Mischief in Miami (5 page)

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.

That’s exactly where I wanted him. Facing him, I gave him a better view for a split second before slipping my dress over my head. Puppy dogs couldn’t look so sad. “Monogamy. That’s what I’m planning on doing tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. You should give it a try some time.” I tossed my bikini top into my purse and gave him an expectant look.

“For a woman like you, I just might be tempted to,” was his reply.

I’d never heard that line before . . .

“If you ever find yourself so tempted one day,” I said, passing him on my way to the door, “let me know.”

I felt his eyes watching me intently, like a predator deciding just how to attack. The Mr. Silvas of the world didn’t realize they weren’t at the top of the food chain though.

I was.

“Daniel!” he called after me. “And I’ll be letting you know soon!”

I shot a wave at the girls giving me impressive glares.
This isn’t the kiddie pool, girls. You’re swimming with the sharks now
. “Sienna,” I replied over my shoulder, giving
Daniel
his first small smile. Women needed to better understand they couldn’t give anything away for free when it came to a man, a smile included. He had to work for it, he had to earn it because . . . he
wanted
to work for it, he
needed
to earn it. “And I won’t hold my breath.”

I walked out of the country club knowing I wouldn’t have to look for Mr. Silva anymore. Daniel would come looking for me.

I WAS LOUNGING on the balcony of my hotel room when one of my three cell phones rang. It was the G-designated one. She never just called to shoot the shit, so either something was very wrong or very right.

I answered the call and hoped for the best. “Bonjour, Madame G.”

“Closed the Silva case yet?” was her warm greeting.

I smiled. If something was wrong, G would have gotten straight to it. She wouldn’t have been making—at least, according to G—small talk.

“Almost,” I replied.

“Almost as in sometime this week, or almost as in sometime this month?” G’s voice could have been considered feminine if she didn’t deliver each word as if it was a threat.

“Almost as in tomorrow night if I was confident Mrs. Silva could handle knowing I’d managed to seduce her husband in less than a few days. Out of respect for her, and because this guy is really a tool who deserves every bit of discomfort from the blue balls he’ll get waiting for me, I’m going to wait a few more days to wrap things up.” I sighed when I looked around at everything else I’d be wrapping up. Miami just a few minutes before sunset was like something from a dream. “Although I wouldn’t mind it if you found me another case to work out here.”

“Speaking of new cases . . . guess who I got a call from this morning?”

My heart went into my throat. “Young, unhappy wife of an Eight, possibly a Nine, from Miami?”

“You’re right except for the Miami part. She’s from Seattle. She was just down in Miami for the weekend.”

“And . . .?” It would be a big job, and I wanted it.

“And if she decides to contract the Eves, you
may
end up with the job,” she replied. “You know as well as I do that if I find another Eve’s physical assets to be a better fit, you won’t get the Errand.”

I rolled my eyes only because G wasn’t in front of me. If I ever tried that in front of her, I’d be the one found dead in a back alley a week later. “Come on, G. You know as well as I do I can transform myself into whatever version of a wet dream Mr. Eight or Nine needs. I want that Errand.”

“Then let’s hope Mr. MoneyBags likes a tall, slim, busty build because stylists and surgeons can morph you to a certain degree, but no one except for the Maker could turn you into a short, athletically-built Asian. Sorry, love.” G didn’t sound irritated, she rarely showed emotion, but I knew I’d be pressing my luck if I pushed again.

All I could do was hope the big Eight or Nine forthcoming was an aficionado to my brand of woman. Plenty of men were, but that didn’t mean every man was. That didn’t mean he would be.

“Anything else?” I asked, knowing there wasn’t. G was all business, all the time. In fact, I didn’t know a single personal thing about her, including her real name.

“Nothing else for now.”

“Good night, G. I’ll text you when it’s done.”

G chuckled a few notes. “And I’d say good luck if I thought you needed it.”

After I hung up, I laid back down on the lounger to try to soak up the last few rays of sun. Not even a full minute later, a knock sounded on the door inside my room. No one knew I was there and I hadn’t ordered room service, so I was tempted to grab the little Lady Smith I kept hidden in the nightstand for emergencies. After a quick look through the peephole, I saw I didn’t need to answer with guns blazing.

I could have slid into a cover-up, but it was South Beach. People would have gone to work in their swimsuits if it was allowed. I swung the door open and tried not to smile when the bellman’s mouth about dropped to the floor. I was only twenty-five, but I was only intimate with men ten, twenty, and sometimes even thirty years older than me. It was nice to be reminded I could turn the head of a guy my own age.

“Can I help you?” I asked after a few seconds.

The bellman shook his head a couple of times and picked his jaw up off the floor. “This was left for you at the front desk.” He held out an envelope.

I gave it a curious look. G wouldn’t leave me mail at the front desk and Mrs. Silva better not be, so who in the world would have left that for me? “Who left it?”

The bellman shrugged. “I don’t know. My manager just asked me to run it up here.”

I could stand there staring all day, or I could rip it open and unveil the mystery. Grabbing my wallet off of the desk, I tipped the bellman, thanked him, and closed the door.

I tore that sucker open quickly. The sooner I figured out who had sent it, the sooner I could figure out what the hell to do about it. Of all the things I imagined could be contained in that envelope—blackmail, photos, a microchip—the last thing I’d expected was a couple of tickets to Nice, France, complete with a note scratched down on the back of a business card.

In case the mood to swim topless strikes you again. I wouldn’t want to miss it.

The business card said Daniel Silva, Owner and Manager of The Pleasure Room, complete with his business and cell phone numbers.

The first thing that hit me was that he’d been ballsy enough to send me his business card. I didn’t doubt a simple “Daniel Silva” typed into a search engine would result in a life history, including a mention of a Mrs. Silva. So why had he done it? Because he didn’t think I’d Google him? Because he wanted me to have his phone number? No, I guessed he wanted to impress me. A business card said what he couldn’t without sounding like a pretentious asshole. He was the owner of one of the nation’s most notorious nightclubs. He had money, status, and power.

If Mr. Silva knew I already knew exactly how much was in his bank account, along with the balance in his offshore accounts, I doubted he’d send me tickets to the south of France.

The second thing that hit me was that, somehow, he’d figured out where I was staying. That was disturbing on a bunch of levels. He’d either had me followed, followed me himself, or had someone looking into me. I didn’t like the idea of being looked into, especially when I was the one who was supposed to be doing the “looking into.”

It wasn’t the first over-the-top gift I’d had thrown at me, but it was the first time the Target had tracked me down and had it delivered to my room. Well, neither would do.

Ten minutes later, I’d changed, packed, and was at the front desk checking out.

“Is there anything else we can do for you, Miss Stevens?” the receptionist asked.

“Yeah.” I handed her the envelope I’d addressed before leaving my room. It contained two tickets to Nice, along with my own note that read:
In case the mood to try monogamy strikes you, here’s my number
. “Do you think a bellman would be up to hand delivering this if I gave him a nice tip?”

She inspected me purposefully before taking the letter. “I think the bellman would be up to hand delivering this if you asked one of them real nice and nothing else. But if you want to leave a tip, I’ll make sure the bellman gets both.”

“For the bellman,”—I slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter, and then one more—“and for you.”

She was about to open her mouth when I cut her off. “I appreciate your help and hospitality.” I headed out the doors before she could object, but I’m pretty sure I heard a few mumbled words of thanks.