by Jade Allen
“I told you yesterday: you’re stuck with me until you tell me to leave.” Chelsea smiled.
“What are we going to do until the trial? I mean, I can’t work…” Johan brought her face up to his and kissed her hungrily.
“Well, personally my plan is to keep you fed, keep you from getting hurt again, and regularly fuck your brains out, as long as you want to fuck me.” He nibbled along the column of her throat. “I seem to recall you having an issue with me ‘bullying you’ into fucking on my schedule.” Chelsea laughed, and clutched at her bruised rib as the movement sent a ripple of pain strong enough to cut through the haze of pleasure and painkillers.
“Okay, okay,” she said, breathing carefully. “No more complaints about that.” Johan pulled her closer, nuzzling against her neck.
“Then I think we’ll be just fine.” Johan kissed her again. “No more tantrums until you’re healed up, got it?” Chelsea nodded.
“Got it. Now when are you going to feed me?” Johan guided her hand down along his body, and she laughed, half-groaning as she realized he was starting to become hard again. “One more time. Then we eat and get some drugs in me.”
“We have nothing but time,” Johan murmured, and they began to move together once more.
****
Chelsea managed to walk into the courtroom without limping, although the high heels the attorney had insisted she should wear for her stint on the witness stand made both her knee and ankle ache. She was healing—and Johan’s client had generously covered the expenses of her physical therapy, as well as the continued visits to the doctor—but it was slow.
She was grateful to have Johan at her side; Chelsea glanced in the direction of the defense table and saw her former employer, Aaron Rosen, glaring daggers in her direction. There was no doubt in her mind that if Rosen somehow did manage to avoid conviction, he would continue to send people after her—only it would be for the pleasure of revenge rather than the desire to keep her silent. She had mentioned that possibility to Johan the night before, as she lay awake in bed, worrying about her first day of testimony. “If he gets off,” Johan had said, pulling her around and on top of him, “then I will take you with me to Sweden, and we’ll live there. He’s small time, Chelsea-baby. He doesn’t have the resources to follow you outside of the country.” The prosecutor had told her that with her testimony—and the evidence that she had provided—it was practically no contest. The trial would end, and Rosen would be convicted and spend the rest of his days serving out consecutive sentences—to which the district attorney had added murder and attempted murder.
Whatever happened, Chelsea thought as she gave Johan’s hand a brief squeeze, glancing at him for support, she knew that the man who had come into her life so unexpectedly, and who she had fought against so hard, would stand by her and support her.
THE END
Secret Desires Of The Billionaire
“Big day?”
Cassie looked at Henry’s wry smile, trying to glare at him convincingly as he handed over her bag of muscle relaxing cream. As usual, she failed; the tough girl act never worked on the old Filipino man in charge of the corner store below her apartment.
“Yeah,” she said, sighing. She checked to make sure the tiny story was empty, her caramel colored ponytail whipping from side to side as her head turned. “I was sitting till for twelve hours yesterday tracking the wife of a politician. She turned out to have gambling problem. My butt aches like my mother kicked it.”
Henry chuckled. “I hoped you were paid well for your troubles.”
Cassie winked and shoved her hands into the pocket of her chocolate calfskin jacket. “You know it, Henry. What about you? Did you go fishing like you said you would?”
Henry’s eyes light up like lamps, and he nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! Sheryl and I took the boat out onto the bay and caught some very nice trout. We should have you over for dinner sometime.”
Cassie laughed. “I’d love to tell Sheryl about how we both catch bad guys.”
“Sheryl hasn’t been a policewoman for fifteen years,” Henry reminded her. “But I think even she would be surprised at some of the stories you have to tell.”
Ain’t that the truth. “I’ll have you see for yourself one day. Catch you later!”
Henry waved her out, turning to his newspaper as she exited the store. “Have fun! Be safe!”
It was his constant refrain, and sometimes she came in just to hear it. It was nice to feel fully engaged with another human being in a casual way—she was so used to being completely unnoticed that sometimes she needed the gentle reminder that she could still behave like everyone else.
Cassie dashed up the four flights of stairs to her loft, happy for the burst of activity after such a long day of sitting as still as a stone. But she’d been able to bill the politician for all twelve hours of her stakeout, and had gotten him more than enough information to justify that check that was nearly enough to cover a whole month’s rent. After five years, Cassie was so effective at improvisation and blending in that she got to pick and choose assignments often—and even worked pro bono regularly enough to call herself “in demand”; her work had even led to the imprisonment of several high profile child abusers. Despite all this, Cassie maintained such a ghostly presence in the media that she was almost never recognized on sight, and dates often demanded to see proof that she was the famous Cassie Vine—at which point she usually feigned sickness and went home. More than anything, Cassie hated being pressured; it was part of the reason private investigation called to her so strongly. There was nothing like being your own boss and only having your own glass ceiling to break.
By the time Cassie had finished rubbing the mentholated cream into her lean calves and thighs, it was noon. She’d slept later than she meant to after being alert for twelve hours straight, and now she had to get started on her next assignment with virtually no prep. She slipped into soft jogging pants and a dark gray sweater, pulling her brown hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
Carter Hampton, she recited to herself. Twenty-six, six foot four, two hundred fifty pounds. Sandy blonde hair, green eyes, faint scar across the right side of his jaw. She’d memorized his picture and description straight from the file his father had emailed, right after he’d messengered over a cashier’s check of staggering proportions. Find my son by any means necessary, he ordered. He’s a danger to himself, and his safety is paramount. Please, no police—unless things grow dire.
Despite the note’s dramatic tone, Cassie wasn’t worried; this was typical for a tracking case, and she was positive the young man was going to be fine. The father had supplied enough information to find him, but when she noticed their medical and credit histories were oddly blank, she realized the man had given her fake identities, but a real picture and description—presumably in case she attempted to get the authorities involved. If it had really been a dangerous situation, he would have given her traceable information; this was almost certainly a case of a spoiled, immature brat leaving the nest after throwing a tantrum. The worst risk posed was maybe a night of binge drinking, or a coke-fueled bender—the father would likely know the risks to his son far better than she did. Cassie knew that these ultra-rich types often had close personal advisors working to make sure they didn’t inadvertently ruin their images over something as silly as a family member in peril. She didn’t approve, but pushing never got her anything but a closed door in her face. If something went wrong, she could leverage information then.
The father had told her that Carter liked to hang out in strip malls and used book stores. As she slid on her sunglasses and headed back out the door, she realized she was actually looking forward to this outing—it wouldn’t be hard to pretend to browse for books or household supplies, since it was actually something she had been meaning to do. Cassie drove to her first location, a book shop called Second Page that was fifteen miles from her apartment. It was listed as a frequented location, and Cassie could immediately se
e why: the store itself was enormous, and the shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. There were long mahogany ladders along each wall, hooked into the bookcase with a set of wheels so you could move smoothly from title to title. The shop took up two offices and was situated between a nail parlor and a car insurance agency, and she could tell it had been there a long time; its sign was dusty and yellowed, and the interior coat of paint was hardly any better. The hunched cashier barely acknowledged Cassie as she strolled in, and a second, younger employee wearing a faded apron far too baggy for her twiggy torso let out a monotone “Hi,” before returning to her leisurely task. The carpet had the sort of retro pattern you only see on fast food restaurant tables or bus seats—some ambiguous shade of blue or purple, crisscrossed with unbroken mustard yellow lines and jagged green slashes that intersected at odd intervals. It was more plush than it looked, and oddly comforting. Cassie wandered over to a section at random and pulled a title from the shelf.
Cassie was browsing for ten whole minutes before the bell above the door tinkled. She waited a full minute and set her book down, turning in a slow circle as she reached for another spine and cast her eyes toward the front of the store. She felt her heart sink briefly as she saw that it was a woman with short blonde curls and bright blue eyes—striking, but not her guy. Oh, well. Cassie gazed down at the book she’d chosen and chuckled softly: The Joy of Sex. That was something she hadn’t experienced in a while.
The bell above the door tinkled again, but she only had to wait a few moments for the new customer to wander into view. Her heart skipped a beat—a tall man, over six feet, with light brown hair mostly hidden underneath a worn red Angels cap. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he was a great deal more muscular than the description suggested, as well having hair a few shades darker than she was looking for—but one of the drawbacks of Cassie’s job was that she was often surprised, and not always in a good way. Occasionally, people who were exposed because of her work tried to seek revenge, and she’d had more than a few close calls. This didn’t seem like one of those times, however—and, sure enough, the muscular man breezed past her without a second glance and stopped in front of the sports section.
The tension had finally drained from her spine when the bell above the glass door sounded again—and this time, the hair on her forearms stood on end as though someone had whispered in her ear. She waited a few seconds, then tucked The Joy of Sex under her arm while turning and gazing at the shelf behind her. Her eyes fell on the new customer, and sirens went off in her brain as she scanned the man and struck off every item on her mental checklist. Bingo: Hello, Carter Hampton.
Cassie opened her new book and watched him in her peripheral vision. He looked around nervously, as though looking for an entry way among the stacks her own eyes couldn’t detect. Then Carter headed for the furthest shelves to her right, disappearing behind the tall stacks without a sound. She burned his outfit into her brain in case he slipped out: a crisp, long-sleeved forest green button-up shirt with a pair of dark denim jeans that were old enough to look soft to the touch—or expensive enough to come that way fresh out of the factory. He wore black hiking boots, and they looked like they’d been used a few times, at least.
Cassie couldn’t believe she’d been so lucky; maybe she’d be done with this case today, and she could take some time to herself to actually read some of the things she’d end up buying. She rounded a corner casually, letting her eyes float indiscriminately among the colorful, varied spines as she followed the back wall to the aisle where Carter stood.
This was the hardest part of her job—getting close without being detected. She didn’t raise her eyes as she emerged into the furthest aisle, though she noted Carter’s position and the language of his posture as he gazed around at the books. She needed to see if he really was dangerous in any way—and there was always a chance he could be dangerous to her, especially if he realized she was following him, and especially if he was on any stimulants. Cassie had more experience with ducking heavy items–like chairs and corded phones—than she wanted to admit, but she wasn’t confident in her ability to duck a punch from a man who weighed a hundred pounds more than her. That was what her taser was for—and, if that failed, her hunting knife. She’d never had to use the knife before, but there was a first time for everything.
A cursory glance told her that though the man was on edge, his eyes were clear and steady. They were a startling sea green, as deep as a rolling ocean; Cassie felt herself pause on the stubble-covered square of his jaw, his strong nose, and his thick, dark lashes, wondering how things would play out if she did a little retcon as a flirty college student.
Focus! she reminded herself. You’re working. Urges later. Money now.
Cassie reached for another book, and the movement pulled Carter’s eyes to her. She felt a shiver roll down her spine as his eyes fell on her—and it intensified as they stayed there, as though they were glued to her skin. She forced her breathing to stay steady and prayed that her cheeks didn’t look as warm as they felt. Did he catch me staring? Tell me he didn’t catch me staring!
Cassie turned a page in the book she was gripping, counting slowly from one to ten in her head as her heart beat wildly in her chest. Finally, she felt his eyes move on from her—but he started to move away from her as well, backing around a corner while he cast his eyes around him restlessly once more.
Shit! Cassie thought, her internal monologue growing more hysterical by the second. Did he move away because I was staring, or because he knows I’m following him?
Or maybe he’s just moving away, said a second, calmer voice—but this didn’t feel as true, and her heart started to beat more quickly. Great, you ruined a case with your stupid hormones—happy now?
Cassie groaned under her breath and turned around, sauntering back toward her original position while trying to look for Carter as nonchalantly as she could. She got back to the other side of the store before she realized that he wasn’t anywhere she could see, and her heart started to race again. What the hell? Why didn’t I hear the door open?
She nearly jumped out of her skin when two fingers tapped lightly on her shoulder from behind. The books Cassie was holding all slipped to the purplish carpet, and she was too stunned to bother to try and catch them. It was Carter—and he was grinning at her sheepishly, his sandy blonde hair falling over one of his calm green eyes as he looked down at his scuffed hiking boots. Cassie’s heart was still in her throat, and she took a step away from him, letting him see the warning in her eyes when he met her gaze again. She still didn’t know who he really was—only that someone needed him found.
“Sorry to startle you,” he said, and his deep voice was palpably apologetic. “I had to give you the slip. I’m not great at direct confrontations. This is usually a little easier.
Cassie didn’t try to hide the confusion in her eyes; the way he was speaking didn’t seem to match up with her expectations of the situation, but that didn’t mean she was totally wrong. Make him think you’re just a customer, she decided. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
The man raised his eyebrows at her. “Wow, you’re dedicated. Cassie, it’s okay. It’s over. You passed the test.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion flooding her mind. “Test? What the hell are you talking about?”
He looked nervous now; he even looked over his shoulder, as though checking for backup. “I’m sorry, I should explain. My name isn’t Carter Hampton—though you’ve likely already figured that out.” He paused, but Cassie didn’t speak.
“My name is Eric Riverston, and I’m the same person who sent you that email,” he continued anxiously. “I really need help, and you were among the top five private investigators available, according to my research.”
Cassie suddenly understood what he meant by test. “You set this up to see how good I was at feeling you out and tracking you?”
Carter—Eric, she corrected herself—smiled, relief plain in his expression. “Yes, exact
ly. I’m ashamed to admit that because of your age, I went through the other four before I tried you…but none of them ever even found me.”
Cassie laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Eric peered at her, and she felt a peculiar tingling sensation spread through her body—like she was massaged all over with light particles, or a vibrating mist. “Why not?”
Cassie thought for a moment, trying to find a way to explain it to him. “Let me ask you this: why do you think those other PIs didn’t find you?”
Eric blinked slowly in response to her question. “They all went in different directions,” he said at last. “One of them started trying to cross match identities to find my real one. Two of them took the picture and started asking around places, and that got them close, but never actually anywhere I turned out to be. And the other one tried to get around the block by running my finger prints.”
Cassie was nodding as he spoke, and she chuckled as he finished talking. “That sounds like grizzled PIs. Depending on their careers, they may pick up a few really good tips and tricks and use them well enough to get by—but ultimately, if you work in the dirt, everything starts to look like mud. They’ve learned bad habits, and often, they lead to bad decisions. That’s one area where my age is an advantage—and lucky for you, it’s a big one.”
Eric was gazing at her in wonder, “Wow. I should have just come and talked to you.”
Cassie laughed. “The way you live has given you blind spots too, I’m sure.”
Eric smiled at her, and it was so unselfconscious that she felt her own smile broaden in return. “Oh, please. Tell me what my blind spots are. And how would you know them, anyway?”
She laughed again, and this time it was distinctly surprised; an ultra-rich type with a sense of humor about himself was rare—but then, so was a client catching her completely off guard. “Well, you’ve just said your name is Eric Riverston—and despite the fact that I know you’ve taken care to avoid doing almost any press or allowing any real information about you to be spread on the internet, I make it my business to know things that are clearly none of mine.”