Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

  “Me?” He seems startled. “Just, uh, walking. Beautiful day for it.”

  “Me too. Just walking.”

  We stand there, hands still holding the back of the chair, for what seems like an eternity. I feel like I’m swimming in awkwardness. I reaallly want to disengage and run away, but I also want to just stand here and stare at him in his shorts for the rest of my life. Those legs are like a stag’s, all bulges and coiled steel.

  Carson is the first one to disengage as his eyes wander above my head.

  “Richard!” he says, raising his chin to acknowledge someone behind me. “What’s up?”

  I turn to see who he’s talking to and my blood freezes. It’s man in his late 60s, tall and fit, with a pompadour of silver hair. His silk shirt is a pale green, his slacks khaki. He looks like he stepped off the page of a J. Crew catalog. I’ve seen him before, on the pages of Forbes magazine.

  His name is Richard Linkletter, and he’s No. 11 on the list of the richest men in America.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  23. CARSON

  “Not much, Drake,” Richard says, extending his right hand. I let go of the chair and take it firmly. “How about you?”

  “You know me,” I say with a shrug. “Same old, same old.”

  “Right,” he says with a grin. “Like jumping off a cliff in Trentino in a flying suit and landing on Lake Garda. Just another day at the office.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? Some of us are still young enough to enjoy our money.”

  He doubles over like he’s been punched. It’s an old routine between the two of us. Rich was on the board of the company that bought out Black Sword, and we hit it off during the price negotiations. He respected the fact that I did it myself rather than through lawyers. He’s old money, but he’s still a stand-up guy.

  And suddenly I wonder if he’s also one of my competitors in the Chase.

  He’s married, but I don’t know how happily. Besides, I know plenty of men in my circle of influence who live their lives almost completely apart from their wives, only getting together as needed for dinner parties and charity events.

  It’s a lifestyle I can’t even imagine. If you’re lucky enough to find The One, why would you ever want to be apart? Why would you do anything to risk that kind of happiness?

  Big talk, Carson. You haven’t talked to Cassie since the night at the restaurant, and when you run into her during your Chase, you act like she’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

  Speaking of Cassie, she looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and I realize I’m being terribly rude. My face colors with an uncharacteristic blush.

  “I beg your pardon,” I say, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her soft, freckled shoulder. “Cassandra Vincent, I’d like you to meet my friend Richard Linkletter.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, the words dripping with old money charm. “How do you know Drake here?”

  High school, I open my mouth to say. Before I can form the words, Cassie beats me to the punch.

  “We’re dating!” she says loudly.

  We are?

  Her arm creeps around my waist in a sudden death grip, and she looks up at me with a fluorescent smile.

  Richard’s eyebrows arch. “Carson Drake, dating? That’s a new one.”

  I smile down at Cassie, trying to keep the confusion out of my expression. What’s going on here? Is this some sort of revenge for the games I played the other night?

  “Well,” I say, “it’s early days. We just reconnected. Haven’t seen each other since high school.”

  “So you knew Drake here before he was rich?” he says to Cassie. “I’d love to pick your brain about that.”

  “He’s the same person he was back then,” she says. “Smart. Sweet. Honest. Just a few more dollars and a few more muscles, that’s all.”

  She looks up at me. “Isn’t that right?”

  Is it right? I spent a decade trying to turn myself into James Bond and George Clooney rolled into one. I thought I’d succeeded. Now, with a few words, Cassie has me wondering if I ever changed at all.

  And whether I should have even tried to in the first place.

  “You’d know,” I say. “I’m not a very good judge of character. I still think Richard here is a good man, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

  “I can always count on you for a laugh, Carson,” he says with a chuckle. “Anyway, I have to run. I’ve got a board meeting in ten.”

  He takes Cassie’s hand in his and kisses it, the old snake.

  “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Vincent.”

  “You, too,” she says. I can’t read the look on her face. Is it relief? I’d pay a million bucks to know what’s going on inside that head.

  “Which board is it this time?” I ask.

  “The Museum of Sex up the street. Call it a charity gig.”

  “Seriously?” I grin. “Richard, there’s this thing called the Internet now. If you need, you know, release…”

  “Laugh it up, Drake,” he says. His nod tells me he’s heard that one before. “It’s actually a fascinating place. You should come. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

  He turns to Cassie. “Why don’t both of you join me? My treat.”

  “Big spender,” I say.

  Cassie looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and suddenly I’m thinking of ways to get out of this. To be honest, I really don’t need anything reminding me of the other night. Especially in shorts this tight.

  “I’m sorry, but I really have to run,” she says. I can’t blame her. This is awkward as hell.

  Especially the part about us dating. We obviously walked away from that encounter on two totally different pages. I can’t be distracted by anything during the Chase. I may have already missed the quarry during the time I’ve wasted standing here.

  Cassie stands on her tiptoes and plants a delicious kiss on my lips. My cock begins to respond instantly, and I have to will it back down.

  “See you later,” she says with a wave, then quickly trots off down Fifth and cuts through the park.

  Richard flashes an indulgent smile at me.

  “It’s about time, young man,” he says. “She’s a prize.”

  He claps me on the shoulder and continues up the avenue toward his sex museum, leaving me standing there alone, wondering what the hell is happening – and what I’m supposed to do next.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  24. CASSANDRA

  My heartbeat is galloping as I speed walk across the park toward Twenty-Third Street Station and the subway that will get me the hell out of here.

  I had no choice. If I hadn’t, and if Richard Linkletter had handed me a little brass key, the Chase would have been over and there would be less than a million in my Cayman account. Nowhere near enough.

  I don’t want to think about the other part.

  I feel like I’m on a black ops mission and I just avoided the enemy fire sparking overhead. Lying is second nature to me, but I’ve never been in a situation where the consequences were – well, so real.

  Misinformation is standard operating procedure during a mission, because once the operation was over, everything resets. That’s not the case here.

  Everything I do now has real-world consequences. I just told Carson we’re dating, and I have no idea how he feels about that. I have no idea how I feel about it. I don’t even know what it means.

  He didn’t contradict me, which is encouraging. But what if now he thinks he should call me? I can’t have a boyfriend during the Chase!

  Can I?

  I slow my pace as I reach the stairwell off the street down into the subway station. People rush past like ants on a hill, everyone going about their own business, close in body only. Their minds, like mine, are on other things.

  Probably not the same kind of things as mine, obviously. They’re wondering what to make for dinner. I’m wondering how to avoid capture. And how to avoid a sixty-year-old stranger taking my virginity.
/>
  The train hisses to a stop and I hop on board. As it pulls away, I scan the car for anything out of the ordinary. An Armani suit, for example, or a platinum Rolex. It’s possible that my pursuers have dressed down for the occasion, but it’s been my experience that it’s hard to cover up the scent of money. It leaves a mark.

  Only a handful of people are sharing the ride with me at this time of day: a pair of teen boys with their skateboards; an elderly Asian woman with three shopping bags; a tall Sudanese man eating a platform hot dog.

  No male billionaires here, unless Sudanese billionaires have a thing for cheap red frankfurters that taste like a mustard-covered salt lick.

  As I settle into the molded plastic seat, my phone vibrates. I turned the ringer off the minute the Chase started, just as a precaution; I don’t want any unnecessary attention drawn to me over the next two weeks. My training taught me that staying invisible means taking away anything that might cause someone to look in my direction.

  I groan as I see the caller ID: it’s Tricia. We haven’t spoken since the day Carson and I met in the ice cream shop. She’s called before but I haven’t picked up. Better not blow her off again or she’ll get suspicious. And in all honesty, I owe her a call. We’re supposed to be business partners, after all.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and hit the answer button.

  “Hey, Trish,” I say. “Sorry I never got back to you. It’s been a crazy week.”

  “You are so dead to me,” she huffs. “I’m actually thinking of adopting you just so I can disown you.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, how are you?”

  “Don’t try to be funny. You never called me to tell me about your date with Carson! What kind of bitch goes out with a rich demi-god and doesn’t call her best friend right after?”

  Apparently, that’s what BFFs are supposed to do. I wouldn’t know, I’m new to this whole thing. I’ve never had a close friend like Tricia. I was always too busy studying, or training, or working. Or killing.

  All the things my father wanted me to do.

  “I’m waiting,” she says with practiced coldness in her voice. She obviously prepared for this.

  “A stupid one?” I offer.

  “A stupid one!”

  I chuckle in spite of myself. She’s got a way of pulling me out of my head and turning me in a direction that I never would have seen. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

  “Sorry, sorry, a million times sorry,” I plead. “Can you forgive me?”

  “That depends on the details. Hand ‘em over.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I lie. “We toured the Museum of Modern Art and had dinner.”

  I leave out the extracurricular activity in the coatroom. Partly because I don’t want to talk about it, partly because it always makes my nipples pop. I’ve been thinking about it every night in bed. Masturbation is a wonderful sleep aid.

  “And?”

  “And I went home.”

  “You didn’t sleep with him?”

  “No.”

  The line goes silent for a full five seconds.

  “Tricia?”

  “Now I wish I did adopt you,” she says. “Then I could have you committed, because you are fucking crazy!”

  “Hey, now…”

  “Honey, you had the opportunity to make Carson Freakin’ Drake your first, and you didn’t take advantage of it! Believe me, any thirty-year-old straight guy who looks like him knows his way around a woman’s body. He has got that roadmap memorized.”

  Does he ever.

  Tricia thinks she’s helping, but all she’s done is remind me that there’s no way Carson can be my first. If I can just manage to hold things off for a couple weeks, though, maybe something can happen.

  Please, God, let it happen.

  “Look, it just wasn’t the right time,” I say.

  Boy, is that ever the understatement of the year.

  She clucks her tongue. “There’s no such thing as the right time when it comes to your first, Sandra.”

  “Cassie.”

  “What?”

  “I decided I want to go by Cassie now.”

  “Seriously? One date with Carson Drake and you want to change your name? And yet it ‘wasn’t the right time?’”

  I sigh. This conversation is going south faster than a flock of Canada geese.

  “Tricia, to be honest, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I mean, we spent a few minutes together that morning and then had dinner.”

  “That’s why I’ve been calling you!”

  I see the stop for Fifty-Seventh Street Station coming up, so I head to the door and grab the stabilizer bar. My plan is to walk the couple of blocks to Central Park and lose myself in it for the afternoon.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Look, Tricia, I have to go.”

  “Listen to me, bitch – and I don’t say that lightly: if you hang up right now, I will break up with you for six months. Do you understand me?”

  I roll my eyes as I step out of the car onto the platform.

  “All right, all right, what is so fucking important?”

  “Carson Drake has been in the shop every day since you two met up that morning!”

  I stop in my tracks and the two teens run right into my back, knocking me forward. They dash up the stairs without even looking back. Part of me wants to yell after them, but I’m too stunned.

  “I thought that might get your attention,” Tricia says smugly.

  “Has he – has he asked about me?”

  “Not specifically, but he’s talked to me each time. I didn’t pry, even though I should have, because my soon-to-be-former best friend doesn’t feel the need to tell me anything.”

  “Thank you for that, Trish. Things between us are – complicated.”

  “Well you better un-complicate them quick, girl, or I might just try to boat that fish myself. A prize like that starts swimming around, I can’t be blamed if I decide to drop a line in the water.”

  I grin and shake my head.

  “Give me two weeks. That’s all I ask.”

  “Two weeks and that’s all. After that, I make no promises.”

  “All right,” I say, pausing at the stairs that lead up to the street. “And I really am sorry. I promise I’ll be in tomorrow. We need to talk business, anyway.”

  “Fine. I’ll try not to be mad at you by then. Peace out.”

  As I slide my phone closed and drop it in my purse, I glance at my reflection in a polished steel panel on the wall. Hair’s okay, make-up still good. I glance down to my blouse.

  My nipples are standing at attention like soldiers.

  Sigh.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  25. INTERLUDE

  The big man steps out of his spot under a weeping willow in Madison Square Park and into General Worth Square. His eyes follow Carson as he heads northeast on Fifth Avenue.

  This is highly unusual. Two contestants meeting with the quarry, neither of them giving her their key. Then the quarry leaves, and the contestants walk away in different directions.

  It makes no sense. Unless…

  He takes out his phone and dials a number.

  “Yes?” the voice says in Russian.

  “Something is happening. Something we’ve never seen before.”

  “What?”

  “I am not sure just yet,” he says. “But I fear we may have been compromised.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  26. CARSON

  Sometimes being a nerd can come in handy. I mean, outside of building and selling multi-billion-dollar tech companies.

  The computer server room in my penthouse is something to see, although no one else ever has. The window wall that looks out on the Manhattan skyline actually acts as my monitor, reflecting multiple desktops projected from a lens that’s set into the ceiling. It allows me to see images at almost life size.

  I created a program the night the Chase began that’s been helping me narrow down my leads. It co
mbines facial recognition software with a reverse search engine for image files, and it all works in a Tor browser. Translated, that just means I upload photos I’ve taken and the program analyzes the facial features. Then it searches the dark web for any potential matches in its clandestine databases.

  Of course, that might all be unnecessary; the information might be out there on the plain old Internet, so I’m also running the program on social media.

  Personally, I limit just about everything about me online. Nobody needs to know where I live, or what I’m doing, or how much I’m worth. That’s one of the reasons I’ve managed to stay off the Forbes list for so long.

  So between the dark web and Facebook, I should be able to wrap up the Chase long before my competitors. Richard Linkletter may have more money in the bank, but he’s Forrest Gump compared to me when it comes to gray matter.

  Even with the hardware I’ve rigged up, the process takes time. The system is currently working on camera phone pics I snapped of three different women I’ve seen multiple times in different spots around midtown. All during the day, which precludes a regular job.

  None of them were in expensive designer clothes or shoes, so they’re probably not rich. All of them are stunning, and they move like they’ve had training. Little things like walking with their feet pointed forward, instead of at an angle.

  It stabilizes the knees and makes it easier to avoid injury in a fight-or-flight situation. One of the many things I learned from Matthias.

  I find myself comparing all of them to Cassie, and to that woman they come up short. I don’t know what she does to stay in shape, but it’s probably CrossFit or something else regimented. She moves like a natural athlete these days, which is amazing, since she never got involved in sports in school.

  Then again, neither did I, and look at me now.

  I’m staring at the screen from my custom-made gaming chair as thousands of potential matching images stream by on the window wall, when my phone chimes.

  It’s a text from Maksim: I am being downstairs. Up I come.