Chapter One

Wick

Broadway Avenue, Upper West Side, Manhattan, New York…

It was a damn good thing her mother didn't soft-soap life to Wick growing up—to be clear, that was before she turned alcoholic, and everything went apeshit. Hell, no. Her mother grew up in the time of baby boomers and didn't believe in such bullshit. Nope, to her—and Wick thanked the Lord for that every day—it was important that her daughter fought her own battles and didn't wait for a knight in shining armor to save her.

"A girl in modern times should be her own heroine. Assertive, self-sufficient, and strong, so she could withstand a mega shark's attack without being torn to shreds,"was a famous saying she had drilled into Wick on a daily basis.

A pity she couldn't practice what she preached, but that was a sad tale for another time. Wick resolutely shook off the resentment awakening with the thought.

Yep, little Wick Bitch wasn't your run-of-the-mill rescue dog with her tail wagging, waiting around for approval from any man.

Okay, stop the bus, you say. Lemme explain. Her full name is Wicked Witch, and her surname is Bitch. Don't you dare laugh. Wick had enough of that growing up. She wasn't christened with that name. As a baby, up to her tenth birthday, Wick was known as Willow Carter. Then, her dad died after being stabbed by his latest lover and left in the street to bleed out like a slaughtered pig. It broke her mother. Why she had changed her daughter's name, nobody knew for sure, except perhaps that it was a decision she had made in a drunken and drug-induced stupor. It was the worst birthday present any young girl could ask for… on the same day your mother told you it was your fault your father's eyes strayed. If you weren't born, she would still have had the perfect body, and he wouldn't have lusted after other sluts. It was also the last birthday Wick ever celebrated.

Okay, enough distractions. Back to the story.

With narrowed eyes, Wick studied the man who had just walked through the swivel door of the majestic JCP Corporation building in Manhattan into the darkness of the night. What businessman worked until eleven at night? Yeah, you got it—a corrupt one. With long strides, he headed to the black Bugatti Chiron super sports car she'd been admiring earlier. He moved with confidence, which was to be expected since he was tall and athletic. This was viscerally a man who knew what he was doing, except in her mind's eye, his attitude seemed overdone. The saying, ‘a wolf in sheep's clothing' came to mind. She shook her head.

"Look at him," she muttered sotto voce. "Stupid asshole believes he's a regal jaguar. Instead, he's nothing more than a puppy forging it."

Jax Crowthorne could put any celebrity to shame with his princely frame, rippling gym-trained body, sculpted features, and clean-shaved jaw. Overall—and maybe that was why she scoffed at his attitude—he did things to a woman's ovaries… especially hers, who hadn't tasted dick for some time.

"Yeah, that's one hunk of man-steel I wouldn't mind drilling between my legs," she murmured, licking her lips as a vision of slapping flesh and milky discharge momentarily hazed over her thoughts.

Not that it would ever happen since he was a city rat, and Wick had a natural deflection to the type of male he represented. An established and coveted property developer, he was equally a well-known ladies' man in New York City and Maryland. The kind who didn't commit to one woman but swung his dick from one to the other, spreading the disease that was him and his chauvinistic prickness all over the States. Why women put up with his rude and obnoxious behavior was beyond Wick.

"But hell, what do I know? I'm nothing but a spinster who doesn't even have a boyfriend or had a cock inside her for over two years." Annoyed and feeling sorry for herself, she took a big bite of the cinnamon and sugar-coated donut in her hand. "Who needs dick stuffed down your throat if you can gorge on a delicacy such as this, right?" she mumbled around the buttery sugar pastry in her mouth.

"As if anyone is queueing up outside my door anyway," she scoffed at her reflection in the mirror. She'd been called pretty by many. That she was tall, curvy, with pitch-black hair styled in a sleek, short Chinese bob, silky marble-like complexion, and Elizabeth Taylor violet-blue eyes turned many heads—something Wick wouldn't be able to confirm since she never paid attention. "Yep, that right there," she pointed to the mirror. "That's what I generally look like." She continued in a mutter, "Crumpled, tousled hair, and tired. Gawd, I'm so tired." Except, mostly, her messy hair was a sign of her stubborn nature. When she was on a job, there wasn't time to preen and primp.

Wick started her career as a street cop with the NYPD. With her desire for growth and a natural instinct to think outside the box, she was promoted to the Special Investigation unit within two years. Wick served her time in the country as one of the top-level criminal investigators for ten years, five of which she led the unit. Then Stefan Jurgen happened…

"Some lessons are harder to learn than others," she said softly as she stuffed the last piece of donut into her mouth. "Needless to say, I won't be making the same mistake again. Yep, no falling in love for this chick ever again. Riding dick, on the other hand…"

Her stint with Stefan had changed her life and ended her career at the NYPD—by choice. One thing she had learned from her mother was to stand by your beliefs. Not because it was what Sandra Carter had done, but because she had done the opposite and became a drunk and a drug addict. Wicked wasn't going to follow in her footsteps. Decision made, she moved to Tampa, Florida, and knowing she had the skills, she started her own private investigation firm, W. Carter Investigations, Inc. At least her original name sounded more professional than the one her mother had saddled her with.

"Perhaps it's time for me to change my name back," she muttered. "At least I won't have to watch people laugh when they hear Wicked Witch Bitch."

Her life took a three-sixty turn five years ago. Now, she was riding the wave of success after working long, hard hours the first year she had started. With forty permanent staff members, of which more than half were investigators, the business was booming. They were busy… because they were good.

"Mom should've called me No Shit Bitch," she mumbled while chewing and swallowing the donut before finishing the final mouthful of coffee. "Oh, c'mon, Crowthorne, get a move on," she complained as she shifted in the seat. "I've got leg cramps from waiting for you this long."

When she accepted the job, she had no idea it would bring her back to her old hometown. Not that she had spent any time looking around or visiting old hangouts since her arrival. There hadn't been time. Her client had a time limit on this job, and Wick never failed to deliver.

"This alphahole is too much of a busybody to let me have any fun," she complained as she started the car when the black Bugatti finally pulled away from the curb. "Running around all over town from sunrise to sunset, and now… ah shit, he's heading to the airport." She slammed her palm against the steering wheel.

"I'm not losing this motherfucker. Tonight, I'm gonna hit the jackpot. One way or the other, I'm going to get the proof my client needs that he's a corrupt businessman." She pointed to the roof of the rental. "Not even a stint up there is going to save you, asshole. I'll be on the same plane as you, even if I have to stowaway."

Wick cringed at her own words. She always walked the straight and narrow path. Inherently, she believed in the law and strived to conduct her business within those parameters.

"You better not be fucking stringing me along, Jax Crowthorne." Wick might be a stickler for doing what was right, but at the same time, she didn't shy away from challenges or letting her hair loose and doing something wild and dangerous. If it meant she'd crack a case, all the more reason to step outside the red line now and then. "This isn't my first rodeo, just so you know, buster. I've done loads of stakeouts. I'm gonna be up your ass the whole time, and you won't even feel it."

It wasn't a vain boast. It was the truth. Wick had learned during her mother's stints of drowning her sorrows in booze and snorting coke to melt into the walls, so to speak, to avoid the violent spells that were sparked by the narcotics in her system.

"Ah, shit, I was right. He is going to the airport." She eased her foot off the gas pedal and allowed the distance between the rental sedan and the super sports car to stretch. "Not the main terminal, though. Freaking asshat! You have to make things difficult, don't you?" she muttered as he passed through a security gate with no more than a wave at the guard who opened the boom for him. "No way I'm getting through there."

Parking the car in the lot, she realized it was packed with luxury sedans, SUVs, and limousines. With her eyes peeled on the black Bugatti, she followed its route until it stopped next to a sleek, pitch-black Airbus. He ascended the stairs and stood staring out toward the sky for long moments before disappearing from view.

"Wow," she said and stared in awe. "What a gorgeous plane." A thin golden thread weaved across the side of the plane to end on the rudder wing with what appeared to be a gold tiger's eye. It looked sleek and helluva expensive but dark and dangerous at the same time. Signed in decorative cursive, the letters CDS GoldenEye were prominent on the side of the cockpit.

"What the flying fuck do we have here?" Getting out of the car and hunching over, she ran closer to the ten-foot electric fence to peek around, looking for a way to get past the guard. "I have to get inside that plane."

As luck would have it, she noticed a group of servers dressed in white and black getting out of a van and walking toward the gate. Waiting until they were close, she quickly circled until she was behind them and quietly slipped into the queue. She might not be as crisp as they were, but at least her black pants and white T-shirt allowed her to blend in.

"You're late. You know how Master M feels about tardiness." The guard's voice was reproachful. "Don't bother with excuses." He cut short the chorus that erupted from the group. "Just get on board before he fires the lot of you."

"Now that was a stroke of genius," Wick said sotto voce as she broke into a run behind the group toward the plane, one that became more impressive the closer they got. Luckily, the others were in too much of a hurry to pay attention to a stowaway trailing them up the stairs and into quite a large galley of the plane.