In short, it told me everything I needed to know to transform myself into the woman Mr. Daniel Silva couldn’t resist. It even told me what color, length, and style of hair he preferred. So after my salon appointment the next day, I’d (once again) be a long-haired blonde who wore her hair down with just a hint of a curl. In my line of work, blonde took the gold medal. Red was a close second.

I flipped to the next page, and there was Mr. Silva in all his mediocre glory. He looked his age—early forties—but had that confidence in his expression that conveyed he thought he was quite the gift. Dark hair and eyes, tall, medium build, handsome in a distinguished, George Clooney type of way, but not in the god-of-a-man way like he obviously perceived himself to be.

I turned the photo over and went to the next page. In the beginning, the next section had made me squirm. I didn’t squirm anymore. I’d seen it all when it came to sex preferences, positions, appetites, and fetishes. No Target could shock me. Not anymore.

Mr. Silva was pretty straight forward and in-line with my expectations based on what I’d already gleaned from his file. His preferred position was from behind, and his preferred quantity was once a day. No surprises there. I hadn’t run across a man yet who didn’t prefer sex once a day, and the from behind part I’d guessed once I knew what hair color he preferred.

Seduction was an art of statistics and probabilities. Every Eve knew a man who wanted a blonde liked giving it from behind, a man who lusted after a redhead liked the woman on top, and a man who liked a brunette preferred classic missionary style. The rules didn’t hold true one hundred percent of the time, but at least ninety-five percent, and that was close enough for me to stamp it into the book of truth.

What was surprising though, was that nothing had been filled out below the Sex Fetishes and Other Kinds of Miscellaneous Kinkery section. That section was rarely left blank. Most of the time, the Client ran out of space and had to add additional comments on the back of the sheet. Occasionally, the man who preferred a classic brunette and missionary sex would have a blank space, but never the man who liked a blonde from behind. There was always something else.

These questions weren’t meant to be insulting or obtrusive to the Client. We needed to dive down the rabbit hole of sex because that was how I finished my job and finished it quickly. When I knew a man’s turn-ons, turn-offs, and everything in between, my job was a hundred times easier. If Mr. Silva didn’t have any noteworthy fetishes, then fine. I’d close out the job and realize I still had a thing or two to learn. But if Mrs. Silva had purposefully left the space blank out of embarrassment, a desire for privacy, or because she just didn’t want to give me the nitty-gritty details, I would be pissed.

When I’d asked her if everything I needed was in the file and she said yes, she’d better have damn well meant it. I didn’t like to flounder my way through an Errand because the Client hadn’t done their simple assignment.

A few hours and a second round of extra-cherries cherry Coke later, I slammed the file closed. I’d read every note, pondered over every little clue I could use, and was exhausted.

I knew what kind of clothes to pick up; I knew what kind of makeup to wear. I knew what kind of smile caught his attention and how to shape my mouth to make him hard. I had it all.

Tomorrow I would transform into the blonde, bronze goddess Mr. Silva would come to know as Sienna Stevens. Tonight, though, I would go to bed and fall asleep as myself.

Whoever that person now was.

CHAMELEON DAY IS exactly what one would expect. It’s the day I pull out my credit card and didn’t stop swiping until I’d been dyed, tanned, styled, and primped into the ideal future MRTS. (mistress) of Mr. Silva.

It took most of the morning to get my canvas prepped and ready and most of the afternoon to paint it. I wasn’t the biggest fan of the streaking and plucking. It was a necessary evil of the job though. But once my canvas was ready to be painted, I savored the shopping. G gave us a generous stipend at the start of every Errand and let us use it as we saw fit. I used a good chunk of it on Chameleon Day.

After paying the salon—the bill had been in the four digits—I set myself loose on an open air mall in South Beach. After a few hours and few thousand dollars, I had a good Mr. Silva/Miami wardrobe. Mr. Silva’s proclivity in the woman’s clothing department didn’t have any real surprises. Snug-fitting cocktail dresses and stilettos were most men’s catnip. I just made sure the dresses were tailored to his specific tastes: short dresses in shades of red that showed off a liberal amount of cleavage. Mr. Silva really was the stereotypical rich womanizer.

Most of the men I worked with were “stereotypical.”

By ten o’clock that night, I’d been up for sixteen hours. My day should have been done, but it was really just getting started.

I handed the BMW keys off to the valet outside of The Pleasure Room, the club in Miami to be seen at on a Friday or Saturday night. The burlesque club was known for giving the audience “The Full Tease,” served innovative libations, and was the hangout for at least one A-lister every weekend of the year.

It was the kind of place I’d avoid when I wasn’t working. Tonight though, I was making the Greet, and since Mr. Silva owned The Pleasure Room, it was the place to be for Sienna Stevens.

Like all the top clubs in South Beach, The Pleasure Room had a line of bodies wrapped around the building, waiting for their chance to witness the full tease on stage or to bump into whatever Hollywood heart-throb or darling was in there. Me, though? I didn’t do lines. Not because I had an over-inflated sense of self, but because time was one of my most precious commodities.

I couldn’t afford to wait in a line for hours when I had an Eight’s attention to catch. The sooner I finished with Mr. Silva, the sooner I could move on to the next job, the sooner I could reach the magic number in my bank account, hang up my Eve hat, and start enjoying that whole freedom thing.

After finishing my homework the night before, I’d called G to give her the heads up that she might get a call from an unhappy wife to an Eight or a Nine in the next few days. I told her if she did call G, I expected her to assign the job to me since I’d drummed up the business. She told me to focus on Mr. Silva and she would focus on running her business. I might have lost the battle, but I wouldn’t lose the war. I wanted that Errand if the Eves got it.

But G was right. I did need to focus on Mr. Silva. He was the Errand. Thinking of previous or future Errands did no good, so I shoved aside everything but why I was there. I couldn’t leave until I’d ingratiated my way into Mr. Silva’s head. I had to be the itch he couldn’t scratch. That would make me the woman he had to have, at all costs.

I put on my game face and walk as I approached the entrance where a couple of men with chests as wide as a Hummer guarded it. One had a checklist, and the other was obviously there just to kick ass if needed. I had their attention, both of their attentions, when I was still fifty feet away.

Those kinds of men—young, invincible, virile ones—could be read like a book. I didn’t need a thick manila folder to figure out their individual wants and needs. Men in their twenties were simple. They all wanted and needed the same thing: to stick their dicks in as many women as often as they could.

My job was easy when young men were the gatekeepers to something I needed, specifically to skip the line and saunter inside of those doors in this instance. So, knowing what I did of their many/often needs, my job was to let them assume they could have me. I had to provide exactly the right amount of flirt, say just the right thing to lead them to believe they had a chance in this life and their next to bang me. It was an exact science.