Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

  She looks at me. “You’re incredible.”

  I take her face in my hands and kiss her slowly and deeply again. Now that the initial frenzy is over, we can just be for a little while.

  Until Round Two, of course.

  Cassie is right about the room. It’s done in a tasteful ivory palette, with hand-carved paneling across the walls and deep tray ceilings with moldings that probably cost in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars a foot.

  The high ceilings and vertical mirrors give the illusion of a grand space, and the pastel toile curtains are held aside with antique silver tiebacks. The furniture is of the same Prohibition-era vintage as the bar, with curved drawers, damask fabric, claw feet and sublime cherry wood inlay.

  “The Regent is probably the most exclusive hotel on the Eastern Seaboard,” I say. “You’ll never find it on Expedia. I had to hear about it from wealthy acquaintances. There are no prices listed anywhere, just like Piccolo. I think they might actually have the same owner.

  “It’s the ultimate no-tell hotel. I’m sure the Chase’s organizers want to maintain the illusion that it’s a discreet, classy affair.”

  “The Chase,” she murmurs.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  “You first.”

  She props herself on one elbow, giving me an excellent view of her bare breasts. I give each of them an appreciative kiss.

  “I’ll give you just thirty minutes to stop that,” she says.

  “I’m good. Let’s talk.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Not for too long,” she says.

  I point to the tent between my legs under the sheet.

  “Definitely not for too long,” I say.

  She grins.

  “Well,” she sighs. “You’re right. I’m a secret agent. Was a secret agent.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not the job description they stuck in the HR file.”

  “There is no technical job description for what I did. I’m not an analyst or special agent; I was strictly off the books.”

  So much makes sense now about Cassie’s behavior lately. Then again, this opens up a whole new line of questions for her. I decide to just let her talk. She needs to talk.

  We’ve got all the time in the world now.

  “You’ve probably guessed by now that this had something to do with prom night,” she says.

  “Sort of,” I say. “Your dad – was he in the agency when we were kids?”

  She looks me square in the eye.

  “You need to understand this is privileged information.”

  Wow. Like I said, a whole different Cassie.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Dad was seconded into the agency after 9/11. He’d been in Army Intelligence until then, but his specialized knowledge of Afghanistan put him in high demand after the attacks.

  “The day we disappeared – do you remember what had been in the news that week?”

  A psychologist once told me the human brain is like a computer; mine just has a lot more RAM than most, so I can access things inside it quickly and easily. So I tend to remember things really well.

  “There was a Senate hearing into some black ops dealings to do with the war,” I say.

  She nods.

  “My dad was identified by one of the witnesses as being involved. Within a day, there was chatter on NSA intercepts about threats against his life.”

  “Holy shit…”

  “Yeah,” she breathes. “He came bursting through the door in the middle of the afternoon and the next thing I knew, we were on an Army transport to Honduras.”

  “And I was standing on your porch, wondering where the hell you were.”

  She takes my head in her hands and pulls me close, touching her nose to mine.

  “I am so sorry,” she husks. “For years I wanted to get in touch with you, but – ”

  “Shhh.” I kiss her eyelids. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

  A moment later her hand is under the sheet and around my appreciative cock.

  “We’re both here now,” she whispers. “So what should we do about it?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  44. CASSANDRA

  I think it’s morning, but I’m not sure. Being sure would require me to open the curtains to peek outside. Or get up and look at my phone on the dresser.

  Both of those things require me getting out of this cloud of a bed, and that just ain’t happening.

  Carson stirs beside me and lets out a deep sigh. His chest has been gently rising and falling in a slow rhythm since I’ve been awake, which hasn’t been long.

  Or maybe it has. Time lost all meaning when we stepped into the elevator last night.

  He turns toward me and opens his eyes.

  “Thank God,” he says, a hint of red embarrassment in his cheeks. “I was scared to fall asleep. I honestly thought I’d wake up and realize last night never happened.”

  “Oh, it happened,” I say. “Three times. I’m surprised you didn’t collapse into a coma after that last one.”

  “It was an important night. I wanted to make sure it was worth waiting for.”

  I climb on top of him and weave my fingers into his.

  “Imagine you’re waiting to taste lobster for the first time, because everyone you know always talks about how great lobster is,” I say. “And then, the first time you try it, it’s the meal we had at Piccolo last night.”

  His eyes widen.

  “Wow,” he says.

  “And then multiply that by a billion.”

  He chuckles.

  “There’s only one problem,” I say.

  “Problem? What problem?”

  “You set the bar ridiculously high. If you don’t live up to last night every single time from now on, well...”

  He slides his hands under my rear and gives me a friendly squeeze.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” he asks with mock gravity. “Carson Drake eats challenges for breakfast.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “And then Matthias whips him for it in the gym later on. That song’s been on repeat for a while now, babe.”

  He barks a laugh. I giggle, too.

  I didn’t mean to lead the conversation in this direction, but I’ve been taught to take advantage of every opportunity. We’re on the subject, and we’re both in a talkative mood.

  “Speaking of challenges,” I say. “How on Earth did you end up in the Chase?”

  “I knew I couldn’t avoid this for much longer,” he sighs. “I have to be honest with you, Cassie: I was bored.”

  “That much I figured out on my own. You never could sit still – you always had to have something to occupy your mind or you’d go crazy. I’m curious how you heard about it.”

  He shrugs. “It was in the Billionaires Club newsletter.”

  I cock my middle finger with my thumb and flick his earlobe. Hard.

  “Ow!”

  “There’s more to come if you don’t smarten up,” I say. “I’ve interrogated men in ratholes in the Middle East who would eat you the way you eat challenges.”

  He goggles at me.

  “Is that true?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say with a grin. “The fact that you have to ask means I’ve done my job.”

  “Understood, ma’am.”

  “Now: how did you really hear about the Chase?”

  Carson props himself up on his pillows. I do the same – it’s more suited to serious conversation.

  “I have a friend named Maksim,” he says. “His family is connected to the Russian mob, though I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time proving that. He put me in touch with someone who brokered the deal.”

  Brokered the deal. Hmmm.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “About five-eight, long blonde curls, crimson lipstick?”

  “Seriously? You know her?”

  “She
brokered my deal, too.”

  “Huh,” he says. “Makes sense. They probably don’t want to do the dirty work themselves, so they contract it out.

  “Your turn: how did you find out about the Chase?”

  It seems like a thousand years ago now, even though it’s only been a few months.

  “I was doing research for work. I came across a cryptic site on the dark web offering a commission for anyone who could connect the poster with someone who had – let me make sure I remember this exactly – ‘a very unique set of circumstances.’”

  Carson’s eyebrows go up.

  “That’s a pretty good way to describe it,” he says.

  “It piqued my interest,” I say. “The first thing that came to mind, obviously, was sex slavery. But the more I discovered about it, the more I realized it wasn’t a criminal operation. At least not in the strict sense of the word.

  “They were looking for a woman who had counter-espionage or intelligence-gathering skills. Someone who could lead a bunch of rich, old men on a merry – old – chase.

  “And, of course, they had to be a virgin, and willing to… submit to the winner.”

  I blush, even now, after everything. Carson smiles and kisses my hot cheek.

  “In return, the quarry would get $250,000 a day,” I continue. “That kind of money represented a freedom I didn’t even know I wanted. As soon as I saw it, all I could think about was leaving the underground lifestyle behind and becoming financially independent.

  “I think I finally realized that I only signed up because my father pushed me into it. He said it was my duty to the country to use my smarts to save American lives.

  “But when you wake up one day to discover you’re thirty years old and you’ve never even been to bed with a man, you start to get a new perspective.”

  Whoa. That was a revelation. I suppose I’ve had those thoughts before, but I’ve never articulated them like that, to myself or anyone else.

  “Your dad is definitely a demanding guy,” Carson says. “How did he take the news that you wanted out?”

  I wince. “How do you think? He said I was wasting my potential. Disappointing my country. Disappointing him.” Even now it hits me in the gut like a haymaker.

  “You know what? I think what you’re doing now is discovering your potential. We’re both living proof that you don’t know what you’re capable of until you go for it.”

  He always knows exactly what to say. I could get used to that. To this. For the rest of my life.

  “If I had a glass of champagne, I’d toast you,” I say.

  Suddenly his expression darkens.

  “Wait a minute,” he says. “You only got $250,000 a day for this?”

  “Only? That’s a lot of money.”

  “My buy-in alone was $20 million.”

  Holy shit. Wealth may be relative, but that’s a serious wage gap.

  “Those bastards,” he says. “I thought it would be at least a million a day. That’s an obscene profit margin.”

  I shrug. “Most obscenely rich people don’t get where they are by undercharging, Carson.”

  His face lightens and he doubles over, covering his heart with his hand.

  “That hurts,” he groans.

  “The truth often does,” I say. “Better get used to it. Because I don’t swing and miss.”

  He smiles absently. I’ve seen this look before: there’s an idea percolating in his head. I’ve missed that look. God, how I’ve missed it.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  “I always am. Which instance are you referring to?”

  “I’m obscenely rich.”

  “Well, the first step is admitting it, I guess.”

  “We should be doing the kind of things obscenely rich people do together. Last night was a good start, but there’s all sorts of stuff we could be doing. The only limit is our imagination.”

  The thought sends a little thrill through me. If last night was only a sample of what life could be like, I think I could get addicted to it.

  “Just one thing,” I say. “You’re obscenely rich. I’m not.”

  “Who cares, as long as one of us is?” he says. “Your time is coming, babe. And when that ship comes in, you better believe you’re going to be picking up the check. I’m a firm believer in feminism.”

  I punch his shoulder.

  “We need to make some plans,” he says. “What do obscenely rich people do?”

  I put my lips to his ear and take his left hand in mine, placing it between my thighs. His touch makes me instantly wet.

  “Do obscenely rich people fuck?” I whisper.

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispers back. “Obscenely.”

  Turns out he’s right.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  45. CARSON

  Trying to lead two blindfolded women by the hand isn’t nearly as fun as you might think it would be.

  It doesn’t help that they’ve already finished a bottle of wine between them at lunch.

  “Watch your big feet, bitch!” Tricia hollers as she stumbles into Cassie.

  “Maybe if you stepped on yours instead of mine, you’d be okay!” Cassie counters.

  They both burst into a slumber party giggle fit, which makes it even harder to pull them in the direction I need them to go, which is down. I should have recruited Leonard to help when he dropped us off.

  We’ve got a triangle of hand-holding going on – each has a hold of one of mine, and one of the other’s – which maybe isn’t the best way to do this. But it’s too late now. I can’t imagine how opening my big mouth would help one little bit.

  “Why are we on a slant?” Cassie’s asks. “Are we in a museum or something?”

  Tricia snorts. “Better not be, with the spectacle we’re putting on!”

  “Okay,” I say. “Stop here.”

  A murmur of laughter comes from in front of and below us.

  “Who’s laughing at us?” Cassie calls. “You try doing this blindfolded! Whatever this is!”

  “What are you doing to us, Carson?” Tricia growls. “I didn’t sign up for public humiliation.”

  I hide a grimace, even though I know that can’t see me. At least we’ve reached where we need to be. I position the two of them so they face the same direction, holding their arms to make sure neither of them falls over.

  “All right, you can take them off now.”

  “This better be worth it, buster,” says Tricia.

  “I’m sure it will be,” Cassie says, patting my hand. She leans toward me. “It better be.”

  They both reach up and tug on the fabric knots of their blindfolds.

  “Ta-da,” I say.

  The look on their faces is worth every penny and every stumbling step it took to get to this point.

  “Oh, my God,” Cassie says. “Is this…?”

  Tricia, as always, is a bit more blunt.

  “Holy shit!” she says.

  I direct their attention to the stage and the gentleman standing there.

  “I apologize for the laughs from the orchestra,” he says. “They’re all drunk. They usually spend their afternoons in a bar.”

  More laughter from the orchestra pit in front of us.

  Cassie looks at me, mouth open.

  “Are you serious?”

  “He’s serious, all right,” says the man on stage. “Hi, my name is Michael. I’m the stage manager for The Book of Mormon.”

  Tricia scans the place, wide-eyed. The Eugene O’Neill Theater is empty except for us.

  “We’re the only ones here!” she crows.

  “It’s a private matinee,” says Michael. “Which is pretty amazing since, like I said, no one involved in this show gets up before happy hour.”

  I drape an arm over Cassie’s shoulder.

  “You didn’t get to finish watching the show the last time you were here,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t mind watching the first half again.”

  I turn to Tricia.

&
nbsp; “As for you, I figured you could use a little culture.”

  She grins wide and flips me the bird.

  “This is seriously awesome, Carson,” she says. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “How did you pull this off?” Cassie asks.

  I point to the stage.

  “A sizeable donation to the Foundation for the Arts opens a lot of doors,” Michael says. “The truckload of top-shelf scotch didn’t hurt, either.”

  I direct the women to their seats directly behind the orchestra pit.

  “This is hands-down the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Cassie says as she settles in.

  “Correction,” I say. “The craziest thing this week.”

  Tricia grins. “I would tell you two to get a room, but I want an invite to whatever the next crazy thing is.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll get one.”

  “Ahem,” says Cassie. “That depends on what the next crazy thing is.”

  “Seriously,” Tricia deadpans. “You’re not making the ‘get a room’ thing easy here.”

  Cassie rolls her eyes and tilts her head toward mine.

  “Riff-raff,” she sighs. “It’s getting so people like us can’t even go to the theater without running into them.”

  Tricia ignores her and stretches her legs out into the aisle, crossing them at the ankles.

  “I could get used to this,” she sighs.

  The lights go low as the familiar strains of “Hello” begin to waft from the orchestra directly below us. Once again, the young men in their short-sleeved shirts and black ties take the stage.

  “This is obscene,” Cassie whispers in my ear.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I whisper back.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  46. CASSANDRA

  A week later.

  “Okay, I admit it: coming to Grand Cayman in August wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”

  I can barely hear Carson through the giant floppy hat that’s doing an abysmal job of protecting my pale, increasingly freckled skin from the scorching hell of the Caribbean sun. But hey, at least the sunscreen is running off my body in rivulets, thanks to a constant supply of sweat.