Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

I feel a hard lump sheathed in softness against the back of my head. Then blackness.

  Consciousness swims back to me like a toddler fighting the tide, but eventually my thoughts manage to coalesce and I open my eyes. I’m sitting in a metal frame chair. The tingling in my hands tells me they’re restrained behind me.

  Across from me is a distinguished-looking man with flowing silver hair and a dark suit. His legs are crossed at the knee and he’s looking down his nose through a pair of glasses at what I assume is a newspaper crossword, judging by the pen poised in his hand.

  He glances at me over his glasses and smiles.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says. “I was starting to worry you’d been permanently damaged.”

  The knot on the back of my head is still throbbing, but I don’t feel any real symptoms of a major concussion.

  “I’ve survived harder knocks to the head,” I say. My voice sounds drunk to my own ears.

  “I don’t doubt it. You’re not an easy man to reason with, Mr. Talbot. We’ve been trying to talk to you for days now.”

  “Yeah, you even camped outside my door. Sorry for running out on you like that, but I was worried you might be trying to sell me Amway or something.”

  The guy surprises me by chuckling. “Sully told me you were a smartass,” he says, shaking his head.

  I try to keep the surprise from my face as that registers and take a moment to scan the room: featureless, no windows, just a big one-way mirror on the wall.

  “You’re not DoD,” I say.

  He grins and touches the tip of his nose with a carefully manicured finger.

  “Can I assume you’re in a more receptive mood for conversation now, Mr. Talbot?”

  I tug at the restraints on my wrists. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Well, you could continue to struggle, or you can play nice and we’ll take those off.”

  “I’ll play nice.”

  “Good,” he says, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking the cuffs. “Wouldn’t want to risk that brain of yours with another thump. We have too much invested in it.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  “No doubt you have a lot of questions,” he says. “I’ll do my best to answer them if you’ll return the favor and answer some of mine.”

  “Ask away,” I say as I rub my wrists to get the blood circulating again.

  “Excellent.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “First order of business: Sebastian Dacosta.”

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Two

  72. SARA

  One more sleepless night like the last two and I think I might just go insane.

  I spent the $500 Tre gave me on food and a hotel room that was a step up from the Rest-All Motel, but still several steps below the Presidential Suite at the Sapphire. I was tired of extremes – I just wanted something normal for a night.

  Grace offered to vacate my apartment so I could stay there, but I declined. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts for one single night. In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, since it just gave me an endless amount of time to feed my own worries.

  “Ms. Bishop,” Pearce’s secretary says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Mr. Pearce will see you now.”

  I almost ask her how the diarrhea is going as I pass her desk, before realizing that’s just my exhausted brain rambling.

  “Sara!” Quentin says with more warmth than I’ve ever seen. “Good to see you. Please, sit down.”

  I all but collapse onto the elegant sofa. His office is very well-appointed. It lets people know that he’s got a lot of money, which in turn means he can make them a lot of money. Everyone around me seems to have money on their minds these days.

  “I trust the cashier’s check cleared and your company’s accounts are fatter this morning?” he asks.

  Case in point.

  “Yes,” I say wearily. “Is that all you wanted me here for?”

  His grin makes my skin crawl.

  “You could say thank you,” he says in a “just kidding” tone.

  “Why? Because you fulfilled your end of our contract? Fine, I’ll say thanks.” I put on a Pollyanna grin. “Thanks for paying my fee, Quentin! You’re awesome!”

  He frowns. So much for his attempt to act like a normal human being.

  “I could give two shits about money right now,” I say. “If you don’t have anything else to discuss, I’ll be going. Thanks for wasting my time.”

  “That’s interesting,” he says evenly, despite my taunts. “I would have thought money would be foremost on your mind right now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’re married to Chance Talbot,” he shrugs. “When you divorce him, you’re legally entitled to half his shares in Atlas. I doubt he had time to arrange a prenuptial agreement before your hasty wedding.”

  That thought never entered my head, but now that it’s there, it’s hard to ignore. I really don’t care about money, but we’re talking potentially hundreds of millions of dollars here. That could do a lot of good.

  But it would also hand over even more control to Pearce.

  “You asked me here to talk me into selling,” I say. “Because you think I’m going to divorce Chance. That’s a mighty big assumption, Quentin, even for you.”

  Another cold smile. “I never would have taken you for a prison bride, Sara. But I guess to each their own.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “Prison bride?” I say. “How do you figure?”

  “I know Chance broke into my home office and found out about my connection to Nova Chemicals,” he says. “Once he found that, he would have realized that Sebastian Dacosta was the one who supplied the incriminating intelligence my partners and I have been trying to confirm.

  “I’ll tell you what I told the rest of the board, just in case you haven’t figured it out yet: Patrick Sullivan embezzled money from a CIA operation while in Iraq and used it to fund the expansion of Atlas. Chance found out about it and blackmailed him into raising him up in the company. Sullivan knew that if the information came to light, the company – and his family – would be ruined.”

  I shake my head. Chance told me they stole that money form a terrorist financier. This story isn’t true – is it? I don’t have any evidence either way. It comes down to which one I believe.

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “Chance would never do that.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t think he was capable of murder, either. Try to convince Sebastian Dacosta of that.”

  My head is spinning with all this. And underneath it all is an itch at the back of my head that won’t fully solidify. Something Pearce said doesn’t add up, but I can’t think of it consciously. The harder I try, the further it slips away.

  “Let’s say I do divorce him and sell my shares,” I say. “That would leave you with all of the stock, except for what Chance has left.”

  “And the courts would likely force him to divest himself of them after a conviction. It’ll just take a little time.”

  “But then aren’t you left holding the bag? It will eventually come out that Atlas was started with stolen CIA money. Why would you and your partners, whoever the hell they are, want to own a tainted company?”

  He grins again. “The US government needs Atlas,” he says. “So do many other governments around the world. They’re not going to want to see it go down in flames. And when the new owners generously offer to compensate the CIA for their losses, they’ll be seen as heroes as well as good corporate citizens, making up for the previous owners’ sins. Politicians will be lining up to be invited to the Atlas golf tournament.”

  I hate to admit it, but he’s not wrong. The stain will be on the Sullivans, not the new owners. Sully and Chance were the ones behind everything. With Sully gone, that leaves his family and Chance to take the fall.

  Do I want to be a part of any of this? Selling to Quentin feels so slimy, like a betrayal of Chance. But do I want to get
dragged through the mud along with him?

  God, I wish I’d never met Sebastian Dacosta!

  Pearce’s phone starts to ring. He glances at the screen and smiles.

  “My contact in the Department of Defense,” he says, tapping the answer button. “Maybe he has some good news.”

  As he talks, the itch in my brain gets stronger. Something doesn’t add up here, but what is it? And what just made it itchier? Something he said. Come on, Sara, you’re an investigator – think like one! What was the trigger?

  I wish I’d never met Sebastian Dacosta.

  Wait a minute…

  I know Chance broke into my home office … he would have realized that Sebastian Dacosta was the one behind the incriminating intelligence…

  Suddenly it’s right there in front of me: Chance didn’t know Dacosta had anything to do with Nova Chemicals until I told him. Up to that point, it was just a company, not a person.

  He recognized the name but not the connection. It existed, but he needed someone to point it out to him. And what are the odds that the one person who had incriminating information on Atlas just happened to be a recent client of mine?

  About as high as the odds of Quentin Pearce randomly choosing my name because it was first in the phone book. How stupid could I be?

  It was right in front of me the whole fucking time.

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Three

  73. SARA

  As Pearce jabbers on the phone with his man in the DoD, I mentally prepare my verbal assault on him. This stinks like week-old halibut, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it if it’s the last thing I do.

  And I’ll be more than happy to spend every penny of the $150,000 he paid me to make it happen.

  Suddenly my phone is going off in my hand. Chance! It has to be!

  But it’s not. The caller ID says Noble & Cassidy. That’s Chance’s legal firm. How the hell did they get this number?

  I thumb the answer button tentatively. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Talbot,” says a middle-aged voice. “This is Daniel Thompson with Mr. Talbot’s legal team. Please forgive me for calling unannounced, but being Monday, I was hoping I could get you to come by our offices and get this paperwork out of the way. And I can’t seem to track down Mr. Talbot today – would you happen to know where he is?”

  “Paperwork?” I say stupidly. “What paperwork?”

  The voice is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, I assumed Mr. Talbot had discussed it with you.”

  “Discussed what with me?” As if I needed another distraction right now!

  “Getting your name added to all of Mr. Talbot’s accounts, adding you as sole beneficiary in his will, the usual,” he says. Then he chuckles. “You know – giving you the keys to the vault, as it were. He asked me to get started on it the day of your wedding, but I’m afraid it took quite a while to get all our ducks in a row.”

  Chance gave me access to his money? The day we got married? No wonder it took him so long to come to the bedroom at the Sapphire hotel!

  This isn’t a marriage of convenience. This is real, and now I feel sick for ever doubting him. And did I honestly believe he was capable of murder? What the hell was I thinking?!

  “I’ll have to call you back, Mr. Thompson,” I say absently. “Something very important has come up. Thanks for calling.”

  I thumb the phone off without waiting for a reply. As luck would have it, Pearce is hanging up from his own call.

  I have to play this close to the vest, just like Chance would. But it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing Pearce’s scrawny neck and choking the answers I want out of him.

  “Just as I suspected,” he says. “They have Chance in custody. They’re already on the way here to debrief me on what I know about Dacosta’s murder. I can only imagine how they’ll react to my information about the missing CIA money.”

  Before I can say anything, I hear the door open behind me. Tre walks in, looking concerned.

  “Sara, what are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I wanted to talk to her about selling her shares,” says Pearce. “But as fate would have it, she’s also going to be able to sit in on my discussion with the people in the Department of Defense. They have Chance.”

  Tre’s eyes pop. “What?!”

  “They’re just holding him until they can get my story,” Pearce grins. “They’ll turn him over to the FBI after that. They’re aware of how delicate the situation is; they don’t want to bring unnecessary attention to any of this. I imagine they’ll also want to know about Ms. Bishop’s time on the run with Chance.”

  “Sara,” Tre says to me. “I didn’t know about this. I didn’t want to see Chance end up in custody.”

  My fury isn’t just contained to Pearce. I’m still appalled that Tre could turn on Chance the way he did. What kind of friend – what kind of brother – would do that?

  Then it hits me: I turned on him, too. What kind of wife would do that? Who am I to be all high and mighty with Tre?

  “There’s a lot more going on here than you think there is,” I say. “And when the DoD gets here, I’m going to make sure I fill in the holes in your story, Quentin.”

  He gives me a startled look. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be very interested in how you just happened to find my name in the phone book that morning of the board meeting,” I say coldly. “And speaking of coincidences, isn’t it funny how I also happen to be the investigator who has a background with Sebastian Dacosta?”

  Tre looks like his head is about to explode.

  “Wait,” he says. “You knew Dacosta before all of this happened?”

  Suddenly Pearce looks like a slug is trying to crawl down his throat.

  “I did some work for him late last year,” I say. “He asked me all sorts of personal questions. I thought he was hitting on me. Now I can’t help but think he wasn’t interested in dating me at all; he just wanted to know more about me for whatever the hell plan Quentin here has cooked up.”

  Tre glares at Pearce. “Is this true?”

  “She’s obviously clutching at straws,” he says. “She can’t resist rushing to Talbot’s rescue, no matter how much evidence there is to prove he’s a dangerous man and that he married her to keep her from testifying.”

  He turns to me. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Sara. I know how hard that must be for you.”

  At that moment, the intercom on Pearce’s desk buzzes.

  “We’ve had your secretary called away on urgent business, Mr. Pearce,” says a male voice. “May we come in?”

  He grins as he walks to the door. “Now that my friends are here, we’ll all have the opportunity to tell our stories,” he says. “I’d be happy to cover bets on which one they’re going to believe.”

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Four

  74. CHANCE

  What the hell is Sara doing here? That wasn’t supposed to be part of this!

  Pearce looks at the men leading me in by my cuffs and frowns.

  “Where’s Dresden?” he demands.

  “Major Dresden has asked us to take the case from here,” says the silver-haired gentleman. “I’m Johnston, this is Frey.”

  The bald man who subdued me in the park nods.

  “Of course, you already know Mr. Talbot,” says Johnston.

  “Yes, indeed,” Pearce grins. “Always a pleasure, Chance.”

  I’ll bet, you little prick. If I wasn’t in these cuffs…

  “These are my associates, Tre Carter and Sara Bishop.” He pretends to be embarrassed. “Pardon me, I mean Sara Talbot, of course.”

  Johnston nods acknowledgement. “The major said you had some sensitive information that might help us resolve this more quickly, sir. We’re all ears.”

  Sara’s eyes lock on mine. I wish I could read what’s going on behind them right now. All I can do is hope this turns out. And that she can forgive me.

  “Well,” says Pearce. “As I told Dresden,
my partners and I received some rather shocking information from Sebastian Dacosta before he was killed. As I’m sure you’re aware by now, Mr. Dacosta served with Mr. Talbot in Iraq and was an early employee of Atlas Security under the now-deceased founder, Patrick Sullivan.”

  Johnston nods. “Before we go on, who are these partners you mentioned?”

  Pearce looks surprised by the question. “Oh. Well, I suppose if you need to know. It’s a privately held trust run by a family from New Jersey.”

  “Uh-huh,” Johnston says, scribbling in a notebook. “And the names of the principals?”

  Pearce looks uncomfortable. “The head’s name is Tony Arturo.”

  And just like that, I know what Pearce was trying to do. What he’s still trying to do.

  “Okay,” says Johnston. “Please continue.”

  “Well, Mr. Dacosta was an associate of Mr. Arturo, you see. When Mr. Arturo talked about buying Atlas, Mr. Dacosta gave him some information about how the company managed to expand so quickly several years ago.”

  “And how was that?” Johnston asks, still scribbling.

  “He said Patrick Sullivan managed to funnel money from a CIA counter-terrorism operation in northern Iraq back into the States, where he used it to fund the corporate expansion.”

  Johnston looks up from his notebook, eyes wide. “You realize what you’re saying? You’re talking about treason.”

  “Is that the proper legal term?” Pearce asks. “Well, if you say so.”

  Suddenly Tre interrupts, holding his hands up as if there’s a gun pointed at him.

  “Look, maybe we all need to take some time here to cool down. Treason isn’t a word we want to be throwing around randomly here.”

  Johnston eyes him up. “We’ll be talking to you soon enough, Mr. Carter. Right now, Mr. Pearce has the floor.”

  “Well, the rest is fairly simple,” says Pearce. “Mr. Talbot found out about it at the time and threatened to turn in Patrick Sullivan. He blackmailed his boss into making him a partner and leaving him Sullivan’s own shares in his will.”