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

  I fix him with a glare. "It is important. But even if it wasn't, rules are rules."

  He answers with a sulky nod.

  Paul, my right-hand man, arrives next, on a direct flight from Reykjavik. He's the only one who knows the full story already. He shakes hands with Sean and me and then slides into the seat next to mine, pulling out a laptop in one fluid move like it's part of his anatomy. His nimble fingers glide over the keyboard probably checking the current price of the latest cryptocurrency he's investing in. He's lost to the world.

  Sean's watching him and me, tapping his foot. He pulls out a phone and the green of a football match illuminates his screen. After a minute, he gets up. "Coffee anywhere in this dump?"

  "Second-floor cafeteria."

  "It is an ugly neighborhood," Paul remarks, looking up from his screen.

  "You're the who picked it."

  He shrugs. "May not look like much, but like Han Solo said, she's got it where it counts—the fastest upload and download speeds around, proximity to our favorite Bitcoin brokers, plus network security is top class seeing as the previous tenants were in private security. So, is everyone coming to this shindig as Sean called it?"

  I nod. "Felix tried to argue, once again, that Cara should tag along. He never gives up, does he?"

  "And you told him where to go, I suppose?"

  "I told him it's not Ladies day at the Freemasons."

  Paul chuckles. "Hm. Well, seeing as the rest of them are late. I'm going to check on the babies."

  He means the servers mining Bitcoin on the ground floor. We don't need central heating with those mainframes chugging along at full power. If anything, we need coolers despite the February icy wind howling outside.

  Liam, Sean's brother, is the next to arrive, in from Shannon. The two sandy-haired Irish brothers are one year apart, but mistakable for twins. Ironically, the two actual twins in the group, Jack and Felix, don't look alike at all. They come next, intense, dark-haired Jack and the cherubic, blond Felix, flying in together from LAX. Axel comes last—probably because he was watching the others go in first from some car somewhere. He's a sneaky one. I'm clueless about where he lives these days but I don't care as long as he shows up when I call him.

  They all had the good sense not to try to schlepp anyone along with them. After the brief round of hellos and handshakes and general mutterings about the appalling view—ugly industrial wasteland in every direction—everyone sits down. All faces turn expectantly to me.

  "Thank you for coming," I say. "I appreciate that you interrupted your day to travel here and that you all adhered to safety precautions."

  "Goes without saying, Egan," Sean says in a barely civil monotone.

  "Security being particularly important today," I continue.

  Now I have their full attention.

  I stroll up and down in front of them, regarding each man in turn. "I've spearheaded this organization for ten years. We've been successful, undoubtedly. Even at today's low valuation, we control ten billion dollars' worth of Bitcoin. Nobody can shake us. But... by other measures, we've been wholly unsuccessful."

  Alarmed mutters follow this announcement.

  "How do you mean?" Sean asks.

  "My vision—our vision—is not, and never has been, merely to sit on top of a pile of cash and to have a safety net for life. No. Although, we will do everything in our power to protect our assets."

  Paul sits back and crosses his arms with a smug look. The others look bewildered.

  "Yes, I appreciate you've had your individual successes." I let a pause drag out so they can contemplate theirs.

  Jack pushes up his trendy glasses up his nose. His movies have been doing pretty well lately in the arthouse cinema scene. Felix's casino security business in Vegas is thriving. Axel's magic gig, also in Vegas, is picking up a reputation. Granted, the two Irishmen are still struggling to find a direction for their fledgling non-governmental organization but I can help them with that. Then there's our resident geek, Paul. None of us would be here without him.

  "But something's come up," I continue. "Something we have to deal with immediately and extremely cautiously."

  "What are you on about?" Sean asks.

  I take a deep breath. "Okay, I've taken the liberty of setting the wheels in motion on our first philanthropical project. Look around you. This late-modernist monstrosity is not the prettiest building, but security is top notch—hardly surprising given that the previous occupants were private defense contractors in cybersecurity. All signals get scrambled in and out. We're out of range of any CCTV cameras. Perfect for our needs."

  "Her name is Natasha. She's twenty-one. She's a Russian dissident being chased by the FSB and possibly other organizations too. Protecting her and re-integrating her back into society under a new identity is our next project."

  A deathly silence descends on them.

  "Don't you think you could've run it by us first, Egan?" Sean asks heavily.

  "There wasn't time."

  His jaw is tight with the effort of holding back. "Are you crazy? Russian?"

  Then all hell breaks loose, everyone talking at once.

  "So, you're gonna hide a Russian dissident?" Liam asks, echoing his brother.

  "Where?" Jack asks. "In the basement of this office?"

  I shake my head, "No, on the third floor."

  Jack rises and begins pacing over and back. He's probably running the plots of his thriller movies through his head. "But if they find out—they'll kill her. They may kill us for harboring her."

  "Not if I hide her in a safe house up country before they realize she's gone," I say.

  "How are you going to smuggle her out of Russia?" Liam asks.

  "I already have."

  This prompts a fresh chorus of "What?" and "How?"

  "Gentlemen!" I say over the voices.

  They settle down.

  "Here's how it happened. Natasha called me, as Sergei had instructed her to do in case of an emergency. I picked her up in Moscow last night and she's sitting in the room two floors above you."

  Several of their gazes flit to the ceiling.

  "Here's a better question," Sean says. "Why? Why her?"

  "Because her fiancé—the man they killed—was my friend."

  Nobody speaks. The only sound is the wonky air-conditioning.

  "Sorry for your loss, man," Felix says. "Anything I can do to help Natasha, let me know."

  I nod. "Thanks, Felix. All I need from you all is absolute discretion, as always. Our Bitcoin will do the heavy lifting. Unofficial safe houses do not come cheap, but once I convinced my contact last night that we have the means, he was confident of finding a safe house that would take Natasha in—once he settles some security issues."

  "So, can't we meet this poor girl?" Axel asks.

  "No. You can't. Nobody but me can meet her which is why I've dismissed the janitor and the cleaning staff who worked this place before and who seem to assume their contracts will be renewed. I just had one around this morning and I told her to go away. Paul, you might want to check them out in case their cleaning business is a cover for something else. CleaningBees, they're called."

  "On it," Paul says.

  "Good. That concludes the news for now. You're free to go unless you want a tour of the mining computers."

  They all shake their heads and rise.

  3

  JESS

  TRAIPSING OUT TO THE Platinum Star in the industrial wasteland of London's reclaimed Wharf area isn't exactly what I feel like doing a strenuous five-hour stint cleaning at the hospital, but duty calls. The drive is one I could do in my sleep so it gives me time to mentally prepare. With any luck, Mr. Egan Harwood will be in. I wonder if he's half as intimidating as Martha was making him out to be. Maybe she was just having a bad morning and was hypersensitive to his pomposity.

  The lights are lit on all floors which is a good sign. His staff must have moved in already.

  I park and traipse up the weed-
fringed concrete path to the back entrance. I ring the bell and wait. But there's no answer.

  Maybe they haven't moved in yet. Or he's out visiting a client.

  I retreat a few feet from the door and peer up the building. Weird that the lights are all blazing. Doesn't he care about electricity bills? And I can hear a hum of machinery that's beyond the familiar heating sounds.

  I traipse back to my car. What a waste of an hour.

  When I press on my ignition something makes me twist my head to look over at the building. Something moved. At least I'm pretty sure it did. On the third floor. A fleeting shadow. I turn off the engine again and lean on my steering wheel, peering up at the two upper floors.

  Hmph. He's in there all right. He's simply not answering the bell. Well, I'm not going home until I've had a decent shot at this. But I want to see the shadow again to be absolutely sure I didn't imagine it.

  But then up swings a silver Jaguar in front of the building. A tall man in a dark suit gets out and marches over to the side door.

  Huh?

  He's the embodiment of powerful male with his tall stature and perfectly honed muscles packed in a figure-hugging, dark-navy suit tailored to perfection. His hair has that well-coiffed flop to it and a sheen—that's about all I can make out from this distance. I recognize the type. Rich, entitled, impatient.

  But that doesn't faze me. I have experience with his kind. Plenty of it. My ex, Jake, is a corporate investor after all. I wonder if this Harwood guy also let his girlfriend support him through college and then, when he started earning big time, dump her for a more interesting model?

  I'll give him exactly five minutes to throw his jacket on a chair, roll up his designer sleeves and grab an espresso—or whatever his mid-morning ritual happens to be. I never like to disturb a man during his rituals. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel rehearsing my spiel. I pull down the mirror and check my makeup. All clean lines. Good to go.

  When the five minutes are up, I get out of my Honda Civic, shut the door softly, and march over to the same door he disappeared through. I press on the bell, leaving my finger on it for a good eight seconds—long enough to send the message that this caller means business. I pull my hand away and shove it into my coat pocket.

  "Who is it?" comes the intercom, way sooner than I expected. The richly masculine voice unquestionably belongs to the male model who entered the building five minutes ago.

  Some seconds pass until I realize I haven't answered his question.

  Facepalm.

  "Um, yes, my name is Jess Wilkes. An employee of mine, Martha Smith, she came around here yesterday, looking to talk to you about the cleaning contract?" I force myself to smile so he'll hear the confidence in my voice. "I'm...I'm only asking for a minute of your time so I can explain the value of our services."

  "Not interested, sorry."

  "Fine. But I just need a minute—"

  "Truly, Ms. Wilkes, not interested. Good day to you."

  The intercom snaps off.

  I stare at it. Good day to you?

  I press again. This time it takes longer for him to answer.

  "Yes?" His voice is more of a growl this time.

  "Look, Mr. Harwood, I truly don't want to waste your time," I lie, "But—"

  "But you already have. As I mentioned before, I don't need your cleaning services. Goodbye."

  "You really need to listen to me."

  A long silence ensues.

  "I really don't," he says.

  Hell, I'm not giving up. We've been cleaning this building for five years, Martha and I, with no complaints from our customers, and not a single sick day taken. The Platinum Star cleaning contract is the cornerstone of our little business, one we've worked hard for. How dare he discard five years of solid labor as if it were nothing?

  I ping the bell again. My scalp is tingling with the uncanny thrill of knowing someone's rage is being stoked. If he turns violent, he has to descend a couple of flights of stairs before he can come anywhere near me. I'm safe. It'll take me twenty seconds to reach my car and boot the hell out of here.

  "Ms. Wilkes?" he says.

  I'm impressed he remembers my name.

  "I'm not budging, Mr. Harwood," I say. "Until you've given me five minutes of your time."

  I see a shadowy figure moving in the third-floor window. He's checking me out? Or is that the other person I saw earlier?

  "If I give you five minutes of my time, do you promise to leave and never come back?" he asks with what sounds like a muted sigh.

  Hah, progress. "Uh...Sure. Yes."

  I can convince him in five. No problem.

  "Fine. Come in and go up to the second floor. Take the elevator. My office is first on the left."

  The buzzer sounds.

  "Um, no," I say. "You should come down here to me."

  I hear an impatient hiss of breath. "And why is that?"

  "Maybe I'm nervous about entering an empty building alone with a man? Surely you can appreciate my position here, Mr. Harwood?"

  "Then forget it."

  "I've got my foot in the door here," I remind him. "I can stay here all day blocking the door if I have to."

  I can guess what he's thinking. He's thinking how can I employ someone like this? But it's not like the sweet little woman act was working on him.

  The door from the stairwell opens. I watch him stride toward me and I can't help but sigh inwardly in awe. His long-legged, manly stride shows off the tailored fit of his suit and the lean lines of his toned body hidden underneath it. As he approaches, the symmetrical planes of his face become evident, finely drawn and perfectly proportioned—he looks both threatening and ultra-reasonable—a formidable opponent on the other side of the boardroom conference table. He's the type of guy you'd want managing your stocks portfolio or your quarterly business plan. He's the kind of guy you don't want to mess with unless you have all your facts straight.

  But I do have all my facts straight.

  "So, Ms. Wilkes." He scans me in slow sweeps of his steady, dark blue eyes. "Which is it to be? Inside or outside?"

  "Outside."

  "Fine."

  I lead the way out and I sense he's checking me out from behind. I'm bundled up in a coat so he doesn't get to see much.

  "Clock's ticking," he says as we face each other. He's nearly a foot taller than me. His silk tie costs more than my entire outfit. The breeze ruffles his light brown hair, causing ripples in the precisely cut waves. He's basically a stock photo CEO.

  I cock my head and deliberately move my gaze from his face to the building. "How many employees do you have?"

  "I can't see how that is any of your business."

  "Yes, well, here's the thing." I give a dry laugh. "I'm hoping it can be."

  His steadfast eyes don't waver. They're somewhat bloodshot, marring the image of perfection. But you could always photoshop that out.

  I rise to my full height. "Okay, Mr. Harwood. Here's the thing. My company, CleaningBees, has been cleaning this office for five years prior to your moving in. You can ask the previous occupants—they were more than satisfied with our cleaning services. And when I say satisfied, I mean that I got nominated as employee of the month once and we were invited to two Christmas staff parties, they considered us to be so much a part of the team,"

  He gives a barely perceptible nod.

  I pause dramatically. "Now. I can provide you with a quote that beats any of the competition and offers full flexibility. In addition, with our experience of the building's characteristics, we know how to clean it best—every nook and cranny, every surface, every problem spot. Moreover, we have a long-standing relationship with the janitor, Mr. Peters, which allows for a seamless communication—"

  "Are you quite done with the sales pitch?" Harwood cuts in. "I'm not in the market for a cleaner as I've endeavored to tell you these past..." He glances at his watch. "Four minutes."

  "But how are you going to keep the building clean?"

 
"I intend not getting it dirty in the first place."

  I smirk. "Look, I understand it if you want to hire someone under the table. There are hard times financially. But I truly wouldn't advise it—"

  "I'm not looking for your advice, Ms. Wilkes. Financial or otherwise."

  "I feel I need to correct you in one aspect. After which I will go, as promised."

  "What's that?" he asks heavily.

  "Doing nothing is not an option. Dirt will happen of its own accord. Dirt accrual is like a basic law of nature."

  "Is that so?" he says coolly. He scans me again, probably looking for evidence of something out of place but he's not going to find anything.

  "Not only that," I continue. "This building is special, needy, you could almost say. If untended, there'll be a rapid descent into chaos of everything that's orderly. Last summer, Trent Security all went away for two weeks and left the place empty and insisted we didn't have to come clean. Well, they forgot to empty the humidifiers in the basement, didn't they? So, of course, a damp patch formed and then a greenish mold grew in the left corner and it all had to be replaced at great cost."

  He appears to be listening, so I carry on. "Also, every time an easterly breeze blows, the dust from the adjacent building site covers the front reception windows. Unless the glass is cleaned, it starts to look like a derelict building and invites the local vandals around who'll decorate the walls. And on that note, we provide graffiti-removal services which believe me, are exorbitantly costly if you employ a specialist cleaner."

  I'm watching his face for signs of alarm, but he remains impassive. His jaw is as set as the minute he first walked out, that is to say, marble-like.

  "How do I know you're not in league with the local ruffians to spray paint my walls in order to give your business reason to exist?" he asks.

  I draw in a sharp breath and let out a laugh. "My goodness, Mr. Harwood, your mind works in suspicious ways."

  "I'm a CEO. Vigilance is part of the job description."

  "Well, I am too," I counter. "But I tend to prefer to trust people until they're proven guilty. I find they work better for me that way."