CHAPTER TWO
Mallory closed the file and looked out the window of the private plane the CIA had provided. Designer luggage and a wardrobe that could only be described as nightclub chic were waiting in the cabin. She planned to go on a very public shopping spree to find some clothes better suited to her instead of a twenty-year-old.
She closed her eyes as the past came flooding back—the tears, the pain, and the complete vulnerability of a teenager with a broken heart. She remembered the first time she had been approached by the government. She had just turned nineteen and was partying her way through Europe on summer vacation. She was dancing with royals, flirting with billionaires, and floating through life. She did anything that might piss her father off and keep her memories of Reid buried.
When she had started her sophomore year at college, she had walked into her apartment after classes and found Bowie sitting in her living room. He was edible. Twenty-four years old with sexy brown eyes, dark blond hair, and the body of a pro athlete.
“Can I help you?” Mallory had asked with all the haughtiness that ran through her blood.
“You sure can, babe. Uncle Sam wants you. And after having a look at you, I do too.”
“And just who are you?”
“That’s need-to-know and you don’t need to know . . . yet.” Bowie winked.
Mallory’s face had tightened as she ground her teeth. “If my father sent you, you can tell him to fu—”
Bowie had laughed, interrupting her. “I’m not here for your father, but because of your father. The director of the CIA wants a meeting. Come with me.”
“Screw you.”
“I’d love to, but the CIA frowns on sex between coworkers.”
“We’re not coworkers,” Mallory had protested as Bowie grabbed her arm and led her out of the apartment. A dark SUV was waiting in the alley behind her building. Bowie had opened the door, shoved her in, and then settled himself on the seat next to her.
“Miss Westin, I’m Director Grayson. Your country needs your help,” the serious looking man in the front seat said as he turned to stare at her.
Mallory had rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that crap. I’ve sacrificed enough for my country at the hands of my father. I’m sure you know him.”
“I do. But he’s not to know of our little arrangement. In fact, no one is to know about our arrangement except the president and Mr. Bowie here.”
“Okay, you have my attention. What do you want?” Mallory had asked.
“I want you to transfer to a college in Great Britain. You’ll be with the old money of Europe—much older than yours. You should like it; being away from your father should be a plus. You’ll study political science to please your father. That’s how it will allow the president to make it happen. He will announce, along with the British prime minister, there will be an exchange program of sorts. You to Oxford and the prime minister’s son to Yale to study each other’s political culture.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact the prime minister’s son has a drug problem he wants to keep out of the newspapers this close to elections.”
The director had just smiled. “Smart and pretty. You’ll be our best asset. We want you to continue to party. Gather information on all things political that could be used for leverage.”
“Blackmail, you mean.”
“For power. Everything always comes down to power. The one with the most knowledge holds the most power as long as they are prepared to use it. The president is prepared to use it if it will bring more peace to the world.”
“Bullshit. He’ll use it to get his way, just like every other person in Washington. You included.” Mallory had been disgusted.
“As if you don’t hold and wield power, Miss Westin. You hide your brains and only show them to squash a man who dares to compete with you. You flaunt yourself and your family’s name all over the world to hurt your father—to take his power. You’re destined for great things with cunning like that.”
“It’s not cunning. It’s revenge.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, Miss Westin. I’m offering you the ultimate payback. Being the bad girl to upset your father while in reality doing a duty to your government. Not too many people get a free pass from us. You do. We will bail you out of jail, buy your clothes, get you invitations to every concert or party you want to attend. All you have to do is target the people we tell you to and feed us information. Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t have to hurt anyone, do I?”
“Only your father with every article in the gossip columns.”
Mallory had held out her hand. “Deal.”
Mallory had gone to parties her whole sophomore year and had never gotten an assignment. She had fed all the gossip back to the director and heard nothing in return except to keep at it. Then one morning Bowie had dropped off a packet at her apartment. She was to target a prince of some small country in order to find out what his American interests were. If favorable, the US would move forward with a trade treaty between the two countries.
Mallory had devoured the package. The prince was handsome and a little older than her twenty years . . . okay, a lot older. He was in his late thirties. It didn’t bother her, though. He was too good-looking for her to care. His wife was not with him, so that made it easier. It was amazing what men of power did when their wives weren’t around. Plus it looked like he was a nice man. Something most of the people she was “friends” with couldn’t claim. They were to meet that night in London.
She didn’t even bother going to her classes that day. She was a third-year student and a darling of the school. She could get away with it. Instead she found the perfect dress. It was sexy without being revealing, something she was sure the prince would appreciate. She styled her long blond hair into perfect waves and applied natural makeup. She topped off the look with the pearls her grandmother had left her. She had managed to age herself several years. She was the walking definition of sexy sophistication.
Mallory had arrived at the party in a limousine. She had posed for pictures and passed on all the drinks. She circled the room, pretending it was one of the many political fund-raisers she’d had to go to when she was young. She fell into the role so easily it scared her. She batted her eyes as the old men leered, and she chuckled at their stupid jokes.
The room started buzzing as the prince arrived. She was standing with an old man whose company owned oil refineries. When he cursed, she blushed innocently and lowered her lashes demurely.
“Sorry, my gem,” he said in English heavy with his Russian accent. “I can’t stand that family. Our countries are rivals. But, they will get what they deserve tonight. Just as I will.” He had looked her over, and Mallory had felt her skin crawl. His hand brushed against her breast as he reached for another drink.
Mallory had simpered, batted her lashes, and then excused herself as quickly as she could by claiming to see an old family friend. She had hurried to the bathroom to hide when she collided with a man in a dark suit. She guessed he was in his early thirties. He was built like a man who worshiped the weight room. His shoulders were so broad, it was hard to see around them. She bounced off a chest made of warm steel.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I was, um, in a hurry and not watching where I was going,” she had said with a quick look behind her to make sure the Russian wasn’t following her.
The man followed her eyes and gave a quick nod of understanding. “Let me be of assistance then.” He had held out his arm for her to take. “Would you care to dance?”
“I’d love to.” Mallory had smiled. She felt her mask of polite stupidity fall back into place. “I’m Mallory Westin from America.”
“Ahmed of Rahmi.”
“I’ve never been to Rahmi. What’s it like?”
Mallory had thanked her lucky stars she had found someone from the small country she was supposed to gather information on. She asked questions as they danced. He wasn’t the prince, but he knew his country’s political tendencies. He answered them freely, and she found herself suddenly feeling bad for gaining his trust. This whole conversation would be relayed to Bowie for them to pick apart.
“One of your princes is moving to Kentucky? We’ll practically be neighbors.” Mallory had giggled inanely. When she looked up, she saw the Russian look at his watch.
“Yes, Rahmi is looking forward to its treaty with America. Prince Mohtadi, the man over there with the Princess of Denmark, is the one moving. His brother Dirar, the man standing by the podium, is the heir to Rahmi. He and his father, the king, are both supporters of the treaty.”
Mallory stared at her target. She was supposed to get close to Prince Dirar, but Ahmed was giving her plenty of information.
“Do you know Prince Dirar? I’d love to meet him.”
“I am sure he would be charmed. But, the prince does not meet with spies.”
Mallory faltered but Ahmed covered for her as he twirled her around the floor.
“Spy?” she had giggled.
“No need to worry, Miss Westin. You are serving a great purpose tonight. I am being truthful in Rahmi’s desire to move forward with the treaty, and you have succeeded in your first mission. It is in Rahmi’s best interest for this treaty to go through. By conveying our previous conversation to the CIA, it will benefit us all. Now my duty is done. I bid you goodbye and a word of advice, Miss Westin. Get out of the spy game. You are not good at it.”
Mallory had stood sputtering, but Ahmed had just kissed her hand and strode from the floor. She watched as he leaned in and spoke to Prince Dirar who in turn looked up at her and gave her a barely perceivable nod of the head. No, she couldn’t fail like this. She had to make sure they wouldn’t say anything. If she lost her ability to be an asset for the CIA, she would have to go back home. That was the last thing she wanted to do.
Ahmed and the two princes of Rahmi disappeared behind a door. She pushed her way through the crowd in time to see another man slip through the same door. Keeping her eyes on the door, she ignored the call to listen to the speech. She ignored the surge of people crowding forward to listen and continued to maneuver her way to the door.
She had run down the hall as she heard clapping, signaling that the speech was over. Her heels sank into the carpet as she picked up her floor-length gown and ran faster through the empty hallway. Music started again, and she could only hear faint strains of the waltz when she pushed open a door to a storage area. She had jumped and covered her mouth with her hand when she saw the man who had entered the door before her, screwing a silencer onto the end of a pistol. He stood across the room in an open window overlooking the alley behind the building. She looked out the open window and saw her target walking toward a limo. The man had aimed his weapon, and Mallory jumped into action without thought.
She had grabbed a stone bust of the Queen of England sitting on a pedestal and crept forward. “Ahmed!” she had shouted as she threw the bust at the armed man. The bust had sailed through the air and landed at the feet of the man with the gun. Tires squealed outside and the man cursed. Oh Lord, she’d failed. The statue she intended to knock the guy out with sat upside down on the floor staring at her. The gunman had swung and fired at her. Pain tore through her shoulder as the impact sent her tumbling to the ground. Her head bounced off the carpet, and she wondered if her last vision before dying would be of the little smirk on the queen’s bust.
Mallory had heard a snap, and then Ahmed was standing over her. “You are safe. That was a very foolish thing to do, Miss Westin. But I thank you for saving my princes.”
“Am I dying?”
“No, my dear.” He had bent over and scooped her effortlessly into his arms.
“What are you doing? I’m bleeding all over that nice tux of yours.”
“I am taking you to a doctor. And I have a closet full of these tuxes.”
Mallory had then gotten lightheaded. The world was spinning as she tried to blink it back into focus. “How did you know I was a spy?”
“Because I’m a better one.”
“Help me, please. I can’t go back to America yet. If I can’t do this job, I'll definitely be sent home.”
Ahmed had been silent. Mallory was quickly losing touch with her surroundings. He had patted her cheeks, and her eyes had popped back open. “I will do it, but no one must know.”
“Deal. I’m going to pass out now, okay?” Mallory had asked as her eyelids fluttered closed.
“Okay, my dear. I will take care of you.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mallory jerked awake as the plane landed on the runway in Stromia. With the dream of Ahmed teaching her his secrets still fresh in her mind, she brushed her hair and slid on her sunglasses. If her mentor needed her, then she would do this for him. It wasn’t the most dangerous of her missions, but it was one she hadn’t prepared for. And winging it was never a good idea.
The plane door opened, and Mallory stepped back into her former life. The cool mask of boredom fell into place as she walked straight from the plane to the limo. She directed the driver to the appointment-only clothing boutique she’d favored when she was part of the game.
Driving through the city was surreal. She thought she had left this part of her life behind forever. When the government had found out she was getting better at her job, they had started assigning more dangerous missions. She had snuck into estates and stolen information from the computers of kings and dictators. She had kept her cover in place as she shot her way out of hostile territory. She had been shot, stabbed, and beaten up in the name of national security. She had flirted with, drugged, blackmailed, and killed people all across the world. She had prevented terrorist attacks, saved the life of the president twice, and provided information that led to peace treaties. Then, one day, she’d had enough. Mallory had walked away from it all by blackmailing the CIA director. It was no wonder he wasn’t thrilled with her being back on the job.
Mallory wasn’t even sure she would have agreed to this mission if it hadn’t been a favor for Ahmed. She sure as hell would have thought twice about doing it for her father—the father who had ruined her chance at true love; the father who had tried to marry her off to his protégé for political gain. Neither man had taken her rejection well. She still remembered the look on Ambrose’s face when she turned him down. It was quickly followed by her father’s lecture on family obligations. She ignored them and headed back to Europe. Only her friendship with Elle brought her back to Atlanta regularly.
And now she was going to be in the hotel owned by the man she loved who also despised her. He despised her so much he’d forbidden her to step foot on his Atlanta property. On top of that, this would be her first time in the room with her father and Ambrose since the failed marriage proposal, making this a barrel of fun.
The car came to a stop, and the driver opened the door. This time around she was the reformed party girl, looking for a husband. Sexy, yes. Nightclub, no. Silk instead of leather. It was a shame; she did love her leather pants.
Mallory rang the bell and waited for the disgruntled clerk to open the door. “I’m sorry, but we are closed. Appointments only.”
“I’m Mallory Westin, and I don’t do appointments,” Mallory said as she walked into the shop. The owner hurried from the back only to stop and clap her hands in excitement.
“Welcome back, Miss Westin. What can I do for you?”
“Dress me to find a rich husband.”
The older woman’s eyes sparkled as dollar signs danced before them. “I’d be happy to. Cheri, bring out the champagne. It’s time to celebrate Miss Westin’s upcoming wedding.”
* * *
Reid Simpson stood in the dark room with his arms crossed over his chest. He was tired. He had too much to do overseeing the opening of his new resort, but instead he was stuck babysitting a bunch of whiny diplomats.
“There’s the French president. We caught his bodyguard in the stairwell with one of the poker dealers,” Luke, Luxus’s head of security, told him as he pulled up the footage on one of the fifty monitors in the room. “Don’t they realize we have cameras everywhere?”
Reid just clenched his teeth. “No, they don’t. They think they’re above reproach. Almost two thousand cameras in this place, and they think not a single one will record them. Pull up the facial recognition, and track his steps since he entered the hotel three days ago. I want to see every person this guard has talked to.”
With a couple of clicks of his computer, Luke pulled up the footage. Reid watched in chronological order as the guard came in with the president and stood on duty. Three hours later, he was released from his post and went to the casino. He started at the slots, played a little roulette, and watched the poker tables. As soon as the one with the girl opened up, he sat down. He played normally. When he left, he placed a chip on the table as a tip. A small piece of paper sat under it.
“There. They’re setting up a meeting. Keep watching and give me the full report before you call them both into the interrogation room,” Reid instructed as he looked down at a text from the marketing suite.
“Should I notify the president?”
“No. As much as he likes to think he has power here, he doesn’t. I’ll notify him of our decision once I have all the facts. I have to go to a marketing meeting. Let me know what you find after you run the relationship awareness software. Let’s see if he has any previous ties with this girl.”
“Yes, boss,” Luke said as he went back to work on his computer. With the input of the guard’s name and information used to register with the hotel, their system allowed Reid to see every person the guard had shared an apartment with, every plane ticket or car rental he’d made, even the name of his college roommate. Everyone thought casinos were places to let go and their secrets would stay put. In reality, there were no secrets at casinos. Everything was recorded, documented, and preserved. What happened in a casino might stay there, but only as long as you didn’t break the law or piss off the casino's owner.
Reid walked through the hidden corridors and up to the marketing suite. Using the iris scanner, he opened the door. The suite overlooked the casino floor through hidden windows. From the floor, it looked like artwork hanging on the walls. But it was actually a two-way mirror hidden behind specialized paint.
In this room, every bet, win, and loss was being tracked. A mock layout of every table covered an entire wall. Lights representing the chips were lit up at each table. In every casino Reid owned, radio frequency identification chips were embedded in every single marker. They were flashing on the screen now. They could track how much was being bet at each table, who was betting big, and which baccarat spot was hot.
The people in the marketing suite used this information to pick out high rollers for special treatment or people who were losing big for perks to keep them at the tables. They would identify a person, run him through the software, and find perks he or she enjoyed. If the gamblers were hot and they wanted them away from the table, they would offer tickets to a sold-out show, a massage by four of the hotels loveliest masseuses . . . whatever the system showed as that player’s weak spot.
If the player was losing big, they offered free drinks, a free room, and an extended line of credit after a bank check of assets. Reid was a little different from some of his contemporaries. He wouldn’t let an average Joe lose all his money. He’d comp his room, give him free tickets to the shows, and get him away from the table. But people of means were something else entirely. He saw Senator Westin in every single one of them and would happily take advantage of their arrogance.
“What do you have for me?” Reid asked as he stopped by Sophia’s desk. The beautiful woman, with a sharp eye and a smooth smile, was his head of marketing.
“The US delegation has arrived. Senators Westin and Childs are asking for permission to wire money into our account. Prince Liam has reserved the high rollers’ suite for a diplomatic poker game after the ball. Supposedly part of the money will go to charity, but it’s $100,000 per player just to sit at the table. The senators are asking for credit until the money is wired.”
“No. They can get cash from one of the other banks in town.”
Sophia raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We always approve the wires and the banks have verified they have the cash to support a very large casino credit.”
“Not for those two we don’t. Don’t worry, Sophia, I’ll be more than happy to tell them we denied their request.” Reid grinned a cold grin. His day had just improved.
Reid smiled for the first time all day as he approached the two senators. They were in deep discussion with one another and didn’t see him coming. Reid knew the instant Senator Westin recognized him. The senator’s jaw clenched and that only served to make Reid happier.
“What are you doing here, boy?” Senator Westin snapped.
Reid didn’t let the barb bother him. He just smiled wider. “I wanted to welcome you personally to Luxus. As owner of this casino, it’s with great pleasure I get to inform you that your application for credit has been denied. If you'd like to receive any money, there is a bank across the street you may use. All courtesies normally afforded to our guests are off limits to both of you. I hope you enjoy your stay at Luxus.”
“Owner?” Ambrose snorted.
Reid’s smile slipped, and he narrowed his eyes. “That’s right. I own this hotel. It's one of many I own.”
“You mean your sister owns,” Senator Westin said snidely. “You know, the one your father appointed to run Simpson Global because you were too immature and unqualified to manage.”
Reid put a smile back on his face, but it must have been predatory since the girl at the credit application desk sucked in an audible breath. “See, I’m having a hard time thinking of how to phrase this since family is a concept you don’t understand. I’m proud of each of my sisters. My father made the right choice, and it’s a choice that doesn’t concern you. My passion is money, and by last count I have more in my
small
part of Simpson Global than your whole family has. So, for someone who will never amount to a hill of beans, not only have I accomplished more than you, I also have something you will never have . . . a family who loves me. Credit denied. Good day.”
Reid didn’t bother to look back as he strode from the casino floor. He hadn’t come face to face with the senator since the night Mallory had rejected him. Proving him wrong and showing him he had become wealthy didn’t ease the sharp pain in his heart as he had hoped it would. He had worked all those years to be a man the senator could only wish for Mallory. As he walked away, he still felt empty. Revenge had felt good, but it hadn’t fixed everything—his heart was still broken.