidding me. My eyes narrowed, and my hands clenched tight on my purse. “I am not here to wash in your sink. I have an interview with Mr. Bennett at ten. This is his office, correct?” I nodded in the direction of the giant King Corp logo.

  “Appointment only. Meester Baneet no take walk in. Sorry. Bye-bye.” She made a point of lifting up a small, metal sign that read ‘By Appointment Only’ and slamming it back down with a bang.

  I gritted my teeth, trying to keep myself from screaming at her. Some people might say I have a little bit of a temper. “I. Have. An. APPOINTMENT!”

  The woman rolled her eyes, leaning back dramatically in her seat. “Uh huh, okay, yes, sure. You have appointment.” The dry tone of her voice practically screamed ‘bullshit.’

  I’d show this bitch some bullshit!

  “Listen here, you—”

  BEEEEEEP!

  The phone went off, and I jumped as the woman’s hand chopped down onto the flashing button so hard and fast it looked like she was doing a ninja move.

  “King Corp, Mrs. Cho speaking.”

  “Since my office currently sounds like a junior high girls’ locker room, I’m assuming that my appointment has arrived?” The voice that came over the phone was deep and masculine with a husky sort of drawl to it that made my heart speed up in a way it really shouldn’t. People with phone sex voices were so damn annoying.