Page 6

In the elevator up to the floor where the investor meeting would be held, Quinn stole a surreptitious glance at Dan Woolman. Another at Elena Simmons. They were standing a foot or so apart and resolutely not looking at each other, expressions neutral and postures giving away nothing. Her ex-husband was on the opposite side of the large elevator, speaking with Art Keller.

As the elevator halted at the top and the doors opened—ah, there it was: the stolen glance and secretive grins between Dan and Elena.

Only for a second, though. As they were stepping out of the elevator, they put on their professional faces.

“Welcome to the boardroom,” Kevin told them. “If you could all have a seat at the table…” He gestured at the long table in the middle of the enormous round room.

Dan and Elena sat apart, and they each fell into relaxed conversations with the people next to them. They stole a glance again. Quick smiles. Quinn thought Dan even winked, and Elena masked a soft giggle behind her hand before shifting her attention back to something Lynette Baldwin was saying.

Quinn very nearly laughed and rolled his eyes. They were being subtle right now, but he doubted that would last. Especially since they’d been anything but subtle coming out of Elena’s room this morning before breakfast.

Quinn had been stepping out of his own suite when they’d emerged, and he hadn’t been at all surprised. Not after the way they’d been flirting in the restaurant the previous evening.

Well, he’d thought. That didn’t take long.

At least they’d been quiet all night. That, or he’d just been too jetlagged to be kept awake by someone else’s bedroom acrobatics.

So far, they were being fairly discreet, but he wondered how long that would last. If they decided to be as demonstrative in front of the other investors as they’d been on the way down the hall this morning, then this week could get interesting in a hurry. Though Charlie Simmons was incredibly vocal about how relieved he was to be divorced from “that gold-digging harpy,” Quinn had a feeling he wouldn’t be pleased if he knew someone else was boinking her. The man had been acquaintances with Quinn’s late father, who’d observed several times that Charlie would fly into a rage whenever a former girlfriend took up with someone else.

“He’s a child who loses interest in his new toys before Christmas is even over,” he’d mused a few years ago. “But God help anyone who wants to play with those discarded toys.”

As Elena and Dan had giggled on their way down the hall, his left hand planted on her ass with his wedding band catching the light—yeah, there’d be fireworks this week.

They must’ve known that, too, since they were keeping their distance now.

Whatever. They were into each other, so it was none of Quinn’s business what Dan’s wife or Elena’s ex thought about anything. He’d just sit back and watch the inevitable explosions.

His musings about Dan and Elena were derailed when the boardroom doors opened, and when the man stepped in, Quinn instantly recognized Rich Price. He didn’t walk into a room—he strolled in, oozing charisma like a bad overpriced cologne.

He was a tall white man in a tailored suit with a charming smile and bright blue eyes. As he introduced himself and shook hands with everyone, he carried himself with all the confidence of a man with the hubris to ask billionaires to fund his vision. The man was the generic used car salesman type, but with a bigger ego and more bravado. When he shook hands with people and greeted them, he made them feel like the only person in the universe, which made most people—especially the rich and entitled—fall all over themselves to receive his lavish praise and attention.

In fact, he reminded Quinn of a charismatic financier who’d persuaded him to play at his casino, insisting it would be “ the place for high rollers” and “where A-listers come to roll the dice.” That asshole had just conveniently left out the part where those high rollers and A-listers would lose piles of money, winning only a little here and there to keep them playing. After all, he’d apparently read somewhere that losing provided more of a dopamine hit than winning, and the more people lost, the more they’d play in search of both a win and that sweet, sweet dopamine.

Last Quinn had heard, that casino was one of the deserted shithole places the locals and A-listers alike avoided, and it was only kept afloat by the desperately addicted.

Quinn had heard too many sales pitches from too many Rich Prices to believe his performance was anything more than an act meant to charm people out of their money. That wasn’t to say Quinn wouldn’t listen to the pitch or maybe invest in the startup, but that would depend on the substance of Price’s little song and dance. Especially if he was going to break his losing streak.

It was with that in mind that Quinn kept his guard fully up as he shook hands with the man.

“I’m glad you were able to make it, Mr. Hayworth,” Rich said, keeping that smile firmly in place. “How are you liking the amenities so far?”

“The resort is amazing.” Quinn returned the smile. “If you sell this kind of air conditioning in Arizona, you’ll never want for money again.”

Rich laughed and clapped Quinn’s shoulder before releasing his hand. “I’m not in the air-conditioning business, but I can certainly pass the word along to those who are.”

“What about the lack of internet?” Kyle Aimes held up his cell phone. “No cell. No Wi-Fi. What gives?”

Rich grimaced. “I apologize for that. It was unexpected, and we’re certainly working on it. Hopefully by the time we adjourn, we’ll be connected again.”

That resulted in some unhappy muttering, but no one objected.

“We’ll continue working on the connectivity issue, and if you need or want anything else—anything at all—please let my staff know. Absolutely nothing is off the menu at Faraway Resort.”

That smile sent a prickle of unease down Quinn’s spine. He was all too familiar with what the wealthy elite would ask for when the sky was the limit. Especially when they were outside the jurisdiction of most law enforcement.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said evenly. “Thank you.”

Rich nodded, then moved on to greet Alan Robinson, the coal tycoon.

Quinn was almost overcome with the need to wipe off his hand. Rich’s hadn’t been wet or slimy, but something about the man left Quinn discreetly searching for a tissue or a bottle of hand sanitizer.

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d encountered a salesman with weird vibes, but the brief encounter with Rich left him feeling… off. He couldn’t quite explain why.

While small talk and introductions were made, Quinn went to one of the many windows around the circular boardroom. There was a 360-degree view from up here, and from this side, all he could see was the narrow lip of rock between the building and the sheer cliffs below. Beyond that, it was just sparkling water as far as the eye could see. Not a speck of land or even a blurry red or black dot to indicate a distant cargo ship.

He shivered, telling himself it was just the high-octane air-conditioning, not the creepy, claustrophobic feeling of being on a tiny island with nowhere to go. Because as he walked around the perimeter of the boardroom and got a better view of the rest of the island—it was tiny. Narrow, anyway; not more than a mile across, if that. The skinny strip of land extended into the distance, but there was no telling how far it went. He’d been to tiny islands before that were little more than potato chip crumbs on maps, and even one that was only ten or twenty miles long could vanish over the horizon.

For all he knew, this was a peninsula jutting out from a much larger chunk of unseen land, but somehow—perhaps irrationally—he was sure that he was seeing the bulk of the island from this window.

Was claustrophobic even the right word? Because he wasn’t inside a tight box or a cramped space. He was surrounded by miles and miles of open ocean.

But he was on this tiny island, confined by its suffocating coastline and unable to make contact with the outside world.

That feeling only intensified when his gaze landed on the airstrip to the north of the hotel. There was a single helicopter, but not one airplane. There was no hangar, either.

Hadn’t, like, half the people in this room come in on private jets? Where were all the aircraft?

Quinn’s stomach clenched and his neck prickled. Was he just getting paranoid? Feeling untethered because his electronics didn’t work and he couldn’t connect to anyone off-island? What the hell was—

“If everyone could please take their seats,” Rich said over the murmur of conversation. “We can kick off this meeting.”

Quinn swallowed his nerves and followed the others to the long table. As he eased into a plush leather swivel chair, he vowed that Rich was going to have to work hard to persuade him to invest in this cause. Quinn’s every instinct suddenly screamed to not only decline to invest, but to get the fuck off this island sooner than later.

Good thing he was a pro at deflecting sales tactics. He’d sit through the meeting—or meetings, because God knew there was never just one—and smile and nod and shake hands and all that shit. And then he’d leave without giving Rich Price or his company a single red penny.

Rich stood at the head of the table. Two of his employees, Tyson and Kevin, began distributing leather portfolios to each attendee.

When Tyson laid the portfolio in front of Quinn, Quinn mused to himself that at least he was getting some nice swag out of this. It even had his name embossed in gold lettering.

You’ll have to work harder than that to get my money, Price.

He opened the cover and found some of the typical corporate trash—brochures about both the company and the resort, ads for nearby companies providing excursions for everything from scuba diving to skydiving. There was also a copy of the NDA Quinn had signed before coming here, as if he hadn’t kept a copy of it for himself.

Whatever.

He closed the portfolio and laid it down, nudging it up next to a tablet that was propped up in front of him. Each person had such a tablet, and there was a large flatscreen covering two of the boardroom’s windows. Great—there’d be some kind of electronic presentation, too. Hopefully a video or a film; those were at least moderately more interesting than brain-melting slide decks.

Quinn sat back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, and waited for the sales pitch to begin.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Welcome, everyone, to Faraway Resort.” Rich smiled that unsettlingly charming smile. “First, I’d like to apologize to all of you, and not just for the electronic difficulties.”

Quinn fought the urge to fidget. He glanced at some of the other investors, and they too seemed mildly uncomfortable. Maybe not as on-edge as he was, but guarded.

“The truth, my friends, is that we’re not actually looking for investors into our company.” Rich affected an air of playful contrition. “But in order to get the right people for this particular project, we had to be… slightly dishonest.”

Chairs squeaked. People looked at each other with expressions that asked “did you know about this?” Quinn gnawed his lip and tried not to think about that giant expanse of ocean outside.

“The real reason I asked you here is not as investors,” Rich said, “but as philanthropic competitors on a new and unique reality show.”

Quinn’s jaw went slack in the same instant his stomach dropped. A reality show? Seriously?

“I’m not here to be on a ridiculous TV show!” Alan Robinson declared. “How dare you?”

Rich spread his hands. “I figured you would all require some persuasion, so—”

“Persuasion, hell!” Art Keller barked. “I never signed up for this! You can’t just force us to—”

“On the contrary.” Rich gestured at the tablets in front of them. “You all willingly and eagerly signed up.”

“Bullshit!” Dan Woolman smacked his palm onto the table. “I did no such thing!”

“Didn’t you?” Rich’s smarmy smile made Quinn’s stomach turn. “Are you sure about that?”

Dan opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped when all the tablet screens came to life.

Quinn leaned in, brow furrowed. On his screen, a PDF of a document appeared. He immediately recognized it as, yes, an agreement to appear in a reality show. He’d been on such a show before, and the verbiage was very, very similar, just with different names and specifics.

And at the bottom was his signature. And his attorney’s.

The fuck? He’d sworn after his first reality show that he’d never do one again. There was no way he’d agreed to this one.

“This is fake!” Charlie Simmons growled. “This is a forgery!”

“Is it, though?” Rich grinned. “Because…” He clicked a remote in his hand, and the screen on the wall came to life. Two clicks later, there was a video of Charlie in a conference room with Rich and several other people in suits.

“This sounds like a fantastic idea,” Charlie was saying as he uncapped a fountain pen. “And all the money goes to charity? Do we get to pick the charities?”

“There are some organizations that RightPriceTek is going to support with the show,” Rich told him, “but if you turn the page, you’ll find a place to list charities you’d like to add.”

Charlie turned the page, peered at it, and nodded. “Excellent. This is excellent.”

Here in the boardroom, Rich turned to Charlie. “I think you’ll find a jury will be inclined to side with a defendant who has a signed contract and a video over a plaintiff who insists he didn’t agree to be involved.”

A chill went through Quinn’s bones. Holy shit…

Charlie stared at Rich, utterly stunned.

Rich clicked the remote again, and the PDFs on the tablets vanished, replaced by videos. Quinn’s lips parted as he watched himself walking into a place he’d never been in his life. With his lawyer on his heels, he entered a conference room he’d never seen and started shaking hands with people he’d never met. Had he been drunk?

On the screen, he and his lawyer chatted and schmoozed, and then the camera cut to him signing something.

“It’s to benefit charity,” Quinn told the camera, smiling wide. “What’s not to love?”

In the present, Quinn gulped. He’d said those words before, but not about this reality show. When agreeing to a charity poker tournament, sure. Attending lavish galas and sponsoring sporting events, absolutely.

But not this.

What the fuck was happening?

At the other end of the table, Kit Mason shook her head and flailed a hand at her tablet. “This isn’t me! I’ve never seen these people! This is fake!”

“Perhaps it is.” Rich’s smile remained smarmy, though it somehow also brought down the temperature in the already cold room. “But I have signed contracts from all of you, and I have videos of each and every one of you signing them. Should you decide to renege and back out, then I can’t imagine what that will do to your reputations. Especially since each of your chosen charities has already been notified they will be receiving five million dollars just for your participation.” He half-shrugged. “But if you back out of your contracts before filming is complete, they’ll receive nothing.”

Well, fuck. If Quinn had one soft spot, it was for kids’ charities, and there was no way in hell he was going to let these people tell one of those organizations he’d bailed and left them high and dry. He was still uneasy about this whole thing—still pissed that he’d been duped—but at the same time… kids. Even if he took it to court and challenged the validity of the contract, his public image would struggle to recover from “Billionaire Quinn Hayworth Takes Producers to Court to get out of Reality Show Benefitting Kids’ Charities.”

He had to admit—Rich Price knew how to get someone by the balls.

He scanned the table, and though he wasn’t surprised by how obviously conflicted some of the others were, he was disgusted by it. Okay, so they’d been conned into participating in a reality show. But it was for charity. And it was just a reality show. He’d done one before for shits and giggles; it hadn’t been as fun as he’d hoped—lots of grueling hours and heavily scripted “spontaneous” moments—but it hadn’t been terrible. How bad could this be? Play some stupid games. Maybe endure some public humiliation. Hell, it might even be fun as long as this wasn’t one of those shows where they had to eat gross things.

If they’d had to trick everyone into signing up, though, that could be a red flag. On the other hand, it might be part of the show’s shtick: “we tricked a dozen billionaires into playing our game!” Knowing the producers of the last show he’d been on, not to mention another that had tried to rope him in, that wouldn’t be out of character.

Sighing, he sat back in his chair. Fine. Fine . He’d play their silly games and hopefully make some money for the organization he’d allegedly picked. And even if he lost, they’d get five million, plus he’d definitely be sending them more once he was back in Arizona.

Geri Cole was one of the few who didn’t appear conflicted. Unsettled and displeased, sure, and clearly annoyed, but much like Kyle Aimes and Eric Valentine, she didn’t seem to be fighting it. That tracked; like Quinn, she probably didn’t appreciate being duped, but she wasn’t going to yank money out of a charity’s hands. Along with Kyle and Eric, she seemed to be willing to play along, same as Quinn.

The other unwitting players? Not so much.

Across the table, Charlie Simmons glared at his phone, then slammed it facedown beside the tablet. Quinn didn’t have to ask; cell service and Wi-Fi had evidently not been restored. Charlie had probably attempted to reach out to his attorneys, but without any signal or Wi-Fi, that wasn’t happening.

“This is bullshit,” Charlie growled. “I’ll make sure every media outlet knows you conned us all into this. And I own two of the country’s largest newspapers!”

Rich smiled again. “By all means, Mr. Simmons. Let the country know that twelve of the richest people in the world had to be tricked into helping the less fortunate, and even then they didn’t want to follow through.”

Charlie stared at him, mouth open but no sounds coming out.

Rich just chuckled. “Also, I must give credit where it’s due.” He gestured toward Paul O’Connor, who was sitting to Quinn’s right. “Without the generative AI technology developed by Mr. O’Connor’s company, OysterAI, we wouldn’t have been able to create videos nearly as convincing as these.”

Instantly, several people were shouting over each other, declaring that Rich had admitted the videos were fake, and therefore everything was null and void. They pounded the table and declared Rich a fraud, but the man just smiled and calmly shot down their accusations.

While the chaos continued, Quinn turned to Paul. The man had gone completely white, and he genuinely seemed like he might throw up on the table.

Quinn nudged him. “Hey. You okay?”

Paul turned wide eyes on him. Quinn had heard people say someone looked like they’d seen a ghost, and he suddenly understood on a bone-deep level what that meant. “They used…” He flailed a hand at the screen. “This isn’t what my tech is supposed to be used for!”

Quinn pressed his lips together, biting back a pointed, “What the fuck did you think people would use it for?”

Hell, he already knew of at least one marriage that had imploded because of a damning video that the wife still swore up and down was fake. A rising star politician in Quinn’s social circles had had his campaign derailed after lewd AI-generated images were spread around; even though they’d been soundly debunked, the stink of the scandal still stuck to him, and it was unlikely his career would ever recover. Just a few months ago, a friend of a friend’s entire life had imploded after footage emerged of him with some very, very underage sexual partners. An investigator’s revelation that she could prove the videos were AI-generated fakes had come three days after the man’s suicide.

As much as Quinn didn’t appreciate getting tricked into this competition, he couldn’t help thinking Paul was getting some well-deserved karma. Maybe being roped into a reality show would make him think twice about the tech his company produced.

Sucks when the face-eating leopards you created eat your face, doesn’t it, pal?

“What about our companies?” Dan Woolman demanded. “We still have businesses to run!”

“Of course you do,” Rich said. “And all your entourages have been informed that you’ll be indisposed for a few weeks. That little excursion this morning? They’re all heading back to St. Martin for an all-inclusive vacation on me, with transportation back home if they need to be present to run anything.” He waved dismissively. “They’ll notify the proper people and pull the proper strings to ensure your companies run just as smoothly as they do when you’re golfing, mountain climbing, or vacationing in some faraway place.”

The other investors—Quinn’s competitors—spoke over each other, outraged by Rich’s audacity.

Geri, though, looked like she’d just read some ominous test results. Horror filled her expression, and it intensified as she shifted in her seat and flicked her gaze toward the elevator. Had she caught on to something he hadn’t? God, was this somehow even worse than all of them being fraudulently roped into a stupid reality show?

Rich apparently didn’t expect them to film or do much of anything today. Maybe he was giving them a day to collect their bearings before he started putting them to work as they’d (allegedly) agreed. Whatever the case, he dismissed the meeting not long after, and while a few people stayed behind to plead their cases and threaten him into letting them out of their contracts, others headed for the elevator.

That was where Quinn caught up with Geri. “Hey. You okay?”

Geri shook her head. “No.” As she stared at the numbers descending above the doors, she said, “My assistant didn’t go on the excursion.”