Bad Boy of Wall Street: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance (3 page)

Hook understood perfectly.

Normally, he worked most of his jobs along the border, hunting down anyone who happened to get on the bad side of the cartels. There were always plenty of targets - coyotes who got a bit too greedy with the drugs they smuggled across the border, middlemen and suppliers who thought that they could get away with skimming a bit of extra cash off the top for themselves, the occasional tourist who saw too much and needed to be silenced. But these were day jobs, not paying much. Hook knew that he'd never get rich off of the little jobs like these.

No, he needed something big, something that would really prove his worth to the cartels, and get him a nice mansion in the foothills where no one would come looking for him or bother him again.

Now, that big job had finally fallen into his lap - and he wasn't about to screw it up, even if he did have to get on a plane and fly far outside his usual zone, up to this buzzing hive of frenetic activity and cheap suits known as New York City.

Groaning, Hook tried to stretch. His big, bulky frame wasn't built for economy class, and his shoulders stuck out on either side of the narrow airplane seat. The middle-aged woman sitting next to him, her dyed orange hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head and contrasting horribly against her turquoise half-moon reading glasses, had coughed and glared at him when he first sat down and jutted his shoulders against her.

Hook hadn't even noticed the sound.

Now, as he tried to extend his big, muscle-bound arms so that he could get some feeling back in his fingers, she coughed again. Again, he didn't pay the slightest attention to her

"Excuse me, but can you keep from invading my personal space?" she snapped, when the coughing once again had no effect on Hook.

He turned and looked at her, his flat, gray eyes not giving away any emotion. "Shut up," he suggested bluntly.

The woman, however, didn't seem to hear the menace in his voice. "Why, I never!" she gasped. "How rude, telling me that I should be quiet, and in such foul language-"

Ugh. This bitch wasn't going to stop talking. Hook could already feel a headache starting behind his temples, probably brought on by the crappy recycled air inside this tin can, and this yapping little woman wasn't helping matters. He glanced down, and noticed that her arm had settled on the armrest between their seats.

He dropped his elbow down into the crook of her arm, pressing down until her mouth snapped shut and her eyes watered in pain. "Again, shut up," he growled, giving an extra little push of his arm to emphasize his words with another little spike of pressure on her sensory nerves. "Or I'll break your fucking fingers off."

That closed her mouth, at least. The woman sitting next to him yanked her arm away as soon as she could, looking shocked that this brute of a man would dare to threaten her so brazenly, but she'd already dropped off of Hook's radar.

If he hadn't been trapped on this airplane, he could have had a bit more fun with her, he considered. His fingers slipped into the pocket of the cheap, forgettable gray suit that he wore, its loose cut helping to disguise the bulging muscles of his arms, the thickness of his neck. He slid his fingers into the folds of his leather wallet, feeling for that little packet of waxed paper.

There it was. And inside the paper, half a dozen size six fishing hooks, barbed and razor sharp.

Hook closed his eyes and leaned back against the protesting airplane seat, imagining how he'd handle the bitchy woman beside him if he wasn't trapped on here. He'd duct tape her to a chair, first, or maybe strap her down to a bed. He'd bind her arms and legs, making sure that she couldn't move. Maybe he'd break a couple of fingers, just to show her that he meant business.

And then, he'd take out the hooks, finding all sorts of wonderful places to slip them in and out of flesh, loving how the barbed hooks pierced so easily.

Yeah. That would stop her from yapping at him like a little bitchy dog - especially after he put a couple of them through her lips to hold them shut.

Hook's real name was Gint Wilson, although this wasn't printed on the driver's license in his wallet or on any of his travel documents. Gint Wilson, after all, was wanted by the police for connections with a dozen different crimes, ranging from kidnapping to petty theft to arson to suspected murder. But Colin O'Donoghue, the man officially listed as sitting in seat 38-C on this plane, had no criminal record, and didn't receive a second look from the TSA agents when he strolled into the airport.

Hook had picked the name, and he still grinned whenever he looked at the fake driver's license. Colin O'Donoghue was the name of an actor who played Captain Hook on some TV series. Hook liked the symbolic connection.

"Okay, folks." The voice of the plane's captain, rough, static-filled, and barely understandable, crackled over the intercom. "Looks like we're cleared for landing, although there may be a bit of turbulence as we set down."

Hook groaned. Great. Now they were going to shake up the metal tin can. Just what he needed.

"So, uh, make sure your seat belts are fastened, and we'll be on the ground in just a few minutes." The captain clicked off the intercom, and the stewardesses began heading down the aisle, tapping people on the shoulder and telling them to put their chairs back in the upright position and put away their shit.

Hook stabbed at the button to lift his seat back up with a thick finger. Weren't stewardesses supposed to be all sexy? The woman heading down the aisle towards him looked like she was about fifty, and rather chunky. He'd always imagined that stewardesses were all slender legs and nice little tits, not everyday looking people.

The chunky stewardess leaned over him, intruding into his personal space without even a word of apology. "Fasten your seat belt, sir," she commented, moving on to the next row before Hook could growl at her.

His glare was probably nearly hot enough to melt the metal of his buckle, but he fastened it across his lap, just in case the plane did end up crashing. Hadn't he heard that the only purpose of seat belts was so that the authorities could identify bodies in the event of a crash, that no one ever made it out?

Ten minutes later, however, the airplane's wheels were back solidly on the ground, and Hook popped the seat belt open again as they taxied towards their gate. The woman next to him started to open her mouth as if she wanted to comment, but she at least had enough sense to close her mouth without speaking when Hook glared over at her.

He'd checked his bags instead of hauling anything on board with him, so he was able to hop up from his seat and quickly dash past several rows. Suddenly, claustrophobia gripped Hook's throat, and he needed to get out of this damn can, back onto solid ground. Several other passengers glared at him and yelled out as he pushed past them, but he didn't bother trying to look back and apologize. Why bother, when he'd never see any of them again?

Up the jetway and back in the terminal, Hook finally felt the iron band around his chest loosen and release. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, glad that he was done with flying, at least until he'd finished this job.

Hell, maybe he wouldn't even fly back down to collect his fees from the cartels once he'd completed the job. Maybe he would take the payout and retire up here, buy a house up on the coast somewhere where he wouldn't have to deal with idiots, somewhere remote.

Making his way out through the terminal, Hook grabbed his bag off of the baggage claim. He nodded to the fat blob that had somehow managed to squeeze himself into a TSA uniform and sleepily watched the departing guests.

What a fool, he thought to himself. Not only had they not stopped Hook from bringing his fish hooks on the plane, but Hook could probably kill the lard-ass before he even managed to reach that Taser strapped to his extra-wide belt.

This was what the government considered to be security? What a total joke.

Still, Hook wasn't here to cause problems in the airport. He had a target, and he'd accomplish his mission. That was what mattered.

Bag in tow behind him, the big, muscled, hulking man ambled out of the airport terminal, over to the rental car agencies across the tarmac. He'd booked a car with one of the places - he didn't remember the name, but he recognized the yellow rectangular logo, and headed inside to get his car.

"Good morning, sir!" burbled the young woman behind the rental car counter. "Here to pick up your vehicle?"

Hook grunted in assent and fished out his phone. He pulled up the email with his rental car confirmation and slid it across the counter to the young woman.

"Great! Let me see here..." The woman's voice trailed off for a minute as she typed in the confirmation number from the email. She pecked at the keys with her index fingers, and Hook drummed his fingers on top of the counter as he fought the urge to reach over and grab her by the neck, smacking her around until she understood the value of his time.

"Ah, there we go," the woman finally said, clapping her hands at her screen like a damn child. "Your car is out in spot C-30, just through this door." She pointed around the corner. "The keys are right in the ignition. Any big plans for your time in New York City? Going to go see the Statue of Liberty, Times Square?"

"Nah, not my kinda shit," Hook replied, taking his phone back and depositing it in the deep pocket of his suit. "I'm here for finance stuff."

"Ooh, how fancy!" The agent raised her eyebrows at him, waggling them like a disobedient child. Hook considered how she might look if he'd taped her down to a chair, how she'd squirm and scream under his attention. She was young enough for him to have some fun with, he considered with a smirk. "Up here to check on your money, make sure it's being managed well?"

Hook almost snorted. Yeah, because he looked like some sort of preppy, trust fund jackass. What a load of shit.

"Something like that," Hook answered as he turned away. "He's got something I need to collect for my employer."

He probably shouldn't even spill that much, but what the hell, the car rental agent wasn't going to talk to anyone. He headed out through the door that she'd indicated, tossing his luggage into the back of the nondescript brown sedan he'd rented.

Sure enough, the keys were waiting for him in the ignition. Hook slid behind the wheel and the first hint of a smile graced his face as he started up the vehicle. Now, he could get to work on what he did best.

As one hand guided the steering wheel as the car pulled out of the parking lot, his other hand slipped into his pocket, feeling the sharp points of those fish hooks tucked into his wallet. These hooks were meant for the thief, whoever fucked this whole situation up.

Hook would make sure that the poor, sorry asshole learned never to mess with the cartels' money.

Chapter Four

*

I pulled up at the "Hamptons Estate" that my phone had guided me towards, but frowned as I looked up the driveway. There must be some sort of mistake here, I thought to myself in confusion.

Yes, there was a house here, and yes, the numbers on the house matched the address that I'd gotten off the phone book, but this wasn't even close to earning the title of "estate." If I had to put a label on the place, I'd probably call it a cottage, probably with the word cozy somewhere in the same paragraph.

It wasn't a bad looking place, I said to myself as I cruised around the block, trying to figure out if this was just a side property that belonged to one of the big mansions on either side. Nope. The number of the address only matched this cute little red brick cottage, tucked back behind a large oak tree that dominated the front yard. This was the address of "Hendricks, D", the only Hendricks listed for the Hamptons.

For just a moment, as I brought the little Mazda to a stop, I considered that maybe I was at the wrong place. Perhaps this Hendricks wasn't related to Rob at all, and he did keep his house under an assumed name after all. That would at least explain the lack of reporters camped around here, hoping for a shot of the Wall Street Bad Boy.

Still, I wouldn't be a good reporter if I didn't at least get out of my car and investigate. I climbed out of the driver's seat, brushed some of the crumbs of the muffin I'd eaten on the drive up here off of my shirt and pants, and then headed up the driveway to the cozy little house.

I pushed my finger down on the doorbell button, but didn't hear any activity from inside. I pushed the button again to an equal lack of response, frowning. Moving in another step closer, I pressed one ear against the door as I pushed the bell a third time.

Nope. No sound of ringing inside. I raised my knuckles and instead rapped hard on the door, producing a satisfying knock that echoed through the home's interior.

"Yes, coming! Just a second, dear!" a faint voice called out to me after a moment.

That didn't sound like the voice of a young man. Sure enough, as I stepped back from the door, it opened to reveal a gray-haired, elderly little senior citizen, who blinked curiously up at me from behind thick spectacles.

"Hello, dear, can I help you?" she said politely, leaning on a cane. Something about it seemed odd, but most of it was hidden in interior shadow, and I kept my eyes on the woman's face.

"Your doorbell doesn't work," I pointed out.