His Sword

by Holly Hart

  I can tell by the look in her eyes that Cassie’s mind isn’t here in the club, though.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s figure out how we’re going to tackle this when we get home.”

  She grins like a kid who just got a parent to play Barbies with her. The fact that she gets so giddy about planning revenge disturbs me a little.

  Not to mention the way it causes my shorts to fit more tightly.

  “The woman in the red dress is key,” she says. “If we can find her, we can communicate with the organizers.”

  “Agreed.”

  Cassie pulls on her lower lip. It’s been a sign of deep thought since we were kids.

  “Of course, that’s easier said than done,” she says. “They have plenty of kompromat on me and you – and the other contestants. But we have nothing on them. They like it that way.”

  “Kompro-what, now?”

  “Kompromat. It’s Russian for blackmail. Their intelligence community collects or manufactures compromising info on public figures, then uses it as leverage to ensure compliance. The US does it too, but the Russians are masters at it.”

  Her competence turns me on. Is that wrong? I don’t know, but if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  I slide my hand under the table and onto her bare thigh. She returns the favor, but her expression is still all business.

  “We should operate under the assumption that this was deliberate,” she says. “But we need to make sure we don’t go in with guns blazing, just in case it wasn’t.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Diplomacy can work wonders when you give it a chance.”

  “Unless you’re in a situation where someone is screwing with you,” she says. “Then you nail them to the wall with railroad spikes and pour battery acid into the wounds.”

  I can’t help myself: I take her hand and lay it directly on my hard-on.

  Cassie’s eyebrows go up.

  “Easy, tiger,” she says, but gives me a friendly squeeze for my trouble. “We’ve got all night.”

  “Believe me, it’s going to take all night.”

  Her smile is so sexy it makes my heart stop.

  “Promises, promises,” she purrs.

  I knock back the rest of my drink in an attempt to steady myself. How was this girl possibly a virgin last week? She’s taken to sex like a fish to water.

  I guess she has a lot of lost time to make up for.

  “All right,” I say. “We agree that the first step is to find Red Dress and figure out what the situation is. If it’s innocuous, we settle it.”

  She smiles. “I love it when you use $50 words like that.”

  “It’s my milieu,” I say, buffing my fingernails on my Guayabera shirt.

  “Oh my God,” she gasps. “It sounds so dirty when you use it the wrong way like that.”

  She’s right, dammit, I did screw it up. I chuckle and shake my head.

  “The question is what we do if it’s not innocuous,” she says. “If they’re trying to pull a fast one.”

  That prompts an unpleasant idea that never occurred to me before. It should have, but it didn’t.

  “What if the whole thing was a set-up to get kompromat on a group of wealthy men?” I ask. “Maybe you were meant to be collateral damage the whole time.”

  Molten lava seethes behind her eyes. Apparently it never occurred to her, either. Now that is has…

  “You’re obscenely rich,” she says. “So are the other contestants. That means you have resources.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “Just like Liam Neeson, I’ve got a very particular set of skills.”

  “Okay, you’ve got the skills, I’ve got the resources. What are we going to do with them?”

  She raises her glass in salute and downs it in a gulp.

  “We’re going to fuck them up,” she says. “Hard.”

  “First things first,” I say. “We have to find Red Dress.”

  Cassie rummages in her purse and pulls out her phone. She slides her finger along the screen for a moment, then turns it toward me. On it is a photo of a laptop screen, featuring a woman with long, golden curls.

  “It’s not much,” she says. “But it’s a start. I wish I had full access to my agency computers. But then I’d have to explain what I was doing.”

  A Cheshire cat grin threatens to circle all the way around my head as I picture the floor-to-ceiling screen in my computer room running through thousands of online photos per hour.

  “I happen to have something back at my penthouse that may be of service,” I say.

  Before I can elaborate, Maks and Tricia suddenly appear, sliding into their seats on the other side of the booth. They’re sweating freely and laughing like kids.

  They see the looks on our faces and the laughter dries up.

  “I am thinking you need drinks,” Maksim says.

  Tricia’s eyebrows go up. “Quadruples, by the looks of things. Everything all right?”

  I smile. Cassie follows suit.

  “Nothing we can’t figure out,” I say. “Man, you guys were tearing it up out there!”

  Maksim beams at Tricia.

  “A dancer is only as good as his partner,” he says.

  “You notice his English always gets better when he’s throwing out pick-up lines?” Tricia says, shaking her head.

  Cassie giggles, and it’s almost as if our previous conversation never happened. She’s the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.

  She raises her hand to catch the server’s eyes. She twirls her index finger in a gesture to signal another round.

  “All right,” she says. “Let’s kick this night into high gear!”

  The waitress arrives with a tray of drinks and a shot of what smells like top-shelf Don Julio tequila for each of us.

  “Compliments of the house,” she says with a practiced smile.

  We each grab a glass and clink them together.

  “To obscene riches,” I say.

  We drink. The smooth liquor goes down like a fire in the walls, heat without flame. I highly recommend expensive tequila if you have the means. The cheap stuff is just rubbing alcohol in a fancier bottle, as far as I’m concerned.

  Suddenly Cassie’s lips are at my ear. The scent of her shot fills my nostrils.

  “Pace yourself,” she whispers. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us, remember?”

  Under the table, her hand slides under the hem of my shorts and finds the delicate skin of my cock.

  “Trust me,” I say. “It’s all I can think about.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  49. CARSON

  The screen-window in my computer room displays blonde after blonde after blonde. I’m hoping Red Dress is a natural, or I’ll have to do this all over again with brunette when this cycle is done.

  In any case, this is going to take awhile, so I might as well be doing something else while it does.

  I suit up in my running shorts and a tank top and lace up my Reeboks. Matthias worked me like a rented mule this morning, but after all that booze and rich food in Cayman, I feel like I need to put in some extra effort.

  Plus running always helps me think.

  I climb into my elevator for the eighty-floor trip to ground level. As it descends, my mind wanders to what Cassie’s doing right now.

  She’s got a delicate conversation ahead of her. She has to explain to Tricia – then Miranda Winthrop at Tate Capital – that her funding has been delayed. It’s not a deal-breaker, but it puts her in an awkward position where she’ll have to lie. She’s trying to leave that behind.

  I get that. I tried to do it for years.

  The bell chimes as the elevator reaches the lobby. I trot through the foyer and out the front door that Chuck, the doorman, holds open for me. I smile and wave as I go by. Chuck’s cool. I slip him a hundred a couple of times a week and he takes good care of me.

  Park Avenue is already baking and it’s only 9:30 in the morning. I let my mind
go on autopilot as I set my pace, feeling the jolt of each step, listening to the rhythm of my breathing, tuning out the noise of the street and its people.

  It’s kind of a Zen state that helps clear my mind of distractions so that it can start making the connections that my psychologist was talking about. Running threads of synapses from one piece of information to the other in a web of subconscious thought. Feeling for vibrations the way a spider feels for its prey.

  I head northwest on 122nd Street to Marcus Garvey Park. If I have to keep dodging all these pedestrians, I’ll never sink deeply enough into my brain. Once I’m there, traffic disappears and I have the trail mostly to myself.

  What reasons would the Chase’s organizers have to claw back Cassie’s money? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times over the last thirty-six hours. Occam’s razor says the simplest explanation is usually the right one. Was it just an accounting error?

  Somehow, I doubt it. Any group that’s as meticulous about secrecy as they are wouldn’t make a stupid error like that.

  Blessed shade covers me as I run into a dense copse of elm trees. Now I’m wishing I had thought to bring my water bottle with me. I suppose I can be forgiven – my mind is a bit preoccupied.

  So what’s the next scenario? Kompromat? If so, they’re taking an awful risk. I don’t know how many other billionaires are involved, but there’s only so far they’ll be willing to be pushed. Like Cassie says, we have resources.

  And I know from personal experience that many of them can be real bastards when they want to be. They didn’t get where they are by rolling over and showing their bellies.

  Or is it simpler than I’m making it? Maybe the men behind the Chase are just cheap misogynists. I mean, look at what the Chase is all about. They could simply be screwing Cassie over, believing there’s nothing she can do about it.

  If so, they definitely don’t know who they’re dealing with.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a water fountain and head toward it. Normally I can go a few miles without a drink, but damn, it’s a scorcher today.

  I bend down to let the water flow into my mouth. When I’m done, I stand up to see a blonde in a red sundress standing beside me.

  “Good afternoon,” she says with a smile. “I hate to interrupt your exercise, but I’m afraid we have a few urgent matters to discuss.”

  Chapter Fifty

  50. CASSANDRA

  “So let me get this straight,” Tricia says, cocking an eyebrow. “We just spent three days watching a private matinee, flying a private jet to Grand Cayman, and staying in five-star hotels, right?”

  “Right.” I feel like a kid in the principal’s office instead of a grown woman in an ice cream shop.

  “And now you’re telling me we have to wait a while for our start-up capital to come in.”

  “Yeah.”

  She manages to glare at me for a full five seconds before she bursts out laughing.

  “I know,” I groan. “It sounds ridiculous. But it’s just business. We’re still on track, I promise.”

  Tricia wraps a sugar-sticky arm around my neck and hugs me tight.

  “I’ll tell you what, honey,” she sighs. “Life is never boring when you’re around. I know you’re good for it, Cassie. Besides, you were always the one with the deadline, not me.”

  She’s got me there. I guess I just assumed she’d be as disappointed as I am in not being able to move ahead on schedule. I should have known better. I’ve always been a Type A. Doesn’t mean everyone else is.

  “Now if only Miranda Winthrop can be as forgiving,” I say.

  Of course, Miranda definitely is.

  “Look, hon, I get that you want to make it on your own, and I’m totally with you on that,” says Tricia. “And I’m sure Miranda won’t have any problem extending the deadline. But if she doesn’t, you know you can just drop Carson’s name, right?”

  I do know she’s right, but just the thought of it makes me stiffen. I didn’t go through everything I’ve been through to just roll over and ask Carson to save me. I know he’d do it in a heartbeat, but that’s not how I do things. For good or bad, that’s not how my father raised me.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Chin up,” she says as I head for the door. “Your life is still pretty fucking good, you know.”

  I realize she’s right as I leave the air-conditioned safety of Patty’s and step into the midday Midtown oven. It’s just hot enough that I decide to cab it to Tate Capital instead of walking.

  I head for the taxi stand about a half a block up the street when someone pulls alongside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye to see a familiar face: it’s the Texan gentleman who bought me the white roses in Hell’s Kitchen.

  He stops to face me, and his jowls lift in an easy grin. He’s dressed in a manner more suited to his home state today: short-sleeved cowboy shirt, jeans and boots.

  “Looky who it is!” he hoots. “I told you I’d see you later!”

  “Well, hi!” I smile back. “Now, what are the odds that we’d run into each other again?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But I bet you do. I’m sure you’re as smart as you are pretty.”

  Sweet old guy. I notice he’s not wearing his ball cap today; the pink skin on his scalp is gleaming in the sun.

  “You should probably wear a hat on a day like this,” I scold. “At least get some sixty SPF on there.”

  It’s then that I notice the tan line. His face is brown, but the pink begins right at what would be his hairline if he had hair. That’s odd.

  “Did you shave your head when you came to New York?” I ask.

  Why would he do that?

  His grin widens and he slaps his knee. “I knew you were smart!”

  Something weird is going on here. My instincts are starting to crawl around in in my belly like a little spider.

  “Have you and I met before?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He produces a leather wallet and pulls a small square of paper from it. He shows it to me.

  “Maybe you’ve seen my photo somewhere before.”

  It’s a folded piece of glossy magazine paper. On it is a mugshot of a portly man with flowing silver hair and jowls that hang like pouches from his cheekbones.

  It’s him. But it’s also someone else.

  I look up to see him smiling at me, black humor gleaming in his beady eyes.

  Eyes that were hidden behind sunglasses that day in Hell’s Kitchen.

  Oh, my God.

  “You’re Randall Buckner,” I breathe.

  No. 17 on Forbes’ list of richest people in America.

  “Right the first time,” he says.

  His hand reaches into the pocket of his jeans. When it emerges, it’s holding something familiar. Something I saw five nights ago in Carson’s hand.

  A brass skeleton key.

  I look up to see three burly men closing in on me.

  “Pleased to officially meet you, Cassandra,” says Buckner. “I hope you’re ready for our date.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  51. CARSON

  “I’m glad you saved me the trouble of having to find you,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check.

  Another man might find it emasculating, but not me. I don’t care that Cassie is way more hardcore than I am. In fact, I kind of wish she was right here by my side.

  Red Dress stands there with her hands folded in front of her. She’s calm and totally dry, despite the stifling heat and humidity of the afternoon. I’m still trying to slow my breathing so I can sound calmer. I hate being caught off guard.

  “And you’re right. We do have things to talk about. First and foremost, Ca – the quarry’s money.”

  She smiles.

  “The quarry forfeited the prize when you broke the rules.”

  Broke the rules? What ki
nd of bullshit is this?

  I take a deep breath before my agitation has a chance to show on my face. Keep it under control, Carson. This isn’t the time or place.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I say evenly. “I was under the impression that I won the competition fair and square on the eleventh day.”

  Her smile is maddening, like a game show hostess who’s expressing just how darn sorry she is that you didn’t win the new washing machine.

  “Some information came to light early on that disqualified you as a contestant,” she says.

  “And what might that information be?”

  “You and the quarry had a pre-existing relationship. You became reacquainted on the first day and continued to meet daily, yet you never ended the competition.”

  Oh, shit.

  Steady, Carson. Keep it off your face.

  “We knew each other years ago,” I say. “It was sheer coincidence that we were both involved in this.”

  “My associates find that hard to believe. At first they were willing to accept that you were merely conspiring together to win the competition. But that made no sense – neither of you stood to gain from it.

  “That was when I suggested you were, in fact, investigating them.”

  This time I can’t keep my anger in check.

  “That’s a goddamn lie,” I growl. “What possible reason could we have had to do that?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know the answer to that just yet. But we’ll discover it soon enough.”

  I sigh and run a hand down my sweaty face. This is going nowhere. I know Cassie wants to give these people what they have coming to them, but the longer this goes on, the fewer options I see.

  “Look,” I say. “In the interests of putting this behind us, I’m willing to offer your associates compensation for any perceived damages.”

  That game show hostess smile again.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s too late for that option.”

  My stomach sinks. I don’t like the sound of that.