Risky bargain, p.1
Risky Bargain, page 1
Contents
Also by Barbara Freethy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
What to Read Next
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Also by Barbara Freethy
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Off the Grid: FBI Series
PERILOUS TRUST
RECKLESS WHISPER
DESPERATE PLAY
ELUSIVE PROMISE
DANGEROUS CHOICE
RUTHLESS CROSS
CRITICAL DOUBT
FEARLESS PURSUIT
DARING DECEPTION
RISKY BARGAIN
PERFECT TARGET
* * *
Lightning Strikes Trilogy
BEAUTIFUL STORM
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SUMMER RAIN
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Risky Bargain Blurb
FBI Agent Lucas Raines is a man on a mission, desperate to find a kidnap victim, the billionaire CEO of a video game company, who disappears during a horrific home invasion that leaves one person dead and others terrorized.
* * *
Kat Parrish never thought that sneaking into a billionaire's party would end with her hiding in a closet, her clothes spattered with blood, her ears ringing from the sound of gunshots. But her problems don't end with the arrival of the police. In fact, they are just beginning, especially when a handsome but ruthless FBI agent starts asking the hard questions. She has to decide whether a lie or the truth will not only save her life, but that of her friend.
* * *
As Lucas and Kat dive deep into the world of gaming, it quickly becomes clear that there are games being played on different levels. The players keep changing. The goal posts are constantly moving. No one is who they appear to be. There's a bigger mystery behind each door they open, and soon they can only trust each other. But should they?
* * *
Is their reality a game, or is the game their reality? Will love keep them alive or be their final play?
Chapter One
Kat Parrish was running out of time. Only six guests remained at what had been a huge launch party for the newest video game from Spy Maker Games. The caterer had already instructed her to make one last sweep through the house to pick up any errant glasses or plates and make sure the remaining guests had everything they needed. But that wasn't her primary focus as she walked from the kitchen to the living room of the huge Malibu mansion with floor-to-ceiling glass views of the Pacific Ocean.
She'd taken the server gig for one reason only, and it wasn't to earn extra cash; it was to get a chance to talk to the host, the billionaire owner of Spy Maker Games, Spike Cabot. She'd been trying to speak to him for almost a week, but as a lowly level-one employee at his company, she hadn't been able to get anywhere near the penthouse office suite where Cabot oversaw his fast-growing empire. Desperate, she'd found her way onto the catering crew as a server, and she'd spent most of the evening serving drinks and waiting for an opportunity to speak to Cabot.
Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to get him alone. Coworkers, friends, influencers, and a pesky girlfriend who was constantly clinging to his arm, had surrounded him all evening. She couldn't blame the girlfriend. Spike Cabot was a very attractive forty-three-year-old male with black hair, a dark tan, and a muscled physique that was apparent tonight in his very expensive jeans and button-down shirt. Cabot prided himself on being a man of the people, a former soldier, an ex-CIA agent, and a patriot. It was a great story, but she didn't know how much of it was real.
What she did know from the past three hours was that Cabot had only mingled with a few of the guests at his party, while what he called his elite army of executives touted the new product to the influencers who would then spread the word around the world, creating more demand and more profit for the company. She should be happy about that. Her actual job depended on the success of their games, but she was too worried to feel anything but stress.
One of her best friends at the company, Audrey Bell, had disappeared four days ago after a late-night meeting with Cabot, and Kat needed to know what they'd talked about. While Audrey had left her a short text telling her not to worry, that she was leaving town for a while, she couldn't stop worrying. Audrey's mother was ill, probably dying, and she hadn't seen or heard from her daughter in four days. There was no way Audrey had taken an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment vacation. Something was terribly wrong, and that something had to do with Spike Cabot.
Audrey had told her prior to her meeting with Cabot that there was trouble at the company that the CEO needed to know about, but she hadn't been any more specific than that.
Was that trouble the reason no one had heard from Audrey?
She had to get answers, and she couldn't wait any longer. Her window of opportunity was closing fast. The last of the gamers had just left, and as she walked into the living room with a tray containing six glasses of very expensive merlot from Cabot's wine cellar, she assessed the remaining guests. Cabot's girlfriend, a French model by the name of Paige Devereaux, had finally moved away from Cabot to speak to Jason Meyer, the chief operating officer. Jason was a good-looking guy in his forties, with blond hair, a golden tan, and a killer smile. Since his divorce several years earlier, he'd become a very eligible bachelor. Jason and Paige seemed to be having a rather intense conversation, considering their surroundings.
Seated on the couch was Caroline Branson, vice president of marketing. She was talking to Henry Stodden, the vice president of engineering. Caroline was in her late thirties and was a sophisticated blonde wearing a tight, royal-blue dress. Stodden was in his late forties with pepper-gray hair and a thick beard. Henry looked completely disinterested in whatever Caroline was talking about. He kept checking his watch, as if weighing when he could make his escape.
Her gaze moved to the fireplace where Spike Cabot was speaking to Robert Hartley, who was Cabot's head of security. Hartley had been by Spike's side all night. He was a tall, stocky guy, a former NFL tackler. Hartley would try to block any conversation she wanted to have with Spike, so she was going to have to force the issue.
Taking a deep breath, she headed toward Cabot. She needed to separate him from the group, and there was only one way to do that. She was about three feet away from him when he saw her approaching. As he raised a hand to wave her off, she tripped, stumbling forward, dumping several glasses of red wine all over him.
Cabot swore as he was quickly covered in merlot.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened. Can I get you a towel?"
Cabot bit back what was probably going to be a rude response. "It's fine. I'm going to change. I'll be right back," he told Hartley.
She followed Spike out of the room, but before she could go down the hallway that led to his bedroom, she was confronted by the caterer, Marguerite DeLeon, who had come out of the kitchen, fury written across her face. "What did you do?" she screeched.
"I tripped. I'm sorry I spilled the wine."
"Get in here." Marguerite dragged her into the kitchen. "You might have just cost me a very large tip."
"It was an accident. Let me take Mr. Cabot a fresh glass."
"No. You stay away from him. You can take the empty dishes to the van."
She couldn't leave the house. She had to get away from the kitchen and from Marguerite. "I will take care of the dishes, but I have to bring Mr. Cabot a towel. He asked me specifically to do that." She ran out of the kitchen and down the hall before Marguerite could stop her. The marble-floored corridor moved around a corner toward the east wing of the house. Up the flight of stairs, she would find the master bedroom and several other guest rooms. She was almost to the stairs when the guest bathroom door opened, and Hartley stepped out, blocking her way.
"Where are you going?" he asked with a suspicious glare.
"Uh…" Before she could say anything, she heard a crash, then a bang, followed by screams, then gunshots.
They both whirled around. A man came around the corner with an enormous gun that exploded in a series of shots. The force of the blasts knocked Hartley toward her, his blood spattering across her white shirt.
Diving into a nearby closet, she scrambled into the deep darkness with panic and terror racing through her. She cowered in the corner, holding her breath. She heard screams and footsteps, doors banging, and more shots—at least five or six.
Then it was quiet—deadly quiet. She couldn't move. She was paralyzed with fear and shock, waiting for the door to open, waiting for someone to find her, to kill her. It seemed unbelievable. How could this be happening in Spike Cabot's beautiful, luxurious mansion?
As another minute ticked by, she wondered if by some miracle the gunman hadn't seen her. Maybe Robert Hartley's massive body had blocked her from view. She buried herself deeper in the closet, covering herself with heavy coats, hoping that she could somehow stay safe.
She thought about who else was in the house. Was the group in the living room dead? Was Marguerite? What about Cabot?
She should move. She should try to help. Maybe someone was injured. She dug into her pocket for her phone, but it wasn't there. Her phone was in her bag, tucked away in a kitchen cabinet. The sudden sound of sirens brought forth blessed relief. Several minutes later, she heard people coming into the house, announcing they were LAPD. It still took her a minute to move.
Finally, she crawled toward the door and used the handle to pull herself up. Taking a deep breath, she cracked it open. Two uniformed officers stood by Hartley's body.
His body—God! The horror of what had just happened made her physically sick.
One man swiveled around.
She jumped back.
"It's okay," he said. "You're safe now. I'm Officer Green." He took a few steps toward her. He was a big, imposing guy, which didn't make her feel better.
She put up a shaky hand. "Don't come any closer."
He halted, his sharp gaze raking her body. "Are you hurt? There's blood on your shirt."
She looked down at her blouse. "It's not my blood. It's his." She tipped her head toward Hartley. "Is he…dead?"
The officer's lips tightened. "Yes. Do you know his name?"
"Robert Hartley. He's head of security for Spy Maker Games."
"And your name?"
"Kat Parrish."
"Were you working the party?"
"Yes, for Marguerite DeLeon, the caterer." She drew in a shaky breath. "Was she shot? Is anyone else…" She couldn't bring herself to say the word. Her stomach clenched once more as her gaze moved to the pool of blood on the floor. She'd come so close to losing her life.
Putting a hand to her mouth, she ran toward the bathroom. She heard the officer say something, but she didn't care. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up.
As she knelt on the marble floor, she heard more sirens, each one seemingly louder than the next. There were voices in the hall and footsteps above her head, doors opening and closing, shouts that she couldn't understand. And then there were more sirens. They started out loud and then faded away.
A knock came at the bathroom door. "Ms. Parrish?"
"I'll be out in a second." She ran cold water over her very white face and patted her cheeks dry. She wished she could take off her blood-stained shirt, but she had nothing else to put on. She tried not to look at it as she took a deep breath and then left the bathroom.
Officer Green was waiting with a compassionate gleam in his eyes. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head. "I don't think I can say yes."
"Understandable. Why don't you come with me? I need to ask you a few questions, but we can do it elsewhere."
She followed him down the hall, trying not to look at the body or the blood. Fortunately, there was an officer blocking her view. When they got to the foyer, she saw a dozen more officers and another body lying near the front door. She couldn't see who it was, but it had to be someone from the party. Her heart raced. She felt hot and dizzy once more. "I—I need some air."
Breaking away from the officer, she stumbled down a short hallway to a side door leading onto one of the smaller decks that surrounded the house. She sat down at a table, her legs feeling like they were about to give out. Leaning over, she took one deep breath after another. As her panic eased, she realized she was alone. Officer Green had not followed her onto the deck. It seemed strange, but she was relieved to have a few minutes to pull herself together before she had to talk to the cops.
She'd never had a good relationship with the police. They'd always shown up at the worst moments in her life, and those moments had never gotten better with their arrival. She'd learned a long time ago not to trust that they were going to help her. But this situation was different. This wasn't about her; it was about Spike Cabot. It was about the other people at the party who might have been injured, not that she could tell anyone anything.
As she straightened, she glanced around the deck, wondering if it was through this side door that the gunman had entered. The deck could be reached from an alley where the trash bins were stored. From her position, she could not see inside the home, but every light seemed to be on, including the upstairs bedrooms. She could still hear voices, but there were no more sirens.
What did that mean? Was there no one who still needed to be rushed to the hospital? Was everyone as dead as Robert Hartley and the unknown person by the front door?
Bile rose in her throat, as well as terror. If she hadn't run into Hartley, she would have been alone in the hallway. She wouldn't have been able to hide behind the imposing presence of the head of security. He'd probably saved her life. But he wouldn't have lived long enough to know that.
A chorus of voices suddenly got louder, and she jumped to her feet, her nerves still tight, her body ready to take flight. Officer Green came out of the house, accompanied by another man. That man was not in uniform or in a suit, but in dark jeans with a black T-shirt. He was tall and fit, with light-brown hair and a confident stride. Definitely law enforcement, she thought. Probably a detective—a very attractive detective. He had a sexy scruff running across his jaw, and while she couldn't see the exact color of his eyes, she guessed they were green or hazel as they sparkled in the dim light.
"Ms. Parrish? I'm Agent Lucas Raines. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
FBI? She felt even more nervous now. "Okay. But I didn't see anything."
"Why don't you have a seat?"
She sat back down because she needed a solid chair underneath her. Her legs still felt too wobbly.
He took the chair across from her as Officer Green returned to the house.
"I understand you were working the party as a server," he said.
"Yes. We were just about done."
"Can you tell me where you were, what you saw?"
"I was in the hallway by the guest bathroom."
"What were you doing there?"
It took her a minute to remember. She'd had this grand plan, but how ridiculous that seemed now. "I was taking Mr. Cabot a towel. I spilled red wine on him, and he went to his room to change his shirt. I ran into Mr. Hartley in the hall, and he stopped to speak to me. Before he could say anything, we heard a loud crash, then screams and gunshots. He started toward the living room, but someone came around the corner and…and shot him," she said, struggling to finish her sentence. "I dove into the closet and hid. I thought someone would yank open the door and shoot me, too, but somehow that didn't happen. I didn't come out until the police arrived. That's when I saw Mr. Hartley. There was a lot of blood." She swallowed hard, her stomach growing queasy once more.
"Did you get a glimpse of the gunman? Do you know if it was a man or a woman?"
"I think I saw a leg. Probably male. I don't know. Mr. Hartley was blocking my view. I ran into the closet as fast as I could."
"Then the shooter didn't see you?"
"I guess not."
"What about Mr. Cabot? Did you see him?"
"No. Is he all right?"
Agent Raines stared back at her with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Is he alive?" she pressed.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean? How can you not know?"
"He's not here."
"He's not here?" she echoed. "I don't understand. Are you saying he escaped during the shooting?"
"I'm saying that I don't know where he is, but we're looking for him. You said he had gone to his room."
"Yes. He wanted to change his shirt."
"Why would he ask you to bring him a towel if he was headed to his bedroom, which presumably has a bathroom?"
