Wrong Number, Right Guy

by Tara Wylde

  It’s not easy to keep track of them all. In my work, I always had a database to reference, teams of analysts forwarding me data, or a surveillance control with access to satellites or other means of tracking and identifying people.

  In the Chase, all I have is my wits. I’m not allowed to use any work-related technology. Even if I could, I’d be hard-pressed to pull it off without my former employers finding out.

  That would mean my father finding out, and I definitely don’t feel like explaining the Chase to him. Somehow, I just don’t think he’d understand. Hard to say which would mortify him the most: the fact I was selling my virginity, or the fact I was taking money from the Russian mob.

  Honestly, I don’t know which side bothers me more.

  The curtains part as the lights go down, and suddenly the stage is full of nerdy men in black pants, short-sleeved white shirts and black ties. They’re singing a song called “Hello” to the packed house, and it’s hilarious enough to make me forget about the Chase for a few minutes.

  This afternoon matinee of The Book of Mormon is a rare opportunity to slip into darkness and out of the line of fire for a couple of hours. I’m surrounded by people giggling their way through the number as the actors portray Mormon missionaries trying to charm their way into the homes of potential converts.

  The show continues along that vein, and I keep on laughing along with the crowd. This is a welcome respite from the stress of the last several days. It’s almost as pleasant as looking at the balance in my Cayman account this morning: $1.5 million.

  For six days of work.

  Finally, we reach the intermission and the lights come up. My instincts kick in and I immediately scan the theater. Nothing sets off any alarms, but in such a crowded place, it’s best to keep moving.

  There are four separate lines for the bar, all long enough that I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to get a drink before the lights go down again. But it gives me an opportunity to stand in one place for a while and look bored. Hiding in plain sight.

  I check my watch repeatedly, keeping up with the others around me. There’s a large contingent of what I assume are Asian tourists to my right, chatting in Mandarin.

  Then I look to my left and I feel adrenaline rush into my system. I’ve seen the squat, balding man in the line to my left, two spots ahead, several times in the last few days. He’s hard to miss, with the nest of auburn hair circling the dome of his head and squinty eyes that look like he’s perpetually staring into the sun.

  He was at Patty’s two afternoons ago and I saw him again outside Carnegie Hall, both of which are on the list of places I provided to the organizers of the Chase. I don’t recognize his face from Forbes, but going from memory has never been my strong point.

  I have to assume he’s onto me.

  The couple in front of me look at their watches and sigh loudly before leaving the line. Suddenly I’m beside the bald man.

  An idea comes to me just as he turns his head in my direction.

  I roll my eyes and reach into my purse, pulling out my phone. I angrily stab the screen, as if to answer a call.

  “What?” I snap. “Can’t I have five minutes peace?”

  The man glances around the line, not focusing on me.

  “What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” I grouse into the phone. “She has to be there, the recital ended ten minutes ago.”

  Next thing I know, I’ve locked eyes with him. He looks at me for a beat before I give him my best NYC “the fuck you lookin’ at?” expression.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I say, turning away from him. “Some idiot was trying to hit on me. Listen, I don’t have time for this. She’s probably talking to Janey.”

  I raise my voice. “Janey! How do you not know what she looks like? She’s been to our place a dozen times!” Exasperated sigh. “You know what, I don’t have time for this. Figure it out! The curtain’s going to go up in a minute and I didn’t even get my wine.”

  I poke the screen again, toss the phone into my purse and storm back toward the theater entrance. As people mill past, I do a button hook and head back out on the other side of the crowd. I stop in an alcove near the entrance to the ladies room and take up a surveillance position.

  My eyes follow the bald man as he scans the room in frustration. Finally he looks at his watch and shakes his head. With a dejected look, he heads for the exit.

  I wait several minutes before going back into the line at the bar. If I didn’t need a drink before, I definitely need one now. That was one hell of a close shave.

  With the second half of the show underway, the line has thinned out considerably and I manage to find a spot at the counter right away.

  “What can I get you?” the girl asks. She’s dressed like a man, with a bow tie and black vest.

  “Chardonnay, please,” I say, digging out my wallet. “The biggest glass you’ve got.”

  She fills a nine-ounce glass and slides it over to me.

  “That’ll be $16.50,” she says.

  Call the cops! Even with a million plus in the bank, I wince at the price.

  “I’ve got it,” says a familiar voice behind me.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. I turn around to see the familiar face that goes with the voice. That chiseled chin and sweeping blond hair, those smoky gray eyes.

  “Hello, Cassie,” he says.

  I play it cool, even though nothing could be further from the truth. My heart is pounding. I feel like my ribcage could explode at any moment.

  “Hello, Carson,” I say. “Long time no see.”

  Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four

  28. CARSON

  I’ve never been one to believe in anything I couldn’t see. I’m a scientist through and through: you better be able to prove anything you expect me to believe, or you run the risk of having your argument systematically dismantled.

  Needless to say, I don’t believe in any New Age nonsense. Nothing drives me up the wall like people who talk about how everything is connected, claiming that “quantum physics proves it.” Just don’t get me started.

  But I just can’t ignore this anymore: it’s happened too many times. Something extraordinary is definitely going on here. I mean, it’s almost enough to make a die-hard skeptic believe in the concept of fate.

  Cassie is obviously getting used to it, too. We’re at Holeo’s, a little donut place on the waterfront. It’s the fifth time this week that we’ve randomly run into each other while I was tracking the quarry.

  “You still love chocolate, I see.”

  Cassie turns and smiles sheepishly at me through the rim of dark brown around her lips.

  “Please tell me I don’t have donut icing all over my face,” she says. “Even if I do, please tell me that I don’t.”

  “You don’t have donut icing all over your face,” I lie, handing her a napkin. She wipes her lips and tosses the smeared paper into the trash.

  I’m here because I managed to come up with three likely suspects via my computer program. One is an FBI agent currently on a sabbatical from teaching at Quantico, one is a retired Army intelligence major, and the third is an analyst with a defense contractor in Iraq, home for six weeks vacation. Any of those would be a perfect cover for a black ops agent.

  All of them are from the south, though I haven’t been able to determine whether they graduated from any of the military colleges. Those records aren’t easily accessible to the public, and I’m not about to hack them. That would be cheating. And, more to the point, illegal.

  None of them are here right now, unfortunately. This is turning out to be more frustrating that I would have thought possible. The upside, of course, is that none of my competitors is any further ahead than me.

  I hope.

  “It’s almost eerie,” Cassie says, shaking her head. “You know me – peer-reviewed evidence to the core. But I mean, come on. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

  I’m stalking someone, but it’
s not her. Although of course I’m not about to tell Cassie that. This situation is already fucked up enough as it is.

  “Hey,” I say. “I could say the same thing. Anybody who knows me knows Dino’s coconut caramel is my only weakness.” I frown. “Don’t tell Matthias.”

  Her laughter at our running joke is like a wind chime on the soft breeze coming off the river. It’s a welcome respite from the heat of the day. Summer has been a scorcher so far this year, and there’s no relief in sight. Especially when I’m sitting across from Cassie.

  Our eyes meet for a moment and suddenly I’m locked there like a magnet. Everything about her is perfection: the curves under her halter and shorts threaten to make me hard right here in the middle of the street. My mind flashes back to our encounter in the coatroom, just like it has every night since as I lie awake in my bed, trying to make the tent under my sheets go down.

  There’s only one way to do that solo, unfortunately.

  “Do you have time to sit?” I ask, waving at a small metal table and chairs. It’s the best way to hide my erection.

  “A few minutes, yes.”

  Her shorts follow the curve of her buttocks perfectly, allowing just a hint of ivory skin to peek out underneath the fabric. Not that I’m looking.

  I take a bite of my cone and try to act casual.

  “How’s the capital raise going?”

  “Good,” she says. “Another few days and I should have all my ducks in a row.”

  “That’s great. What kind of timeline are you looking at for construction on the new place?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ve got a company out of Long Island lined up. They just need the green light on funding.”

  “And Tricia is ready with the recipes?”

  “She will be. She says hi, by the way. She totally thinks you hung the moon.”

  I smile. “She seemed like a nice girl.”

  “She’s the best friend I ever had,” she says. Her eyes lock on mine again. “Except you.”

  That’s it, I have to say it. I’ve avoided it every other time, but not anymore.

  “What’s going on with us, Cassie?”

  She looks away, her cheeks suddenly pink.

  “I’m sorry about the other day with your friend,” she says. “I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have said we were dating. That was presumptuous.”

  “Things have been pretty weird since that night at the museum.”

  “My life is just really complicated right now. I – I want us to get to know each other again. But it’s going to take some time.”

  I nod. Every time we talk like this, it’s like the Chase just flies out the window and Cassie is all I care about.

  “I get that this deal is very important to you,” I say. “Maybe I could get in on – ”

  “No!” she says, eyes wide. “This is something I have to do on my own. I have to prove that I can, to myself and my father.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. To call Cassie’s dad overbearing would be like calling Justin Bieber a singer. It gets the basics right, but it misses the magnitude. Besides, I don’t blame her for not wanting to take the easy route – my money. Hell, it only makes me respect this amazing girl even more.

  But still, I want to help.

  “What about this,” I say. “You come over to my place for dinner and we can go over your business plan. I’ve got some experience in that department. I might have some insight that you and Miranda haven’t considered.”

  “I – I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  There’s that uncomfortable look again. This is so frustrating! What isn’t she telling me?

  “Why not?” I ask. “It’s just dinner. That’s not unusual for people who are supposedly dating, is it?”

  My voice comes off snider than I want it to, and suddenly Cassie is getting up from the table.

  “I have to go,” she says, throwing her purse over her shoulder.

  She won’t look me in the eye.

  “Cassie, I’m sorry, let’s – ”

  “I can’t. I have to go.”

  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 One Hundred Forty-Five

  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.
r />   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.