Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

  Maksim nods, and his expression is as serious as I’ve ever seen it, which is not at all what I expected.

  “My friend,” he says. “I think I may know of something that might be what you are looking about.”

  He leans close and lowers his voice to a whisper, as if we weren’t the only two people in the jet’s cabin. Antonio and Patrick, the pilots, are behind the cockpit’s soundproof door.

  “You must promise that you will not talk about this to anyone. It is very important that you understand that.”

  What’s this cloak and dagger bullshit?

  “Fine,” I say, making the sign of the cross with a mocking grin. “I’ll take your secret to the grave… now what the hell are you talking about?”

  “What I am talking about,” he says, “is the Chase.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  5. CASSANDRA

  I’m not sure exactly how I expected this meeting to go, but it certainly wasn’t like this.

  The rich leather of my chair feels like butter against the luxurious fabric of my best dress. This office is unlike anything I’ve ever seen: rich mahogany paneling on the walls, a filigreed walnut desk, a Turkish rug that must have cost upwards of $20,000.

  And across from me, behind the desk, sits a middle-aged lady in a Stella McCartney pantsuit who had every reason to laugh me out of the room, and yet is nodding in agreement.

  “I think you’re really on to something,” says Miranda Winthrop, vice president of Tate Capital and the daughter of the firm’s founder, the legendary Oscar Tate. “Your business plan is sound, but what really inspires me is your passion for the product.”

  I nod, working hard to keep the excitement out of my face. I’ve been trained to keep my emotions in check, but it’s not easy. Part of me wants to jump up and down and shriek like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

  “I appreciate that,” I say, trying to sound professional. “I think our approach would be unique in the frozen treat industry, since Ms. Clarke and I both want to keep the recipes original.”

  “That’s so important,” she says. “A lot of companies have cut corners to maximize profits over the years and it shows. I don’t know if you’ve eaten any store-brand ice cream recently…”

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “It’s nothing like we used to eat when I was a kid.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. Honestly, I’m already a big fan of Patty’s. If you and Tricia can manage mass production and still hold onto what makes that ice cream so special, I have every confidence that this will be a going concern.”

  This is really happening. I’m so close. Now comes the hard part.

  “So,” I say. “Do you have a number in mind?”

  She flips through a stack of papers with a beautifully manicured hand for several moments as my heart rate doubles. I’ve been in plenty of life-or-death situations in the last several years, but this has them all beat.

  “Based on what I see here, the money you’re offering to put up would constitute a thirty percent stake of the total deal.”

  I do the math instantly in my head: three and a half million is thirty percent of eleven million and change. Tate Capital puts up the other seven and a half and we’ll get our factory up and running. And then, after we – naturally – become a wild success, the initial public offering will take the company public and I’ll sell out for easily ten times my investment and retire to a Greek island before I’m thirty-five.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a day for fourteen days. I can’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve had years of training, years of field operations, years of pushing myself to my limits, mentally and physically. If I can’t avoid a group of rich old geezers for two weeks, I better hand in my CIA special operative card.

  Well, I suppose I already did that. But you get what I mean.

  “That sounds eminently doable,” I say, wincing inwardly at the lame buzzwords. But my resume says I’ve been a business consultant for the last six years, so I need to be able to talk the talk. “With your assurances, I’ll move forward with due diligence and I’ll get to gathering my capital.”

  Buzzword. Buzzword. Buzzword.

  “Excellent,” says Miranda, returning my smile. She reaches a hand across the desk and I take it in mine. “Let’s set another appointment for three weeks from now and we can expand on the details. I’m looking forward to working together, Sandra.”

  “As am I. And I’m sure Tricia will be over the moon when I let her know.”

  Miranda puts on an expression of mock gravity. “Tell her as a partner, I expect to be added to the sampling team.”

  I return the look. “Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, this is serious business.”

  We both laugh as she shows me out onto the streets of Manhattan. Well, the elevator bank, anyway. Another handshake and she walks back to her office, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The initial excitement is still there, but something below the surface is threatening to throw cold water on my celebration.

  Don’t focus on that, I scold myself. Focus on the money. Two weeks, that’s all. Maybe I can add in a few days for good measure, build up my own finances as well. An extra four days would mean a million dollars for myself, tax-free in an offshore account. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

  Do as many days as you want, it’s going to end the same way no matter what: you in bed with a stranger.

  I shake my head and raise my hand to hail a cab, trying to get into the right headspace. I was an expert in pragmatism for years, I tell myself. I know the end justifies the means, and the means aren’t always pretty.

  In this case, the end is a one-third stake in a multi-million-dollar company that will eventually go public and leave me financially independent for the rest of my life.

  The means are simple: they call it the Chase.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  6. CARSON

  “The Chase?” I say. “You mean that British quiz show?”

  Maksim looks at me like I’m an idiot. “What? No, not TV show. I am talking about something very secret.”

  He puts a finger to his lips. Like I don’t what the word means.

  I raise my hands, palms up, inviting him to tell me more. I also sit back in my chair, because he’s still leaning close and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, and his breath reeks of vodka.

  Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except for the fact my head is still pounding from last night.

  “My uncle has said some things that I overlistened,” he says. “He and my father have many wealthy colleagues, as you know.”

  I do know. I also know they and a lot of their colleagues are on FBI watch lists. I’m sure Maks suspects as much, but he never talks about it.

  “Some of them are like you, very smart. And bored. I can see it on their faces when we are at church and at gatherings of family. One day, I hear uncle talking about a woman who was in US Army intelligence, and how she was ‘the prize.’ His friend says to him, ‘I’m in. I will get you money tomorrow.’”

  I tent my fingers under my chin, an old habit that helps me focus.

  This sounds crazy. Like something out of a low-budget movie. In my experience, at least, being a billionaire isn’t that different from my old life. I just fly on fancier jets and drink better booze. And the women, of course.

  But this – this sounds like it’s come off Hollywood’s rejected script pile.

  “So,” I say. “You’re telling me this is a hunt of some kind? Maks, you know me, I’m not into – ”

  “No, no, no, not a hunt.” He frowns at me. “What kind of family do you think I have?”

  I leave that one well alone.

  “No, the Chase is not about killing anyone. Not animal, not person. I don’t know details, but it is about finding someone. A woman.”

  “Why would someone pay money to find a woman? They’re all over the place, in case you hadn’t noticed. E
specially when you’re like us. You know me, Maks. I don’t pay for women.”

  “Not Army intelligence officer women. They are not all over the place. And uncle said this one was… special.”

  “Special how?”

  He leans in even closer. “I think she was virgin.”

  Now I’m the one frowning.

  “Are you talking about rape?” I demand. “Because if you are, this conversation is over.”

  Maksim’s expression droops into a wounded puppy look, and I realize I’ve crossed a line.

  “Carson,” he says. “I would never – ”

  “I know, I know,” I soothe. “I’m sorry, you’re a man of honor. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But if not that, then what? What’s the purpose of the Chase? Why would any woman, especially one who’s smart and capable, allow herself to be chased and give up her virginity to someone she doesn’t even know?”

  His eyebrows go up. “Money, of course. What else is there?”

  He’s got me there. I recently read an article about a Romanian teen who auctioned off her virginity online for over €2 million. Her reasoning was actually pretty sound: she asked how many women would have taken advantage of the deal if they’d had the opportunity to revisit their first time? A night of sex for a lifetime of financial security.

  “So there’s more than one pursuer involved, obviously?”

  “Yes,” says Maks. “Like I say, I don’t know details but I know it is competition. Losers lose money, winner wins money and the woman.”

  “And your uncle takes a commission.”

  It makes sense, and technically I guess it’s not illegal. I’m sure the handling of the money isn’t above board, but it never is in something like this. All offshore accounts and anonymous transfers. The prize money could never show up on the books anywhere. I can just picture telling an IRS audit about the money I won popping a woman’s cherry.

  As far as I know, I’ve never slept with a virgin.

  All my conquests have been experienced. Some more than others – some much more than others – but never a first-timer. It would certainly be a new experience for me, and I’m all about new experiences.

  But what really has me intrigued is matching wits with someone who’s trained in evading capture. That’s the kind of real challenge I’m looking for. Suddenly, jumping off a cliff into a lake seems like a juvenile stunt by comparison.

  Maksim finally leans back on the sofa and takes a pull directly from the vodka bottle this time, a smile creeping across his swarthy face.

  “I can see there are wheels rolling in your head,” he says. “You are interested, yes? I have caught you like hook on fish.”

  “I am interested maybe,” I say.

  “I will talk to uncle about it. Maybe he will pay me commission, eh?”

  I grin back at him. “And maybe then you’ll pick up a check once in awhile.”

  He laughs and takes another swig of vodka.

  “And take away your chance to show everyone how generous you are?” he says. “Why would I do that to you, tovarishch?”

  Maks kicks off his Givenchy loafers and stretches out on the full length of the sofa. From the breast pocket of his sportcoat, he produces a small fabric sleep mask that he slips over his eyes. Finally he clasps his hands behind his head and is snoring softly in less than a minute.

  I chuckle and turn to look out the porthole at the cloudless sky. Of all the people I’ve ever met, precisely one carries a sleep mask on his person at all times.

  I half consider a nap myself – it’ll be a long day in New York, especially with the time difference – but I know sleep will elude me. The Chase keeps tugging at my mind, like an exposed wound, taunting me.

  Surely it can’t really be a thing? Perhaps Maks – half-drunk – completely misunderstood an overheard conversation. Surely that’s a far more plausible scenario?

  Sleep eventually creeps around the edges of my consciousness as I ponder the Chase, until it finally overtakes me and drags me down into its depths.

  I dream of a redheaded girl who’s smarter than me and makes my heart soar.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  7. CARSON

  The scent of her shampoo is strong in my nostrils as I run my tongue around her earlobe. It’s a special kind, made specifically for kinky-haired redheads, she always tells me. I tell her it’s actually for women who dye their hair red, not for real redheads, and she just sticks her tongue out at me.

  That’s circular reasoning, she says, but only because she’s distracted by my attention to her ear.

  It’s a logical fallacy, yes, but not circular reasoning. I can’t be bothered to point it out right now.

  I know this is a dream, even as it unfolds. This never actually happened. Cassie and I made out, yes, and we had Socratic arguments, but never at the same time. I hold onto the feeling of being close to her as long as I can, burying my face in her neck, hearing her hot breath against my ear.

  But it doesn’t last.

  It never does. I always end up back here, in this empty living room, with this stupid corsage in my hand. I look around the room at the emptiness there. In the dream there’s dust on the wood moldings and the windowsills, cobwebs in the corners. That’s not what really happened, either. It’s just my mind painting a portrait of the loneliness I felt when I walked into that deserted house.

  When I discovered she was gone.

  And, just like always, I’m back in the gym at good old Oak Grove High, surrounded by kids in their best suits and the prom dresses that their parents can’t really afford. They’re all laughing at me, laughing at the brainiac kid who got stood up by his brainiac girlfriend. Couldn’t even get the geekiest girl in school to come with you, huh?

  Now, just like always, I come to the realization that all my success, my money and my body and everything that came after high school, was just a dream. I’m going to sign up for the army and be just like Dad, marching to orders and moving to every fucking Podunk town in America. This is my life, forever and ever.

  And Cassie wasn’t even real, she never existed, I just made her up. That’s why she disappeared that night. There was never a girl who understood me, who stretched me in every advanced placement class, who shared books with me and told me I was handsome and held me so tight that I actually believed that maybe, someday, everything would turn out okay.

  Nothing but an empty living room on prom night, and a corsage that I bought for someone who wasn’t there.

  My stomach drops suddenly and I’m back in the Gulfstream, clutching the arms of my leather seat.

  “Sorry about that, sirs,” Patrick says over the intercom. “Just a little turbulence from a squall off Nova Scotia. That should be the worst of it.”

  I breathe deeply, taking in as much recycled air as I can fit into my lungs before letting it out slowly. I’m shaken, and not from the bumpy ride.

  The dream again. The one where everything I have today is just a teenage fantasy and I’m trapped in the life my father lived. It always takes me several minutes to shake off the effects and remind myself that yes, I am Carson Drake, billionaire playboy.

  I’m not that kid that everyone laughed at on prom night. Nor the boy who was abandoned by the girl he loved.

  I’m different now. Better. And everything will be all right.

  I sigh and run my hands down my face, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

  “Whuh?” Maks grunts from the sofa. He sits up and pulls off the ridiculous sleep mask. “Are we home?”

  “Close, but not quite,” I say.

  He lets out a huge yawn and reaches for the vodka. “I dreamed that I was the king of England,” he says.

  “Maksim.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to find out more about what we talked about.”

  He brightens. “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  Let the Chase begin.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

 
8. CASSANDRA

  “What are the three greatest words in the English language?”

  It’s not exactly the greeting I’m expecting when Tricia opens the door to her apartment, but I can play along.

  “I don’t know,” I say as she ushers me in. “I love you?”

  “Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wine. Sweatpants. Popcorn.” She counts out each one on a separate finger.

  “Let me guess: you have all of them?”

  “In spades.”

  She leads me into the living room. Her place is a lot like her: bold and funky. The furniture is an eclectic mix of antiques and garage sale chic. A Matisse print and a portrait of dogs playing poker share space on the wall of the dining area.

  In another place, in another time, it would look tacky. But not with Tricia.

  Here, now, it fits.

  I take a seat on an ancient sofa that sinks almost to the floor as it accepts my weight, leaving my knees almost under my chin. Tricia flops down in an overstuffed armchair that’s covered in a material that resembles fur, assuming there are pink-haired mammals somewhere in the world.

  “I hope you’re okay with pinot grigio,” she says, pouring us each a glass of the straw-colored liquid. “I’m a sucker for a sale.”

  “If it’s cold and it has alcohol in it, I’m okay with it,” I say, offering up my wine glass in an ironic cheer. “Besides, our days of buying wine on sale are rapidly coming to an end.”

  Tricia pulls her oversized plastic bowl of popcorn into her lap with childlike glee.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” she asks, eyes glowing.

  “It does indeed. Miranda Winthrop said if we can put up $3.5 million, Tate Capital will put up the rest for a two-thirds stake.”

  She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “It just seems like so much. I mean, all I have is a little equity in the building and what I have in retirement savings. That’s not even, what, two hundred thousand.”