Billionaire in Rehab: The Complete Series

by Claire Adams

  "Is Mike here?" I asked.

  The uniformed man at the cabstand shook his head. "No, he's off-duty. But I suppose you could call him. He's a sucker for requests."

  "No, he deserves a little time off," I said. I got into the first cab in line and handed the driver the white card. "Can you take me to this address?"

  The driver nodded without a word and slipped into traffic. He drove fast, with no music on and none of the chatter I had come to expect from cab drivers. He only gave me one sullen glance in the rear view mirror and then concentrated on the road.

  In the silence, I had plenty of time to second-guess what I was doing. If Fenton woke up and found me gone, he would be angry. Not only was I off and, according to him, more likely to get myself in trouble, but I was still trying to impress him. I had to make sure he knew it was for him, not the business deal.

  The cab slammed to a stop before I could figure out how to convince Fenton I was not just another sneaky agent. The driver handed me back the little white card and tapped the digital meter.

  "How much if you wait for me?" I asked.

  The driver handed me a smudged business card with his cab company's number on it.

  "You can't wait a few minutes? Leave the meter running," I said. "Seriously, I'll be right back. I don't want to call another cab and wait."

  The driver shrugged and took my cash. As soon as I got out the car, he drove off. A nervous chill slipped down my back. I missed ol' Mike and could see him shaking his head at me. I had told myself this was a simple gesture, something nice to do for Fenton, but I was getting the feeling I was only going to make more trouble. I shivered on the street, feeling exposed, and looked around for the address on the card.

  The Wynn Casino and Hotel was lit up nearby, and as I looked around, I started to feel better. It was busy section of the strip. Lots of shops were still open, catering to the late-night shoppers of Las Vegas. There were blindingly bright neon signs leading partygoers to food and drink. And, there were knots of people heading this way and that, enjoying their Vegas vacations.

  You're fine, I told myself. Still, I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched.

  It’s a silly thought, I tried to convince myself. No one would be after me. I was a low-level agent, clearly not a high roller. Even if they knew me from the luxury suite at the Tropicana, they could see I had nothing on me.

  I turned quickly and rang the bell next to the street number that matched the card. The door was otherwise unmarked and I was relieved when a uniformed concierge opened the door. The logo on his crisp white shirt matched the card and I stepped forward, happy to get off the street.

  "I'm sorry, this is a private club," the concierge said.

  "I realize that," I said. "I'm just here to pick up something for a member. You can bring it out to me, but I'd really rather come inside." I stepped forward again, feeling a rising need to get off the street, even though I could not see anyone suspicious behind me.

  "We operate very exclusively. I cannot let you inside," the concierge said. "For the safety and privacy of our members."

  I glanced back at the street. A tour bus parked by the curb and let a steady stream of people out to swarm into the nearby souvenir shops. I was being silly – there was no one out there but tourists. I figured the paranoia was because I was tired. I just wanted to get Fenton's phone and get back to the suite as soon as possible.

  "I know, I mean, I'm sorry," I handed him the card. "I'm just here to pick up Fenton Morris' things. He is staying elsewhere tonight."

  The concierge's lips quirked up, but he nodded at the card and let me inside. I trotted into the all-white lobby, ridiculously glad to be inside.

  "What exactly are you picking up?"

  "Mr. Morris would like a clean change of clothes and most importantly, his phone," I said.

  The concierge disappeared through a white unmarked door. I jumped a foot into the air when a voice behind me said, "Mr. Morris?"

  I turned and came face to face with Mario Peretti, Fenton's MMA rival. Up close, he was just as fierce and intimidating as all his posters portrayed him – until he smiled.

  "I'm Mario, nice to meet you . . .?"

  "Allen. Kya Allen," I said.

  "Ah, the endorsement agent," Mario said. "Don't worry, I only listen to the good things. Guys like Fenton and I know all about how different reputations can be from the truth."

  I relaxed and reached out a hand to shake his. "It's nice to meet you, Mario. So, you don't think Fenton lives up to his reputation? You might be the only one in Vegas that feels that way right about now," I said.

  "I don't think I'm alone in that," Mario said and smiled at me again.

  I felt my cheeks warm and changed the subject. "I didn't think rival fighters would share a gym?"

  "I was the one that suggested this place," Mario said. "Fenton and I talk outside of fights, trash talk, and photo ops."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah. It makes sense. We have a lot in common," Mario said. "He's like me, setting everything else aside until he gets to the top. Though, I'm starting to see why he having trouble keeping everything separated."

  I drummed my hands on the white desk and wished the concierge would come back. "Why do you say that?"

  "I recognize you." Mario leaned against the tall desk. "From the fight. As I rule, I block out the crowd, most fighters do. I was just so surprised to see Fenton's look out there that I had to glance, too. He was looking at you."

  "That's impossible, there were tons of people in the crowd that night," I said. My cheeks flared warmer.

  "But I recognize you. Thanks for helping me land that punch," he said.

  "No, please don't say that. That's horrible," I cried.

  He chuckled. "Fenton may have lost the fight, but everyone loves a comeback story. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to stop him, but the next time, it'll be a fair fight."

  "I'm excited to see that, live on television from my hotel room," I said.

  Fenton's rival laughed again. "Nah, he'll want you there. Now that I've seen you up close, I can't really say that Fenton lost the fight. Seems like he might be on a lucky streak." Mario winked at me and sauntered away.

  The concierge returned and handed me Fenton's black duffel bag. "Will that be all, miss?"

  I nodded and headed out the door. My mind was reeling. Fenton had seen me – I was the reason he was knocked out. Out over a sea of faces, he saw me. The thought was thrilling at the same time as my guilt was confirmed. The door to the private club locked behind me and the sound shook me from my thoughts.

  "Oh, the cab," I muttered. I should have asked the concierge to call me a cab. Then, I could have waited inside.

  I hefted Fenton's duffel bag onto my shoulder and fumbled for my phone. I dialed the number to the cab company and tapped my foot. The dispatcher promised me it would only be a ten-minute wait.

  You're fine, everything's fine, I told myself.

  The street was still busy, and the tour bus was still waiting for its swarm to return with plastic knick-knacks. I forced myself to browse a postcard display. It was silly to feel like someone was watching me. Vegas was an anonymous town, and no one knew me. I was no one special. Still, the feeling persisted and I worried that someone was watching me in particular.

  "Ms. Allen, so nice to see you again," a voice said.

  I turned and drew back, almost knocking over the post card display with Fenton's black duffel bag. "How do you know my name?"

  The man in suit gave me a sharp smile and narrowed his eyes. "I checked up on you. I know all about you. Ms. Kya Allen, endorsement agent. Normally, you chase tennis players and golfers, but your boss thought you needed a challenge. You're here to sign Fenton Morris, but you haven't made it happen yet."

  "Who needs Fenton Morris?" I said. "I just met Mario Peretti and right now, he's the better bet."

  "Really?" The man eyed the white door. He had been watching me and seen me go both in and come out.

  "
Yes," I said, glad he was distracted from Fenton. "Plus, he doesn't come with all the bad boy bullshit. Fenton's a walking circus right now, and I'm just not into that."

  "Liar," the man in the suit said. "You might be focusing your business elsewhere, but you certainly are not done with Mr. Morris."

  I realized I was still holding Fenton's duffel bag. "What business is it of yours?"

  "I saw the way he reacted to your little stunt with my friend," he said. "You hardly had time to do more than smile before he was up in my friend's face. That kind of jealousy just confirms a little theory I have about you two."

  I saw a yellow cab pull over in front of the private gym. I edged towards it, my heart pounding. Behind it a black town car parked and flashed its headlights. The man in the black pants and t-shirt got out of the town car and strode towards us.

  "See, I think you and Mr. Morris are not coming together on a business front because you are together elsewhere. Or at least, you want to be. You're not his normal shiny-dressed slut, so I'm thinking it’s more serious than that. Dare I say love?"

  I shoved past the man in the suit. "You can keep your theories to yourself, and your threats. Fenton's not going to do what you say. You can't threaten him."

  "You're right," he said. "Threats don't work against a man like Fenton Morris. So, what we need is good old-fashioned leverage. And, you know what makes the best leverage?"

  I marched towards the yellow cab, but the man in black stopped me. "You're not going to find any dirt on Fenton. You don't have any leverage."

  I looked up and the tall man's brown eyes flashed with an apology. He yanked the black duffel bag from my hand easily and wrapped his other arm around my shoulders. I was forced towards the black town car.

  "Don't be looking to him for help," the man in the suit said. "My muscle here doesn't appreciate being flirted with and used. You just smiled at him to make Fenton mad. He's a nice guy, but that's gotta hurt. Now, get in the car before he has to hurt you."

  "Wait, what are you doing?" I asked.

  "I told you – leverage. Fenton will do exactly what we asked him to do because if he doesn't, he won't ever see you again."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Fenton

  I woke up when the melted ice slipped off my ribs and hit the floor. The bruise was survivable and I was annoyed I had let myself give in to it even for a minute. Maybe Kya had slipped me a sleeping pill along with the aspirin. It had nothing to do with the relief I felt at seeing her safe back in her hotel room.

  The crazy girl had showed up at a bare-knuckle boxing match to tell me she had followed the criminals blackmailing me. I sat up and shook my head. No wonder I could not relax until she was behind locked doors. I could imagine her following the two thugs into the boxing match. She must have stuck out like real gold in a sea of rhinestones.

  I got up and went towards the master bedroom. Our whole conversation had been foggy, but I remembered her saying one thing – it was me, not my business, she was interested in. The thought smoldered, and I had to hear her say it again. I needed her lips on mine.

  The room was dark, but it was easy to see the snow-white duvet was undisturbed. I forgot about my stiff muscles and marched through the entire suite. Kya was gone.

  I rushed back out to the living room and stopped cold. The white card from my private gym was gone. A smile cracked my split lip, but I grimaced more at Kya than the pain. She did not know that I wanted her safe more than I wanted my stuff. I worried that I had missed a call from my sister, but Dana Maria was tough – tougher than me. And, she had not accidentally flirted with the very criminals set on making me lose my next fight.

  I racked my brain for the private gym's address and told the first cabbie I could find. He drove me there without a word. The concierge frowned at my appearance, but recognized me and let me in without hesitation.

  "Was a woman here? About 5'5", coppery hair," I swept my hands over the curved outline of Kya's body.

  "Yes. About a half an hour ago. She collected your things and left. She had your card. I thought you sent her. I'm so sorry, Mr. Morris," the concierge said.

  "No, don't worry. You did the right thing. It's just she hasn't come back yet. Did you see her get in a cab?" I asked. Rising panic throttled my throat.

  "I would have called her a cab, sir. She left before I could. Then, her friends picked her up."

  "Her friends?" I asked. I lunged across the white desk and caught the already redfaced concierge by the collar. "What friends?"

  "In a black town car. I don't know. A man in a suit and his driver. Some tall guy in black pants and a black shirt," he choked out.

  "She went with them willingly?" I asked.

  "I couldn't tell, sir. Wait, do you think they took her? I stood here and watched her get kidnapped?" Tears sprung to his eyes, and I realized the concierge was just a young man, maybe not even twenty-two.

  "It's fine, you're fine. Don't say a word." I released him and he crumpled onto the desk. "You hear me? Everything is fine and you are not going to say a word."

  "But, sir…"

  "I'm serious. I know where she is, and you can bet your ass I'm going to get her back," I said.

  I turned to the door and swore. My cab had left.

  "Take my car," the young man said. "Black Mustang out back. Looks like junk, but she drives fast."

  I grabbed the car keys he held up and raced out the back door. The black Mustang roared to life and I tore through the back streets of Vegas. I turned the lights off and coasted along when I reached the other boxing gym. I was sure the owner knew the men trying to fix my fight. If he didn't know where they took Kya, the least he would know was how to contact them. I parked the car out of sight and rolled up my sleeves as I marched to the door.

  The gym owner had the misfortune of walking out right as I charged in. I grabbed him by his shirtfront and slammed him against the plate glass window.

  "Where is she? What have they done to her?" I asked.

  "Nothing, I don't know. I mean, they won't do anything to her. She's leverage, right? If you lose the fight like they ask, then she'll be fine." He held up both hands and I saw them tremble.

  I let go of his shirt with one hand, intended to pound more information out of him, but my phone rang. "Hello?"

  "Mr. Morris, I don't think I've ever formally introduced myself. My name is Mr. Winchester."

  I recognized the sly voice of the man in the suit. "What have you done with Kya? I better hear her voice in the next ten seconds," I said.

  "Fenton? I'm sorry. I was just trying to do something nice for you, get your phone," Kya said.

  "Did they hurt you? Where are you?" I asked.

  "I'm fine, I'll be fine. Just stay away. Win your fight. They're not going to do anything to me," she said.

  I clenched my fist and punched a hole in the wall near the terrified gym owner's head. "I can't let anything happen to you."

  "Then, lose the fight, Mr. Morris. It is as simple as that," Mr. Winchester said. The line went dead.

  I turned back to the gym owner and his eyes rolled back as I tightened my grip on his shirt. "Where are they?"

  "I don't know. I don't know what's going on," he whimpered.

  Realization swept over me, and the alarmed ringing in my ears stopped. "Yes, you do. You knew they took her. I did not even have to explain what I meant. You knew they took her and planned to hold her for leverage. Tell me where they are and I won't flatten your skull."

  "I don't know. I don't want anything to do with them. They've got leverage over me, too, man. They know where my kids go to school."

  I watched his eyes and saw them dart back and forth between me and a scuffed door near the back of the gym. I dropped him and headed towards the door. I kept my steps light. When I cracked open the door and saw the staircase leading down, it confirmed what I thought– there was a basement and somewhere down there, they were holding Kya.

  One look was all it took to silence the gym owner. He
nodded and went to the door, opened it and closed it. From downstairs it would sound as if I had left. He then shuffled back to his office, slammed the door, and locked it.

  I took the steps one at a time. Easing my weight onto each one stopped them from creaking. Downstairs, I could hear voices.

  "This is not what I signed up for."

  "Stop complaining, Toby. You can have the girl if the fighter doesn't lose."

  "Don't be disgusting, Winchester."

  "Oh, come on, you were so happy when she hit on you at the bar. Doesn't it bother you she just did it to make Fenton Morris jealous?"

  I saw Winchester's shiny suit. The tall man in black, Toby, leaned on the far wall with his chiseled arms crossed. Kya sat on a stack of gym mats, her wrists tied together, a bandana tied into her mouth.

  "She was just using you," Winchester continued. "And, that's all we're doing. The fighter loses, we collect a fortune on the spread, and she goes free."

  "And, what happens if she goes straight for the police?" Toby asked. "I didn't sign up to do time for kidnapping."

  I ducked as Toby's brown eyes swept up the stairs near where I crouched. He stood up and faced his boss. "I'm thinking I should just walk out of here right now."

  "Don't be stupid. I mean, you are stupid, but try a little harder. I know you're not a kidnapper and you've got a soft spot for the pretty lady there. If you take a step up those stairs, I can't promise I won't get to know her a lot better."

  Bile rose up in my throat. I was going to kill Winchester. Across the room, Toby felt the same, but did not move. The two men faced off. Behind them, I saw Kya slip out of her restraints. She leapt down from the stack of gym mats and ran for the stairs.

  As Toby swept her up in his arms, I took my chance. I lunged out from the stairs and clocked Winchester hard as he turned towards me. His expression of anger turned into a snarl.

  "Fenton, no! He's got a gun!" Kya struggled hard against Toby. He swung her out of the way and kept her safe as Winchester took aim at me.