Great Exploitations (Scandal in Seattle)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events of persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic

or mechanical without express permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief

passages for review purposes.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIFE IS CHANGE. Or is it, change is life?

For me, it’s the latter. Change has been the essence of my life. It is the origin of my present and the

promise of my immediate future. One day, that’s going to change. One day, I’ll live a simple life
where routine and normalcy are the agenda of my day. One day, change will by the exception, not the
standard.

One day . . . isn’t today.
Last night I was in Miami. Tonight I’m in Seattle. Yesterday I was on the Silva Errand. Today I’m

on the Callahan Errand. Twenty-four hours ago, my job was all business. Now, my job is all personal.

Because I’m in the business of Great Exploitations. And business is good.

“ARE YOU HERE for business or pleasure, ma’am?” the woman checking me in at the Four

Seasons asked.

I clutched my briefcase a bit tighter and smiled. “Pleasure. All pleasure.”
She gave me that standard hospitality-industry smile. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Guaranteed,” I said as I headed for the elevators. There was nothing about my stay that I couldn’t

enjoy. A five star hotel and a hefty dose of revenge? Nothing, not even the gray, constantly leaking
skies, could tarnish that Errand.

Henry Callahan. Billionaire. IT business mogul. My Ten. My Errand.
My ex.
The man who’d upended my whole world.
The man I was going to repay in turn.
Of course, G could never know about Henry’s and my history. She would reassign an Errand if she

knew the Eve had gone to preschool with the Target, let alone been engaged five years ago to the
Target. So G would have to be left in the dark. Other than intermittent check-ins, I’d keep progress
reports to a minimum. If the Errand was a normal Seven or Eight, check-ins would have been nothing
more than a few one-lettered texts, but it was our Ten. That Errand was as much G’s baby as it was
mine. She’d already warned me she’d expect regular status updates and would be less laissez-faire
than she typically was.

I didn’t want to lie to G, but even more, I didn’t want to give up the Callahan Errand. I was good at

keeping secrets. Obviously. That would translate into keeping some from G, I hoped.

After reading Mrs. Callahan’s file front to back, twice, on the plane, I’d started plotting how I’d go

about the actual seduction and taking down of Henry Carter Callahan. As I made my way down the
hall, I planned out how I’d orchestrate Henry’s and my happenstance meeting.

Other than being a hardcore workaholic, Henry’s file gave away nothing about vices. My personal

experience with him knew better. The once a cheater, always a cheater proverb was true most of the
time. Henry Callahan had been a cheater with me, so I could almost guarantee he was with his wife.
That he had her fooled was a testimony to how sneaky he must have been.

That was okay. I was a pro at fleshing out a cheater.
I was still smiling when I stepped inside my room. After flipping on the lights, my smile stretched

higher. G had gotten me a sprawling suite. Since I’d left Miami in such a rush, I didn’t have a suitcase
to be carted up, so after dropping my purse and briefcase on the hall table, I wandered into the sitting

area. From the corner of my eye, a flash of red caught my attention.

“Holy—” I hollered, freezing in my tracks.
“Why, yes. Yes, I am holy,” a familiar voice said. “Nice of you to finally recognize it.”
After restarting my heart, I shot the woman reclining in a chair in the corner a half-hearted glare.

“Thanks for the mini-heart attack, G.”

She arched that sharp eyebrow of hers.
“Sorry . . . G the Holy,” I corrected, making a showy bow. She pursed her lips to keep from smiling.

“How am I supposed to annihilate a Ten if I’m dead?”

“Your job isn’t to annihilate anything. Your job is to seduce.” G crossed her legs and gave me a

look. “Annihilation is too personal. I thought I made that clear years ago.”

G had caught me by surprise, and I’d made a slip. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t because G

rarely missed a thing. If I didn’t act like the Errand was no more special than any other Errand, I
would get pulled from it—best case. Worst case would be an immediate dismissal followed by rotting
away in some nameless alley.

“Sorry. I’m just a little excited about this one,” I said, coming around the couch to sit across from

her.

“What? You? Excited?” she said. “Can’t be.”
“Don’t tell.”
“I won’t if you won’t tell on me . . . but I might just be a little bit excited, too.” G’s green eyes

flashed, and she almost, almost, smiled. I’d seen her smile a few times, but it had always been a bit
more menacing. This smile was almost joyful. I guessed I’d been in my line of business too long when
a joyful smile was more disturbing than a menacing one.

“So, other than to share in the once-every-few-years whim of excitement, to what do I owe the

honor of a personal meeting?”

G only did private meetings with her Eves at the start of an Errand as the exception. In the course of

a year, I might see her once or twice, and whenever I did, it was never to go grab a drink and catch up.
G’s meetings were always important and always about business. She didn’t know anything about her
Eves’ pasts, and we didn’t know anything about hers. None of us had families, or at least ones we kept
in touch with; we didn’t have time for things like hobbies. All of that added up to make casual
conversation a bit of a problem.

“There’s been a change in plans,” she started.
I stopped breathing. Did she know? How could she have figured it out?
“Mr. Ten is a bit of a world traveler. He’s out of the country half of the year from the sounds of it.

A piece of information the Client forgot to mention.” G made that face that crippled me every time it
was directed at me. To get a face as beautiful as hers to look so ugly must have taken years to perfect.
“The Target’s in Seoul for the next week. Then he’s back for a week, then leaves for Bangkok for
another week. So on and so forth.”

“O-kay.” I wondered why that was such a big deal she had to meet me in person. So he was gone a

lot. Plenty of Targets were . . . so we did one of the things we Eves did best and adapted. I’d earned my
patch in adaptation years ago.

“Since the Target’s out of the country as much as or more than he’s in it, and this Errand is going to

take significantly longer to close, I don’t want one of my best Eves to get bored.”

Ah. I got it. When trying to understand where G’s train of thought was going, always think dollars

and cents. “Or go to waste when she could be working an Errand within an Errand, right?”

G nodded. “Precisely. You have the fastest start to completion time of all of my Eves, so I’m sure

you’ll have no problem juggling a few other Errands along the way. I won’t throw you anything too
complex. A rock-and-roller here, a pro-basketball player there. Errands you could close in twenty-four

hours if need be.”

If I thought arguing would have gotten me anywhere, I would have. I didn’t want to work an Errand

within an Errand. I wanted to keep my focus and attention on Callahan. I wanted to bring him to his
knees before he saw it coming. I wanted him to curse the day he’d met me. I wanted him to curse my
name until his dying day.

I wanted all of that, but I had to play nice. Especially when it came to G.
“And because you have that little glimmer in your eye, I’m guessing you already have an Errand for

me to work while Mr. Callahan is away.” Saying his name was hard. I felt like I was giving away
everything in my tone or expression. If I was, G seemed none the wiser.

“That glimmer always gives me away, doesn’t it?” She smiled again, her typical menacing one, and

not a single wrinkle lined her skin. The Botox was good, or she’d found the fountain of youth
somewhere along the way. Judging from the jaded look in G’s eyes, I’d say she was in her sixties, but
judging from everything else, she looked twenty-eight. G was beautiful in a Venus flytrap kind of way.
Admire her from afar, but don’t mess with her. “And the answer is yes. I’ve got a new Client here in
Seattle and, gauging from what she told me on the phone, this Errand is your bread-and-butter
variety.”

“My bread and butter?” I repeated. “Aren’t all of our Errands rich, cheating bastards?”
“They are,” G replied, “but some are bigger bastards than the rest. And you, my girl, have a special

gift when it comes to the big bastards of the world.”

Was that a skill set I could list on my resume? It felt as much like a compliment as it felt like an

insult. “When and where am I meeting the Client of this biggest bastard of the bunch?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, at the Pike Street Gym. Ask for Mrs. Hendrik at the front desk.”
Ah, a gym. How refreshing. I didn’t think I could take another spa.
“Once you complete this Errand, I’m moving you. Don’t get too comfortable.” I never did. I moved

every few weeks, so getting comfortable wasn’t an option. “Yet another little fact Mrs. Callahan
forgot to mention was that she lives in their Seattle home, but Mr. Callahan spends most of his time at
their beach home outside of San Francisco.”

I caught myself smiling. If any state had felt like home for the past five years, it was the Golden

State. Lots of rich, cheating bastards in California. “Consider me on the first plane out of Seattle after
I close the Hendrik Errand.” I was already eager to get started. The sooner I finished up, the sooner I
got to work on the Errand I wanted to be working.

“Good.” G rose and adjusted her suit jacket. Business was done; she was out. G’s job and mine were

different, but we followed the same rules. “If you need anything for the Callahan Errand, you let me
know. I’ll be checking in more often than normal, so be expecting it.”

I nodded as I stood too.
“This one’s going to be hard. Impossibly difficult,” she said, inspecting me like she was

determining whether or not I was up to the task. I’d never been so up to the task. “From the looks of it,
we don’t have any dirt on Mr. Callahan. Nothing. You’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

Oh, there was plenty of dirt on Mr. Callahan. I had first-hand experience with that dirt. “There’s dirt

on every Target, G,” I said, walking her to the door. “Sometimes it just takes a little more digging to
find it.”

G’s face shadowed. Just barely, but I didn’t miss it. “Maybe. But if I’ve ever seen a Target who was

dirt free, it would be this one. Dig fast. Dig hard. And if you don’t find any . . .”—G lifted a shoulder
—“then we might have to create some.”

My eyebrows came together. G had trained me in all aspects of the business, but creating scandal

when there wasn’t any was new to me.

“We’ll cross that bridge when and if we get there,” she said, pulling a plastic bag containing a

couple of phones from her purse. “These are for the Hendrik Errand. I’ll have the Callahan phones
waiting for you in the condo when you arrive.”

The crease between my eyebrows couldn’t seem to iron out. “Condo?” Eves did hotels. We didn’t

do condos, apartments, or houses.

“You’re not going to finish the Callahan Errand in a couple of weeks. This one’s going to take

months, if not years. I thought you’d be more comfortable in a condo.” G opened the door and glanced
back at me over her shoulder. “Especially a beach front one.”

I COULD FEEL the calories being burned as soon as I entered the gym. After checking in at the front
desk, I was told Mrs. Hendrik was in the middle of a private spinning class and to head on up. From
the other side of the door to the spin room, I heard the whir of the spinning machine.

Burn, baby, burn.
I gave the door a quick knock before inviting myself in. A personal trainer rode beside Mrs.

Hendrik who was, as suspected, going to town on that machine like she had a personal vendetta against
it. Mrs. Hendrik used a spinning machine; I used a punching bag. They were healthier options than
what we could have chosen after discovering we’d devoted our lives to men devoted to philandering.

I’d never met or seen Mrs. Hendrik, but I’d been in the business long enough to recognize a Client

at the Meet. Since they were engrossed in their routine, I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Hendrik?” I waited
for her to look up. “Is this a bad time?”

Her eyes widened for a moment as she took me in. She was pretty, of course—all Clients were—

petite, young, with an Eve-esque body. If a woman like her couldn’t keep her husband’s dick from
misbehaving, I realized something else about Mr. Hendrik: He was a prick.

“No,” she said, checking the clock on the opposite wall. “You’re right on time.”
I was always on time.
“I’ll finish this set on my own, Gina,” Mrs. Hendrik said to her trainer. “I’ll catch up with you in the

Pilates room.”

I worked out religiously—it was just a reality of the job—but I had a feeling Mrs. Hendrik’s daily

routine could put me to shame. After the trainer left, I approached Mrs. Hendrik, still whirring away.
She wasn’t sweating, she was barely breathing hard, but her legs couldn’t have spun any faster.

“You know, I told G this, but maybe I need to tell you.” She scanned me up, down, around, and

around. “Ian likes young girls. You look older than me.”

Mrs. Hendrik was leading with the claws-out introduction. Thirty percent of Clients did, and one

hundred percent of Clients like Mrs. Hendrik did.

“I’m twenty-five. How old are you?” I asked, whipping out my own kitty claws. “Thirty? . . . Ish?” I

added because her face went a special shade of pissed.

Insulting the Client wasn’t my preferred approach, but I had to fight fire with fire or I’d go up in

flames. Sometimes we had to break someone to build them up, and Mrs. Hendrik looked as if she
needed to take a topple from that glass house of hers.

I was there to help. She’d called us. I wasn’t the enemy. Her husband was.
Time to remind her of that.
“Don’t worry about my age, Mrs. Hendrik,” I said, stopping a few feet in front of her bike. If it had

been real, I knew she wouldn’t have swerved to avoid plowing me over. “What I might lack in the
just-legal department, I more than make up for in the skill department.”

She huffed, glaring at the handlebars of her bike. “Ian could give a shit about skill. All he cares

about is screwing as many young model-sluts as he can.” She gave me that once-over again. I’d been
once-over’d half a dozen times in less than five minutes. “You’re a few years older and a few pounds
heavier, but you’ve got that general model-slut look. I’m sure it won’t take much convincing to get his
snake out of its cage.”

If I had the model-slut look, then so did she. She was shorter and had smaller boobs, but we had

pretty much the same “look.”

“He’s a cheater,” I said. I already knew that before I entered the gym. Probability and statistics,

that’s the name of the game.

“He redefined the word,” she said with another huff. “But the son of a bitch has made an art of

keeping it hidden.”

“Then how do you know?” I asked, thankful we’d gotten past the “warm” welcome and moved on to

the reason I was there.

“Women’s intuition. A gut feeling. An instinct.” She lifted a shoulder. “I just know.”
Worked for me. Most of the time, a woman’s intuition about their man cheating on them was

infallible.

“Plus, he was kinda with someone else when he . . . met me.” For the first time, Mrs. Hendrik

showed some emotion other than apathy or disdain.

“You mean, when he slept with you?” Some Clients made it easier to feel compassion for them than

others. Mrs. Hendrik was in the others category. She’d played a part in the cheater’s game, then she
went on to marry him. Drudging up sympathy for someone like that was difficult.

She rolled her eyes. “I just know he’s sleeping around, all right? He comes home late and smelling

like other women. He hardly comes to me for sex anymore which means he’s getting it from someone
else.”

True. A man’s sex drive didn’t change. It always stayed the same: full power ahead. If he wasn’t

getting it from his wife, girlfriend, or lover, he was certainly getting it from someone else.

“And now it looks like he’s about to get some from you,” she added, taking a drink from her water

bottle and trying not to look my way.

“If I do my job, and you’ve done yours.” I eyed the tote bag on the chair beside her. I guessed the

overstuffed folder in it was what I went there for. I was really ready to get out of that Meet. “That’s
the whole point, right?”

“If it means I get half of everything and I never have to smell some other skank on his dick again,

then yeah, that’s the point.”

We’d pretty much flown through the emotional stages of the Meet. I guessed Mrs. Hendrik didn’t

regularly show an impressive level of emotion, so I’d take her last statement as her show of
acceptance. All I needed was the file, and I was hightailing it out of there.

“Is that the file?”
“In all its exhaustive glory,” she answered.
“Is everything in there?”
“Every last dirty detail.”
Decisive. That was the first point on Mrs. Hendrik’s scoreboard. After grabbing the folder, sliding

the Errand phone into its place in her tote, and going over my phone rules and don’t-say-anything
sermon, I headed for the door.

“That’s it?” she called after me, not missing a beat in her spinning frenzy.
“That’s it.”
She chuckled a few notes. “You’ve got the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am thing down. You’re going

to do just fine with Ian.”

I never did just fine. I certainly didn’t close Errands with just fine. I closed them with perfection.

TEN HOURS LATER, I was in the lobby of the Four Seasons, pouring over the Hendrik file. I was

on my second Cherry Coke with extra cherries and almost to the last few pages when I noticed a figure
coming my way. I’d tucked myself into a chair in the corner for privacy—wasn’t that obvious?—but it
looked like privacy was going to take a temporary hiatus.

I tried to look positively enraptured with the file. I tried to play ignorant of the stranger hovering in

front of me, but he apparently wasn’t going to accept my ignorance of him.

“Can I help you?” I said with an impressive level of ice, slamming the file closed.
“We’ll get to that in a minute, but right now all I want you to do is help yourself to a drink with a

bit more kick and a few less cherries.” A martini glass appeared on the table in front of me.

I sighed before glancing up at the stranger. If he hadn’t already ticked me off by interrupting my

study time, he’d certainly pissed me off by dropping that devil juice on my table. If I liked the taste of
paint thinner, maybe I’d be a bigger martini fan.

“And I’d like you to help yourself to a . . .” I shot back as I glanced at him. I double-checked to

make sure my folder was closed. Once I was sure of that, it took everything I had to keep composed.

The man in front of me, grinning that all-too familiar player smile, was the same one I’d been

flipping through pages and photos of for the past few hours. That—coming face to face with a Target
while studying said Target’s file—was a first. Hopefully a last, too. I had to quickly wipe the loathing
off of my face and replace it with something less hateful and more playful. We were at the arms-
length part of the Errand.

“I’m not a martini kind of girl,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”
“You sure about that?” Mr. Hendrik took the seat across from me and propped a foot up on the

coffee table. He was a fashion photographer if ever I’d seen one. His clothing was a cross between
punk and grunge, his bronze hair the same, and to complete the look, he had a flavor saver on his chin
and tattoo sleeves on both arms. He looked younger, much younger than his thirty-five years. Maybe
that was why he liked his girls barely legal.

“I’m drinking a Cherry Coke.” I glanced at my almost empty glass. “A martini’s a long way’s off

from a Cherry Coke.”

Mr. Hendrik wet his lips and leaned back. “Do you have something against gin?”
Only when it came from a Target who’d caught me by surprise. “No.”
“Something against alcohol then?” He ran his eyes down me in a way that wasn’t meant to be

subtle.

“No.”
His eyebrows peaked as a hint of a devious smile formed. “Underage?”
I could almost feel his hard-on. At moments like those, when most women would get the heebie-

jeebies and retreat, I dug in and got comfortable. Those moments, a Target’s expression alight with
the knowledge that I was nearly half his age, were ones I didn’t shy away from.

I slid my braid over my shoulder and looked down. Looking down was a sure sign someone was

lying. “No.”

I didn’t have to see it to feel his smile grow. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “If

you need a fake ID or something, I know a guy who makes one so good even the cops can’t tell the
difference.”

I bet he did.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I glanced at him, and he was leaning forward in his seat. Like he was

already moving in for the kill. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got some homework to finish up before
morning or else I’m going to fail the assignment.” I decided to keep the part about him being the
assignment to myself.

“High school or college homework?”
By that point in the conversation, I realized Mr. Hendrik was a regular bastard. Certified and all. It

could have been stamped across his forehead. Those kinds of guys were so easy, and their motives
were so simple. I really couldn’t wait to get to work on the big Ten/Callahan Errand because I needed
a challenge. My brain felt like it was in danger of shriveling up and dying due to underuse.

Shooting him a coy look, I played with the end of my braid. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Damn straight I would,” was his reply before he extended his hand. “I’m Ian. And you are?”
Disgusted. I quieted my internal dialogue and shook his hand. “Ally.”
“Ally . . .?”
“Andrews. Ally Andrews,” I said, glad I’d come up with an alias earlier. “You’d better get going.

I’m meeting my dad here soon, and the last guy he caught slipping me a drink is still walking around
with a limp.” If throwing out the dad card wasn’t enough to confirm I was barely or not-quite legal,
nothing was.

“Fair enough,” he said. He stood, but he wasn’t leaving. I knew he wouldn’t. I’d been trained to

make sure they never did. “Have you ever done any modeling or thought about doing any?”

I didn’t let myself roll my eyes. As much as I wanted to. “No and no,” I answered him. “And NO.”
“Well, you should. With a face and body like yours, it’s a tragedy to keep it all to yourself.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered or creeped out by that?” I asked.
“Flattered,” he said, forming a square with his thumbs and index fingers and peering through it with

an appraising eye. “I’m a photographer. I make my living capturing the most beautiful women in the
world.” He winked at me through the square. “And you fit into that category.” I shifted in my seat,
staying quiet. “Come on. I can’t take no for an answer. Your face deserves to be on the cover of
Vogue.”

Hmm, from what I’d read, it sounded like he liked to shoot more than just the face. Everything

more. “I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

“Here’s my card for when you finish thinking about it and are ready to do it.”
Yep, do it was enunciated in just the right way.
“We’ll see,” I said, taking the card.
“Hopefully I’ll see you soon.” He flashed me one more smile and headed for the doors.
Mr. Hendrik would see plenty of me soon.

A TRENCH COAT, a pair of kitten heels, and a smile. That was all I was wearing.

After a couple of days, I’d called Mr. Hendrik. I told him I’d be up for giving modeling a try and

asked if he still wanted to take my pictures. His yes reply was out before I’d finished my question.

So, tonight was the night. Not the night, but an important one. He’d scheduled the appointment for

eight o’clock at his studio in downtown Seattle. That he’d set the photo-shoot so late told me he had
something more than just playing with his camera on the agenda. He was rather confident in his ability
to seduce a woman.

I was more confident in my ability to not be seduced.
The studio was tucked inside one of the historic buildings, and I saw why his wife had such a

difficult time nailing his ass to the wall. The building had more security points than La Guardia
Airport.

The night guard had to let me in, check me in, and escort me to the elevator. From there, an elevator

operator made sure I didn’t get off on any floor other than the one the security guard told him I was
going to. Once the elevator doors whooshed open, the operator pointed me down the right hallway.
The hall was empty, and all of the offices I passed were dark.

Just as Mr. Hendrik knew they’d be. I wondered how many young girls he’d brought there, seduced,

and sent packing a couple of hours later. Gauging by his level of self-assurance, that number must be
on the high end.

Once I was outside of the steel studio door, which had no windows and no door handle, I

contemplated whether I was supposed to knock or fiddle with the keypad and speaker just off to the
side. I settled for knocking and waited.

I didn’t wait long.
The speaker buzzed to life. “Come on in, Ally. I’m all ready for you.”
I’m sure he was.
The door opened slowly, and I slipped inside. The studio was more like an apartment than a place

where a photographer worked. There were sofas, pictures on the walls, and of course, an oversized bed
with a mountain of pillows. You know, for when a man working nonstop hours needed a rest. Ehem . .
.

“There’s the girl who’s going to grace the cover of every fashion magazine in the world,” Mr.

Hendrik said after he’d come around a corner.

He was decked out in the same kind of outfit he wore at the hotel, but his hair looked extra messy. I

didn’t need two guesses to know how it had gotten so mussed. If the hair didn’t give it away, the
rumpled sheets and the condom wrapper I’d had to step over told the story.

I flashed him a smile as provocative as the way I was dressed beneath my trench coat. Mr. Hendrik

liked his women young, but I’d also discovered—after I’d delved the rest of the way into his file—that
his preference wasn’t for innocent young. He liked the opposite.

“There’s the guy who likes to give random girls martinis in the Four Seasons’ lobby,” I said, lifting

my eyebrows as I meandered through the studio. “And what, by the way, were you doing there that
night? Besides interrupting me in the middle of my homework.”

Ian smiled to himself. “Interrupting you from your homework. That was my only agenda for the

night.”

I did an internal huff. Not according to the cocktail waitress who’d come up to me after Ian had left,

warning me about him. From the sounds of it, Ian had discovered more conquests at the Four Seasons
in the past couple of years than the place had rooms. The cocktail waitress included.

“Sure it was,” I said with sarcasm, continuing my inspection of the studio. I could tell from the way

his expression dropped when I started looking around that he was disappointed I hadn’t been totally
captivated by his presence.

He was handsome man, just like the majority of my Targets, but so much more went into being

attractive to a woman. Or at least to me. The ability to keep out of another woman’s bed for instance.

I wandered over to the wall opposite the wall of windows to inspect the dozens, maybe even a

hundred, framed magazine covers. All featured some beautiful young woman with empty eyes and
perfect skin. It seemed Mr. Hendrik had had his hand in more Vogue covers than Giselle.

“So what got you into photography?” I asked as I zeroed in on a familiar face. She’d been a Client a

couple of years earlier when her husband started having issues with that whole faithful concept.

“I’ve got an eye for things of beauty,” Mr. Hendrik replied, coming up behind me. He either didn’t

know about or didn’t adhere to the “personal bubble” rule.

“That industrial steel door must have missed the memo.” I took a couple steps to the side and eyed

the bomb-proof door. “Are you trying to keep someone from getting in or someone from getting out?”

“Both.”
I didn’t need to look at his expression. His voice alone was menacing in a way that would have

given me chills if I wasn’t so used to that type of man and their menacing ways.

“You’d be at least half as creepy if you stopped saying those cryptic things,” I replied, trying to

sound like a nineteen-year-old who knew she was in over her head. Trying to mask my uncertainty
with overwhelming confidence.

“I know.”
Okay, so cryptic was going to be the theme of the night. Not exactly what I’d expected from the

philandering photographer. He was an intimidator. He intimidated others because he’d been
intimidated earlier in his life. He wasn’t brazen enough to exhibit that type of behavior when others
were around, only when he was one-on-one. That opened another window into Mr. Hendrik’s psyche:
He was a coward.

I did an internal groan. Cowards were the worst. Not that there was a ribbon for first place when it

came to the filth I dealt with, but he would have captured the gold medal in Male Douchery if I could
hand out one.

“So? Picture time? I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.” Story of my Eve life.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked, ambling over to a table with an impressive collection of

vodkas. “I always like to have a drink before we get started. It loosens us both up. Makes for better
photos.”

Also makes it a hell of a lot easier to lure a girl out of her panties. Mr. Hendrik wouldn’t be luring

me out of my panties that night. Mainly because it wasn’t Sheet night, but also because I wasn’t
wearing any.

“I’m all right. I’m such a lightweight if I drank half a shot of that stuff, I’d be giggling and jumping

on your couch like it was a trampoline.” I stopped in front of where he had the camera set up on a
tripod. The set was nothing but a black sheet as a background and a barstool covered in red leather in
front of it.

“Here. I watered this down with some club soda,” Mr. Hendrik said when he crossed the room

toward me with a tall glass.

I took it and chanced a sip. Lying bastard. If that was watered down vodka, I was Miss Congeniality.
“Yum,” I said with a plastic smile before setting the glass on a table. That night wasn’t about letting

him think if he got me drunk enough, intimidated enough, or impressed enough that he could get me
into bed. It was about making him a slave to my every whim and word.

“So?” I lifted my arms. “Where do you want me, Mr. Hendrik?”
I didn’t miss his eyes automatically flickering to the bed. I moved toward the barstool to refocus

him.

“Right there,” he said, motioning at the stool before jogging back toward the battalion of bottles.

“Just get comfortable, and we’ll get started. And don’t call me Mr. Hendrik. Call me Ian. I’m not your
social studies teacher or your best friend’s dad.”

“What are you then?”
He poured himself a tall glass of straight vodka. No ice. No club soda. Just a large glass of alcohol.

Ian’s drink of choice told me he either wanted to drown out reality just enough, or that somewhere
inside, he knew seducing an almost or just-barely legal woman was wrong. He needed alcohol to numb
his inhibitions. He needed the eighty-proof courage that came with it.

How was that helpful? On Sheet night, I’d make sure he had a good drink or two in him. I was good

enough at my job that I probably wouldn’t need alcohol insurance, but I liked to make sure all of my
bases were covered.

Ian drained half the glass as he approached the camera. “Tonight I’m your friend,” he replied,

giving his mess of hair a swift shake. It was the kind of a hair a girl weaved her fingers through and
gave a swift tug in the bedroom. Like most of my Targets, there was something appealing about him.
Something that made him like a moth-to-a-flame for women and, had I just been another woman to
stumble into the artsy, mysterious Ian Hendrik, I probably would have been attracted to him. But I
knew what flowed beneath the surface. I knew who he was and what he did. I knew he’d promised an
eternity of faithfulness to one woman only to break that promise in as many ways as it could be
broken.

Ian Hendrik was about as appealing to me as a vacationing in Antarctica.
“And what about tomorrow night?” I lifted an eyebrow and gave him an expectant look.
Ian grinned as he adjusted a few dials on his camera. “We can be whatever you want us to be

tomorrow night.”

Precisely.
When he moved to adjust his lens, I grabbed the tie on my trench coat and gave it a tug. I might

have been there for a photo-shoot, but I wasn’t allowing any picture taking. The only pictures Eves
willingly allowed of us with the Target were the ones the Contact took on Sheet night. I didn’t want to
be anything more than a memory when I disappeared. I sure as hell didn’t want the Target to have
close ups of my face.

Once the belt was undone, I slipped out of the coat and threw it off to the side. I had time to turn

around and get situated on the stool before Ian looked up from his incessant camera fiddling. When he
did, as expected, his mouth dropped open before he caught himself. He went from shocked to
expectant in one-point-two seconds. It was an impressive transformation.

“The last woman who showed up at my door wearing nothing but a trench coat wasn’t here to be

photographed,” he said, running his eyes up and down me.

I choked back what I wanted to reply with and reminded myself I was supposed to be a teenager.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He wet his lips as I crossed my legs. “That means you’re the kind of girl who skips right to dessert.”
“And what makes you think I’m that kind of girl?”
He shoved his hands in his front pockets and approached. “Because I’m that kind of guy.”
At least he had one thing right.
“Okay. So what does this whole ‘dessert, that kind of girl, that kind of guy’ conversation have to do

with me getting photographed?” I ignored his bedroom eyes and boyish smirk. The last time I’d been
affected by that look, I’d been a lot younger. And more naive.

“It means we can skip the pretenses and get to why you’re really here.”
The skin between my eyebrows creased. “To get photographed, like you promised, is why I’m really

here.”

“And you’re naked on a stool because?” His grin crept higher on one side.
“Because I Googled your work, and at least half of the pictures I found were full-on nudes.” I tilted

my head. “Everyone knows there isn’t a single model who got where she did without baring it all at
first.” I’d worked with enough Clients who’d been former models to know that was a true story.

“And screwing a few of her photographers on her cat-clawing climb to the top,” he added, stopping

in front of me. When his hand affixed to the stool on either side of me, he leaned in.

I shoved his chest, channeling my inner teenage diva. “Eww!” I curled my nose and gave him

another shove when he leaned back in. “Get off of me!”

After the second shove, he stepped back. “Please. It’s a little late to play the innocent card. You’ve

probably been with as many guys as I’ve been with girls.”

Hopping off of the stool, I marched over to the trench coat on the floor and slid back into it.

“Maybe. But I’ve never been with a guy who wanted to exchange photographs for sex,” I said,
cinching the coat belt tight.

He gave a lazy shrug like it really wasn’t a big deal at all.
I skimmed my eyes down him. “Or been with a guy old enough to be my dad.”
Yep, that right there was the greatest insult I could have thrown at him. I might as well have

punched him between the legs from the way the wind rushed out of him. He didn’t say another word,
probably because, in his current state, words were impossible.

I made my way for the door. Thankfully, getting out was much easier than getting in. As I marched

down the hall toward the elevator, a smile settled into place. A genuine one. The Target was in just the
right place. Exactly where I needed him to be. A man like Ian Hendrik needed to be beat down before I
could build him back up—like husband like wife—and from that expression, he’d never hit rock
bottom before I beat him down there.

I wanted to be done with Ian Hendrik. I wanted to wrap that one up quickly. Not only because he

was a slimeball of a special quality, but because the sooner I finished with him, the sooner I could
move on to the Errand I really wanted to be working.

The sooner revenge could be served with a side of merciless reciprocation.

I ALWAYS HATED the Errands where I posed as a teenager. For obvious reasons, of course, but

also because it meant the car I raced around town in wasn’t the European, luxury make I was
accustomed to. Seattle’s ride was a sporty Acura coupe. It was a zippy little thing, but it left a lot to be
desired.

I’d barely made it two blocks from Ian’s studio when my G phone chimed. The woman had a sixth

sense when it came to when her Eves could be reached.

“G’day, Sheila G,” I greeted in my best Down Under accent.
A sigh followed. “Are you ever going to answer the phone normally when I call?”
“I don’t know. Are you ever going to call to discuss normal things?” I smirked as I punched the gas

at the on-ramp.

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, this is normal,” she replied.
The day I ever started feeling like what we said and did was “normal” was the day I handed in my

resignation. No matter how little or much I had stashed in my accounts.

“To what do I owe the honor of a phone call only a couple days after an in-person visit?” If G was

trying to micro-manage me after years of basically letting me run my own show, that wasn’t going to
work. “I haven’t closed the Hendrik Errand if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s not why I’m calling, but since you brought it up, how is Mr. Hendrik?”
My mood darkened just thinking about him. “Let me put it this way—he’s the kind of man who

makes me wish I’d been born with wiring that swung for the other team.”

G chuckled a few notes. “That applies to every Target we’ve ever worked, my dear.”
Words to live by . . .
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Our Ten is what’s up.”
My heart stopped, then thudded back to life—and not in the romantic, lovey-dovey way. Pretty

much the opposite of that. “Henry?” I bit my tongue and slapped my thigh, but I couldn’t take back
that one word.

G was silent for a few moments, making me slap my thigh again. If I kept making that kind of

elementary mistake, I would lose the Errand before I’d even gotten my butt to the Greet.

“Since when have you started calling a Target by his first name before you’ve even met him?”
Since never was my immediate response. “Since we landed a Ten, and I’m in a bit of unchartered

waters. I’m a wee bit excited.” I wondered if my answer sounded as fabricated as it felt. “So shoot
me.”

“I just might if you make a mess of this one,” G replied, sounding every bit as patronizing as she

could. “This is a big Errand, I get that. If you’re going to make some slips, just be sure they’re with
me, not with Mr. Callahan. We can’t afford even one slip with the Target in an Errand this big.”

She wasn’t telling me anything I already didn’t know, so I stayed silent. My role in that Errand

would be especially tricky because I wasn’t only deceiving the Target. I was also deceiving G.

G continued. “I just heard from the Client that Mr. Callahan’s business trip ended sooner than

anticipated. His flight just landed.”

“Yes?”
“So guess which red-eye you’re taking late tonight?”
From one Errand straight into the next. If that kind of back-and-forth was to be expected, I’d need

to be careful to keep my Errands straight. “The one from Seattle to San Francisco?”

“Your flight leaves in an hour,” she replied. “You’d better hustle.”
Instead of taking the exit I was planning on, I kept speeding down the freeway toward SEA-TAC.

“Hustling.” I felt a fresh surge of adrenaline trickle into my veins. “What do you want me to do about
the Hendrik Errand?” I wouldn’t have minded too much if she said to put it in the brain delete folder
and forget about it, but that wasn’t our style. The Eves’ reputation hadn’t been built by bailing on
Errands; it had been built by closing them out.

“Mr. Callahan is only stateside for a couple of days before flying out of the country on another

business trip,” G replied. “Use these couple of days to study his routines, maybe even to stage the
Greet if you think the timing’s right. You’re on the first plane back to Seattle once Mr. Ten gets on
his.”

“Sounds like I’ll be racking up plenty of frequent flyer miles,” I joked, keeping in the sigh that

wanted to be released. Back and forth, working multiple Errands simultaneously, exacting revenge on
an ex-flame who happened to be a powerful, married billionaire . . . It was enough to make a girl want
to curl up and hibernate.

“Fifty-eight minutes,” G said in a sing-song voice before the line went dead.
Normal conversation? Hell, I could have been appeased with a normal goodbye.
I’d cruised into SEA-TAC, parked the Acura, and was boarding flight 3910 to San Francisco fifty

minutes later. I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back, my purse, and my briefcase. Clothes

could be purchased; toiletries could be tracked down. But revenge . . . that couldn’t wait.

I slipped into an oddly peaceful sleep before the plane lifted from the runway.

I WAS RUNNING on two hours of sleep, and I had never felt more energized. Revenge was an odd
thing—it could motivate a person like nothing else. It was my opinion that people who lacked
motivation in life had a deficit of revenge. That wasn’t my problem, though. When it came to revenge,
I had an abundant surplus.

G hadn’t only rented a swanky condo on the beach for me; there was a flashy red vintage Mustang

parked outside of the condo. It was a convertible and mint. Plus, it was fast. I didn’t need to look
under the hood to make sure. Some things were obvious.

Since it was almost sunrise by the time I’d showered and changed, I didn’t have time to familiarize

myself with my sweet new pad. If I wanted to catch Henry alone, I knew just where to find him. The
notes Mrs. Callahan had provided were helpful, sure, but Henry was a creature of habit. His morning
runs on the beach were one of those habits.

Five years ago, those runs spanned the San Diego coastline. I’d joined him on plenty. Fast forward a

few years and a few hundred miles of coastline to the north, and Henry Callahan and I were about to
have a deja vu moment.

G might have preferred me to take a couple of days to stand off in the distance and observe Henry,

but that was like commanding a tiger to sit and stay as a lamb trotted by. Nope, sitting on the sidelines
for any amount of time on that Errand wasn’t happening.

After I slid inside of the Mustang, I turned the key in the ignition. I couldn’t help the smile that

formed when the engine roared to life. I also couldn’t help stroking the dashboard affectionately. I’d
seen some sweet cars in my life, but that one knocked the rest out of the water. It was only temporary,
of course, and only selected because Henry’s file noted he was a fan of classic cars. But for the
second, I would forget all of that and just enjoy the random happy moment. Those were the only joys I
experienced anymore.

Once I’d shoved aside my one-sided love affair with the car, I pulled out of my parking space and

headed north. The Callahans’ oceanfront mansion was about five miles up the coast in a part of town
that looked like the sidewalks might have been paved with gold. If G ever wanted to land the Eves
another Ten, all she had to do was patrol that stretch of Northern California coastline. I doubted
anyone around there made less than Ten.

After cruising by the Callahans’ and the rest of the football stadium-sized mansions, I cruised a

couple of miles north until I came to a public park. The parking lot was quiet except for several cars
and one hippy Volkswagen van with a couple of surfboards on the roof.

The air was cool on my legs, making me glad I’d tossed on a tunic sweater. After marching a few

hundred yards down the beach, I spread out my blanket and plopped down to enjoy the morning. Or to
pretend to enjoy the morning. I wasn’t there for the morning sun—I was there to lure an ex-flame into
my web.

How did I know Henry would make the first leg of his run north? Because he’d always started his

beach runs heading north. He’d run a few miles north before turning around and heading back. He said
going south always felt a bit more uphill, and he liked saving the hard part for last.

Saving the hard part for last was a novel concept to me. Life—and all its bits and pieces—had

always seemed like the hard part to me. Except for that part. The revenge part.

That was just plain fun.

The waves had almost lulled me into a trance when a familiar figure jogging up the beach caught

my attention. His mop of hair bounced with every other step, and while his gait was familiar, his pace
had slowed. Even from a distance, I could see he’d grown slimmer. Henry had never been a muscled-
out beefcake, but he’d been a far cry from lanky thin. So time hadn’t been kind to the young runner’s
body of his I remembered. That should have made me overjoyed, but the first emotion I felt was
something that tipped the sad scale.

The moment that registered, I gave myself a hard pinch on the arm and twisted. I should have

followed it up with a slap to the face. I couldn’t believe I felt any kind of remorse for Henry Callahan.

I hoped that face that used to make me sigh and gasp—depending on its expression—had seen the

same wear and tear his body had. The closer he got, however, revealed that his face was just as sigh-
gasp-worthy as it had been when we’d first met.

Well, shit.
But I knew what was behind that face, what that person was capable of, and I wouldn’t fall for the

easy-on-the-eyes facade again.

Just as I was about to rise and “casually” meander down the beach to stage our totally coincidental

meeting, I noticed the equally familiar four-legged figure jogging by Henry’s side.

But not before the giant dog noticed me. With one low, thunderous bark, the Great Dane switched

directions and tore toward me, kicking up clumps of sand. I heard Henry call her a few times before
loping after the dog. I’d been anticipating our meeting since the night I wound up with his file, but as
Henry Callahan jogged in my direction, everything I’d planned—my entire game plan—flew off with
the sea breeze. I felt like the same tongue-tied, stupefied girl I’d been when we first met.

Yeah, that wouldn’t do.
The giant dog skidded to a stop in front of me, panting in my face and whipping its tail around. The

combination of the dog and Henry was doing a job on me. Biting into the side of my cheek, I forced
myself to conjure up the image of Henry in bed with another woman. I concentrated on that picture
until I felt pain trickle into my veins. After a couple seconds, all traces of dumbstruck were gone.
Long gone.

Just in time, too.
Henry’s jog slowed as he approached. I kept my eyes narrowed at the sand and continued to pet the

dog’s head, hoping it would calm me.

“I’m sorry,” he said.
It had been years, but I still didn’t like hearing those two words come out of his mouth. It almost

gave me PTSD.

“Molly, stop that,” Henry ordered as the dog licked me with its huge tongue. “Come here.” He

patted his legs emphatically. The dog only licked me faster.

“She still doesn’t listen to you,” I said, shifting my head out of the dog’s shadow so Henry could see

it.

The phrase you look like you’ve just seen a ghost played out before me. His relaxed smile froze

along with the rest of his body. His tanned face blanched a few shades, and he studied me like I wasn’t
real. I was careful not to look him in the eyes. I didn’t trust myself to look into those brown eyes. That
smile and those eyes had torn right through my defenses when we’d first met, and I didn’t want to
chance a repeat. So I focused on the bridge of his nose, or his eyebrows, or the dark hollows beneath
his eyes. Anything was preferable to looking into Henry Callahan’s eyes again.

“Eve?” he said at last, sounding as dumbstruck as he looked. “Evie?”
I internally cringed. No one had called me by my given name in years—at least not as a name and

not a profession—and it hit me with the impact of a wrecking ball. No, the irony that my name
matched my career field wasn’t lost on me. I was swimming in a sea of irony.

“Henry,” I said slowly, working up a smile that fell flat. Letting the Errand get personal was making

me weak, but it was also what would keep my strong. When the Errand got long and arduous—as G
and I both knew it would—the knife of revenge would keep me going strong. It was a first, but I’d
have to strike a balance between the personal and the impersonal. That was the only way it would
work. I tried on another smile. That one stayed in place and didn’t feel so artificial. “Long time no
see.”

Then he did something I didn’t expect. He kneeled beside me, shouldering his way past Molly, and

wrapped both arms around me. He pulled me close. It was painful at first, like his touch was
radioactive, and then I started to melt. In fact, I felt a sob threatening to choke out of my mouth.

What the hell? Who was I, and where was the best Eve in the business?
Ahh, that’s right. Melting under the embrace of an ex who’d nailed another woman in the bed we

used to share. If it wasn’t already apparent, I really was a lost cause.

“What are you doing?” I whispered after making sure no sobs would escape. I might have unfrozen

beneath his arms, but I certainly wasn’t idiot enough to return his embrace.

He squeezed me just a bit harder before tilting his head toward my ear. “What you didn’t give me a

chance to do the last time I saw you.” His voice was that same mixture of soft and strong. “To
apologize.”

I flinched and tried to weave out of his embrace. “I seem to remember a long string of I’m sorrys as

you chased after me with a sheet wrapped around your waist and another girl’s lipstick on your neck.”

Dammit. Leading with the whole “bitter bitch” act would certainly not work me into his better

graces.

Henry let go, gave me a sad smile, and plopped down next to me as he let out a long breath. “You

ran away that day, and I never saw you again. You never gave me a chance to explain.”

I exhaled sharply. “Trust me, what I walked in on was all the explanation I needed.”
And strike two. One more, and I would be out of the game. Since I seemed incapable of saying

anything without a bitter bite to it, I just had to stay quiet or practice that whole think-before-you-
speak thing.

“Evie—”
“Eve,” I interrupted, flashing him a look. “You don’t get to call me Evie anymore.”
He sighed, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Eve. I know it’s all probably just a bunch of shallow

words to you now, but if you’d ever be willing to give me the opportunity to explain, I’d love the
chance to.”

I bit my tongue and took a moment before replying. “In all fairness, Henry, your explanation could

include your body being invaded by an alien and you having no control of it, and that wouldn’t change
anything.”

That was the truth. The why behind his actions wouldn’t change where we ended up. It didn’t change

the person I was or the person he was. Explanations, in my opinion, were always too little, too late.
Men who kept it in their pants in the first place didn’t need explanations.

“You’re right. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything.” His gaze shifted from the brightening ocean to

me. I didn’t need to look into his eyes to feel their intensity. “But maybe it would change everything.”

He’d always been good with words. However, that wasn’t my first rodeo with Henry Callahan, and I

knew all of his tricks. Neither his words nor the way he said them would make my breath catch ever
again.

Since that topic of conversation was like trying to weave through a field of land mines, I diverted

the conversation. Patting the dog’s head—she was now resting beside me—I smiled at her. That smile
I didn’t have to fake. “How’s Molly girl doing?”

After a few moments, Henry followed me down the topic-shifting path. “Getting old.” He scratched

her barrel-sized belly, making her back legs flap in the air. “I’m not sure which one of you recognized
the other first.”

“It was probably me. It’s hard to forget the mug of a dog who chewed through every pair of shoes in

your closet when she was a puppy.”

True story. Although to ensure we knew she loved us both equally, she chewed through every one of

Henry’s, too.

“She still has one of your old sneakers tucked in her bed. It’s so ratty and holey, I keep waiting for

it to disintegrate, but I don’t doubt Molly’d take my hand off if I tried to take it away.”

She still had a piece of me. A piece of me—old, ratty, and about-to-disintegrate as it was—was still

in Henry’s life. I couldn’t decide how I felt about that, so I stayed quiet and let Henry pick up the
slack in the awkward silence.

“Are you going to bite my head off if I ask you a question?” he asked.
I stared at the horizon and lifted a shoulder. “That depends on the question.”
“What are you doing here?”
That was a loaded question. I had so many answers to that question, all of them true, that I had to

sort through a few responses before I decided on an appropriate one. “Here at the beach at an unholy
hour or here in Northern California?” I casually scooted a bit farther away from him. I didn’t know if
he’d done it deliberately or not, but he’d sat a little too close.

“Both heres.”
Of course both heres.
“I’m here this morning because I couldn’t sleep and thought a walk along the beach would be nice,

and I’m here in Northern California for work.” Both answers were true, although I might have omitted
some of the details.

“Work? Where? How long now?”
He was just as curious and unabashed as I remembered. It was endearing. It was also enraging.
Keep things vague, I reminded myself. “I’m contracting for a software development company. It’s

about a six-month contract that I just started.”

“I probably know every little start-up and giant software empire in the state. Who are you working

for?”

Your wife. I lifted an eyebrow in answer.
He smiled into the sand and gave a nod. “What’s the project?”
You. I lifted my other eyebrow.
He chuckled that time. “So secretive. This must be something cutting edge. Or else you’re working

for the government.”

“Or maybe I’m working for one of your competitors,” I said, realizing my slip one second too late.
Of course, Henry didn’t miss it. The skin between his eyebrows lined. “What makes you think I’ve

got competitors in the software industry?”

Dammit. I’d had no contact with Henry since our junior year of college. Other than knowing he was

the kind of computer geek-slash-genius who made Microsoft’s software engineers look like a bunch of
bush leaguers, I shouldn’t know anything about Henry’s post-college career. And I wouldn’t have if I
hadn’t studied and memorized every little detail in the file his wife had put together for me.

It was a good thing I’d been trained to be quick on my feet. A small smile lifted into place.

“Because you were programming C++ in your sleep when you were in first grade. If you don’t own
your own company that other companies can only dream about competing with, then you must have
had a lobotomy somewhere along the way.” I had to pause and suck in a breath before I could get out
the next part. “The boy I knew was destined for greatness.”

Those words stung for two reasons. One, because I hated saying them despite knowing any man,

every man, craved people believing they were destined for something great. And two, because at one
time, I’d believed it wholeheartedly. Henry Callahan was a guy anyone could have a one-minute
conversation with and walk away knowing big things were on the horizon for him.

As expected, his expression softened a bit as his smile lifted higher. The pallor of his skin seemed

to brighten as his shoulders lifted an inch or two, like a heavy pack had just been removed. “You’re
right about one of those two things. I was programming C++ in first grade. But the whole destined for
greatness thing . . . that’s been gone for a while now.”

The sadness in his voice was unmistakable. The weight returned to his shoulders as the fresh color

drained from his face.

“Why’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious. Nothing in Henry’s file gave away that he’d been brought

to his proverbial knees somewhere along the way, so why did he look as though he’d never been
lower?

“Long story,” he said around a sigh. His eyes made their way to me again. I almost shifted under

their scrutiny.

I tried a small laugh to diffuse the intensity. It failed. “And you say I’m the mysterious one?” I

laughed another few notes. Not. Working. “What happened to the open book of a guy I remember?”
And, obviously, the open bed of a guy policy.

“Everything.” His voice was as strong as it was weak. Everything about Henry was different, yet the

same. He was a ghost of the man I remembered.

But then, I was a ghost of the girl I’d been, too. Life had turned us into shadows.
Okay, enough with the heavy. “So what have you been up to? Besides being mysterious?”
“And other than programming C++ in my sleep?”
He joined me halfway through my laugh. It was an honest-to-goodness one that time, which made

me ache all over again. Laughing with Henry brought back so many good memories, it was painful.

“After college, I started up a little software development company.” He gave a half shrug.
He was still modest, or humble, or exceptional at keeping up the act. “And that start-up stayed little

for how long? A year? Maybe two?”

Henry smiled into the sand. “We went public eight months after opening.”
From start-up, to going public, to being worth billions.
“Underachiever,” I mumbled.
“What about you? What have you been up to since”—I didn’t miss him casually glancing at my left

hand—“that day you seemed to fall off the face of the earth?”

You mean the same day I found you naked in our bed with a strange woman? Go me for keeping my

biting remarks to myself. Progress.

“I transferred schools, finished my degree, and have been contracting ever since.” All true. My

career just didn’t include sitting in front of a computer like I knew Henry believed.

“Anything you’ve been up to besides work?” Yet another glance at my left hand.
I don’t know if he was expecting a ring to magically appear, or wondering if one had been there

recently, or just remembering the engagement ring he’d gotten me years ago. “I’m not married. Nor
have I been, nor do I plan on it anytime in the future.”

His eyebrows came together. “Why not?”
I exhaled. “The stars haven’t aligned.” Sarcasm at its finest.
“Not why aren’t you married.” Henry nudged me lightly. “Why don’t you want to in the future?”
An image seared into my mind leapt to the forefront. I almost winced. “Because this one guy I used

to love turned me off to the whole concept.”

Henry didn’t hold back his wince. It was so intense, it looked painful. Once he’d recovered, his

mouth opened, and then his phone buzzed in his shorts’ pocket. He slid the phone out, glanced at it,

and sighed.

“Bad call?” I guessed.
Hitting ignore, he slid it back into his pocket. “They all are these days.”
“Is your company taking a hit due to the economy?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t. Henry’s

company was one of the few IT companies thriving in a floundering market.

“Not . . . exactly.” Still leading with the obnoxious humble thing. “We’ve been extremely

fortunate.”

“So what’s the deal with all of the bad calls?”
His face lined like he was searching for just the right way to put it.
“Mo’ money, mo’ problems?” I suggested.
He smiled. “Something like that.” To prove it, Henry’s phone buzzed to life again.
“Looks like you’re busy.” I rose and dusted the sand off of me. “I’ll let you get back to your money

and problems.”

Henry popped up beside me, punching ignore on his phone again. “I could use a sharp tech head on

my team, Eve. Whatever hourly rate that top secret company you’re contracting for is giving you, I
could double.”

I lifted my hand.
“Triple—”
“Thank you,” I said, cutting him off, “and tempting, but . . .” I caught myself right before I tacked

on I’d bet your wife wouldn’t love an ex coming to work for you. Technically, I didn’t know that Henry
was married, and I didn’t miss the absence of a wedding ring on his left hand. Whether that was
because he didn’t like to exercise with it on, or because he’d forgotten it on the nightstand, or because
he’d lost it, or because of any one of the dozens of possible explanations, one thing was certain: I
needed to get and keep a grip. One slip, and it was all over.

“Tempting but . . .?” He was waiting.
I cleared my throat and stepped back. The wind had shifted, and at that proximity, I could smell

Henry, the same smells I’d fallen in love with. “Tempting but, you know me. I can’t ditch out on a
project early. I have to see it through, or I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Still stubborn?”
“Always.”
Henry studied me with a small smile for a few seconds. He pulled a wallet from his pocket and slid

a business card from it. “If you change your mind, here’s my card. Or, you know, if you ever just want
to get together and catch up. That has my private number. Feel free to use it.”

I took the card and shot him a smile. Less than five minutes into the Greet and I already had a

business card with his private phone number. Maybe the Callahan Errand would go quicker than I
expected.

“It was nice seeing you, Evie. I mean . . . Eve.” Henry started heading back down the beach. He

patted his legs for Molly, but all she did was rest her head on her paws and close her eyes.

I had to give her a few nudges before she’d go with him, although she wouldn’t leave until she’d

given me one last drooly lick. I probably shouldn’t have watched them continue their jog down the
beach, but I did. They were the only part of my past I’d had contact with in years. At one time, they’d
been the most important part of my life. Sighing, I finally shifted my gaze away. That was no time for
nostalgia.

He was long out of earshot when I replied. “See you soon, Henry.”

IT WAS THE first day of spring quarter my freshman year of college. The instructor had told us to

pair up with someone we could work with throughout the semester. Being the only female in the class,

I knew I had as good a chance of getting asked to be someone’s partner as I did of curing world
hunger. At least, being asked to be someone’s partner without the expectation of sleeping with him.
I’d learned during the fall semester that men had a general sort of entitlement when it came to IT, and
the only role in it appropriate for a woman was a receptionist.

I was sitting at my lab table, head propped in my hand, partnerless, when someone stopped beside

me. But he wasn’t just “someone.” He was Henry Callahan. Everyone on campus knew who he was.
He was notorious with the girls because he was easy on the eyes and had more money than God, and
he was a favorite with the guys because wherever Henry went, so did the girls.

We were both majoring in IT but had only shared a few classes. The only times I saw Henry

Callahan was in passing or on the other side of the room with the “haves” at a party, while I hovered
with the “have nots.”

“Hey, there,” he said, flashing a smile that made my heart drop.
“Hey, there,” I replied, qualifying for the worst response in the history of greetings. While I sat

there, pondering why Henry Callahan was standing in front of me with a smile, I tried to come up with
something to say. Something other than Hey, there.

“Can I be your partner?” he asked.
Even at the time, his words had struck me. He wasn’t only open to partnering up with the only

female—even though every other male in the class assumed my gender made me an IT moron—he
was asking. Asking me if I wanted to be his lab partner, not the other way around.

“If you don’t mind being saddled with a social pariah for the whole quarter”—I eyed the stool

beside me—“by all means.”

Henry shrugged and sat. “The only reason I’m not a social pariah is because my granddad’s name is

on one of the buildings here, so I think this is meant to be.”

Highly doubtful. Henry didn’t exactly qualify as hottie-of-the-year, but he had an unassuming

attractiveness that got a girl’s attention, and he also had one of those personalities that seemed to
make friends everywhere he went. Having money certainly wasn’t the only thing that kept social
pariah and Henry Callahan apart. The list was long.

Twisting in his seat, he held out his hand. “I’m Henry—”
“I know who you are,” I interjected, biting my tongue a few words too late.
His smile curved into place. “You do, eh?”
My mind, thankfully, worked quickly even back then. “It’s kind of hard to not know the person

singlehandedly responsible for throwing the class’s curve. I’m Eve—”

“I know who you are,” he repeated, his eyes gleaming. “We’ve had four classes together, you like to

sit in the back row, you’re the best JAVA programmer in the department, and you wear red every
Friday.”

To say I’d been shocked Henry knew my name was an understatement. Realizing he actually knew

details about me . . . well, that was a bit staggering.

“You’ve never even said hi to me,” I said.
“I know,” he replied, “but today, I’m feeling brave.”
My eyebrows came together. “What does bravery have to do with saying Hey to someone?”
That was the moment; the first time his eyes locked on mine in a way that floored me. It left me

breathless as it made my heart sputter to a stop.

“When it comes to a girl like you, bravery is always required.”

I WAS RACKING up some frequent flyer miles. I felt like I’d spent as much time in the air as I had
on the ground that week. After receiving a clipped call from G to let me know that Henry had to leave
on a last-minute business trip (yet again), I was on a plane back to Seattle. I had to close the Hendrik
Errand tres vite. G’s expression, not mine.

Given Ian Hendrik was a special brand of douche, getting him into bed would be easier than the

Silva Errand. Knowing that was a blessing. And a curse. Seattle was waiting for me just the way I’d
left it: bleak and gray. The more time I spent there, the more I understood why so few faces had
smiles. The weather really didn’t bolster smiling.

As soon as I stepped foot off of the plane, I hightailed it for the parking garage. I’d been in a rush

since my last night in Miami. My heart had been thudding at warp-speed ever since. I knew exactly
where Ian Hendrik would be, and in order to get the case closed quickly, I needed to be there, too. If
all went as planned, I’d contact Mrs. Hendrik that evening with the ceremonious S so she could get her
Contact ready for the where and when yet TBD tomorrow night.

Once I slipped inside of the Acura, I tore through the garage and headed south. Ian wasn’t only a

fashion photographer, a philandering monkey, and the cockiest coward I’d met, he also liked to try his
hand at the amateur race track in the Sound. So what did that piece of information mean to me?

It meant I was the newest member at Speedway Sound Track and a late entrant to that night’s

twilight race. If I’d known going into the Errand that I’d be racing the Target, I would have requested
something with more horsepower and faster get-up-and-go. The Acura was fast, but I wasn’t just
racing—I needed to win. In order to get under Ian’s skin in a way that would drive him positively nuts,
I had to not only “coincidentally” be interested in his hobbies, I had to kick his ass. Men hated that as
much as they loved it. A woman beating them at their own game was something they couldn’t quite
decide how they felt about. While Ian was trying to figure it out, I was going to help him make up his
mind.

It was almost twilight when I zipped through Speedway Sound’s front entrance. There were about a

dozen cars lined up at the start line, and a good chunk of the grandstands were occupied with loud
fans.

Ian’s car wasn’t hard to miss. It was the biggest and flashiest, plus it had a throng of scantily and

scandalously clad women around it. Could the guy get any more cliché?

The answer to that question was always yes.
A shrill siren sounded, and one by one, the car fanatics and the driver groupies made their way

toward the stands. Including my Acura, a total of ten cars were racing that heat. All of the other
drivers were men. A few of them shot smiles full of schmuckery at me, like it was cute I would even
consider myself worthy to race against those giants of men. The ironic thing? Those racing “gods” had
been tossed into a middle heat in an amateur racing league on the outskirts of Seattle.

We weren’t in Daytona, people.
I studied the track, rolled my eyes, and decided to have a little fun with them. As the line of cars

revved their engines at the start line, I stalled mine. I didn’t just stall the engine; I practically gave
myself whiplash from the force of it.

In addition to the drivers thinking I was about five rungs out of my league, most everyone in the

stands who’d witnessed my rookie mistake was chuckling and shaking their head.

Ian was several cars over from me, so I didn’t know if he’d seen what had happened or who’d been

behind the wheel. If he hadn’t already spotted me, he was about to when he crossed the finish line
several seconds behind me.

G saw to it that her Eves had some defensive, as well as offensive, driving skills, but I’d learned

how to race cars back home. G never hesitated to use my driving skills to her advantage. It was just a
hobby, never a passion. That’s why it really ticked off my gearhead guy friends when I’d beat them
every single time. Losing to a girl didn’t piss them off as much as losing to someone who didn’t live,
sleep, and breathe RPMs and black and white checkered flags.

You could say it was one of those God-given gifts that had seemed like a big waste until I became

an Eve. The skill to drive as if all of hell’s demons had just been set loose upon me was going to help
me get that Errand done. It would help me walk away and try for the rest of my life to forget Ian
Hendrik.

I’d barely made it up to the start line before the siren screamed. I wasn’t the first off the line, but as

I powered through the gears and encouraged the Acura to its top limits, I knew I’d be the first to cross
the finish line. Ian was a decent driver. He was vying with the number thirteen car for the lead
position. They were so focused on each other they didn’t even notice me fly by. Glancing in the
rearview mirror, their expressions were priceless. It was an impressive mixture of shock and awe.

As soon as I crossed the finish line, I tilted my head back and hooted. After pulling off to the side of

the track, I checked the rearview again. I gave my hair a tease and added a coat of cherry lip gloss
before sliding out of the car.

The other cars were staggered along the edge of the track, and every last head was turned my way.

When the remaining few who hadn’t witnessed my grand stall out saw I was a woman, their bitter
expressions turned more to shock.

Yeah, because a woman kicking your ass in anything is the most inconceivable thing in the world.
If Ian wasn’t there, I would have stuck my tongue out at each one of them. However, Ian was most

definitely there and, presently, sauntering my way.

Game time.
“Aren’t you just full of surprises.” Ian’s smile slid into place, the one that tipped the menacing

scale. “I didn’t know you were into racing.”

I crossed my arms and leaned into the side of my car. “You know hardly anything about me.”
His eyes flashed in the encroaching darkness. “That’s not true. I know what you look like without

your clothes on.”

I almost rolled my eyes. I came that close. “What does seeing me in my birthday suit have to do

with knowing anything about me?”

One side of his smile tipped higher. “Everything.”
Getting into an argument with him over that was a failed effort. To Ian Hendrik, I suppose seeing a

woman naked did tell him everything he needed to know about her.

“So what place did you get?” Time to put the guy back in his place and, from the way that smile of

his ironed out, that one question did just that.

“Well, I would have taken first if a late entry bluffing her skills at the start line wouldn’t have

shown up.”

“You’re so sure of that, eh? First place if I hadn’t beaten you to it?”
“So certain I’d bet my own life on it.”
Ian Hendrik was a bigger idiot than I’d given him credit for. I’d rectify that immediately.
“Are you one of those people who always take first place or one of those who always thinks they

deserve it even when they don’t?”

The twisted smile was back. “Both.”
I exhaled and shook my head.

“Got any tips for how I can keep my winning streak up?”
“Yeah.” My eyes locked with his. “Don’t go up against me.”
A flash of excitement rushed through his eyes as he studied me. I didn’t know what he was thinking,

but whatever it was, it was intense.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked. The staring match was getting old fast.
“The truth or the filtered truth?”
“The truth. The cold, hard one,” I replied.
Ian’s eyes landed on the hood of my Acura. “Right now, I’m thinking about throwing you down on

the hood, ripping off your panties, and giving you the best fuck you’ve ever had.”

At least he was honest.
“Got any truth right in between filtered and cold, hard?” I asked, putting my plan together.
Ian stroked his chin, watching me like I was a rabbit to be snared. “Yeah, I do,” he said, leaning in

so close, I could feel the hard and hot truth against my body. “I want to fuck you. And I know you
want to fuck me, too. So why don’t we cut this dance early and get it out of our systems already? I’m
not the kind of man who does delayed gratification well.”

No man did delayed gratification well. Some just knew how to grin and bear it. The men I worked

with hadn’t honed that skill.

“Maybe I do want to fuck you. And maybe I don’t,” I replied, stepping aside to show he couldn’t

manhandle me at will. The only way he could manhandle me was if I gave him permission. “But I will
make a bet with you.”

“Oh?” That flash of excitement was in his eyes again. “What kind of bet?”
My eyes shifted to the hood of my car. It was a perfect plan, a way to get the philandering

Neanderthal out from behind locked steel doors. “I’ll let you fuck me on the hood of my car.”

Ian waited a few seconds. After another moment, his patience ran out. “There was an if condition in

your tone. So give me the if condition before I convince you you don’t need or want an if when it
comes to my dick working its magic.”

Dicks didn’t work magic. The men behind them did. To date, I’d only known one worthy of

claiming the “making magic” skill, and that was the same man I hated to hell and back.

“If—if—you beat me in our next race”—I quirked an eyebrow as I glanced at the prominent bulge

in his pants—“I’ll let you fuck me on the hood of my car.”

“If?”
“If.”
Ian grinned. “You’ve got that all wrong, Ally. It’s not if I beat you, it’s when I beat you.”
“When you beat me?” I repeated, giving him a skeptical look. “We’ll see.”
“Yes. Yes, we will.” Ian grinned widely before patting my car’s hood and heading back to his.

I WAS JUST about to step into the shower to wash away both the actual and figurative filth from

the race when my G phone buzzed.

I’d thought I would be flattered she was checking in on me so much. Now that it was reality, it was

just plain annoying. I knew what I was doing and didn’t have to be handheld the entire way—with a
Ten as a Target or not.

I didn’t have a chance to issue my usual not-so-usual greeting.
“You’re leaving Seattle.”
I cinched the tie of my robe. “When?”
“The first plane out you can catch. Let’s see . . . you’re at the Four Seasons, thirty minutes give or

take traffic from the airport. Shall I book you for the ten or ten-thirty?”

“G, I just flew back today, and you want me out again tonight? You know I’m willing to do

whatever it takes, but can’t it wait twenty-four hours until I close the Hendrik Errand? What’s the rush
anyways?” I flopped into the chair outside the bathroom and eyed my suitcase. At least I hadn’t
unpacked yet.

“I don’t care about the Hendrik Errand. We’re dropping it. Right now, I need you giving one

hundred percent to the Callahan Errand.”

I’d officially heard it all. “Could you repeat that because I swear I just heard you say we’re

dropping an Errand. Since we’ve never dropped an Errand, since I’ve never even considered dropping
an Errand, I know I must have heard you wrong.”

Eves didn’t drop Errands. Hell, we rarely failed an Errand, let alone burned the file and ran, and

damn if I was going to be the first to do so.

“You heard me right, Eve. Dispose of the file, check out, and get your ass on a plane.”
“Mr. Callahan just left to fly halfway around the world. He’s probably just landed, and for some

reason, you think he’s going to hold a two-minute meeting in the airport then fly back in time for
lunch tomorrow?” I wasn’t upset about the Callahan Errand taking up so much energy; I was upset G
had just ordered me to hightail it away from another Errand. In my book, that was unacceptable.

We remained in business because of our reputation, and if word got around that we were ditching

out on Errands, the Eves would go from dining on filet one week to ramen the next. I’d dined on
enough ramen in my lifetime to put an entire college to shame.

“Mr. Callahan is still expected to be out of the country until the day after tomorrow. Right now, my

concerns aren’t about him directly.”

“Would you care to share your concerns with the Eve you’ve assigned to the Errand?”
G stayed silent long enough for me to know I was deep into faux pas territory. As rule, her Eves did

what she said, no questions asked. She said march, and we didn’t stop until she said so. She said wag
your tail, and we faked it until we made it. The only reasons I could get away with testing that rule
were because I was one of her favorites and I was assigned to the biggest Errand to ever fall into her
lap.

“No, I wouldn’t care to share my concerns with you at all,” she started. I could feel her glare

through the phone. “But since I know you’re going to make this hard on me until I tell you, I’ll get it
out of the way.”

I would have thanked her if I wasn’t positive it would have only pissed her off more.
“I’ve heard through what you might call the grapevine that Mrs. Callahan is shopping other I Clause

agencies. She doesn’t care who or how someone lures her husband into bed, just as long as it’s soon.”

“Whoa, G, hold your I Clause horses.” I got up to pour myself a glass of wine. From the sounds of

it, alcohol was a good idea. “Did you just say other agencies? As in agencies like the Eves?”

Two long seconds of silence, and then, “Precisely like, other than the name.”
Good thing the wine glass was big, because I just kept pouring. “How long have you known about

these other agencies?”

“Sweetpea, what do you think gave me the brilliant idea to get into this line of business? I didn’t

wake up with this brilliant plan to bring the philandering husbands of the United States to their
financial knees.”

I don’t know what it was, or that it was intelligible, but something must have come out of my mouth

because G kept going.

“I’m a business woman, Eve. Not an inventor. I took something I knew was already on the market

and made it better. Plain and simple. Did you really think we were the only ones out there doing
something like this? You and I both know there are enough cheating bastards out there with wedding
bands on their fingers that ten thousand women could be working simultaneous Errands, and we’d still
be understaffed.”

I suddenly felt rather stupid. Like a naive little girl. I’d always assumed that we Eves were the only

ones because . . . well . . . because we were the only ones. Who else would be up to the task of dealing
with the world’s filth?

Apparently, according to G, there were plenty of us willing to deal with the filth. Even I wasn’t

naive enough to believe that was all due to the ultimate payout and not to the actual job details. “I
guess I never even considered it . . .”

“That’s fine. Your job isn’t to consider it; that’s mine. Your job is to do what you’ve been trained to

do, what you know you need to do, and what I tell you to do.” G exhaled slowly. “How about a little
more doing and a little less considering?”

“So what exactly would you like me to do if another Eve”—I had no idea what to call the girls who

worked for those other agencies—“has been assigned to Mr. Callahan? Stick my tongue out at her?
Pull out her recent weave? Compare breast size?” I cut it short only because I knew I was past
pressing it with G. Long past.

“No, I want you to show her what she’s up against. I want you to prove that you are so far superior

to whatever shadow of a woman she is and make her doubt herself so badly, she either flies back to her
employer and hands in her resignation or decides to jump out the window of her top floor suite.”

Well, I’d asked for it. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I want you to put a bullet in her brain if she refuses to be intimated by your superiority. If

she doesn’t want to play nice, then neither do we.”

Okay. After working for G for over five years, I knew she was a bitch. I just didn’t know she was a .

. . bitch. “So when I’m not seducing men, you want me whacking the competition? Come on, G, get
real.”

“I think you’re the one who needs to take that advice.”
Think, Eve, think. You’re smart. Maybe not conniving like G, but smart nonetheless. You can put

together a logical argument that will appeal to her bottom-line ideologies.

“I need to finish the Hendrik Errand, G. Not for me, but for you,” I added when I heard her ready to

break into her rebuttal.

“For me? And why is finishing some run-of-the-mill Seven all about me and not you? Because

when we look at what you make compared to what I make in a year—and believe me, Eve, I look
every day—you’ve got a lot more to lose proportionately dropping this than I do.”

I didn’t need the reminder than I made close to seven figures a year, and G cashed in what I guessed

was closer to eight figures. “I’m doing this for you, G. You don’t have to believe me, but you and I
both know that if word gets around that your Eves are ditching out on Errands, your competitors will
gain a larger portion of the market share.” Thank you, Econ 101, for making me sound moderately
intelligent. “Plus, I texted the final S to Mrs. Hendrik right before you called. I’m afraid we’re past the
so-called point of no return.”

White lies. They weren’t only a part of real life; they were majorly a part of our business. Had I

texted Mrs. Hendrik the final S, along with the time and address of her husband’s upcoming demise?
No, I had not. Did G need to believe I had so I could save her, my, and her entire business’s
reputation? Yes, she did.

“And you neglected to text me the same because . . .?”
“Because you called about one hot second before I hit send.”
“Eve, I don’t like this. I don’t want our biggest Target ever to slip through our fingers because we

were so worried about cutting a Seven loose.” G’s voice sounded just as harsh, but I could tell I was
wearing her down. She was close to caving.

“Well, I don’t like it either, but it’s too late, G. The Client has been sent the final message that I’m

closing the Errand tomorrow night. For all I know, she could have already arranged it all with her

Contact. I can’t just give her a ring and say, oops, not so fast, I’m off the case. Oh, and by the way,
good luck with your cheating ass husband.”

G almost groaned. “Dammit, Eve. Why does your timing have to be so terrible?”
“Bad luck, I guess. But good thing for you I’m one of the best at what I do. You don’t have to worry

about anything going wrong with either the Hendrik or Callahan Errands. I’ve got them both.”

G was silent.
“I promise.”
When G finally did reply, her answer kind of creeped me out. Maybe it was her tone, or maybe it

was her words, or maybe it was just because I knew G wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to get on the
bad side of. “I hope that’s a promise you intend on keeping.”

BASED ON JUST the hours I was actually in Seattle, that Errand was probably a record. Not that it
was closed yet, but I didn’t doubt it would be closed in the next hour. Although it had been expedited,
it had been a cut-and-dry Errand. Actually, it had been almost too easy, but when it came to the likes
of Ian Hendrik, I’d take “too easy” because that meant spending as little time with him as possible.

It was safe to say I hated the guy. Sure, I didn’t know all of his backstory, insecurities, or the things

that make a person the way they are, but one of the luxuries of my job was that I didn’t have to. I
didn’t want, need, or have to know if his mommy had ignored him or if his daddy had packed his bags
one night and never seen him again. Backstory wasn’t my job unless it directly related to me closing
the Errand. Backstory, more times than not, created sympathy, and that was an emotion I didn’t want
anywhere around one of my Targets. That was part of the reason I’d stopped Henry from explaining
what had happened that night. I didn’t want to have any smidgeon of sympathy for him. The other part
of the reason was exactly what I’d admitted to him: It didn’t change a damn thing. The whys of what
had happened couldn’t go back and change history. Backstory was a no-no. Backstory didn’t get an
Errand closed in record time.

I sped into Sound Speedway just before eight, and I already knew Ian was waiting for me. The

anticipation of banging a girl made a guy eager . . . overzealous even. Ian tipped more that overzealous
scale. Then, of course, there was that sixth sense I had when it came to his type. They basically
emitted a run-in-the-other-direction frequency; they were that vile. But I was an Eve, and that meant I
didn’t run in the other direction. That meant I didn’t even flinch when I was neck deep in vile.

Which was exactly where I was about to go.
Ian was waiting for me at the start line, as expected. Leaning against the driver’s door of a different

car than he’d driven last night, his arms were crossed and his expression smug. One of the worst parts
of my job, other than having to sleep with those types of guys, was witnessing their expressions
ranging from smug to all-out gloat on Sheet night.

My only vindication was knowing that expression was long gone when their ass got nailed to the

wall in divorce court a few months later. I’d let Ian have his gloat. He wouldn’t have anything to gloat
over very soon.

“You must be scared my winning last night wasn’t some random stroke of luck, eh?” I called out

my window as I pulled up beside him.

“Maybe,” Ian replied, his smile tugging high on one side. “But maybe my motivations for winning

are especially high in this situation.”

Nothing like getting to screw a girl on the top of a hood to “motivate” a man. I used to believe there

was hope for mankind. After the number of men I’d dealt with as an Eve, I’d come to the conclusion
that mankind had been screwed from the beginning. “Is that the 2011 or 2012 Saleen?”

Ian peaked an eyebrow. Guys were always surprised when a woman knew about cars, like gearhead

knowledge was only reserved for someone with a dick.

“The 2012. And it’s fast.”
“Fast enough to beat me?” I hung my elbow out the window.
“It damn well better be, or I’m firing my mechanic.”
“Well”—I shrugged—“enough talk. Let’s do this.”
Ian shoved off his car and pulled open the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone’s as

eager for me to win as I am.”

On Sheet night, it was all about accommodation. It was all about getting the Target closer and

closer to the bed or, in that night’s instance, the hood of the car. It was about saying and doing
whatever it took to put it into his head that he simply had to have me. He simply wouldn’t live a full
life if he didn’t.

Ian Hendrik’s type, though, didn’t need much handholding. I could pretty much fire insult after

insult at the guy, and he’d still wind up with his pants around his ankles.

But . . . better to play it safe. I wasn’t the number one Eve in G’s little black book because I took

blatant risks. I followed the guidelines, most of the times, and if a risk was required, I made sure it
was a calculated one. “Maybe I am a little eager for you to win. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to
make you work any less hard for the win.”

Ian slid into his car, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just how eager are you?”
You know those guys who can make you skeezed out with one look? Yeah, that was Ian Hendrik.
“Why don’t you win, and then you can find out firsthand just how eager I am?” Lifting an eyebrow,

I revved the engine.

“I’m made of win, babe.” Revving his own engine, he waited for me to call the start.
Raising three fingers, I lowered one, then the next, and when the third one was down, we both

punched it off of the line. The Saleen, as predicted, exploded ahead; it wasn’t an iconic race car for
nothing. However, what advantage Ian had at the start of the race, I more than compensated for in
experience.

At the halfway point, we were almost neck and neck. When the finish line was in view, I’d taken the

lead. I could hear Ian cussing his car to hell and back even over the roar of the engines. Or at least I
could imagine it. As good as it felt last night to kick his ass at something he loved, and as good as it
felt to be kicking it just as hard when he was in one hell of a fast car, that night wasn’t about winning.

Not the kind that involved race cars anyways.
It took me two tries before I could pull back on the accelerator just enough that Ian’s Saleen slipped

by. It was my turn to mutter a string of obscenities. He might have won the race, but only by half a car
length and only because I let him. Only because it was part of a larger plan. I had to get him out into
the open to have sex with him so some third party could catch us on film so his wife, who I strongly
disliked, would come out of a divorce with more than the Dolce on her shoulder.

Most days, my job didn’t seem one hundred percent morally reprehensible. That day wasn’t one of

those days.

Hitting the brake, I checked the time on the dash. We were good. As long as the Client had gotten in

touch with the Contact and that person was there at the intended time, we were good to go. Before
stepping out of the car, I eyed the hood, sighed, then got to it. Ian practically bounded out of the
Saleen with a wide smile. He caught sight of me and that smile shifted into something more devious.
I’d brought a few mini bottles of vodka along just in case he needed some liquoring up before he
humped a girl who may or may not be legal on the hood of a car, but it didn’t look as though he
needed it.

Stopping in front of me, his hands dropped to my hips as his hips pressed into mine. Yep, definitely

didn’t need the vodka to lower his inhibitions. “So . . . just how eager are you?” he asked. He lowered
his mouth to my neck at the same time his hands fisted up the material of my dress.

I gasped in an attempt to sound surprised, but to my ears, it sounded a little forced. To Ian’s ears?

At that point, I don’t think the guy was using his ears at all. His hands and mouth were picking up the
slack, though.

“Eager. Very eager,” I breathed, pulling my dress straps down to tug it past my chest. That was

about the time Ian’s hands lowered, his fingers eagerly exploring as he moaned.

In true Sheet night fashion, I didn’t have on any underwear. No panties. No bra. No wasted time. It

was all about efficiency and speed. The sooner the Target got caught on film nailing me, the sooner I
got to get away.

“Oh, my god. You really are eager.” He moaned again when his finger moved deeper inside of me.
Shoving him away playfully, I stepped back until I felt the Acura’s bumper against my calves.

Slowly lying back, I spread myself on the warm hood and gave him a face no man could mistake. The
fuck-me expression. “So? Are you going to play with me all night, or are you going to fuck me?”

Ian wet his lips, unable to take his eyes off of the spot where my knees rocked together and apart.

When I lowered my hand to the spot he couldn’t take his eyes from, and I began gliding my finger up
and down, his zipper lowered about one second before the rest of his jeans.

“Oh, baby. I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll never be able to be with

another man without thinking about me and what I did to you.”

No guy who was actually a pro in bed had to clarify that. He wouldn’t even think it, because he just

knew. To date, I’d never met a single Target who hadn’t said something similar. In their minds, they
were the be all end all. Especially when it came to knowing what to do with their dicks.

To date, for the record, not a single one had gotten me remotely close to orgasm. None had even

made my nipples harden. I would have found crocheting baby booties more thrilling, honestly, than
having sex with any of my Targets.

That whole morally reprehensible part? It was really hitting hard that night.
Ian tugged his shirt over his head before lowering himself over me. Two more things that added up

to Ian Hendrik being a Giant Douche? He was about to drive his dick into me and he had yet to kiss
me, and . . . and he was trying to drive said dick into me without a condom.

Probably why the bastard liked his conquests young. Less to worry about in the STD arena, although

I’d run across teenagers getting twice as much action as I was, and what did Ian Hendrik care if he
knocked up one of them? He wasn’t going to raise a child when he was still one, and the word of a
married, renowned photographer would be taken over the word of a young woman his lawyer would
paint as a greedy youth trying to pin an unplanned pregnancy on a man of means. Not that such a case
would ever wind up in court in the first place. I didn’t doubt Ian would pay a conquest off before it
ever got that far.

“Easy there, Grand Prix,” I said, shoving Ian’s chest. “Suit up or get up.”
“I don’t like condoms,” Ian replied, almost panting.
“Then I hope you like not getting laid because that’s exactly what’ll happen if you don’t put one

on.”

Ian’s hand covered my breast, playing with my nipple. He wasn’t picking up what I was putting

down. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, that one.

“I didn’t realize my winning came with so many conditions,” he said, his mouth taking his hand’s

place on my breast.

“I didn’t realize a condom needed to be a condition these days. I thought that came pretty standard.

You know, like cup holders in cars. You don’t have to ask because those little buggers are expected,
not preferred.”

His tongue continued to circle my nipple as either he debated or hoped I’d change my mind. From

the handy work his mouth was not making, he certainly wouldn’t have changed my mind, even if it
could have been changed.

“Ian, I’m serious. Get off of me if you don’t have a condom or intend on using one.” I gave him

another shove to prove how serious I was. I would do few things to jeopardize an Errand, but lack of a
condom was one of them. As a hedge against Targets who “forgot” one—and with the men I dealt
with, a good percentage of them usually did—I made sure to always keep a couple handy in my purse,
clutch, dress, shoe, etc.

“Fine, but I don’t—”
Raising my leg, I slid my heel off, grabbed what I needed, and flashed the condom in his face.

“Good thing I do then.” I lifted my eyebrows and waited.

He groaned before punching the hood of my car and standing up. If a man could look like a petulant

little boy, Ian Hendrik had just nailed it. He grabbed the condom and was just moving it into position
when a bright flash surprised us both. It came from the side and a ways up in the grandstands, but I
didn’t need two guesses to know who had made it. If the grim outlook on humanity’s future didn’t kill
me, an ignorant Contact would. Who in their right mind would use a flash at a dark race track? That’s
right, no one. Which meant the Contact was a raging idiot.

“What the hell was that?” Ian grumbled, frozen as he surveyed the grandstand.
One sure way to distract a man’s attention from . . . anything, a speeding train included? Roll a

condom down his shaft.

Slowly.
With your mouth.
“Oh, hell yes, baby. Now we’re talking.” Ian’s fingers wove through my hair, and he guided me a bit

forcefully. After a few seconds, that flash and what it meant was a distant memory.

Having to be just as forceful as he was, I yanked my head away from his packaged, ready, and if I’d

been a virgin bride on my wedding night, rather disappointing dick. I lay back over the hood. Time to
get it over with.

Ian almost pounced on me, his hips frantically trying to gain purchase. Done with the swing-and-

miss routine, I grabbed hold of him and guided him the rest of the way. When he entered me, it wasn’t
slowly. Or gently.

“That feels so damn good,” he panted outside of my ear, driving a little deeper. “You’re not a virgin

are you, babe? You’re so damn tight I’m starting to wonder.”

That’s because I do more Kegels than the girlfriend of a rock band’s lead singer. I resisted the urge

to roll my eyes. I’d done that more than usual with the Hendrik Errand. “No, I’m not a virgin.” And if I
was, the last place and person I’d want to lose it with would be here and with you.

“Good. That means I don’t have to play gentle.” Grabbing my breasts with both hands, he moved

inside of me. That was my cue to go somewhere else. I knew Ian wouldn’t take long, a minute or two
max, but I didn’t want to be present for those one or two minutes. A one-minute memory of Ian
Hendrik rutting against me was enough to cause some serious psychological damage.

Right before I went to my “happy place,” I lifted my hand to the side and raised my middle finger.

Stupid Contacts. My job would be twice as easy if not for the incompetent people I dealt with along
the way.

Thankfully, my mind didn’t escape to Henry. Thankfully, that time, it wasn’t his body I felt moving

against mine. Thankfully, it wasn’t the memory of the things he’d do and say when we’d made love
that flashed into my head. I knew to be thankful for those things, but it was difficult to feel genuinely
thankful for some reason.

I guessed it was a reason I didn’t want to dive too deeply into.
When Ian shuddered in what I guessed was closer to the minute mark, I almost shoved him off of

me. As far as my part went, the Errand was done. I’d closed it successfully, and he was one Target I
couldn’t wait to put as much space between us as possible. Ian Hendrik was one of the reasons God
should never have created man in the whole creation-of-the-earth thing. Talk about a bad idea.

“So? How was it?” Ian smiled stupidly, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. “Pretty damn

fantastic, right?”

I’d already adjusted my dress and was back into the heel I’d taken off. “You really are quite the

man, Ian.”

His expression went smug. “Did I rock your world or what?”
I don’t know what it was, maybe because he was still standing buck naked in the middle of a race

track with a stupid grin on his face, or maybe it was because he thought sixty seconds of pumping was
enough to rock a girl’s world, but I almost laughed. Laughter came so close to slipping out, but I bit it
back just in time.

“Not as much as I’ve rocked yours, Ian.” Flashing him a wink, I slid into the Acura, fired it up, and

sped past Ian Hendrik with his pants still around his ankles.

THANKS TO IAN Hendrik, the one-minute-to-blast-off lover, I arrived at SEA-TAC with plenty of
time to spare. I parked the Acura, said goodbye to it, and was about to pat the hood when I thought the
better of it. That hood had seen plenty of action; no need for any more. I didn’t know who or how our
cars for each Errand were delivered and returned, but it wasn’t my concern. G took care of it, and as
long as she kept sending sweet, fast cars my way, I wouldn’t complain.

Once I’d texted the V for victory to both G and Mrs. Hendrik, I disposed of the phones as I’d been

taught, grabbed a quick victory shot of cheap tequila in the airport bar, and boarded the ten o’clock to
San Francisco. My first class seat felt especially deserved after who I’d put up with on that Errand,
and the plane hadn’t left the tarmac before I was asleep.

Henry had worked his way back into my dreams again, and even in my dream state, I knew that was

a bad thing.

It was a few weeks after our “official” meeting, and we’d become known as the lab partners to beat.

Before I’d partnered up with him, I wouldn’t have believed he had any weaknesses when it came to
programming, but Henry’s weaknesses were my strengths and his strengths were my weaknesses. We
were the IT dream team.

But that didn’t stop everyone from saying behind our backs—and a few to my face—that the only

reason we were at the top of the class was because Henry was pulling all the weight. Of course, there
were also the rumors that came along with just about any kind of male and female partnership.
Depending on the day, I was either screwing Henry as payment for being my partner, or I was a
lesbian who’d slept my way through California. I hated automatically being viewed as a man-screwer
on my way to the top, or a female one. Holy epiphany, I sure couldn’t be a straight, hardworking
woman who planned to be successful in my career.

And look at me now. Screwing men as a career. Irony, if you’re listening, eat shit and die.
Enough with the ironies; back to the dream. I was working as a computer lab assistant in a work

study program since I hadn’t come from a family who’d paid for my entire college education before I
was out of diapers. Just like any other day, I was taking my fair share of harassment from the future
country club flies. Some days it was nothing more than a vulgar sketch dropped in my lap, and some
days it wasn’t so tame. Like that day.

Baron VonStraub—yes, there were actually pricks who named their kids that—was one of the worst

offenders. He’d search me out to make my life even more miserable than it was. My guess was that his
karma from a former life had given him a misshaped, minuscule dick. Plus he had to go through life
with the name Baron. Mostly, he was just a Grade A dickhole.

His comments that day had included something along the lines of informing me if I was still

undecided about the kind of “equipment” I liked, he’d be happy to give me the full run-down of his
equipment. He said he’d meet me in the women’s bathroom in five because he’d heard I’d spent as
much time on my knees in there as I had in class.

Several times that year, I’d come close to punching Baron in the throat. That time, I came the

closest. The longer he laughed, even elbowing a couple of his buddies who were laughing just as hard,
the more my fists balled at my sides.

Baron VonStraub was about two seconds from being knocked out when in came Henry. The instant

he saw me, he grinned and headed my way. Henry and Baron were good friends, but I swore he never
noticed Baron two feet to the side when he approached. He didn’t even notice when Baron lifted his

hand and said something genius to the effect of What’s up? or My man.

Henry didn’t stop until he was one step in front of me. I remember I’d tried to act busy, or like I

wasn’t flustered having him so close and grinning at me that way, but I hadn’t been very convincing.
Without so much as a hello, he told me he’d like to ask me out and asked me if I’d like him to ask me
out. Looking back, what he’d said wasn’t nearly as confusing as it had seemed.

After a few moments of proverbial open-mouth shock, Baron said something to Henry about being

desperate for a low-rent piece of ass. With his expression perfectly flat, Henry had replied with
something about how teasing girls he liked became socially unacceptable after sixth grade. He’d
capped it with Grow up and get lost until you do. Baron promptly did. The get lost part, at least.

Returning his attention to me, Henry had lifted a brow and waited. I stared at him for another

minute, trying not to be fazed by his handsome face or the fact that Henry Callahan appealed to me in
so many ways I’d almost become a believer in soul mates. And I was looking at him.

Finally, I was able to give him an answer.
It was no.
Henry walked away that day with his shoulders an inch lower, and him walking away that way broke

a tiny piece of my heart. That’s what I used to remind myself why I needed to say no to the Henry
Callahans of the world. We hadn’t even been involved yet, and my heart was already breaking. I
averted one major heartbreak that day.

Henry didn’t stop asking though and, as we all know the tragic end to the story, I eventually said

yes. Falling in love with Henry Callahan was the single most easy and natural thing I’d ever done. In
true ying-yang fashion, falling out of love with him was the utter and total opposite.

AFTER WAKING UP from my latest Henry nightmare, I was done with sleeping on planes. I wasn’t

sure if it was the planes, or having him thrust back into my life, or what, but I’d rather run on caffeine
and no sleep than dream about Henry.

By the time I’d practically crawled off of the plane, stumbled around the parking garage until I

found the Mustang, and made it back to the condo without wrapping the car around a street lamp, it
was almost two in the morning. I fought sleep off for as long as I could, but I lost the battle thirty
seconds later and fell asleep face down and fully clothed.

When the alarm on my phone blasted me awake a few short hours later, I was relieved I hadn’t

dreamed about Henry again. That relief was short-lived when I realized I had to get up and ready to go
see the real one. He was supposed to be back sometime that day, and given the urgency of beating
some other girl to the philandering-punch, G wanted me outside his office door thirty seconds before
the start of business.

G didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. If Mrs. Callahan really had contacted other agencies

like ours, G wouldn’t be satisfied until we’d shouldered, shoved, and squashed them out of the way. It
was our Ten. That wasn’t an Errand to lose to a competitor.

After hopping out of the shower, I pulled a form-hugging pencil skirt and a wrap silk blouse from

the closet. That Errand wasn’t all about cocktail dresses and cleavage. At least not during business
hours. Henry believed I was contracting for an IT company. He’d expect to see me in business
professional during the day. In Eve language, business professional meant feminine clothing that
showed off those feminine curves. Less skin, but not less sexy. It was a fine line, like so much in the
business, but one I’d learned to walk.

When the rest of me was ready, I gave myself the standard once-over before heading out. Sultry, not

slutty. Just what I’d been going for. Henry was one of the few men I’d ever come in contact with who
actually liked a woman dressed in leave-something-to-the-imagination clothes. Most guys didn’t want
to use their imaginations; they wanted to see, feel, and do the real thing. That’s what had sent their

wives in search of us in the first place. But Henry . . . he was different.

I gave my head a swift shake as I slid into the Mustang. Let me rephrase: but Henry . . . he had been

different.

It turned out he wasn’t so different after all.
Callahan Concepts was a short drive from the condo. Of course, G had selected the condo based on

its proximity to Henry’s office and his house. Nothing was random. Nothing was a coincidence. Not in
our business.

From what I’d read in Henry’s file, Callahan Concepts had started out in the one thousand square

foot apartment he and I had lived in during college—started after I’d moved out. He’d expanded into
renting an office in an old building, then into renting an entire floor of one of the newer buildings, and
finally to a private mini-campus. Several new, gleaming buildings were staggered around a
meticulously kept courtyard where dozens of employees were barefoot and plugging away on their
laptops. A couple of espresso bars dotted the courtyard. Employees could just walk up and order what
they wanted. Free of charge. A string of valets parked employee and guest cars. There was a
Laundromat, a full-sized gym, a food court, a massage room . . . It was its own little world.

As I walked through the courtyard toward the main building, I couldn’t help but compare what

Henry had done over those past five years to what I’d done with mine. He’d created an empire that
employed hundreds of happy and well taken care of employees. He started a business from the ground
up and turned it into that. He created. Me, on the other hand? I decimated. I took things and tore them
apart. What I tore apart might have only been hanging on by a thread, but something about walking
around the place that Henry had to show for his efforts made me think about what I had to show for
mine.

A burgeoning bank account and a jaded attitude toward humanity, but nothing else.
Not the greatest epiphany to have on your way to see the Target. At least I had the elevator ride to

the top floor to clear my thoughts and recompose myself.

Outside and on the main floor, Callahan Concepts had almost felt like a college campus. Everyone

was in jeans and tees, high-fiving in passing, and chugging Red Bull, but once the elevator doors
opened on the top floor, that changed. At least somewhat.

It was more formal in the executive offices, more business standard. People whisked around, as

opposed to meandering. People nodded their recognition, and the only things clutched in hands were
files or laptops. The dress code was more in line with what I had on.

The space was bright and clean, and I was about to stop and inspect the board of directors wall when

I saw the name I was looking for on the office door at the end of the hall. Henry Callahan CEO . . .
here I come.

I ran my hands down my skirt and headed for the door. Since no one was there to stop me and I

adhered to the better-to-ask-forgiveness-than-ask-permission motto, I knocked once before pushing
open the door.

The chair behind the desk was empty. Henry wasn’t there.
But someone else was.
“Hello? Can I help you?” a woman asked from over by the bookcases. But she wasn’t just any other

woman. Maybe it took one to know one, but it was as obvious that the competition had already
shouldered their way into Henry’s life as it was that her boobs weren’t real. Real ones didn’t form
perfect half circles like that, which led me to my next conclusion: Whoever’d trained her hadn’t gone
over how to dress the part. Way too much cleavage for the office.

“I’m looking for Henry.” I tried to keep my voice level and my eyes from narrowing.
“Do you have an appointment?” She set down the framed photo—no doubt doing a little recon while

Henry was gone—and took a few steps in my direction.

“No. But he’s expecting me.” That might have been a half lie, but Henry had told me I could get in

touch with him anytime. That time not excluded.

“Since he’s on a plane from Bangkok now, I don’t see how he could be expecting you in his office

right now.” She lifted an eyebrow and waited, and damn if that look she was giving me wasn’t close to
one I could make. That the competition had sent in a girl with similar physical features to myself was
no big surprise. The Client had given them the exact same information she’d given us, so it wasn’t a
shock that a blond, blue-eyed, and busty counterpart stood ten feet in front of me. It was a little creepy
that her look of condescension was similar to mine, though.

“When does he get back?” I asked, meeting her gaze. If she thought she could intimidate me with a

long stare, they’d sent in the wrong girl. It took a hell of a lot more than some haughty look to get me
to put my tail between my legs and retreat. I wasn’t sure if the clone with fake tits knew who I was or
had a good guess, but I didn’t care. What she thought or knew of me wouldn’t change the outcome of
me finishing the Errand.

“Who wants to know?”
I bit my tongue and took a few moments to think out my next play. “I’m an old friend of Henry’s.”

Answered the question without giving away too much.

“Does old friend of Henry’s have a name?” She came closer until she was in front of Henry’s desk.

Then she sat on it, gripping the edges with her hands. Okay, that message wasn’t obvious or anything.

“Eve. My name’s Eve.” I took a few steps toward her. “Who wants to know?”
She plastered on an overdone smile. “I’m Mr. Callahan’s new assistant.”
My brain just issued a long string of bad, four-letter words. She wasn’t only working for him, she

was his assistant. Not that that meant she’d be the first to get Henry in bed, but as a rule of thumb,
becoming the assistant to the Target was pretty much a guarantee of getting him into bed within the
month. Men like our Targets hired assistants not for business but for pleasure.

“Does Mr. Callahan’s new assistant have a name?” I repeated with just as overdone of a smile.
“My name’s Kat.”
Of course it was.
“If you’d like to make an appointment, you can come back when Mr. Callahan is available, but

unfortunately, you really shouldn’t be in here right now.”

And neither should you. Not if I have something to do with it.
She escorted me to the door and held it open. “Would you like me to make that appointment for

you? Mr. Callahan’s booked out for a few weeks, but I can put you into the earliest possible time slot
after that.”

I’d never dealt with the competition before, but they were just as big of bitches as I would have

guessed they’d be. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve got his private number. I’ll just give him a ring, and we’ll
hook up on our own. No need for any third party intervention.”

I smiled when her eyes narrowed. In that game of ours, whoever narrowed their eyes first was kind

of like whoever blinked first.

“Good luck then,” she said.
Before making my way to the elevator, I shot her a wink. “Why don’t you hang on to that good

luck? I’m not going to need it.” Without another word, I walked away. My guess was that she knew
who I was as well as I knew who she was. I’d played off the over confident card without a hitch, but
the truth was that I was shaken.

Up until yesterday, I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as “the competition.” I sure as shit

hadn’t expected to walk into my biggest Errand ever with the man I practically bled revenge for to
find the competition already dug into his life, looking like every man’s wet dream.

I’d already known the Errand would be exceedingly difficult to pull off. Five minutes later, it might