The Chase

by Holly Hart

  Geez, Cassie. The situation? Way to make it sound like you’re still on a mission…

  My arms reach up to encircle his neck and pull him closer. It’s like I want to be part of him, to have the two of us meld together into something that can’t be separated. It’s been so lonely without him for so long. I never realized just how bad it was until this moment. This feeling.

  “Carson,” I whisper as I take over working on his throat with my tongue. I want to return all the desire he’s sparking in me. I want him to feel as good as he’s making me feel.

  Next thing I know, he’s scooped me up by my cheeks and my back is against the pile of coats hanging next to the wall. Fur and silk press against my bare back, enhancing the sensuality of the moment. Expensive perfume wafts around me, filling my head.

  Suddenly there’s extra space in my gown. I realize it’s because Carson has pulled down the zipper in back and my bare breasts are pushing free from the confines of the fabric. They’re exposed in front of a man for the first time in my life. Except that time in survival and evasion school, and we don’t talk about that…

  Besides, I’m too turned on to feel embarrassed.

  Then his mouth closes over my nipple and my mind becomes one with the universe for a moment.

  My God, the electricity of it! I’ve never felt a tongue on my breast before. It’s so warm and soft, but what it does to me!

  The spot aches with pleasure as his hand takes care of my other breast. His powerful fingers stroke so softly, then circle my nipple before giving it the tiniest squeeze and sending vibrations right through me.

  Carson’s other hand is still holding me up by my ass as easily as if I’m weightless. His fingers grip me there, prompting a thrill in my groin that threatens to soak me. I let out a groan that I couldn’t hold in for all the money in the world.

  He takes this as a cue to press himself into me even harder, pinning me against the wall with that concrete rod against my opening, separated only by fabric.

  “Cassie,” he moans. “I missed you so much…”

  My eyes flutter open as I run my tongue along his neck, and I see the room behind him. Light filters into the room through the thirty-degree crack in the doorway. For the first time, it occurs to me that someone could walk in at any second. Someone could, perhaps, even be watching us right now.

  The jolt of that realization brings another unpleasant thought along with it, and my breath catches in my throat.

  What the fuck am I doing?! I’m supposed to be in the Chase!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  21. CARSON

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! Shit!

  One second Cassie and I are on the verge of throwing caution to the wind and doing it right here in the restaurant coatroom, now she’s trying to zip up her dress by herself with a look of panic in her eyes

  I should have known Cassie is too sophisticated a lady to have sex in a public place. Or is it just that she doesn’t want to have sex with me?

  “I’m sorry,” she mutters, gathering up her things. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

  Her breasts are still pushing out of her gown, so I step around behind her and zip her up the rest of the way.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I say. “This was inappropriate. Maybe we should take this back to my place.”

  Her eyes widen like matching blue supernovas.

  “I can’t!” she yelps, rushing to the door. “I have to go!”

  Way to go, Carson. Make the love of your life feel like a bimbo by mauling her in a fucking coatroom.

  “Let me take you home,” I say, already knowing she won’t take me up on it. I feel helpless, useless. How did I screw this up so badly?

  “That’s all right, I can get a cab.”

  The subtext is clear: I don’t need your help.

  She runs her hand through her red curls, trying to smooth them into something more presentable. Her eyes are darting everywhere, like someone is after her.

  My mind immediately flashes back to that night in the barracks and my heart cramps. That memory prompts another thought: Cassie Vincent is running out on me. Again.

  It’s selfish and uncharitable, I know. Unfair, even. But I can’t help the feeling of déjà vu.

  “Will I see you again?” I ask. Might as well be blunt. I never got the chance the last time this happened.

  The look she gives me makes me think of a cornered animal.

  “I-I can’t,” she says. “Not now. I’m just too busy. With other things.”

  Her eyes brighten.

  “With business!” she blurts. “The deal! Lots to do. I need an early night. Maybe – maybe in a couple of weeks? Say on August 15?” She looks at me pleadingly.

  My eyes narrow. If Cassie thinks Carson Drake is going to sit around and wait until she feels like calling him sometime, she’s got another thing coming. I have women lined up to spend a night with me!

  Hell, all I’d have to do right now is call Maksim and get that brunette’s number from the Boom Boom Room and boom! She’d be in my room. I know I’m acting out. I know that Cassie’s dismissal – for a second time – is bringing up bad memories. Hell, some kind of long-repressed psychodrama is most definitely coming to the surface.

  I know all that, and yet I can’t stop myself from acting out my part, as though I’m merely an actor in some Shakespearean play.

  “Whatever,” I say with a smile. “I’ll give you a call some time.”

  She gives me an unfathomable look. I used to be able to read everything beneath those opal-colored eyes. Now I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking.

  “I mean it,” she says. “I really am just too busy right now.”

  “Sure, I understand. I’ve actually got a lot lined up for the next couple weeks, too.”

  Most of that involves throwing myself into the Chase with everything I’ve got. Using the hurt that’s even now bubbling back up to the surface. Using it to win.

  Cassie straightens her dress one last time and steps into the atrium that will take her back into the Museum of Modern Art and the exit to the street. She looks around at the breathtaking art on the walls, then back at me.

  “I really did have a wonderful time tonight,” she says.

  Of course you did, I say to myself. You spent it with Carson Drake. Not spending the rest of it with me is your loss, not mine.

  Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  “Me too,” I say. “I’ll see you again. Good night, Cassie. Sorry, I guess it’s Sandra now, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she says. “From now on, it’s Cassie. Always.”

  She gives me a sheepish wave and heads into the museum. I stand there, watching her walk away, until she turns a corner and is gone.

  “Mr. Drake?”

  A female voice behind me startles me out of my reverie. It’s Helene, the maître d, an elegant brunette in a black shift dress.

  “Yes?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you were in the coatroom for an extended period of time.”

  I work hard to keep blood from flowing to my cheeks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Sorry, my date’s scarf was caught on something and we had to untangle it.”

  She nods knowingly and I realize I’m not fooling her.

  “That would explain the noises. I couldn’t help but notice that she left on her own. I hope everything is all right.”

  “She, uh – she has a busy morning tomorrow.”

  Helene smiles. It’s practically a leer.

  “I’m off in a few minutes,” she says. “In case you don’t have a busy morning tomorrow.”

  And suddenly I’m Carson Drake again. The Carson Drake, man about town, eligible billionaire bachelor.

  “Such a tempting offer,” I say. “But I’m afraid I do have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  Her smile turns into a pout.

  “A pity.”

  I flash her a grin I don’t feel.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Sh
e turns and walks back into the restaurant. Her long legs pivot with every precise step, turning her shapely ass into a perfect 180-degree oscillating gyroscope.

  Aaand just as suddenly, I’m that geek from high school again. Sigh.

  What I do know for sure is that I need to stop focusing on Cassie Vincent and start focusing on my quarry. I can’t afford any more pointless distractions.

  The Chase is underway and the game, as Sherlock Holmes said, is afoot.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  22. CASSANDRA

  The rules of the Chase stipulate that I can’t leave the geographic area of Midtown Manhattan for two weeks. Some people might consider that a prize, not a punishment. I mean, it’s home to Broadway and Times Square and a hundred other magnificent places to spend time.

  The problem for me right now is that Midtown is also home to a financial district that’s almost as prominent as Lower Manhattan’s, which means my pursuers could be right behind me at any moment. And I’m expected to not deviate too much from my everyday routine, so that they have a fighting chance to identify and – well, I guess the politically correct term would be catch me.

  So it hasn’t been easy to keep a low profile.

  I’ve avoided Patty’s for the past three days for fear I’m too much of a regular there. And, frankly, because now I associate it with meeting Carson again after all these years. I have to focus on the Chase, not on him. And his beautiful body. And his electric touch.

  If only it were as easy to do as it is to say.

  So, like any good quarry, I keep moving, never staying in one place for too long. I’ll stop for lunch or a coffee, but after that I’m back on the street.

  I’ve spent the better part of this morning wandering the shops of Korea Town. It’s been postcard-perfect so far, the kind of day that’s so quintessentially New York that it could be the backdrop of a Woody Allen movie.

  “Good morning,” the girl behind the counter says as I enter a boutique jewelry shop on Madison Avenue. She’s stunning: probably five-foot-ten, easily five inches taller than me. Hair like black satin. It’s funny how place like this only hire the extremely attractive.

  “Good morning,” I smile back. As I browse the shop’s wares, I use the mirror behind the girl to monitor the front door and the traffic on the street beyond. Honestly, I’d probably be doing this whether or not I was in the Chase. It’s ingrained in me after so many years working for the Company, one of the comedic euphemisms for the CIA.

  I have to admit I’m not entirely comfortable popping in and out of the stores. I’ve familiarized myself with most of the latest Forbes list of richest men in America, but to be perfectly honest, a Korean billionaire could walk right past me and I wouldn’t even know it.

  It’s a loose end. I make a note of it, because I don’t like loose ends.

  “Something I can help you with?”

  The words make me jump, and the girl immediately regrets them.

  “Pardon me, I’m so sorry!” she says. “It’s just that you seemed to be looking around everywhere and I thought maybe you needed help.”

  I need help, all right. Psychiatric help.

  I laugh, even though it’s the last thing on earth I feel like doing.

  “My fault,” I say. “My mind is somewhere else.”

  It’s amazing how off-kilter I’ve felt since this all started. I mean, I’ve walked through downtown Tripoli wearing brown contact lenses, a black wig and a headscarf, and I felt less exposed than I do right now. I have to keep reminding myself that the contestants don’t know I’m a redhead, so I’m actually not a walking neon “look at me” sign. Well, no more than I normally am, I suppose.

  I thank the girl and head back out onto Madison. Summer tourists flock by, taking photos of the Flatiron Building and craning their necks at all the skyscrapers. I turn onto Twenty-Third Street, then again onto Fifth Avenue. There’s a food stand about a block up that makes the best Lebanese food on the Eastern Seaboard, and that’s from someone who’s spent quite a bit of time in Lebanon.

  “Sandra!” a swarthy middle-aged man says as I approach. He’s got more hair on his chest than his head, which is glistening under the almost-midday sun.

  “Hello, Khalil,” I say. “Kayf hu aleamal?” How’s business?

  He beams like he always does when I speak Arabic to him.

  “Can’t complain, nobody’d listen anyway, amiright?” he says, hardening the words into a passable Brooklyn accent.

  I giggle while he throws together a lamb pita and douses it with his signature sauce, the recipe for which I’ve never managed to get out of him, even under threats of torture.

  As always, he refuses my money. I helped him get his brother a visa a few years ago and he hasn’t charged me a penny since. I’ve always assumed he knows I’m not really a business consultant, but he’s never brought it up and neither have I. He’s my kind of guy.

  “What’s new, Sandra?” he asks as I take my first bite.

  “Actually,” I say through a mouthful of lamb, “I’m going by Cassie now.”

  His eyes widen and it’s almost like I can read his mind: he thinks it’s an alias.

  “It’s short for Cassandra,” I say. “It’s just the other end of the name.”

  “Ah!” He claps his hands together. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

  “You’re too kind, sir.”

  I take my food up the street to the plaza at General Worth Square and, amazingly, find an empty table under one of the blue umbrellas. This porcelain skin of mine may be the envy of a lot of women, but it also opens me up to a higher risk of melanoma, especially after all the time I’ve spent in deserts. And freckles. God, whatever I do I can’t escape the freckles.

  A glinting relection catches me in the eye just as I reach for the chair, and I feel something pulling it in the opposite direction. I lift a hand to shade my eyes and see who I’m about to give an earful – it’s New York, after all, and a “yo, whaddaya think yer doin’?” is expected in polite company.

  The silhouette comes into focus, and my heart thumps like a kick drum as I recognize the curvature of the muscles under the microfiber of his golf shirt.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “Carson,” I sputter. “Uh, hi.”

  He frowns at me but there’s no anger in his voice, thank God. I was so afraid he’d hate me after the way things ended the other night.

  “Hello,” he says evenly. “Fancy meeting you here, and all that.”

  “I know, it’s crazy!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

  “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 Twenty-Three

  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 an
other 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?