Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

  She strides off toward the piers, disappearing into the crowds wandering by to take advantage of the breeze on a hot afternoon. In less than a minute, I’ve lost sight of her entirely.

  Chapter Sixty

  29. CASSANDRA

  I hurry along the waterfront, trying to put as much distance between me and Carson as I can, as quickly as possible. I feel like such an ass. I wish I could just tell Carson anything, like in the old days. But of course, I can’t. Rule number one in the Chase – you don’t talk about the Chase,

  To anyone. No matter how much you care for them.

  The afternoon sun is hot against my exposed skin, baking me the way only a redhead can experience. Sweaty people flow past me in both directions, snapping photos of the water, laughing, arguing, chatting. Doing all the things normal people do.

  I don’t cry. I never cry. It’s not what CIA agents do.

  We analyze, we pretend, we think, we act. We endure. Sometimes we kill.

  But we don’t cry.

  When I’m sure I’m out of Carson’s line of sight, I turn left and head down Forty-Ninth Street to Hell’s Kitchen. Despite the name, it’s actually a beautiful neighborhood. For the most part.

  There are still a few areas that aren’t gentrified yet, but at least I know there won’t be any old billionaires following me in here. And if there are, they’ll stick out like a sore thumb.

  It gives me a chance to let my guard down and gather my thoughts.

  As if I could possibly get the storm swirling inside me right now under control.

  Why couldn’t I take Carson up on his invitation to dinner? I’m not a proud woman, and in all honesty, his experience could really help me with the deal.

  His negotiating skill alone would be an asset worth millions. I don’t know all the details – it felt somehow strange to look them up, as though I was working an asset – but from what little I’ve been able to find out, he sold Black Sword for a serious amount of money.

  I need to stop trying to fool myself.

  I know why I couldn’t have dinner with him. First is that my story about selling my business to raise capital is paper-thin. Carson is sharper than anyone else I’ve ever known. He’d see through it in five minutes.

  Second is that I know damn well I’d end up in bed with him. No question about it.

  But would that really be so bad?

  For what seems like the millionth time, I imagine going with Carson, giving in to what we both clearly feel.

  Just letting it all go: no more Chase, no more lies. Surrendering to him, letting his body come together with mine and finally reaching the heights that I’ve heard so much about.

  And Carson’s rich; I could get him to invest my share to build Tricialicious, and pay him back over time with the profits.

  There are only two problems with that scenario: first, I’d be relying on him to make my dreams come true for me. And I might not be a proud woman, but I’m definitely too proud for that. Second, I’d be breaking the rules of the Chase.

  Somehow, I don’t think I’d be able to walk away from that scenario unscathed. I don’t know what the woman in the red dress’s “associates” are capable of, but I get the feeling they’re not above making someone disappear.

  I might be able to survive in that situation, but not without everyone I know and love finding out that I was in a competition to sell my virginity. I can’t imagine what Carson would think of that. I mean, what would he think of me when he found out I was that kind of girl?

  And, of, course, it would come out that I’m a former CIA operative. I watched what that did to my family once. I won’t watch it happen again.

  I stop for a moment and look up at the buildings; I don’t even know where I am anymore. The street is lined with brownstones on the west side and tenements on the east. The trees are throwing welcome shade down on my blistering shoulders.

  At this point in the chase, I’m amazed anything can startle me anymore, but a voice does.

  “Need help, honey?”

  I look down at a woman in her sixties, sitting on a folding chair beside a flower stand. I assume she’s Betty from the “Betty’s Bouquets” clapboard sign propped on the sidewalk in front of the stand.

  “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. “Just realized I’ve never been down this street before. It’s very pretty.”

  “Not as pretty as the lady who’s callin’ it pretty,” she says. Her own grin highlights a set of slightly oversized dentures, and sends up dual fans of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.

  I scan the riot of colors in her inventory: white and orange lilies, roses in red, yellow, pink, even blue, and, of course, a rainbow of daisies and carnations. All look as if they just came off the bush.

  “I bet you say that to all your customers,” I laugh.

  “Honey, most of my customers is husbands who f’got they anniversaries. Not often I get one of you uptown models wanderin’ down my street. What brings you down here, honey?”

  She’s so sweet I don’t try to correct her. Model is about the last career choice I’d ever have gone in for.

  “I’m trying to get away from a boy,” I admit.

  Her grin widens, if that’s possible.

  “Oh, the troubles we gotta endure,” she chuckles. “Lemme guess: he’s chasin’ you with a big ol’ diamond ring and you don’t wanna be tied down.”

  She’s got me on the ropes now. I have to buy something.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “But – well, he is rich.”

  “Course he is.”

  “But there’s … something that I have to do before we can be together.”

  Whoa, when did I start telling strangers my life story?

  “So you do want him?”

  “Yes.” God, so much it aches.

  “Honey, I know you din’t ask my advice, but it’s been my experience that waitin’ to do things is a bad idea. That’s how life passes you by.”

  Wise words from a flower lady, I guess. But then it’s not like I’m finding it anywhere else. Sometimes you need to talk to a stranger to find the truth you need to hear. The truth that’s staring you right in the face.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a portly older gentleman walking toward us from the north. His skin is so deeply tanned it borders on leathery, but his bald scalp appears pink under his Dallas Cowboys ball cap. Must have had too much sun this afternoon.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he drawls in a thick Texan accent, lifting his cap in salute. “Wonderful day.”

  “It is indeed,” says Betty. “Even finer with a pretty lady and a handsome gentleman.”

  She really is the perfect saleswoman. The Texan looks over her wares and points to a bouquet of blindingly white roses. Their marked price is $50, which, for a forgetful husband, isn’t terribly high, I suppose.

  “I’ll take those, my dear,” he says.

  Betty stands up from her folding chair and wraps the roses in green paper.

  “Breathtaking,” she says as she hands them to him. “Whoever’s gettin’ em is a lucky girl.”

  The Texan turns and hands them to me.

  “I don’t know about lucky, but she certainly is breathtaking.”

  What?

  “No sir, I couldn’t possibly – ” I stammer.

  “Miss, I’m a single man on vacation in the big city, and you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a coon’s age,” he says with a grin. “How ‘bout you indulge me?”

  He lowers his sunglasses to look me in the eye.

  “Not gonna take no for an answer.”

  Betty looks from him to me and back to him.

  He flips a wave at us with one meaty hand and whistles off down the street.

  “See y’all later!” he calls back. “Have a wonderful day.”

  Betty starts to giggle uncontrollably.

  “Oh, the troubles some girls has,” she says as she sits back down in her folding chair.

  I look down at the roses, than at the Tex
ans backside as it recedes down the street.

  How did an old Texan and a streetside flower lady manage to get the best of a CIA operative?

  I can’t help it. I join in Betty’s laughter until we both have tears streaming down our cheeks.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  30. CARSON

  Each time I come into Patty’s looking for the quarry, I end up running into Cassie. So, of course, when I come in looking for Cassie, she’s not here.

  It would be the height of irony if one of my preferred suspects was here right now, but no such luck. At this time of morning – after the pre-work crowd but before the coffee break crowd – there’s only a handful of customers.

  I sit down near an elderly couple, sipping tea and poring over sections of the Times as they share one of Tricia’s exquisite raspberry scones.

  “Carson!”

  I turn to see Tricia waving frantically at me from behind the front counter. I smile and wave back. I’ve managed to avoid her on my previous trips in here on the Chase, mostly because I didn’t want to start a conversation that I know was just going to distract me.

  Too late now, I guess.

  She fills a cup with black coffee and trots over to my table, bounding with energy.

  “Good to see you again!” she says with far too much enthusiasm, setting the coffee in front of me. A few black droplets spill over the edge of the cup.

  “Thanks, you too. Can you join me?”

  “Hey, I’m the owner, I can do whatever I want.”

  She plunks down in the chair opposite me and leans forward on her elbows.

  “So,” she says. “I’ve seen you in here lately but I never got to talk to you. How are things?”

  Hmm. Why am I suddenly picturing an interrogation room and a hot light? Now, if Cassie tried her hand, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist. Still, I have a feeling that whatever I say is going to go straight back to her. I’ll try to sidestep any potential embarrassment.

  “They’re great, Trish. How about you? Is the deal coming along?”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “I let Sandra look after that. I mean Cassie.”

  What’s this, now?

  “She doesn’t go by Sandra anymore?”

  Tricia props her elbows on the table and drops her chin into her hands with a theatrical flourish.

  “Not since you walked back into her life,” she says, batting her comically long false lashes at me.

  Huh. I take a sip of my coffee, mostly to avoid having to say something back. I don’t know how to process all this stuff.

  Also, the timing sucks: my cocky belief that I’d win the Chase within a few days was obviously unfounded. There are only a few days left to go, and the hotel key is still firmly lodged in my pocket. I’d be astounded if anyone has made near as much progress as me, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take. It’d kill me to see it devolve into a bidding war for this woman’s virginity.

  Honestly, I’m not even sure that I would place a bid. It would almost feel like cheating. Maybe, just maybe, I could get involved to save the poor woman from the clutches of one of my less savory colleagues.

  “How did your date go last week?” Tricia asks out of the blue, and I almost spray coffee all over her apron. I manage to choke it down instead.

  “You know about that?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Cassie is my BFF; I know everything.”

  Everything?

  “So she told you about the coatroom,” I say, wincing.

  Tricia leans back in her chair.

  “The coatroom,” she says with a knowing nod. “Mm-hm. Yup.”

  “Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.”

  “Why, uh, why do you say that?”

  My eyebrows go up. Maybe Tricia’s into kinky stuff and public sex isn’t a taboo. In any case, she’s not judging me. It’s good to finally be able to talk about it with someone.

  “Well, I mean, I don’t normally go pawing women in public places, especially on the first date.”

  “Uh-huh.” She picks up a toothpick and starts gnawing on it. “Of course not.”

  “Although, I guess it wasn’t technically our first. I mean, we were together for almost two years in high school.”

  “Why did you guys stop?”

  “Stop dating?”

  Should I tell her? Hell, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Cassie stood me up on our prom night and disappeared. Her family moved to another base, and she never got in touch with me.”

  Tricia frowns. “She did that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was talking about the coatroom. Why you stopped – well, you know.”

  Oh, shit.

  “But really? She just ran out on you at prom?”

  “It was bad timing,” I say. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  I wish I’d never sat down. Now I have to backtrack on all this. It didn’t mean to turn this into a Cassie-bashing session.

  “Let me guess: Cassie stopped things in the coatroom when they got heavy.”

  My eyes narrow. “I thought she told you all about it.”

  “Look, we’re past that now,” she says. “Was it Cassie that put a stop to things?”

  “Well, I sure didn’t. It was all I could do to put on the brakes.”

  “And she was all weird after it, right?”

  I nod. “I have to admit, I’m not used to that. Usually it’s the woman who can’t stop.”

  Tricia grins. “If you do say so yourself…”

  “I own a mirror, Trish,” I say with a shrug and a grin of my own, so she knows I’m joking. “Full length, too.”

  She breaks up cackling at that, which does a lot to ease the tension I’ve been feeling since she sat down. Tricia is a good friend; I’m glad Cassie has her in her corner. She’s never really had someone like that to rely on.

  Well, not as far as I know, anyway. Lately, it seems like I’m constantly reminded of all the things I don’t know about her.

  Tricia’s laughter trails off and she leans forward again. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper.

  “I think I may know what the problem is,” she says.

  “You do?” I whisper back.

  What’s with the conspiracy?

  “First, you need to know that I would never break a friend’s trust under any other circumstances,” she says in a lecturing tone. “I’ve got Cassie’s back, you feel me? And if you ever hurt her, I’ll be the first one coming at your balls with a pair of live chainsaws.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” I say. It’s the truth. A part of me wonders how she could go about holding two chainsaws at once, but I quickly focus my attention.

  “The reason Cassie’s being so weird is that… well, she doesn’t have the same level of, you know, experience that you do.”

  I frown. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Think about it: you’re – well, you’re you. You said it yourself, you own a full-length mirror. And you’re rich and successful and super-cool and everything else that comes along with it. Private jets and supermodels and God only knows what else.”

  She’s right. I know how that sounds, but I don’t have any illusions about myself. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished; I worked incredibly hard to achieve it all.

  “Now here’s Cassie, on a date with you, and she doesn’t know what to do.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “How does she not know what to do? It’s pretty simple.”

  Tricia leans in close and lays a hand on top of mine. I glance down and see the tattoo of Tinkerbell that rests on the crook of her thumb.

  “Carson, you’re too smart to be so dense,” she says with a soft smile.

  I sit there, blinking at her.

  “Obviously I’m not,” I say.

  But that’s not true. Dawn is breaking somewhere in the back of my mind. I can practically hear it cracking, like a monstrous iceberg of stupidity that’s finally hit warmer waters
.

  “Cassie’s never been with a man in that way,” Tricia says. “She’s a virgin.”

  And suddenly my heart is pounding so hard I fear it’s going to burst right out of my chest.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  31. CASSANDRA

  The roses my new Texan boyfriend bought me survived the subway ride back home yesterday, and they’re still doing well in their vase on my dining table this afternoon.

  That probably has something to do with all the natural light my apartment lets in. It may be small – find me one in Manhattan that isn’t, outside of Carson’s – and overpriced, but it’s bright. Southern exposure bathes the kitchen-living room space in sunshine most of the day, and the east-facing window in my bedroom wakes me with the rising sun every morning.

  The exception, of course is the panic room. The only source of light in here is the single bulb that illuminates my work laptop. The green text on the screen shows me something that has become something of a talisman for me over the past two weeks: my Cayman account balance.

  $2,500,000.00 USD.

  Two and a half million dollars. One million away from my goal. Four more days. So close, I feel like I could almost touch it.

  The computer whirs softly as I shut it down and hit the light switch. As always when I leave my office, I think of the Pevensie children from the Chronicles of Narnia, leaving the wardrobe and returning home.

  Of course, my Narnia is a paranoiac’s wet dream, not a magical kingdom.

  The light shrinks my pupils as I emerge into my bedroom, and I’m blind for a moment. I stop at my bed and sit for a moment as my eyes adjust. As I do, I think about yesterday: about the flowers, the Texan, Betty’s advice.

  “Oh, the troubles some girls has,” I say out loud.

  My phone chooses that moment to vibrate. At first I think it’s my alarm, telling me I’ve spent enough time at home and better get my butt out the door and onto the streets, so as not to violate the rules of the Chase.

  But then I glance at it and see Carson’s number.

  Do I really want to answer?

  I hit ignore call and drop it into my purse, then scoop up my keys and head for the front door.