Egan: A Cryptocurrency Billionaire Romance (Bitcoin Billionaires Book 3) Read online

  Egan

  Bitcoin Billionaires, Book 3

  SARA FORBES

  ©Sara Forbes 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.saraforbes.com

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  1

  JESS

  I PUSH IN THE DOOR of our tiny London office on a Monday morning and am greeted by Martha uttering the following words in her Glaswegian accent, "Uh, Jess, bad news."

  "Can I at least sit down first?"

  "Sure, take your time." Martha's fingers are doing a little dance over her keyboard, not quite hitting the keys. My business partner is watching me with the glee of someone about to explode with bad news. I can pretty much guess what this is about.

  I sit down and flip open my compact to correct my mascara which got smudged in the rain even though this brand is supposed to be waterproof—waterproof mascara being an invention that eludes mankind, kind of like flying hoverboards and a cure for Alzheimer's.

  Martha clears her throat "So, I went down to the Platinum Star..."

  I snap the compact shut. "And?"

  She tosses her shoulder-length, ginger hair back. "Well, I rang the back-entrance bell, and after this really, really long wait—I swear, so long I would've buggered off had this been about anything else—this guy comes and answers the intercom. He's like the CEO. And to cut a long story short, Mr. Harwood said he doesn't need a cleaner."

  "Harwood?" I ask. "That's his name? The CEO?"

  "Yep, Egan Harwood."

  "Tell me the exact words he used."

  "Those were his exact words." She adopts a deep voice. "'I don't need a cleaner, Ms. Smith. Thank you. Good day.'"

  I roll my freshly mascaraed eyes. "He didn't say 'good day'."

  "Hell yeah, he did."

  "Nobody in this century says 'good day'."

  "Well, he did."

  I glance over. "And then you just skedaddled off? Why? Did he threaten you or something?"

  "No. It was just...." Martha frowns, searching the ceiling for an answer. "Well, he had this look on his face. So severe. Like I was interrupting a nuclear disarmament meeting or his grandmother's funeral."

  "Wait. You saw him? I thought this was happening over an intercom."

  "No, no, he came right down to the door. Damn good-looking. Or, if he wasn't so stern, he'd be good-looking. Rich as sin, I'll bet. Jess, you have to believe me, he was deadly serious. He did not want me there. I felt like I was trespassing on his private lawn. This contract's a bust. And before you say it, no, I am not going back there to hustle again." She shakes her head again and crosses her arms. "What are we going to do?"

  "One thing's for sure I am not losing this contract," I say.

  That Platinum Star building represents forty percent of the income of our little, two-woman business, CleaningBees, since we lost the Tiger Den offices on Easop Street last month. If I lose this contract too then we might as well fold here and now and go back to working dead-end jobs in some corporation or getting paid minimum wages in someone else's cleaning firm. I really do not what to do that, and neither does she.

  I sink back in my chair. "Which cleaning company is he using then? Wendy's? or Devlin and Sons?"

  "Said he's not using any, nor does he intend to."

  "Ah, under the table."

  "No, I don't think it was that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I mean, I just couldn't imagine..." She lets out a hassled sigh. "I don't know, Jess."

  "Because he looks rich? You think just because looks rich, or even is rich, he wouldn't try to dodge the taxman? Rich guys are more likely to try that than anyone. What is his business?"

  Martha shrugs. "No clue."

  I pull up Google. "What's the company name? The logo—what was on it?"

  "There was no logo up. No plaque. Nothing. Blank."

  "Hm, I guess he's not set up yet. Don't worry, I'll sort this out."

  "But how? He was quite clear."

  "Martha," I fix her with a stern look. "I said I'll sort it."

  The guy may have been sharp with Martha because he's in the throes of getting set up. As an entrepreneur myself, I can identify with that. It's not like her to get thrown off so easily but she's had a tough week last week. It should have been me out there hustling this morning, not Martha. So, I'm going to put this right.

  "This afternoon," I tell her. "After our shift at the hospital. Things are going to go down at the Platinum Star."

  She raises her eyebrows but then nods. "Uh, good luck."

  "Did all the supplies come in?" I cast a glance around at the various boxes that line the walls.

  "Yep." She flaps her hand at her laptop screen. "I entered the squeegees and that new steam cleaner into the inventory. All we need now is the work."

  "Martha, don't worry. We'll be back on track soon, okay? We always knew there'd be bumps in the road. That's what owning a business is all about. Weathering the bumps. I know how to handle this guy. Trust me."

  "Yeah," she says heavily.

  "What's up?"

  "Oh, just...the future. I wish we could plan five years out."

  "Five years? Five months would be nice. What's the latest?"

  She fishes a brochure out of her bag and slaps it down on the table. "Wentworth College have an open day this weekend. I'm almost afraid to bring them there and let them get all these Harry Potter notions in case they can't attend."

  Wentworth College does bear a slight resemblance to Hogwarts and Martha's going to need magic to usher those kids in through those hallowed, ivy-covered gates. "You were going to ask about scholarships, weren't you?" Her son Charlie is super smart academically and would ace any test put in front of him. Lily is no slouch either though she's more artistically inclined.

  "I did. No go there I'm afraid."

  "And have you said this to the Boswells?"

  "Forget it, Jess. Rosa fails to understand why her grandkids can't just attend the comprehensive school even though she knows right well of the drugs problems and the low academic standards. She doesn't give a shit. I'm beginning to think she wants them to fail so she can blame that on me as well as her son's death."

  As I can't deny this, I go over and squeeze her shoulder in sympathy. "This is gonna work out. What you ear
n there you will not be splitting with me. It goes straight into their education fund."

  She looks up. "But—"

  "No buts, Martha, your kids are too important."

  Seeing little Charlie and Lily forge their rightful paths in life has become my life's mission, too. My own educational path was thwarted and I don't want the same thing to happen to them especially as they're more deserving than I ever was. I don't think I'll ever have kids, so they represent my hopes and dreams for the next generation almost as much as they do Martha's.

  "Look," I continue, "The house of horrors will sort this out. That guy—Harwood—he'll find out soon enough."

  This at least gets a little smile from Martha.

  "And if he's using someone on the black-market, well a little blackmail can easily handle that." I flash her a grin.

  But it won't come to that. I'll cut Harwood a good deal and offer him a win-win situation because that's how I do business.

  2

  EGAN

  THIS BUILDING GIVES ME THE CREEPS. The light is all wrong—shining in only once a day on the east-facing side, just after sunrise. The windows don't open. The view in every direction is industrial wasteland and abandoned rail track. The gray paint on the bare brick-work reminds me of my tortuous schooldays in Brixton. This eighties'-built office block is a far cry from my leafy suburb home or our usual meeting spaces that I rent in Belgrave Square. Even the name, Platinum Star, is ridiculous, like it aspired to be something sensational and failed miserably.

  But Paul, my right-hand geek, said it was the only building that was cyber-secure, well connected, and completely empty. He did an exhaustive search of buildings within a 50 kilometer radius of London center and this is what he came up with. So, I cashed in a little money and bought it. And now I regret it big time.

  The storage room on the third floor in which I'm standing is a small, stuffy, windowless room with the same ugly, deep-orange carpet tiles as the rest of the building. It has three desks lined against the walls abandoned by the previous tenants and a couple of cheap, plastic chairs.

  In short, this office is not an ideal place to keep a twenty-one-year-old woman.

  "How are you?" I ask Natasha even though I can plainly see the answer. Dark rings bloom under her eyes, her hair hangs limply against her sallow face, and her body language is jerky and victim-like. She can't hold my gaze for more than a second.

  Six days ago her boyfriend, my good friend, Sergei Ritensky, was beaten to death in a Russian prison. Twenty-four hours have passed since I hauled her traumatized ass from Moscow to London in a private jet in the dead of night and it's been six hours since she last uttered a word to me.

  Natasha is slouched in an office chair, her sleeping bag neatly rolled up beside her. Her small grey rucksack resting on the table is a token of how few possessions she has left in the world. She eyes me warily.

  "I'm okay," she says in accented, but otherwise faultless, English. "A bit better after that sleep."

  "Good. I'm glad to hear that." I gesture at the spartan surroundings. "Not exactly the Hotel Kempinski."

  She looks away.

  At least she's safe here. The organization that alerted me to Sergei's death and secretly escorted Natasha away from her home said that London was no longer a safe city for Russian dissidents what with FSB agents crawling out of every wormhole and dissidents being poisoned left, right and center. They said I should find a different country to hide her in. I said forget it.

  I argued that for precisely that reason, nobody would ever think of looking for a dissident here in London. My lifetime motto is "go against the crowd." It works for investing as it does for anything else. So here we are. My dead friend's fiancée, whom I've never met before, sleeping in an office-supplies room in an empty building that gives me the creeps.

  "How long do I stay here, Egan?"

  "Until I find somewhere safe to move you to. I can't guarantee times or dates. Sorry."

  "Can't I stay at the Russian embassy?"

  "People have a habit of getting killed in embassies these days. Put that clean out of your head right now."

  She shrinks back in her seat. I'm not going to sugarcoat this for her.

  "They might kill you too if they find out," she says, her chin jutting out like she's just scored one over me.

  "They can try," I say. "But I'm not worried. Sergei was always careful. The fact that you never heard of me until yesterday is proof of that. They don't know our connection, and they never will."

  She nods wryly, probably remembering the screaming match we had in the jet last night when I tried to convince her that I wasn't working for the Russian secret police and that I was, in fact, an old-time friend of her dead fiancé. It was only when I told her the story of our shared days at university that she became convinced I was truly Sergei's friend.

  "Are you hungry?" I ask in a gentler voice. "What would you eat for breakfast normally?"

  She stretches her thin limbs out, clacking her bones, and shrugs.

  "I can get something delivered," I prompt. "Just say the word. Money is no object."

  Her gaze moves to the door. "I want to go out myself to buy something."

  "You can't leave this building. This is CCTV capital of the world."

  She looks crestfallen, although not surprised. With a journalist boyfriend who was critical of the Russian state, she's no stranger to sneaking around.

  "Even when we get you to the safe house, it may take them some time before they can give you the all clear to walk around like a normal person with a brand-new identity," I say. I'm not totally sure that such a failsafe identity reconstruction will ever happen, but I leave that part out. There's a limit to how much a person can take.

  She scans the grey walls, riddled with holes where the previous occupants had screwed in shelves. "How many floors are there?"

  "Four."

  "Can I go anywhere in this building?"

  I wince. "No. Not even that. You're limited to the areas that are not visible from windows,"

  She glances through the open doorway, to the window, and then back at me, patiently waiting. I don't know what to say to her. Her life has been turned upside down in the ugliest possible manner. She's probably suffering trauma and needs a therapist. But my main concern is that she stays unseen at least until we get her to the safe house. I'll pay for the best therapists for her after that.

  "Yes, you can be seen from the street if you stand out there. I've measured it and drawn chalk lines on the floor that you must stay within. See those purple lines?"

  She nods.

  "Stay within them, which basically means you'll be sticking to the inner rooms nearest the elevator shaft. But anything you need I can fetch for you."

  In preparation for the payoff to the safe house, I converted five million worth of Bitcoin into US Dollars yesterday, causing a mini-earthquake in the market but only for a nanosecond. Paul had set a buy-order to immediately repurchase the Bitcoin that had left the system before anyone else could put their paws on it at a discount price. This is what we do, and will keep doing until the market collapses. If it causes some investors to lose out, I don't care. My life's mission isn't to help them—it's to help those who actually need help. People like Natasha.

  "A few more days, maximum," I tell her. "Sorry I can't be more specific."

  Her face tightens. "There's nothing to do here."

  I cluck sympathetically. "Do you want another game of chess?"

  She shakes her head and heads toward the stairwell.

  "Whoa, whoa, where are you going?" I call out.

  "To the stairs. I'm using the bathroom on the second floor. These ones are broken."

  "Since when?"

  She nods toward the bathroom door. "Go in yourself and find out."

  I rise off the chair, walk over to the ladies' bathrooms and gingerly push open the door. The stench nearly blows me away. I slam the door quickly.

  "They won't flush," she says.

&n
bsp; "OK, I'm going to try." I stuff a handkerchief to my face.

  Natasha is pressing her fingers to her forehead. "I'd rather be in jail."

  "Don't say that." I no longer feel quite as sorry for her as I did before. I don't care how traumatized she is. A little gratitude would go a long way. Then I chastise myself for thinking that. The aches and pains from not having gotten a good night's sleep in two days are getting to me. Getting to both of us.

  I go in and fiddle with the cistern, and tug the chain, all to no avail. And they're all like this, not just one. I'm useless at this stuff, but my gut says the problem is something to do with the water level.

  "Well that was a complete waste of time," I say, coming out.

  Natasha moves the scarf further up her face to cover what I suspect is a smile. Hey, whatever works.

  "Okay, use the second floor but make it quick, we've got company soon," I say. "And duck down when you're passing the stairwell window."

  She nods listlessly. All the fight seems to have drained from her. Last night she must have been burning through the last dredges of her reserve adrenaline. I'd nearly prefer her screaming to this helplessness.

  I take another step toward her, mindful not to move too near. I may be dressed as a gentleman but I'm a six-foot-three, well-built guy and she's, well, a waif. I'm definitely not going to let her lay eyes on the other six men who will be arriving shortly. Not one of us is what you'd call gentle looking.

  "Right. And for your information, the meeting here this afternoon is important—both for your future and for mine. But don't worry, they're people I trust and if you make a noise up here it won't matter—they're in on the story, or they will be when I tell them."

  "I trust you," she says, her solemn eyes growing wide.

  She doesn't quite mean it but then again, she'd be stupid if she did.

  ***

  I set the Bitcoin billionaire meeting time for 4 p.m. which gives everybody ample time to drop whatever they're doing and jet in from their respective locations.

  "This better be important," Sean says as he enters the room. "I had to leave a football match because of this shindig. Galway were winning." He kicks a chair away from the table and flops into it, arms folded, looking up at me.