6. CARSON

“The Chase?” I say. “You mean that British quiz show?”

Maksim looks at me like I’m an idiot. “What? No, not TV show. I am talking about something very secret.”

He puts a finger to his lips. Like I don’t what the word means.

I raise my hands, palms up, inviting him to tell me more. I also sit back in my chair, because he’s still leaning close and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, and his breath reeks of vodka.

Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except for the fact my head is still pounding from last night.

“My uncle has said some things that I overlistened,” he says. “He and my father have many wealthy colleagues, as you know.”

I do know. I also know they and a lot of their colleagues are on FBI watch lists. I’m sure Maks suspects as much, but he never talks about it.

“Some of them are like you, very smart. And bored. I can see it on their faces when we are at church and at gatherings of family. One day, I hear uncle talking about a woman who was in US Army intelligence, and how she was ‘the prize.’ His friend says to him, ‘I’m in. I will get you money tomorrow.’”

I tent my fingers under my chin, an old habit that helps me focus.

This sounds crazy. Like something out of a low-budget movie. In my experience, at least, being a billionaire isn’t that different from my old life. I just fly on fancier jets and drink better booze. And the women, of course.

But this – this sounds like it’s come off Hollywood’s rejected script pile.

“So,” I say. “You’re telling me this is a hunt of some kind? Maks, you know me, I’m not into – ”

“No, no, no, not a hunt.” He frowns at me. “What kind of family do you think I have?”

I leave that one well alone.

“No, the Chase is not about killing anyone. Not animal, not person. I don’t know details, but it is about finding someone. A woman.”

“Why would someone pay money to find a woman? They’re all over the place, in case you hadn’t noticed. Especially when you’re like us. You know me, Maks. I don’t pay for women.”

“Not Army intelligence officer women. They are not all over the place. And uncle said this one was… special.”

“Special how?”

He leans in even closer. “I think she was virgin.”

Now I’m the one frowning.

“Are you talking about rape?” I demand. “Because if you are, this conversation is over.”

Maksim’s expression droops into a wounded puppy look, and I realize I’ve crossed a line.

“Carson,” he says. “I would never – ”

“I know, I know,” I soothe. “I’m sorry, you’re a man of honor. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But if not that, then what? What’s the purpose of the Chase? Why would any woman, especially one who’s smart and capable, allow herself to be chased and give up her virginity to someone she doesn’t even know?”

His eyebrows go up. “Money, of course. What else is there?”

He’s got me there. I recently read an article about a Romanian teen who auctioned off her virginity online for over €2 million. Her reasoning was actually pretty sound: she asked how many women would have taken advantage of the deal if they’d had the opportunity to revisit their first time? A night of sex for a lifetime of financial security.

“So there’s more than one pursuer involved, obviously?”

“Yes,” says Maks. “Like I say, I don’t know details but I know it is competition. Losers lose money, winner wins money and the woman.”

“And your uncle takes a commission.”

It makes sense, and technically I guess it’s not illegal. I’m sure the handling of the money isn’t above board, but it never is in something like this. All offshore accounts and anonymous transfers. The prize money could never show up on the books anywhere. I can just picture telling an IRS audit about the money I won popping a woman’s cherry.

As far as I know, I’ve never slept with a virgin.

All my conquests have been experienced. Some more than others – some much more than others – but never a first-timer. It would certainly be a new experience for me, and I’m all about new experiences.

But what really has me intrigued is matching wits with someone who’s trained in evading capture. That’s the kind of real challenge I’m looking for. Suddenly, jumping off a cliff into a lake seems like a juvenile stunt by comparison.

Maksim finally leans back on the sofa and takes a pull directly from the vodka bottle this time, a smile creeping across his swarthy face.

“I can see there are wheels rolling in your head,” he says. “You are interested, yes? I have caught you like hook on fish.”

“I am interested maybe,” I say.

“I will talk to uncle about it. Maybe he will pay me commission, eh?”

I grin back at him. “And maybe then you’ll pick up a check once in awhile.”

He laughs and takes another swig of vodka.

“And take away your chance to show everyone how generous you are?” he says. “Why would I do that to you, tovarishch?”

Maks kicks off his Givenchy loafers and stretches out on the full length of the sofa. From the breast pocket of his sportcoat, he produces a small fabric sleep mask that he slips over his eyes. Finally he clasps his hands behind his head and is snoring softly in less than a minute.

I chuckle and turn to look out the porthole at the cloudless sky. Of all the people I’ve ever met, precisely one carries a sleep mask on his person at all times.

I half consider a nap myself – it’ll be a long day in New York, especially with the time difference – but I know sleep will elude me. The Chase keeps tugging at my mind, like an exposed wound, taunting me.

Surely it can’t really be a thing? Perhaps Maks – half-drunk – completely misunderstood an overheard conversation. Surely that’s a far more plausible scenario?

Sleep eventually creeps around the edges of my consciousness as I ponder the Chase, until it finally overtakes me and drags me down into its depths.

I dream of a redheaded girl who’s smarter than me and makes my heart soar.