“I’ll pass. Thanks though,” I replied, as I lifted one eyebrow at him on my way to the door. “I don’t do that. Anymore.” I caught the look flash over his face before I unlocked the lounge room door to let myself out. That flash said I was the treat placed right under a child’s nose they were told they couldn’t have. Wanting what they couldn’t, or thought they couldn’t, have was every man’s Achilles’ heel.

I smiled my whole way out of the club. I was still smiling when I wandered into my hotel room a little while later. Despite the cluster-fuck of unexpected events, the Greet had been made of win. I’d caught Mr. Silva’s attention, and I’d held his undivided attention while two half-naked girls were pressed up against him.

The job was going to be easier than I’d thought.

FAMOUS LAST WORDS. After five years, you would have thought I’d learned no job is ever easy. It’s just not in the cards.

I returned to The Pleasure Room the following night, quite certain that if Mr. Silva caught sight of me, he’d drop anything and anyone and come my way. Again, that wasn’t conceit talking; it was experience. The look on his face, the way he’d licked his lips as I passed him in the woman’s lounge were strong indicators that what I was sending out, my Target was picking up.

I waited around until the club closed. Mr. Silva didn’t show his face once, which seemed odd given it was Saturday night, The Pleasure Room was bustling, and Mr. Silva didn’t seem as though he would ever willingly miss out on a party.

So back to the drawing board early Sunday morning. After thumbing through Mr. Silva’s file again, I got into my car and zipped over to his country club. According to Mrs. Silva’s notes, he went there every Sunday morning from seven to eleven a.m. Apparently, he soaked in the club’s mineral pool before hitting the green for eighteen holes. I hoped Mrs. Silva’s notes were “apparently” correct. Every hour wasted was one I’d never get back.

I pulled up to the club a half an hour before seven. The club, just like the spa where I’d met Mrs. Silva, only had valet parking. I’d had plenty of experience with those kinds of places. They didn’t let just anyone off the street inside. You couldn’t get inside the front door if you made less than seven figures a year. So how would I get past the front desk without so much as a second glance?

By pretending I owned the place, the way the rest of those upper-crust broads did.

These kinds of country clubs weren’t the place where you scanned a membership card before being granted admission. Your membership card was the handbag on your arm, the name stamped on your shoes, the entitled tilt of your brow when you sashayed in.

I rolled my shoulders back as I walked through the front doors. I tipped the doorman and made it a good one, but I didn’t make eye contact, and I didn’t smile. The young woman attending the front desk glanced up as I passed her, but after a moment or two, she went back to her computer. And I was in. I’d just “snuck” into one of the most prestigious country clubs in the nation by doing what we Eves had mastered: hiding in plain sight.

The Louis Vuitton handbag on my arm, the Jimmy Choo’s strapped onto my feet, and the rich-bitch expression I’d perfected didn’t hurt either.

Other than the golf course, the club was pretty dead that early in the morning. When I found the mineral pool, not a single trust-fund soul was in sight. I couldn’t have planned it more perfectly.

After tucking my purse, shoes, and dress into one of the pool decks’ storage compartments, I gave the pool room one more scan. Empty, but not for long. I’d worn my swimsuit under my dress, so once I was certain I was alone, I gave the strings tied at my back and neck a tug.

I knew swimming topless to catch a guy’s attention was classified as trashy by most non-European women. But since I didn’t know anyone was coming soon—at least in Mr. Silva’s estimation—my trashy ploy would be perceived as wild, spontaneous, and adventurous abandon.

Plus, Mr. Silva would see me half-naked, which would make him want to see me completely naked.

I didn’t use this technique to lead into most of my jobs, but Mr. Silva was a bit more evasive than I’d anticipated, which meant it was time for the girls to come out to play.

The mineral pool area was beautiful, very Grecian inspired, and I wouldn’t mind spending my retirement years in the pool itself. It wasn’t quite hot-tub warm, but it was close, and millions of tiny bubbles gurgled through the water. I tilted my head back to wet my hair before swimming to the other end.

If it wasn’t seven o’clock yet, it would be in the next minute. Mr. Silva was probably passing the front desk. Men like him hadn’t built an enormously successful career for themselves by showing up late. Being prompt, even to their extracurricular activities, was ingrained in them.

I was just making the return trip when the door swung open. The pillars stationed around the pool deck obscured my view as I continued down the pool, but I heard a voice. Or voices. Only one of them was male. The other two were a couple of giggling girls.

If I had had something nearby to punch, I would have. Mr. Silva was turning out to be a major pain in my seducing ass. Mrs. Silva could have saved herself some money by having him followed for a day and snapping a picture of any one of the good handful of times he screwed another woman in any given week.

I’m sure if I had hidden and stayed quiet, I could have snapped a picture of him doing the deed—twice—in a few minutes, but that wasn’t my job. The Eves didn’t get paid for another woman screwing the Target. We didn’t get the credit for another woman’s hands-and-knees handiwork. So much for Mr. Silva’s discretion.

I’d never met a Target less discreet.

I swam to the end of the pool, and by the time I’d almost reached the stairs, Mr. Silva and his giggling girls were in view. He had one on each arm. I almost rolled my eyes.

The two girls were different from the two in the woman’s lounge, but they had the same look: blonde and busty with and had the fuck-me look on their faces. So what was my plan for getting and keeping his attention when I was blonde and busty like the other two?

I was going to give him the fuck-you expression.

The trio didn’t notice me until I walked up the pool steps. When they did notice me, two sets of eyes narrowed. The third set widened.

The other girls might have been a bit bustier, but mine were real.

A girl with real boobs in Miami was harder to come by than a virgin wife.

“Sorry,” I said to Mr. Silva, who was having a tough time making eye contact, “I thought I was alone.”

When his eyes scanned my face, his smile tilted higher on one side. Oh, yeah. He remembered me. “And here I thought I was in the man’s lounge.”

I stared pointedly at the no-longer-giggling women. “Looks like you’re outnumbered.”

His gaze faltered again. “Lucky me.”

I’d given him enough of the show for free. “I’ll let you get back to it.” I turned my back on the trio and wandered over to my stuff.

I smiled when I heard a couple of female grumbles. He was following me.

I acted surprised when he shouldered up beside me, of course. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

I couldn’t even allow myself a small smile. I couldn’t let him know I was pleased. I gave him another fuck-you face. “Not you, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” He leaned a shoulder into the wall as I slipped into my heels.

I glanced at his crotch, where something was prominently on display, and lifted an eyebrow.

He shrugged and didn’t appear the least bit ashamed. “A beautiful woman with an equally beautiful rack is two feet in front of me. I’d be concerned if my johnson wasn’t at full attention.” That wasn’t just full attention. That bulge was at holy-shit attention. “So, I’ll repeat myself. What are you doing tonight?” If he stared at my boobs any longer, he would bust something.