Billionaire for Hire

by Cat Johnson

  Was she flirting with me?

  After her businesslike, almost cold behavior at the check-in desk, that took me off guard. And if she was coming on to me, what the hell did I do about it?

  With me playing bodyguard, this was not the time or the place, and I was in no shape to reciprocate anyway. I was lucky to string together two sentences as my nerves threatened to cripple me.

  “Brent . . .” Zane’s voice, heavy with warning, filled my ear.

  Startled, I jumped.

  Had she noticed? If she hadn’t, she’d certainly noticed that I had yet to reply to her.

  “Uh, if you were off duty you’d get to enjoy the party. It’s a shame you won’t be able to, stuck at that check-in table.”

  “Yes, it is a shame.” Her gaze stayed on me for what seemed like forever. Finally, she said, “I’d better be getting back.”

  As a small smile bowed her lips she tipped her head in a nod and was gone, leaving me to finally release the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Jesus.” I’d barely breathed the curse but Zane heard it, of course.

  “Boy, have you lost your game,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” I mumbled.

  “I told you to stop talking to me.”

  Was he kidding?

  “Then stop talking to me,” I hissed and considered pulling the damn communicator out of my ear.

  I could always put it back in if I needed it, but it might save my sanity to get Zane out of my head. I had enough stress already without him fucking around with me.

  I was still deciding if I should risk his wrath and pursue that idea when my Russian target was joined by a woman too beautiful to be real.

  Although that described a lot of people in the Hamptons I still felt like I needed to pass on the information.

  I wandered to the edge of the party and faced the ocean. I pretended to be admiring the view so no one would notice me talking to myself. “Zane—I mean Base. Come in.”

  Zane sighed. “Yes?”

  “There’s a woman talking to the Russian.”

  “And?”

  “What’s strange is I don’t recognize her.”

  “You recognize everyone else there?” he asked, as if that notion was ridiculous.

  I turned and glanced around and yeah, I might not know everyone personally, but I recognized every guest in attendance at least by sight. I could open any issue of the local Hampton’s publication and see these same people pictured at one event or another.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. But there’s more. She’s way too hot. Like abnormally so.”

  “So you think she’s a honeypot.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “A hot woman sent to cozy up to a man, get him to let his guard down to get something out of him. Or to do him harm.”

  I got what Zane was insinuating. That she could be a spy or an assassin. But she could also be a model or a gold digger. I didn’t know. Just as I didn’t know how the hell my life had shifted so drastically that the word assassin was even in my thoughts.

  I saw a photographer going from group to group snapping pictures. He stopped in front of the Russian and I got an idea.

  “Hang on,” I whispered to Zane and then I strode toward the photographer.

  When he was done with his picture and had turned away from the Russian and the mystery woman, I stepped up to him and extended my hand. “Hey, there. Brent Hearst.”

  He juggled the camera to his left hand so he could grasp mine with his right. “Um, hi. Paul Schaeffer. Staff photographer. Dan’s Papers.”

  I nodded. “I figured that’s who you worked for. You guys always have the best pictures of the events out here.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. Uh, did you need something? I’d be happy to include you in the spread if that’s—”

  “Actually I was wondering if you knew who she was.” I angled my body toward the Russian and his lady companion and tipped my head in that direction.

  “Oh.” He grinned. “Gotcha. She is an attention-grabber. Hang on. I can tell you exactly.” He pulled out a small notebook and referred to his scrawl on the pages. “She’s Viktoria Mikhelson.”

  “Mikhelson.” I repeated the name as it rang a bell. The familiarity nagged at me but I couldn’t pin down exactly why. Finally, I remembered. “Wait, is her father Leonid Mikhelson?”

  “Don’t know.” The photographer shrugged.

  I’d done some research after Zane had given me this more than odd assignment. Mikhelson was on Forbes’s list of the world’s richest men right along with Mordashov. I couldn’t recall how he’d made his money, but I remembered he’d founded some art museum and had named it in honor of his daughter.

  So that was the connection. She wasn’t an assassin. Just another rich Russian. Two Russian billionaires at one party, it made sense they’d hang out together.

  Feeling confident I’d done my due diligence, I said, “Thank you, Paul. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “No problem.” The photographer lifted his camera. “Picture?”

  I laughed. “Sure, if you really want it. Don’t feel obligated.”

  He shook his head. “Of course, I want it. The Hearsts are a part of Hamptons history.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” For better or worse. Not this particular Hearst, but as far as some other members of my family, yes, he was correct. I leaned one hand against the porch post. “Here good?”

  “Perfect.” He snapped the shot and then said, “Thanks.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to the article.” When he’d moved on, I turned and made my way toward the bar—again. Maybe I’d actually get there this time. But before I did, I whispered, “Base. You get all that?”

  “Yeah. Searching her now. I’ll send a photo to your cell just to confirm it’s really her and not someone sent to replace her.”

  Jesus, I hadn’t even considered that possibility. “Someone could do that?”

  “Possibly. If she’s a close enough match and they don’t know each other personally. Wait for my text.”

  “Okay.” And while I was waiting, I finally stepped up to the bar. “Beer, please.”

  I took the bottle from the bartender just as the cell in my pocket vibrated. I took a sip before heading back to the edge of the party and checking my phone.

  The woman in the photo was a dead ringer for the woman talking to the Russian.

  “That’s her,” I said softly, the bottle hiding the view of my lips for any guests who might be looking.

  “Roger that.”

  My lips twitched, enjoying that Zane had lapsed into military speak.

  I was starting to really get into this mission.

  Russian billionaires. Covert communicators. I felt like James Bond, right down to the presence of the mysterious Bond girl. But I’d seen enough of those movies to know that good old 007 tended to get himself into trouble when he succumbed to the charms of the uber-sexy beauty.

  She usually tried to kill him, if not during sex, then right after. Observing the scorching hot Russian heiress in front of me, I had to admit that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

  I glanced back at the porch and remembered there was also the lovely volunteer assistant Alexandra—she’d make a very enticing Moneypenny in my Bond movie scenario.

  All right, maybe I was getting into the intrigue a bit too much but with as uneventful as this assignment guarding the Russian had been so far, I didn’t see a problem with a little mental distraction.

  Speaking of the Russian . . . I swept the area with my gaze and realized I could no longer see him.

  Where had he gone?

  While I’d been fantasizing about Alexandra, he’d disappeared somewhere. I didn’t know where but he was, indeed, gone.

  Shit.

  “What’s wrong?” Zane’s question held a good dose of panic and I realized I’d muttered the curse aloud.

  I strode toward the house and spotted the Russian and the hei
ress through the window. A closer look proved they were in deep conversation while studying a painting on the wall of the home.

  Art. The heiress’s, and her father’s, passion.

  Phew. Crisis averted.

  “Nothing. It’s fine. I see him,” I told Zane.

  Silently I promised myself I’d stop daydreaming even if nothing exciting was happening.

  With any luck the rest of the evening would prove to be just as boring. In my current situation, boring was good. I just needed to remember that.

  The leg holster starting to chafe my leg should serve as a good reminder. At that thought I took another swallow of the one beer I’d allow myself tonight and wished it were whisky instead.

  SEVEN

  It was early the next morning when my cell rang.

  The name on the display told me it was my GAPS boss, good old Zane.

  I answered, “Good morning.”

  “Are you, uh, alone?” he asked, the word alone heavily laden with innuendo.

  I frowned. “Yes. Of course, I’m alone. I was working your job last night. When the hell would I have had time to pick up anyone?”

  “You know what I’m asking.”

  Yeah, I knew what he was asking and I felt the insult to my core. “No, Zane, I didn’t spend the night with your target’s honey pot from the party, so don’t worry.”

  “She wasn’t a honey pot and Mordashov wasn’t a target—” Zane sputtered to a stop. “You know, you really need to stop watching so many crime dramas on TV. There’s nothing real about them and you sound ridiculous misquoting shit you hear in them.”

  More insults. Why was I friends with Zane again?

  Letting out a huff, I said, “First of all, you taught me the term honey pot, not television. And secondly, if TV is so inaccurate maybe you should do something about it. Be a story consultant or a fact checker or whatever. Have Chelsea hook you up with someone in the biz. She must know people in the industry from her acting gigs.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. “How do you know Chelsea has industry connections? Please tell me you’re not sleeping with her.”

  I could almost hear the frown on Zane’s face.

  “You told me she was an actress, dickhead. And no, I’m not sleeping with Chelsea.” At this point, all I could do was sigh at the ridiculousness of it all. “You know, Zane, I really wish I got laid half as much as you think I do.”

  “You get plenty. Don’t act like you don’t.”

  It wasn’t like I was some sort of man whore. I liked women and they liked me. So what?

  I let out a snort at his accusation. “So did you, not so long ago.”

  “Ancient history,” he said. “I’m very happily married now.”

  “Fine. I’ll concede that point. But I’m not married so I’m free to do what I want and with whom.”

  “Not with Chelsea or Viktoria, you’re not.”

  “You left out Alexandra from last night. Don’t forget her.” I scowled at being told what to do.

  I’d made it a point not to listen to my father as often as possible growing up. I sure as hell wasn’t going to listen to Zane now.

  “Thanks for reminding me. Stay away from Alexandra too.”

  I drew in a sigh and shook my head as he continued to be ridiculous. “Anyone else off limits? Wait. You know what? Why don’t you just email me a list? That way I can keep it on my phone and consult who I’m allowed to date.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What’s all that noise I hear? Are you out and about already this morning? Or did you never get to bed last night?” Zane asked.

  Again I scowled at what sort of opinion he had of me. Like I was some socialite who closed the bars every night then went in search of an after-party. I couldn’t run two companies plus keep up with my other responsibilities if I partied until sunrise then slept the day away.

  “One day I’m going to take you with me for a typical workday and let you see exactly what I do.”

  “Sure. And I’ll do the same with you for mine. But until then, how about you answer the question?”

  “That question being where I am this morning? Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m waiting in line to get coffee.”

  “Where are you? Starbucks?”

  “Pfft. No. Way better than Starbucks. Montauk Bake Shop.”

  Zane laughed. “You drove all the way out to Montauk for coffee? I hope it’s worth it.”

  “It is, but I’m not here for the coffee. I’m here for the jelly croissants. They’re legendary and they sell out so you have to get here early. Especially in season.”

  “These jelly things must be good to get you up and out this early.”

  “They are. Believe me.” And I hated to tell him the croissants were going to take precedence over his call any minute now.

  The moment the line crept up far enough that I was no longer outside on the sidewalk, but actually inside the bake shop, this call was over. I didn’t understand the shop’s no cell phones rule, but I wasn’t going to question it or break it. Not when my annual fix of jelly croissants hung in the balance.

  “You still here in New York?” I asked, feeling generous. “I’ll grab an extra one for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m back in Virginia. I left as soon as Mordashov’s plane took off last night.”

  So the Russian was gone and, consequently, so was Zane.

  I guess his life did move as fast as mine. Or faster, since I was currently planning on spending a lazy Sunday gorging on jelly croissants and then lunching with the family in the Hamptons before heading back to Jersey.

  Reviewing my agenda for the day, maybe I did understand Zane’s razzing me sometimes. But I didn’t deserve all of it because I did work hard—when I worked.

  Work hard. Play hard. Nothing wrong with that.

  “So that’s it then. My assignment is over?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” Zane answered.

  “Oh.” I’d never wanted it in the first place, but now that it was finished, I felt a little let down.

  He laughed. “Don’t sound so disappointed. It was a success. Mordashov left New York as healthy and happy as he arrived.”

  “Is he still in the country? How do you know he’s safe wherever he is now?” My portion of this job might be over, but I wouldn’t feel a sense of completion if I didn’t see it through all the way to the end—even if it was from afar while getting coffee and pastries.

  “Remember, it was my guy driving his town car. So we had eyes on him from the Hamptons right up until he took off from JFK for Heathrow. He’s heading to London next so he’s now their problem. Not ours.”

  “That’s very good to hear.”

  “Anyway, thank you for your help. You’re done. I’ll grab the gun and the comm from you next time you’re in town.”

  The gun and holster I’d be happy to return, but I frowned at the idea of turning in my communicator. “I don’t get to keep the comm?”

  Zane laughed. “No. All equipment gets checked back in after an op so we have it for the next one. What in the world would you do with it anyway? You won’t be able to use it. It only works with our system.”

  I might never need it again, but I was still unhappy that he wanted it back. I kicked at the crack in the sidewalk outside the bakery. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll have to help you again.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is going to be a one shot deal. No worries, Brent. Your debt to me has been paid in full. I appreciate your help. You’re done.”

  I didn’t like losing all my James Bond paraphernalia, but I said, “All right.”

  “Hey. You in line or what?” The cranky complaint came from a gravelly-voiced old man behind me.

  Apparently I wasn’t up the butt of the customer in front of me closely enough for the impatient guy behind me.

  “Yeah, I’m in line.” I turned away from him. “Zane, I gotta go.”

  “All right, Rosebud. Enjoy your jelly donuts.”

  Regretting
my choice of code names, which would no doubt haunt me for years, I scowled.

  “Jelly croissant and you don’t know what you’re missing.” I disconnected the call without the courtesy of a goodbye.

  I pocketed my cell before I incurred the wrath of the counter help, then stepped through the doorway and into the shop that did an insanely large amount of business in a crazy small number of square feet.

  Once it was my turn, I was in and out fast. The staff always was efficient. They had to be given the number of customers waiting.

  I’d justified ordering a dozen jelly croissants because I was stopping by Aunt Anne’s today.

  The reality was, I’d probably end up eating more than my share. I wasn’t out here half as much as I used to be as a kid. Work and adulthood got in the way.

  I’d run off the calories anyway.

  With the box of pastries in one hand and my coffee in the other, I pushed through the door and headed down the sidewalk—and walked directly into someone who had me smiling.

  I stopped in front of her. “Alexandra?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Hearst. And you can call me Alex. Now that I’m off duty we don’t have to be so formal.” Her smile was warmer today. More genuine now that Alex was off-duty.

  Alex. The name fit her. Especially now as she was dressed in yoga pants, sneakers and a T-shirt with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Alex, it is. But only if you call me Brent.” I smiled.

  The corners of her lips twitched up. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good.” Her answer as much as the good-natured humor with which it was delivered made me happy. “Funny seeing you again so soon. What a coincidence, huh?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Not really. Who could be this close and not make the trip to get a jelly croissant at the bake shop?”

  My eyes widened at her comment. “A woman after my own heart.” I held up the box. “That’s exactly what I came here for.”

  “A whole box.” She bobbed her head. “A true fan. I’m impressed. I was going to indulge in just one. Now you’ve gone and upped the stakes.”

  A man clad in a white apron leaned outside and slapped a sign onto the glass door of the shop. “Jelly sticks are sold out, folks. Sorry.”

  “No.” Alex’s smooth forehead furrowed in a frown. She let out a loud sigh. “I knew I should have gotten here earlier.”