Dare Not -- A Sexy Whodunit Mystery (The Montgomery Billionaire Bad Boys)

Chapter 1

Ken Kadare made his way through the now familiar towering marble arches into the gigantic chandelier-studded ballroom.  So opulent, yet entirely appropriate, he thought, smiling.  After all, the most beautiful woman in the world would soon walk down the gleaming runway.

The mere thought of her creamy skin, her sleek black locks, and those oh-so-long legs wrapped around him, delivered a shock to his crotch.

Simona Vittore.

As if she needed an introduction.  The entire room gasped the moment she appeared.  Simona, a man whispered, obviously in awe of her breathtaking beauty.  Simona, of course, was used to it.  She never broke her stride, never lost her attitude, and never veered from their eye lock.

Ken nodded his head slightly, signaling his approval.  She licked her lips, ever so defiantly, ever so flirtatiously, as only Simona could.  It was her trademark.  She wasn't the world's most sought after supermodel by accident.  Simona had a unique ability to market fashion with sex.  And they definitely dressed her for the part.  No one could model sheer lace the way Simona could.

Sex, he whimpered under his breath, feeling the sizzle, watching her strut, imagining what he would do to her later.

Damn, he whispered as she turned to reverse her course, revealing it all for him as she glided past.  Not that he had any problem looking at her ass.  That enticing view reminded him that soon enough he'd have his hands all over her sexy behind.

Lost in his arousal, it took Ken a few seconds to gain his bearings.  He'd done her the better part of last night, but still, the excitement of her parading in front of an eager crowd set him on fire.  He felt almost as hot as he did when they were having sex.  Almost.

Shit, he muttered when he looked down at his watch.  Blistering hot sex would have to wait.  Simona had another appearance, and he had to meet his source.  Like now.  Ken slipped out of the ballroom through the lobby, towards the busy circular driveway.  As was normally the case, the place was pure gridlock. 

Taxi? the doorman asked as Ken stared at the unending line of cars.

Thanks, I can walk.  Or run, he sighed as he picked up his pace.  If he wasn't such a horny bastard, he would have figured out earlier that leaving the famed Phaeacian Grande Hotel at nearly four in the afternoon would be a challenge.  Ken ran between the traffic on Arseniou Boulevard, narrowly avoiding a speeding minivan in the process. 

This might be big, but it's not worth dying for, he mumbled as he hurried over to the safety of the sidewalk.  The source had instructed him to travel two blocks south from the hotel to Pieri, then west to the alley.  Five minutes should do it, he said, glancing again at his watch.  You could actually make it on time.

If there was anything Ken hated, it was being late.  But being late to meet a source?  Oh, hell no.  And if his instincts were on target, this could be one hell of an important meet up.  Ken liked to think that his instincts were well-honed.  He'd done his time, after all.  Investigative reporting took hard work and a perfect resume.  After just two years with his hometown Austin Times, Ken was one of the very few who'd worked his way up to full time investigative assignments.  The International Times Journal was the best of the best—even if it had required him to move to London.  Quite a feat for a Texas boy.  Especially since his work required him to travel all over Europe.  Although by all rights, he wasn't exactly alone.  He had Angie.  Well, sort of.

Ken knew his source only by one name.  Taqi.  First or last?  Not that it mattered.  Whatever his name, the source was as eager as he was mysterious.  He'd called from a burner phone saying that his information could not wait.  For the most part, virtually every source said that.  Only this one was more polished than most.  Or so it seemed.  Ken couldn’t really say why.  It was more of a hunch.  An educated hunch.  And Ken had no doubt that this lead might be precisely what he needed to blast his story wide open.  He'd been on the Greek island of Corfu for nearly three weeks, and it was past time to convince his editor that this assignment was worth the time—not to mention the expense.

Ken turned right on Pieri Street and looked for the alley.  The street was unusually quiet, especially since he was two short blocks from the bustling seaside highway of Arseniou.  Ken stopped for two cars, crossed Pieri, and proceeded west.  He'd taken Taqi for his word that the alley would be easy to find.  It better be, he thought to himself.  It wasn't his style to get lost on his way to a vital source.

What the?! 

He jumped as the sounds thundered through him.  Heart pounding, Ken crouched down and turned his head toward the shots.  Pop! Pop! Pop!  He'd spent his entire life in Texas, so Ken sure as hell knew a gunshot from a backfire.  Shit!  He was a sitting duck.  Pop! Pop!  They were close.  Too close.  And they were coming his way.  Head down, knees bent, Ken raced over to his last chance for safety—a parked car. 

He crouched down and pressed himself against the fender.  Behind the tire!  Get the fuck behind the tire!  He held his breath, fearing that even the slightest movement would seal his fate.  He didn't dare peer out to get a look at the gunman.  Hell, he didn’t even know how many of them there were.

A terrifying eternity later, the shots stopped, giving way to footsteps—heavy, racing footsteps.  And voices.  Angry voices.  Killer voices.

Qate alttariq ealayh fi alnnisf!!

What the hell?  Arabic?  Ken stifled his breath.  If you breathe, you die.

Silence him!  Silence him!

The footsteps took off on foot to the west.  He could hear them running away.  Well of course they were running.  They just killed someone!  Ken stayed where he was, still barely breathing, still terrified that they would come back for him. 

But there was only silence.  Strange, eerie silence.  Not even a car passed.

A short while later, maybe a few minutes he supposed, Ken slowly rose up from his hiding spot and surveyed his surroundings.  Not a soul in sight.  Hardly a surprise.  Anyone with half a brain was long gone.  He studied the neighborhood.  Brownstones.  Residential.  Working class.  With any luck, they were still at work—or hiding inside.

Satisfied that he was out of danger—at least for now—Ken ran from his safe spot towards the alley.  He had no idea what had just gone down, but he knew there was a hellacious aftermath.  Ken looked in both directions, then ducked behind a line of trash cans.  Somewhere there was a victim.  Still crouching, he peered out, searching.

Here, was the gasp.  Here.

Shit!  He's alive!  Forgetting his safety, Ken raced towards the voice, towards the pool of blood.

As soon as he looked down at the man, a chilling sense of instinct washed over him.

Taqi?

Take this, Ken, he gasped, grabbing his chest.  Take it... and... run.

No, I have to get you to safety.  To a hospital.  No chance, he thought to himself as soon as he'd said it.  Taqi's moments on earth were running out.

The note.  Take it.

The note? Ken whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Here.  Taqi gestured to his jacket pocket.  The note.

Ken reached inside Taqi's jacket pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper.

Take it, he gasped.  Run!"

Hands shaking, Ken took the note and slipped it into his pocket.  Taqi.

Taqi lay silently and very still.

Taqi.  Don’t die on me.  Taqi! he pled, holding him.  Except that he was dead.  Ken kneeled over him, silent, frozen in fear.  Run!  Run! Taqi's last word echoed in his head.

Ken lifted his head and stared back and forth as if there was something to see.  But it wasn't what he could see.  It was what he could hear.  Footsteps!  Pounding.  Running.  Shit, they're coming back!

Ken jumped to his feet and ran for his life.

Chapter 2

Two days earlier.

––––––––

This is what 75 million dollars can do, Jon Montgomery smiled, obviously proud of his renovation project.  Dressed in his impeccable custom-cut trousers and a monogrammed golf shirt, he stood in the middle of the massive high-tech corporate office suite and clicked on the gallery images one by one.

Nice, Dylan Montgomery said, leaning back in the sleek leather chair.  The Phaeacian gods are no doubt singing your praises.

Ah, yes, the ancient settlers, Jon said, still admiring the striking results of his nearly eight months of round the clock work.  The Greek Island of the gods.  Corfu.  And we never wavered from that heritage.  Take a look at the gold leaf and the marble.  Not to mention the hundreds of crystal chandeliers, the rich carpets, the polished woods.  That's what hundreds of skilled craftsmen will do for you.  She's never been more beautiful.

You're still talking about your Phaeacian Grande, right, big brother? Dylan teased.  Not your latest woman?

Of course I'm talking about the hotel, Jon said as he turned from the giant screens.  My job is nearly done.  Now it's your turn.  I dare you to match this perfection on the golf course.

Dylan was always up for a challenge when it came to his brother.  They'd been fierce competitors since their toddler days.  And as much as he loved to protest, Dylan admired his older brother more than anyone else on the planet.  Nice way to change the subject, he joked.  No comment on your love life?

I've been absorbed with the hotel, Jon said as he switched off the monitors and dropped down onto the giant white leather desk chair.

You know you can combine both, right?

You certainly do combine both, Jon laughed.  Which is obviously the reason why my hotel renovations will kick ass over your golf course.

Never gonna happen, Dylan said, reaching across the desk to smack his brother on the arm.  I'll have those par-four holes at 500 yards and the par-fives at 600, just for starters.  Champions from every country in Europe will be begging for the chance to play at the Phaeacian.

And the obstacles?  Jon asked, clearly enjoying the banter.

Trade secret, Dylan winked.  But I guarantee you'll hate them.

OK, so you're a better golfer than I am.  But I bet you can’t touch me on efficiency.

Consider that a bet, sucker.  Dylan rose from his chair and poured two glasses of ice water.  So how about giving me my grand tour?

What haven’t you seen in the past four hours, Dylan?

The babes, he answered.  You have every hot model in Europe here for your grand opening.  Certainly you can share one or two with your favorite brother.

I thought you were over models?

Let's just say I prefer my women with more curves than the traditional runway model.  You have any of those, Jon?

See for yourself, Dylan.  Jon took a long sip of water.  How about you follow me to where the action is?

Moments later they walked out of their private elevator and into the bustling lobby.  Dylan had seen his share of fancy hotels, but he had to admit, what Jon had accomplished at the Phaeacian was nothing short of spectacular.  So spectacular, as a matter of fact, that he momentarily forgot all about his pursuit of beautiful women and focused instead on the perfection of their historic hotel.

In a sense, the hotel division of Montgomery Enterprises was a gift from their father.  Dylan laughed to himself every time he thought of it that way.  Technically, it wasn't a gift.  It was more like a dare.  In exchange for hundreds of millions of dollars, the two brothers could put their 'God given talents' to good use.  And in Montgomery lingo, 'good use' meant 'profits'.  Lots and lots of profits.

Oh my god!  You're him!  The pro golfer!  Dylan Montgomery!

Before Dylan could respond, the American teenager had the attention of her six or so equally enthusiastic companions.  Can we have an autograph?  Please!

Absolutely, ladies.  Where are you from?  He listened intently to each of them as he signed their autographs.  Not that he wasn't used to the attention, but Dylan had half-expected that in Europe he could more or less pass as a non-celebrity.  You lovely ladies have a wonderful time in Greece, he said.

Smooth, his brother teased.  You see, there are benefits to being the silent Montgomery.

Like that's possible, Dylan sighed.

You asked for it, Jon said.  'You should have skipped the PGA tour and gone directly into real estate development."

Golf is my passion, Jon.

No, actually, beautiful women are your passion.  And speaking of which, here come the models.

Shit, Dylan muttered under his breath as his eyes feasted on Europe's finest.

Hot enough for you?  Jon whispered, as the half dozen beauties made their way from the grand room to the elevators.

Do they always travel in packs?  Dylan asked, eyeing them as discretely as he could.

Only after a show, he said.  Or a rehearsal to be exact.  The big fashion show kicks off tomorrow.  Nice promotion for the grand opening, don’t you think?

Very nice, Dylan whispered, admiring one incredible dark-haired babe.

Careful, she's taken, Jon whispered.

Lucky sap, he replied, though on second glance she was lacking on tits.  Still, though he could have one hell of a good time with her.  But before he could finish his thoughts, she raced into the arms of a tall, handsome, well-built man.

Hey babe, the man whispered just loudly enough for Dylan to hear his accent. 

American?  Dylan whispered.  How did he pull that off?

Hell if I know, Dylan.  But every time I see them together, she's all over him.

Well, Dylan whispered as he watched them disappear, hands all over each other, into the elevator.  Good for him.

He's a Texan, Jon said, smiling.  A reporter from Austin.

What the hell is he doing in Corfu?

I can't say for sure.  Something about investigative reporting.  He's been here for almost a month.  Must be one hell of a story.

And one hell of an expense account, Dylan said, his eyes still roaming the crowd.  You're telling me this place caters to long-term guests?

Only the very wealthy ones.  Some practically live here.  Others keep a suite for whenever they need it.  And why not?  Our suites offer the best of both worlds.

The term 'suite' hardly does them justice, Dylan laughed.

Our guests have means, Jon replied.  Certainly you can appreciate that, brother.

Or bottomless expense accounts, Dylan said, still thinking of the reporter from Texas and his hot model.

We cater to wealthy business people and the usual suspect politicians.

Is there any other type?

We provide them with the privacy and discretion that they're willing to pay top-dollar for, Jon continued.  Like those two over there, he said tipping his head towards a small table in the adjacent courtyard.  The larger of the two, he said, eyeing a fifty-something year old, imposing man with dark hair and broad shoulders, is an Albanian Colonel turned shipping magnate.

Seriously?  Sounds like something out of an old novel.

It gets better, Jon smiled.  His companion is a Greek politician.  A member of the Parliament, to be exact.

Shouldn’t he be in Athens?  Dylan joked.

He represents Corfu.  Who am I to question why he spends so much time here with the Colonel?

This is why I took up golf, Dylan said to himself.  There isn't nearly this much drama out on the links.

Gentlemen, Jon nodded to the two men as they approached the table.  I trust the hotel is exceeding your expectations.

The Colonel smiled and nodded.  The politician, on the other hand, seemed almost fidgety.  Just like at home, Dylan thought, amused momentarily before he saw her.

Shit, brother.  Who is that?

I believe she's new, Jon answered.  She's definitely not one of the models.

Not with that glorious body, Dylan answered, barely able to get the words out.  He'd had his way with some of the most beautiful women in the world.  But this one.  Fuck.  She left the rest of them in the dust.

Down boy, Jon whispered.  She's one of our guests.

She can be my guest for a lifetime, Dylan whispered, eyeing her up and down as discretely as he could.  When she turned in his direction, her long golden curls fell seductively over the most incredibly sexy dark eyes he'd seen in all his days.  For an instant, their eyes locked.  And when they did, she immediately dropped her notepad.  Dylan chose to believe that the sizzling electricity between them was the obvious culprit.

Please, let me help, Dylan said as he rushed towards her and retrieved her notepad.

Thank you so much, she whispered.  I'm such a klutz.

You're an American, he said, handing her the notepad, doing his best to keep his eyes from wandering to her very well-endowed cleavage.

I am, she said, blushing.  And so are you.

I'm from Florida, Dylan answered.  Palm Beach to be exact.

Austin, Texas, she said as she stared up at him, batting her thick dark lashes.

Most of my family is from Dallas, he smiled.  At least originally.

Wait a minute, she said.  I know you.  She stared at Dylan, then at Jon as he walked up.  You're brothers, right?

Guilty as charged, Jon said.

So you have to be Montgomerys.  Because you're the PGA Champion.  Dylan Montgomery.

Twice in one day.  And in Greece.  Who knew I had such a following over here? You follow golf? he answered, trying not to sound like a bumbling idiot.

I played golf in college, she said.  It's an honor to meet you, she said extending her hand.

Beautiful and a golfer. Dylan had just met his perfect woman.  Please dear God, keep her here long enough to fall in love with me.  So you're staying at the hotel? he asked, attempting desperately to maintain his composure.

Actually, yes.  I'm here to meet an old friend.

Perfect, Dylan said.  And we're here to provide you with whatever you need.

He forgot to mention that we own the hotel, Jon interrupted, sensing quite obviously that his younger brother was entirely smitten.

Oh, wow, she said.  And I thought the Montgomerys only drilled oil.

Dylan searched for something intelligent to say, except that this amazingly gorgeous woman had turned his mind into mush.  A lingering few seconds later, a familiar face appeared from behind him.

Angie.  My perfect Angie!

What the fuck?  It was that damn reporter again.  What's with this guy and gorgeous women?  The model isn't enough for him? 

Ken, she cooed, wrapping her arms around him.  I've missed you so much.

Enjoy your stay, Jon said, nudging Dylan from behind.  We'll be on our way.

Dylan's first impulse was to dig his heels in.  How the hell was he supposed to walk away from the woman of his dreams?

We'll leave our guests to their personal affairs, Jon insisted under his breath.

There was no sense in fighting it a moment longer.  Dylan watched, broken hearted, as his beautiful Angie left arm in arm with the stud reporter, what the hell was his name?  Ken.  How does he pull it off?  I mean where the hell is his model babe?

Asks golf's premier ladies' man, Jon teased.

I'm used to getting what I want, Dylan hissed.

Apparently not this time.  Reporter dude beat you to it.  Relax, little brother.  The hotel is filled with delectable women.  Since when you do you get hooked on just one?

Since now.

Chapter 3

––––––––

Angie emerged from her dressing room in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.  Somehow, Ken thought to himself, she made even that look good.

Sorry about that, Ken.  After a long day on the road, I had to slip into something comfortable.

Just like at home, he smiled.  I see you still don’t wear shoes.

Not unless I have to, she smiled back.  And my favorite Texas boots are a bit over the top for Athens.

So how is the Athens Bureau, Angie?

I love it.  Even though London was my first choice.

Only because we wanted to be together.  I was disappointed too, Angie.  But I bet Athens is a better fit for you than London.

In the end, probably.  But it would have been fun to be back together again.  This is the first time we've been apart since second grade.

Best friends forever, Ken said, squeezing her hand.  None of the other little boys could understand that.  At least not until the seventh grade, when they could appreciate that you were the prettiest girl in school.  And by that time it was too late for me, he laughed.  I was your designated big brother by then.

So what am I supposed to do without you now, Ken?  Without you to protect me?

You don’t need me to protect you, Angie.  It's more like the other way around, he admitted.

Ken, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

This time?  I love you, Angie Peyton.  And so will Simona, he said, avoiding her question.

Simona?  You have a new woman in your life?  Is it serious?  Angie laughed.  Am I really asking you that?  You're the ultimate bachelor.

Let's just say she's pretty amazing.  You've probably heard of her.  Simona Vittore.

The supermodel!  She's Italian!  Of course I know who she is.  Does she know how lucky she is?  So is she in love with you?

So she says.  He could feel the heat rush to his cheeks.  He didn't need a mirror to know they were bright red.

And do you love her back?  Wait, Angie laughed, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.

I don't know, Angie, maybe it's too good to be true.  Although we have been on fire for the past few weeks.  Guess you could call it love at first sight—or one hell of a case of infatuation, he chuckled.

Well, that makes sense, Angie said smiling.  I mean just look at the two of you.  You're both gorgeous.  I guess that makes you the world's hottest couple.

You're exaggerating, he blushed.  So we'll see.

He shifted his gaze down to the ground.  He knew Angie would take the subtle hint.  They'd know each other their whole lives, so she knew he wasn't big on talking about his love life.

So you didn’t answer my question, Ken, she teased.  Tell me how you convinced both of our editors that this trip was worth the time and the money.

Because I'm working the story of the decade.

Aren't you always? she laughed.  Ever since the sixth grade paper.

No, this time I really mean it, Angie.  This is world-changing.  Illicit arms.  War zones.  Could even involve the government of the United States and a good portion of our allies.

Wow, Ken that's heavy.  How did you get into it?

Seriously heavy.  I got into it from a source of mine in London.  He has connections to a ton of politicians and well-connected military commanders.  More than one tipped him off to a flow of black market weapons going from several points in Europe to the Middle East.

That's quite a story if it's true.

Trust me, he's proven to be reliable, Angie.  Very reliable.  Problem is—the best he could offer was a direct line to other sources.

And?

And, those sources pretty much dried up.  At least in Europe.  Seems anyone who's willing to talk is dead, missing, or out somewhere on the battlefields.

So how is this a story, Ken?

Because there's one source left.  A man with supposed ties directly to Western intelligence sources.  He's in Corfu.  Has been for the past few weeks.  Up until now, he's been painfully elusive.

And why on earth would he talk to you?

I don't know, Angie.  Because he's pissed off?  Ken sighed.  He's my last chance.  If he falls through, I have nowhere left to go.

So what if he doesn't fall through?  Then what, Ken?

Then I'm not sure.  I just have this gut instinct that I need someone to back me up.  Someone I can trust.  That's you, Angie.

Always, Ken.  Just tell me what you need.  I mean, the source, surely he doesn’t want a witness.

No, of course not.  What I want, Angie, is for you to help me to decipher the information.  To be perfectly honest, I believe the story requires more than one reporter.  If his information pans out, the story could take us all over Europe.  I mean, I can’t even tell you now where the arms are coming from.  But I suspect there's more than once source.  From what I know, this operation is too massive for a single arms merchant.

Assuming the original source was correct, I agree with you, Ken.  She paused for a moment and then said, Now it makes sense.  Now I know why my editor told me the assignment was open-ended.

Can you get away for awhile?  You're not working on anything major right now, right?

Nothing as major as this, she laughed.  So when do we start?

I'm supposed to meet my source on Wednesday at 4 PM.  Alone of course.  And it's important that you stay here.  We need to assume that there could be some type of counter-surveillance.  At least if this guy really is some type of spy asset.

Less than two days, she muttered.  Do you have anything you want me to look at first, Ken?

I have my notes in my room.

Seriously?

Locked in the room safe, he said.  Along with my laptop.  Sorry, I can’t bring myself to turn it over to anyone else no matter how official they look.  Seriously, have you seen their concierge?  He laughed.  He was way too eager to safekeep it for me when I checked in.  Is it wrong that I can't trust anyone?

Considering what we do?  No.  So did he safekeep it for you?

Not the laptop, Ken smiled.  Anyway, he continued, my written notes are pretty much coded and I have double passwords on my laptop.

Will I know those codes and passwords?

Of course you will.  Seriously, Angie, how many afternoons did it take us to make up our spy codes?

So then it's still the sixth grade monsters sequence, she giggled.  Let me get my shoes and we're off to your room.  But only if you promise to introduce me to Simona.

Chapter 4

––––––––

Dylan took a sip of his Johnny Walker Blue.  Ever since the woman of his dreams had disappeared into the arms of that two-timing stud reporter, he'd been down.  Way down.

You weren't kidding when you said you were drowning your sorrows at the bar.

Just enjoying the fruits of your labor, brother.  Dylan looked up from his glass and admired the way the rich blue walls met the soaring golden arches.  Nice touch, he said, pointing past the arches to the intricate Grecian carvings that adorned the ceiling above.  And it's a hell of a place to get drunk.

You haven’t gotten drunk since your freshman year at Vanderbilt.

Senior year.

OK, fine, Dylan.  The point is, you’re an athlete.  You take care of your body.  How much scotch have you had?

Give it a rest, Jon.

Fine,