by Holly Hart
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 One Hundred Twenty-Nine
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 whe
re 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.
“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 One Hundred Thirty
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.
Of course, it actually works in Carson’s favor. When he’s all sweated up, his physique glistens in the sun like an oiled-up bodybuilder’s. Except he’s not afflicted with their pig-ugly, veiny head.
“Whatever makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, plucking an ice cube from my gin and tonic and dropping it down my cleavage. If I’m suffering, I figure Carson has to as well.
Okay, it could be worse. The restaurant – and its blessed air-conditioning – is only a few steps away. And there’s a bit of a breeze coming off the ocean.
But my God, the humidity. I’ve read that it’s impossible for it to go above one hundred percent at sea level, but I’m seriously wondering if the hypothesis needs more research. If I could prove it’s possible, I could publish and go for my PhD.
Or I could stop being such a baby and finish my drink. That seems like the more viable option. And more pleasant. I down it in a gulp, my taste buds puckering at the bitterness of the tonic.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Carson says. “After we’re done here, we can fly to Reykjavik. Shouldn’t be more than sixty degrees there.”
I smile sweetly and stroke his cheek.
“Oh, honey,” I soothe. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make up for this.”
He grins and drains his Corona. It joins the army of empties on the table. Dealing with this weather is thirsty work.
In the distance I see Tricia and Maksim trudging toward us through the sand. Neither of them seems all that put out by the heat, although it’s hard to tell with Maks. He sort of has a light sheen to his skin all the time, regardless of temperature.
“Who would have thought those two would get along?” I say as they approach.
Carson drapes an arm over the back of his chair, letting his shirt fall open to expose his torso.
“Maks is pretty easygoing,” he says. “Although, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if he’d come on this trip. The last time we hung out, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”
“What happened?”
He looks at me over his Oakleys.
“He wanted to go out with you.”
An involuntary snort escapes me before I can stop it.
“Sorry,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy, but me and him? Especially when you’re in the picture? I don’t think so.”
“Actually, I think I owe him for driving home just how much I want you to myself.”
“Is that right?” I drop my own glasses. “Well, I guess I owe him then, too.”
Speak of the devils. Tricia and Maksim arrive at the table, shaking the sand out of their beach towels. Tricia’s compact curves fill out her wet one-piece nicely, while Maks’ kind of looks like most of his time in the gym is spent chatting up girls. Still, I guess Tricia knows what she’s doing.
“There were stingrays flying out in the surf!” Tricia says, grinning like a kid.
“I saw no fish flying,” says Maks. “I was only seeing lovely Patricia.”
She wraps her towel around her and sits at the table, plucking a beer from the ice bucket on the concrete.
“I appreciate the effort, Maks,” she says as she pops the cap off the bottle. “But it’s not going to happen.”
To his credit, Maksim just smiles and spreads his hands wide in a “what are you gonna do?” gesture.
Carson glances at his phone on the table and then up at me.
“I suppose we should get to the bank,” he says. “Money never sleeps, but bankers sure as hell do. It’ll be closed in an hour.”
I gather up my beach bag. We’ve been so busy being obscenely rich the last couple of days that I almost forgot I just won a multi-million-dollar prize. Carson suggested we come directly to Cayman to deal with the money, given the legal tightrope I’m walking with it.
We wave good-bye to our friends and hop in a passing taxi van that speeds us to the Grand National Bank of the Islands. A tall black gentleman in island business casual greets us in the deliciou
sly frigid foyer as we walk in.
“Ms. Vincent, a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Andre Moreau. We spoke on the phone.”
“A pleasure,” I say, taking his offered hand. “This is my friend, Carson Drake.”
Andre’s eyes widen. “The Carson Drake?”
“Well, a Carson Drake anyway,” he replies. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
I love that he’s leaving this to me. It means a lot that he’s not trying to horn in and give me advice. Mainsplaining, they call it. But Carson would never.
Andre ushers me into his office and we take a seat. He boots up his computer and begins typing.
“If I remember correctly, we will be discussing a sum of $2.75 million USD.”
“That’s correct,” I say.
Three days shy of the full $3.5 million, because of circumstances beyond our control, but Carson said he’ll reimburse me for his impatience.
“I’m interested in the best way to access it in the States in a lump sum for a business investment.”
After a few moments, he stops typing. His eyes narrow and his brows draw together as he peers at the screen.
It’s never a good thing when someone looks like they don’t believe what a computer is telling them.
“This is… unusual,” he says.
“How so?”
He looks at me with a mix of disbelief and sympathy.
“Madam, I’m afraid this account is empty.”
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One
47. CASSANDRA
My heart sends out a single kick drum beat in my chest as adrenaline pumps into my system.
“There must be a mistake,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. Inside, I’m anything but.
“Perhaps,” says Andre. “There was a balance of $2.75 million USD, but the funds were withdrawn the day before yesterday.”
“That can’t be. I haven’t accessed the account in over forty-eight hours.”
He continues typing, scanning the monitor for clues. I quickly get the impression that he’s only humoring me. Staving off the moment he has to confirm the unpleasant truth. But I already know what it is. The pit of my stomach makes that fact absolutely, unpleasantly clear.
