by Holly Hart
“She, uh – she has a busy morning tomorrow.”
Helene smiles. It’s practically a leer.
“I’m off in a few minutes,” she says. “In case you don’t have a busy morning tomorrow.”
And suddenly I’m Carson Drake again. The Carson Drake, man about town, eligible billionaire bachelor.
“Such a tempting offer,” I say. “But I’m afraid I do have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
Her smile turns into a pout.
“A pity.”
I flash her a grin I don’t feel.
“Yes, it is.”
She turns and walks back into the restaurant. Her long legs pivot with every precise step, turning her shapely ass into a perfect 180-degree oscillating gyroscope.
Aaand just as suddenly, I’m that geek from high school again. Sigh.
What I do know for sure is that I need to stop focusing on Cassie Vincent and start focusing on my quarry. I can’t afford any more pointless distractions.
The Chase is underway and the game, as Sherlock Holmes said, is afoot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
22. CASSANDRA
The rules of the Chase stipulate that I can’t leave the geographic area of Midtown Manhattan for two weeks. Some people might consider that a prize, not a punishment. I mean, it’s home to Broadway and Times Square and a hundred other magnificent places to spend time.
The problem for me right now is that Midtown is also home to a financial district that’s almost as prominent as Lower Manhattan’s, which means my pursuers could be right behind me at any moment. And I’m expected to not deviate too much from my everyday routine, so that they have a fighting chance to identify and – well, I guess the politically correct term would be catch me.
So it hasn’t been easy to keep a low profile.
I’ve avoided Patty’s for the past three days for fear I’m too much of a regular there. And, frankly, because now I associate it with meeting Carson again after all these years. I have to focus on the Chase, not on him. And his beautiful body. And his electric touch.
If only it were as easy to do as it is to say.
So, like any good quarry, I keep moving, never staying in one place for too long. I’ll stop for lunch or a coffee, but after that I’m back on the street.
I’ve spent the better part of this morning wandering the shops of Korea Town. It’s been postcard-perfect so far, the kind of day that’s so quintessentially New York that it could be the backdrop of a Woody Allen movie.
“Good morning,” the girl behind the counter says as I enter a boutique jewelry shop on Madison Avenue. She’s stunning: probably five-foot-ten, easily five inches taller than me. Hair like black satin. It’s funny how place like this only hire the extremely attractive.
“Good morning,” I smile back. As I browse the shop’s wares, I use the mirror behind the girl to monitor the front door and the traffic on the street beyond. Honestly, I’d probably be doing this whether or not I was in the Chase. It’s ingrained in me after so many years working for the Company, one of the comedic euphemisms for the CIA.
I have to admit I’m not entirely comfortable popping in and out of the stores. I’ve familiarized myself with most of the latest Forbes list of richest men in America, but to be perfectly honest, a Korean billionaire could walk right past me and I wouldn’t even know it.
It’s a loose end. I make a note of it, because I don’t like loose ends.
“Something I can help you with?”
The words make me jump, and the girl immediately regrets them.
“Pardon me, I’m so sorry!” she says. “It’s just that you seemed to be looking around everywhere and I thought maybe you needed help.”
I need help, all right. Psychiatric help.
I laugh, even though it’s the last thing on earth I feel like doing.
“My fault,” I say. “My mind is somewhere else.”
It’s amazing how off-kilter I’ve felt since this all started. I mean, I’ve walked through downtown Tripoli wearing brown contact lenses, a black wig and a headscarf, and I felt less exposed than I do right now. I have to keep reminding myself that the contestants don’t know I’m a redhead, so I’m actually not a walking neon “look at me” sign. Well, no more than I normally am, I suppose.
I thank the girl and head back out onto Madison. Summer tourists flock by, taking photos of the Flatiron Building and craning their necks at all the skyscrapers. I turn onto Twenty-Third Street, then again onto Fifth Avenue. There’s a food stand about a block up that makes the best Lebanese food on the Eastern Seaboard, and that’s from someone who’s spent quite a bit of time in Lebanon.
“Sandra!” a swarthy middle-aged man says as I approach. He’s got more hair on his chest than his head, which is glistening under the almost-midday sun.
“Hello, Khalil,” I say. “Kayf hu aleamal?” How’s business?
He beams like he always does when I speak Arabic to him.
“Can’t complain, nobody’d listen anyway, amiright?” he says, hardening the words into a passable Brooklyn accent.
I giggle while he throws together a lamb pita and douses it with his signature sauce, the recipe for which I’ve never managed to get out of him, even under threats of torture.
As always, he refuses my money. I helped him get his brother a visa a few years ago and he hasn’t charged me a penny since. I’ve always assumed he knows I’m not really a business consultant, but he’s never brought it up and neither have I. He’s my kind of guy.
“What’s new, Sandra?” he asks as I take my first bite.
“Actually,” I say through a mouthful of lamb, “I’m going by Cassie now.”
His eyes widen and it’s almost like I can read his mind: he thinks it’s an alias.
“It’s short for Cassandra,” I say. “It’s just the other end of the name.”
“Ah!” He claps his hands together. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”
“You’re too kind, sir.”
I take my food up the street to the plaza at General Worth Square and, amazingly, find an empty table under one of the blue umbrellas. This porcelain skin of mine may be the envy of a lot of women, but it also opens me up to a higher risk of melanoma, especially after all the time I’ve spent in deserts. And freckles. God, whatever I do I can’t escape the freckles.
A glinting relection catches me in the eye just as I reach for the chair, and I feel something pulling it in the opposite direction. I lift a hand to shade my eyes and see who I’m about to give an earful – it’s New York, after all, and a “yo, whaddaya think yer doin’?” is expected in polite company.
The silhouette comes into focus, and my heart thumps like a kick drum as I recognize the curvature of the muscles under the microfiber of his golf shirt.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Carson,” I sputter. “Uh, hi.”
He frowns at me but there’s no anger in his voice, thank God. I was so afraid he’d hate me after the way things ended the other night.
“Hello,” he says evenly. “Fancy meeting you here, and all that.”
“I know, it’s crazy!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. “Uh, what are you doing here?”
“Me?” He seems startled. “Just, uh, walking. Beautiful day for it.”
“Me too. Just walking.”
We stand there, hands still holding the back of the chair, for what seems like an eternity. I feel like I’m swimming in awkwardness. I reaallly want to disengage and run away, but I also want to just stand here and stare at him in his shorts for the rest of my life. Those legs are like a stag’s, all bulges and coiled steel.
Carson is the first one to disengage as his eyes wander above my head.
“Richard!” he says, raising his chin to acknowledge someone behind me. “What’s up?”
I turn to see who he’s talking to and my blood freezes. It’s man in his late 60s, tall and fit, with a pompadour of silver hair. His silk shirt is a pale green, his s
lacks khaki. He looks like he stepped off the page of a J. Crew catalog. I’ve seen him before, on the pages of Forbes magazine.
His name is Richard Linkletter, and he’s No. 11 on the list of the richest men in America.
Chapter Twenty-Three
23. CARSON
“Not much, Drake,” Richard says, extending his right hand. I let go of the chair and take it firmly. “How about you?”
“You know me,” I say with a shrug. “Same old, same old.”
“Right,” he says with a grin. “Like jumping off a cliff in Trentino in a flying suit and landing on Lake Garda. Just another day at the office.”
I shrug. “What can I say? Some of us are still young enough to enjoy our money.”
He doubles over like he’s been punched. It’s an old routine between the two of us. Rich was on the board of the company that bought out Black Sword, and we hit it off during the price negotiations. He respected the fact that I did it myself rather than through lawyers. He’s old money, but he’s still a stand-up guy.
And suddenly I wonder if he’s also one of my competitors in the Chase.
He’s married, but I don’t know how happily. Besides, I know plenty of men in my circle of influence who live their lives almost completely apart from their wives, only getting together as needed for dinner parties and charity events.
It’s a lifestyle I can’t even imagine. If you’re lucky enough to find The One, why would you ever want to be apart? Why would you do anything to risk that kind of happiness?
Big talk, Carson. You haven’t talked to Cassie since the night at the restaurant, and when you run into her during your Chase, you act like she’s nothing more than an inconvenience.
Speaking of Cassie, she looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and I realize I’m being terribly rude. My face colors with an uncharacteristic blush.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her soft, freckled shoulder. “Cassandra Vincent, I’d like you to meet my friend Richard Linkletter.”
“My pleasure,” he says, the words dripping with old money charm. “How do you know Drake here?”
High school, I open my mouth to say. Before I can form the words, Cassie beats me to the punch.
“We’re dating!” she says loudly.
We are?
Her arm creeps around my waist in a sudden death grip, and she looks up at me with a fluorescent smile.
Richard’s eyebrows arch. “Carson Drake, dating? That’s a new one.”
I smile down at Cassie, trying to keep the confusion out of my expression. What’s going on here? Is this some sort of revenge for the games I played the other night?
“Well,” I say, “it’s early days. We just reconnected. Haven’t seen each other since high school.”
“So you knew Drake here before he was rich?” he says to Cassie. “I’d love to pick your brain about that.”
“He’s the same person he was back then,” she says. “Smart. Sweet. Honest. Just a few more dollars and a few more muscles, that’s all.”
She looks up at me. “Isn’t that right?”
Is it right? I spent a decade trying to turn myself into James Bond and George Clooney rolled into one. I thought I’d succeeded. Now, with a few words, Cassie has me wondering if I ever changed at all.
And whether I should have even tried to in the first place.
“You’d know,” I say. “I’m not a very good judge of character. I still think Richard here is a good man, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“I can always count on you for a laugh, Carson,” he says with a chuckle. “Anyway, I have to run. I’ve got a board meeting in ten.”
He takes Cassie’s hand in his and kisses it, the old snake.
“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Vincent.”
“You, too,” she says. I can’t read the look on her face. Is it relief? I’d pay a million bucks to know what’s going on inside that head.
“Which board is it this time?” I ask.
“The Museum of Sex up the street. Call it a charity gig.”
“Seriously?” I grin. “Richard, there’s this thing called the Internet now. If you need, you know, release…”
“Laugh it up, Drake,” he says. His nod tells me he’s heard that one before. “It’s actually a fascinating place. You should come. If you’ll pardon the expression.”
He turns to Cassie. “Why don’t both of you join me? My treat.”
“Big spender,” I say.
Cassie looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and suddenly I’m thinking of ways to get out of this. To be honest, I really don’t need anything reminding me of the other night. Especially in shorts this tight.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to run,” she says. I can’t blame her. This is awkward as hell.
Especially the part about us dating. We obviously walked away from that encounter on two totally different pages. I can’t be distracted by anything during the Chase. I may have already missed the quarry during the time I’ve wasted standing here.
Cassie stands on her tiptoes and plants a delicious kiss on my lips. My cock begins to respond instantly, and I have to will it back down.
“See you later,” she says with a wave, then quickly trots off down Fifth and cuts through the park.
Richard flashes an indulgent smile at me.
“It’s about time, young man,” he says. “She’s a prize.”
He claps me on the shoulder and continues up the avenue toward his sex museum, leaving me standing there alone, wondering what the hell is happening – and what I’m supposed to do next.
Chapter Twenty-Four
24. CASSANDRA
My heartbeat is galloping as I speed walk across the park toward Twenty-Third Street Station and the subway that will get me the hell out of here.
I had no choice. If I hadn’t, and if Richard Linkletter had handed me a little brass key, the Chase would have been over and there would be less than a million in my Cayman account. Nowhere near enough.
I don’t want to think about the other part.
I feel like I’m on a black ops mission and I just avoided the enemy fire sparking overhead. Lying is second nature to me, but I’ve never been in a situation where the consequences were – well, so real.
Misinformation is standard operating procedure during a mission, because once the operation was over, everything resets. That’s not the case here.
Everything I do now has real-world consequences. I just told Carson we’re dating, and I have no idea how he feels about that. I have no idea how I feel about it. I don’t even know what it means.
He didn’t contradict me, which is encouraging. But what if now he thinks he should call me? I can’t have a boyfriend during the Chase!
Can I?
I slow my pace as I reach the stairwell off the street down into the subway station. People rush past like ants on a hill, everyone going about their own business, close in body only. Their minds, like mine, are on other things.
Probably not the same kind of things as mine, obviously. They’re wondering what to make for dinner. I’m wondering how to avoid capture. And how to avoid a sixty-year-old stranger taking my virginity.
The train hisses to a stop and I hop on board. As it pulls away, I scan the car for anything out of the ordinary. An Armani suit, for example, or a platinum Rolex. It’s possible that my pursuers have dressed down for the occasion, but it’s been my experience that it’s hard to cover up the scent of money. It leaves a mark.
Only a handful of people are sharing the ride with me at this time of day: a pair of teen boys with their skateboards; an elderly Asian woman with three shopping bags; a tall Sudanese man eating a platform hot dog.
No male billionaires here, unless Sudanese billionaires have a thing for cheap red frankfurters that taste like a mustard-covered salt lick.
As I settle into the molded plastic seat, my phone vibrates. I turned the ringer off the minute the Chase started, just as
a precaution; I don’t want any unnecessary attention drawn to me over the next two weeks. My training taught me that staying invisible means taking away anything that might cause someone to look in my direction.
I groan as I see the caller ID: it’s Tricia. We haven’t spoken since the day Carson and I met in the ice cream shop. She’s called before but I haven’t picked up. Better not blow her off again or she’ll get suspicious. And in all honesty, I owe her a call. We’re supposed to be business partners, after all.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hit the answer button.
“Hey, Trish,” I say. “Sorry I never got back to you. It’s been a crazy week.”
“You are so dead to me,” she huffs. “I’m actually thinking of adopting you just so I can disown you.”
“Oh, I’m fine, how are you?”
“Don’t try to be funny. You never called me to tell me about your date with Carson! What kind of bitch goes out with a rich demi-god and doesn’t call her best friend right after?”
Apparently, that’s what BFFs are supposed to do. I wouldn’t know, I’m new to this whole thing. I’ve never had a close friend like Tricia. I was always too busy studying, or training, or working. Or killing.
All the things my father wanted me to do.
“I’m waiting,” she says with practiced coldness in her voice. She obviously prepared for this.
“A stupid one?” I offer.
“A stupid one!”
I chuckle in spite of myself. She’s got a way of pulling me out of my head and turning me in a direction that I never would have seen. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.
“Sorry, sorry, a million times sorry,” I plead. “Can you forgive me?”
“That depends on the details. Hand ‘em over.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I lie. “We toured the Museum of Modern Art and had dinner.”
I leave out the extracurricular activity in the coatroom. Partly because I don’t want to talk about it, partly because it always makes my nipples pop. I’ve been thinking about it every night in bed. Masturbation is a wonderful sleep aid.