His Sword

by Holly Hart

“Those bastards,” he says. “I thought it would be at least a million a day. That’s an obscene profit margin.”

  I shrug. “Most obscenely rich people don’t get where they are by undercharging, Carson.”

  His face lightens and he doubles over, covering his heart with his hand.

  “That hurts,” he groans.

  “The truth often does,” I say. “Better get used to it. Because I don’t swing and miss.”

  He smiles absently. I’ve seen this look before: there’s an idea percolating in his head. I’ve missed that look. God, how I’ve missed it.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  “I always am. Which instance are you referring to?”

  “I’m obscenely rich.”

  “Well, the first step is admitting it, I guess.”

  “We should be doing the kind of things obscenely rich people do together. Last night was a good start, but there’s all sorts of stuff we could be doing. The only limit is our imagination.”

  The thought sends a little thrill through me. If last night was only a sample of what life could be like, I think I could get addicted to it.

  “Just one thing,” I say. “You’re obscenely rich. I’m not.”

  “Who cares, as long as one of us is?” he says. “Your time is coming, babe. And when that ship comes in, you better believe you’re going to be picking up the check. I’m a firm believer in feminism.”

  I punch his shoulder.

  “We need to make some plans,” he says. “What do obscenely rich people do?”

  I put my lips to his ear and take his left hand in mine, placing it between my thighs. His touch makes me instantly wet.

  “Do obscenely rich people fuck?” I whisper.

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispers back. “Obscenely.”

  Turns out he’s right.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  45. CARSON

  Trying to lead two blindfolded women by the hand isn’t nearly as fun as you might think it would be.

  It doesn’t help that they’ve already finished a bottle of wine between them at lunch.

  “Watch your big feet, bitch!” Tricia hollers as she stumbles into Cassie.

  “Maybe if you stepped on yours instead of mine, you’d be okay!” Cassie counters.

  They both burst into a slumber party giggle fit, which makes it even harder to pull them in the direction I need them to go, which is down. I should have recruited Leonard to help when he dropped us off.

  We’ve got a triangle of hand-holding going on – each has a hold of one of mine, and one of the other’s – which maybe isn’t the best way to do this. But it’s too late now. I can’t imagine how opening my big mouth would help one little bit.

  “Why are we on a slant?” Cassie’s asks. “Are we in a museum or something?”

  Tricia snorts. “Better not be, with the spectacle we’re putting on!”

  “Okay,” I say. “Stop here.”

  A murmur of laughter comes from in front of and below us.

  “Who’s laughing at us?” Cassie calls. “You try doing this blindfolded! Whatever this is!”

  “What are you doing to us, Carson?” Tricia growls. “I didn’t sign up for public humiliation.”

  I hide a grimace, even though I know that can’t see me. At least we’ve reached where we need to be. I position the two of them so they face the same direction, holding their arms to make sure neither of them falls over.

  “All right, you can take them off now.”

  “This better be worth it, buster,” says Tricia.

  “I’m sure it will be,” Cassie says, patting my hand. She leans toward me. “It better be.”

  They both reach up and tug on the fabric knots of their blindfolds.

  “Ta-da,” I say.

  The look on their faces is worth every penny and every stumbling step it took to get to this point.

  “Oh, my God,” Cassie says. “Is this…?”

  Tricia, as always, is a bit more blunt.

  “Holy shit!” she says.

  I direct their attention to the stage and the gentleman standing there.

  “I apologize for the laughs from the orchestra,” he says. “They’re all drunk. They usually spend their afternoons in a bar.”

  More laughter from the orchestra pit in front of us.

  Cassie looks at me, mouth open.

  “Are you serious?”

  “He’s serious, all right,” says the man on stage. “Hi, my name is Michael. I’m the stage manager for The Book of Mormon.”

  Tricia scans the place, wide-eyed. The Eugene O’Neill Theater is empty except for us.

  “We’re the only ones here!” she crows.

  “It’s a private matinee,” says Michael. “Which is pretty amazing since, like I said, no one involved in this show gets up before happy hour.”

  I drape an arm over Cassie’s shoulder.

  “You didn’t get to finish watching the show the last time you were here,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t mind watching the first half again.”

  I turn to Tricia.

  “As for you, I figured you could use a little culture.”

  She grins wide and flips me the bird.

  “This is seriously awesome, Carson,” she says. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “How did you pull this off?” Cassie asks.

  I point to the stage.

  “A sizeable donation to the Foundation for the Arts opens a lot of doors,” Michael says. “The truckload of top-shelf scotch didn’t hurt, either.”

  I direct the women to their seats directly behind the orchestra pit.

  “This is hands-down the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Cassie says as she settles in.

  “Correction,” I say. “The craziest thing this week.”

  Tricia grins. “I would tell you two to get a room, but I want an invite to whatever the next crazy thing is.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll get one.”

  “Ahem,” says Cassie. “That depends on what the next crazy thing is.”

  “Seriously,” Tricia deadpans. “You’re not making the ‘get a room’ thing easy here.”

  Cassie rolls her eyes and tilts her head toward mine.

  “Riff-raff,” she sighs. “It’s getting so people like us can’t even go to the theater without running into them.”

  Tricia ignores her and stretches her legs out into the aisle, crossing them at the ankles.

  “I could get used to this,” she sighs.

  The lights go low as the familiar strains of “Hello” begin to waft from the orchestra directly below us. Once again, the young men in their short-sleeved shirts and black ties take the stage.

  “This is obscene,” Cassie whispers in my ear.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I whisper back.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  46. CASSANDRA

  A week later.

  “Okay, I admit it: coming to Grand Cayman in August wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”

  I can barely hear Carson through the giant floppy hat that’s doing an abysmal job of protecting my pale, increasingly freckled skin from the scorching hell of the Caribbean sun. But hey, at least the sunscreen is running off my body in rivulets, thanks to a constant supply of sweat.

  Of course, it actually works in Carson’s favor. When he’s all sweated up, his physique glistens in the sun like an oiled-up bodybuilder’s. Except he’s not afflicted with their pig-ugly, veiny head.

  “Whatever makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, plucking an ice cube from my gin and tonic and dropping it down my cleavage. If I’m suffering, I figure Carson has to as well.

  Okay, it could be worse. The restaurant – and its blessed air-conditioning – is only a few steps away. And there’s a bit of a breeze coming off the ocean.

  But my God, the humidity. I’ve read that it’s impossible for it to go above one hundred percent at sea level, but I’m seriously wondering if the hypothes
is needs more research. If I could prove it’s possible, I could publish and go for my PhD.

  Or I could stop being such a baby and finish my drink. That seems like the more viable option. And more pleasant. I down it in a gulp, my taste buds puckering at the bitterness of the tonic.

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Carson says. “After we’re done here, we can fly to Reykjavik. Shouldn’t be more than sixty degrees there.”

  I smile sweetly and stroke his cheek.

  “Oh, honey,” I soothe. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make up for this.”

  He grins and drains his Corona. It joins the army of empties on the table. Dealing with this weather is thirsty work.

  In the distance I see Tricia and Maksim trudging toward us through the sand. Neither of them seems all that put out by the heat, although it’s hard to tell with Maks. He sort of has a light sheen to his skin all the time, regardless of temperature.

  “Who would have thought those two would get along?” I say as they approach.

  Carson drapes an arm over the back of his chair, letting his shirt fall open to expose his torso.

  “Maks is pretty easygoing,” he says. “Although, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if he’d come on this trip. The last time we hung out, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

  “What happened?”

  He looks at me over his Oakleys.

  “He wanted to go out with you.”

  An involuntary snort escapes me before I can stop it.

  “Sorry,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy, but me and him? Especially when you’re in the picture? I don’t think so.”

  “Actually, I think I owe him for driving home just how much I want you to myself.”

  “Is that right?” I drop my own glasses. “Well, I guess I owe him then, too.”

  Speak of the devils. Tricia and Maksim arrive at the table, shaking the sand out of their beach towels. Tricia’s compact curves fill out her wet one-piece nicely, while Maks’ kind of looks like most of his time in the gym is spent chatting up girls. Still, I guess Tricia knows what she’s doing.

  “There were stingrays flying out in the surf!” Tricia says, grinning like a kid.

  “I saw no fish flying,” says Maks. “I was only seeing lovely Patricia.”

  She wraps her towel around her and sits at the table, plucking a beer from the ice bucket on the concrete.

  “I appreciate the effort, Maks,” she says as she pops the cap off the bottle. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  To his credit, Maksim just smiles and spreads his hands wide in a “what are you gonna do?” gesture.

  Carson glances at his phone on the table and then up at me.

  “I suppose we should get to the bank,” he says. “Money never sleeps, but bankers sure as hell do. It’ll be closed in an hour.”

  I gather up my beach bag. We’ve been so busy being obscenely rich the last couple of days that I almost forgot I just won a multi-million-dollar prize. Carson suggested we come directly to Cayman to deal with the money, given the legal tightrope I’m walking with it.

  We wave good-bye to our friends and hop in a passing taxi van that speeds us to the Grand National Bank of the Islands. A tall black gentleman in island business casual greets us in the deliciously frigid foyer as we walk in.

  “Ms. Vincent, a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Andre Moreau. We spoke on the phone.”

  “A pleasure,” I say, taking his offered hand. “This is my friend, Carson Drake.”

  Andre’s eyes widen. “The Carson Drake?”

  “Well, a Carson Drake anyway,” he replies. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

  I love that he’s leaving this to me. It means a lot that he’s not trying to horn in and give me advice. Mainsplaining, they call it. But Carson would never.

  Andre ushers me into his office and we take a seat. He boots up his computer and begins typing.

  “If I remember correctly, we will be discussing a sum of $2.75 million USD.”

  “That’s correct,” I say.

  Three days shy of the full $3.5 million, because of circumstances beyond our control, but Carson said he’ll reimburse me for his impatience.

  “I’m interested in the best way to access it in the States in a lump sum for a business investment.”

  After a few moments, he stops typing. His eyes narrow and his brows draw together as he peers at the screen.

  It’s never a good thing when someone looks like they don’t believe what a computer is telling them.

  “This is… unusual,” he says.

  “How so?”

  He looks at me with a mix of disbelief and sympathy.

  “Madam, I’m afraid this account is empty.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  47. CASSANDRA

  My heart sends out a single kick drum beat in my chest as adrenaline pumps into my system.

  “There must be a mistake,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. Inside, I’m anything but.

  “Perhaps,” says Andre. “There was a balance of $2.75 million USD, but the funds were withdrawn the day before yesterday.”

  “That can’t be. I haven’t accessed the account in over forty-eight hours.”

  He continues typing, scanning the monitor for clues. I quickly get the impression that he’s only humoring me. Staving off the moment he has to confirm the unpleasant truth. But I already know what it is. The pit of my stomach makes that fact absolutely, unpleasantly clear.

  “It appears the money was recalled by the depositing account.”

  What? A cold fury creeps into my guts.

  “How is that possible?” I ask. How could you let that happen, I want to scream.

  “There are certain unique provisions in accounts of this nature. Payments can be withheld or withdrawn in extraordinary circumstances, usually to do with breach of contract.”

  I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I am very sorry, Ms. Vincent,” he says. “Obviously this is a mistake. Unfortunately, it is not one I can rectify here at the bank. You will have to contact your lawyer.”

  He smiles nervously. I swallow the rage building inside me and manage to smile back.

  “Of course,” I say, rising from my chair, as if this kind of thing happens to me all the time. “These things happen.”

  We shake hands and I walk out of the office. Carson looks up from a copy of Yachts International as I emerge into the waiting room. His eyes widen as he sees my expression.

  “I take it things didn’t go as planned,” he says cautiously.

  I flash a thousand-watt smile.

  “The fuckers took my money back,” I say.

  Carson’s jaw literally drops open.

  “What?”

  “Every cent. Two days ago. Andre said they have the right as the depositor and to take it up with my lawyer. I don’t have a lawyer.”

  “I’ve got about eighty,” he says absently. “But we can’t get them involved in this. You don’t want something like this coming anywhere near the eyes of a judge.”

  “No kidding.”

  He takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eye.

  “We can fix this,” he says.

  “I can fix this,” I say, trying to keep the venom out of my voice.

  I don’t want Carson Drake riding in on his white horse to save the helpless damsel in distress. This may be distress, but I’m far from helpless.

  He holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Absolutely. I know what you’re capable of.”

  He wishes. That flip on the dance floor was child’s play. I was just surprised then.

  You don’t want to see me when I’m angry.

  Carson smiles crookedly.

  “Can I ask one favor?”

  “Make it good.”

  “Can it wait till we get back to New York tomorrow night? I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Until
then, let’s enjoy the next twenty-four hours.”

  I’m still pouting, but the idea is growing on me.

  “I’m still obscenely rich,” he says.

  “Yeah, and I’m flat broke.”

  “But soon to be rich. Maybe not obscenely, but rich enough that people will shake their heads and cluck their tongues.”

  I fight the smile as long as I can, but I finally I give in. How does he do this to me? Before he came back into my life, I wouldn’t have slept until I’d figured this out.

  “All right,” I say, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let’s go find Tricia and Maks. Might as well have a night out while we’re here. Besides, I want to show off my body. I’ve sweated away fifteen pounds since we arrived.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

  “If you think that’s bad, imagine if you’d stolen a couple million dollars from me.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  48. CARSON

  One of the great things about Grand Cayman is that the sun sets between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m. every day of the year.

  And when the sun goes down, the party starts.

  The club we’re in – it’s called JetStream – is all blue lights and bright whites, with electronica throbbing out of the speakers. But we’ve got a booth in the VIP section, and it’s low season for tourism, so we can actually hear each other. Sort of.

  Cassie points to the dance floor and puts her lips to my ear.

  “Look at them!” she says. “Who’d have thought?”

  I know from experience that Maksim is a seriously good dancer – he literally lives in nightclubs, how could he not be – but Tricia is a surprise. She’s writhing and grinding with him like an old pro. All while holding a triple mojito.

  If nothing else, the girl knows how to cut loose.

  “I think Tricia likes him,” says Cassie.

  “Are you kidding? He’s been talking to the hand since we took off from JFK.”

  “She was just playing hard to get. She wants a guy to work for it.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “It’s about time Maks had to work for something.”

  We clink our glasses together and down some of the blue concoction inside. It’s sweet and coconut-y and totally unlike anything I usually drink. But hey, it’s Cayman. And what happens in Cayman…