Great Exploitations (Crisis in Cali) (3 page)

Professional athlete. Top of his game and top tier of the pay scale. Pretty little trophy wife at home with a ring so large, it obscured her view of what was happening right in front of her face. The mansion that smirked at the other mansions on Mansion Row, outlined by a string of fancy, fast cars in colors that are made to be seen. The only thing grander than the mansion and cars and wife was the ego of the Target himself.

I’d worked plenty of pro-sports Targets, mainly in my first year because, as G had explained to me back then, those guys possessed dicks so undiscerning, she could have dropped a pomegranate in their laps and they would have dropped their pants. It was true. Those Errands were so simple and clear-cut, I’d never taken longer than forty-eight hours to close one. On my last one, I’d casually wandered up to the Target to catch his attention, and before I’d gotten out a
Hey,
he told me his limo was around back and it had a spacious and comfortable back seat.

This Target was Damien Wallace, a basketball player who’d gone pro a few years into college and hit it big his first year in the pros. He lived with his wife in the Bay area, which would make it that much easier for me. I wouldn’t have to jet-set across the country to work duel Errands. Apparently, when he wasn’t making headlines or breaking rebounding records, Mr. Wallace could be found with his wife on their yacht going up and down the coastline or on the golf-course with other members of his team. Or lately—the whole reason Mrs. Wallace had called G in the first place—in the penthouse suite of whatever hotel was closest to the club he’d been visiting at the time.

G had told me it might take a week to close the Wallace Errand, but from the sounds of it, I could have it closed in a day if Mrs. Wallace could get her Contact in place that quickly. I wasn’t eager to work another Errand. I wasn’t eager to explore the reasons why I wasn’t eager to work another one. When G picked up on my hesitation, I back-tracked and almost gleefully accepted the Wallace Errand. The only thing worse than having to seduce and screw a snake was admitting to G my conflicted, yet very real, feelings for Henry Callahan.

So that was why I was on my way to yet another spa, located in the most expensive zip code in the nation, for the Meet. Mrs. Ariel Wallace had requested the Meet take place in the spa’s cafe for what I presumed would be seaweed smoothies. The spa wasn’t any different from the kind I’d been to before, but the cars parked in valet were twice as nice as the ones I was used to finding at those kinds of places. My Mustang, as cherried out as it was, looked more suited to the junkyard than sliding into that parking lot.

After checking in at the front desk, I was directed to the spa’s restaurant, which overlooked the grounds of the nearby golf course. Most every table was occupied, every patron female, and all of them were drinking a smoothie that looked like a color a teenager would paint their bedroom walls. However, given that a plastic surgeon could have perused the restaurant and not found a single nose to tweak, tummy to tuck, or breast to enhance, I supposed whatever was in those colorful smoothies was something I should get acquainted with.

The hostess led me to the far end of the restaurant, to a table near the window. Mrs. Wallace’s back was to me, but even at that, I was surprised she was the wife of a pro basketball player. Her slightly auburn hair didn’t appear to be colored and was pulled back into a ponytail. In the entire restaurant—probably in the entire county—she was the only woman with uncolored hair who wore it out in public in a ponytail.

“Mrs. Wallace,” I greeted after the hostess pulled out a chair for me. When I finally got a good look at her, her face was almost refreshing. She was the first Client I could recall seeing who looked like a normal woman. The kind who didn’t have standing appointments with their aestheticians, and the kind who didn’t fight age but instead chose to embrace it. From the file, I knew Mrs. Wallace was in her twenties. Like all girls who’d grown up in the California sun, she had started to develop the slight hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, shadows of wrinkles the counterparts around her would have had erased long ago.

She was beautiful, no argument about it, but it was the kind of beauty a person would preface with
naturally
.

“So you’re the Eve I’ve heard so much about,” she replied, appraising me like I was being interviewed for the job I thought I’d already gotten.

I settled into the chair and took a drink of the water in front of me. Clients didn’t normally start Meets off like she had, and it had thrown me an unexpected curve. I thought there was nothing new in this game. “I don’t know how much G told you—”

“I know enough about you to be able to make an educated guess on what you named your first pet.” She smiled at my standard Meet suit like she knew exactly why I’d selected a perfect balance of classy meets provocative.

“What was it then?” I leaned back and waited. Most Clients glared at me or fired off passive-aggressive insults. I wasn’t used to her approach.

Mrs. Wallace tipped her head at me, almost smiling like she was in on some kind of secret, then she took a sip of her drink. Hers didn’t look anything like the radioactive smoothies scattered around the restaurant. “If I told you my guess, I’m afraid I’d ruin everything, so why don’t we move on with this meeting the way it’s supposed to go? But first, do you want something to drink?” She was already lifting her drink and waving at the bartender.

As a general policy, I didn’t drink with Clients, but with the way this Meet was going, a drink couldn’t have been the worst idea. “Sure. What are you having?”

Once the bartender had acknowledged her with a nod, Mrs. Wallace took another sip. “The same thing you are.”

I raised a brow and bit my tongue. I respected a strong, opinionated woman—there were far too many spineless, eager-to-please ones who gave the rest of us a bad name—but respecting the type and having to deal with one as a Client were two different things. “You’ve got the file, I assume?” I eyed the oversized canvas bag hanging over the back of her chair.

Mrs. Wallace patted it. “I’ve got it. All of the detailed, juicy notes that will help you nail the dirtbag.”

“Mr. Wallace,” I said with a nod. I’d heard plenty of names describing one’s cheating spouse, but dirtbag was a first . . . and the least severe.

“The dirtbag.” Mrs. Wallace’s lips pursed as her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Not in anger, but in . . . focus maybe? Concentration?

This was, by far, the oddest Meet I’d ever attended, and Meets are the very definition of odd.

“G went over the role of the Contact and you’ve got one lined up?” I thanked the bartender with a smile when she set a drink in front of me. Every aspect of an Errand was important, but given that I was dealing with a pro athlete, having the Contact in place as soon as possible was a priority.

“That’s the person who takes the pictures, right?”

Her answer was so flippant I was tempted to get up and leave. “That’s correct. The person who takes the pictures that make a world of difference in divorce court.” My reply was the opposite of flippant.

“Then yeah, I’ve got the Contact all ready to roll. You let me know the time and place, and we’ll be ready.” She pulled the file from her bag and dropped it in front of me.

I took a sip of my drink, stalling. It tasted like a screwdriver, but it had been a while since I’d had one of those. Typically I didn’t like to challenge my Clients, but there was nothing typical about this Client. “Is your Contact male or female?” I kept my voice level and my expression unaffected so it would seem that I was asking a simple question.

Mrs. Wallace had had no problem looking me in the eye so far, but as she prepared to give me her answer, her eyes elevated to the ceiling for the briefest moment. “A female,” she answered in what I guessed was the smallest voice she possessed.

She was lying. She didn’t have a Contact set up, or if she did, she hadn’t been the one to find it. I realized delicacy was important when asking a Client if she was being honest with me. I knew diplomacy was critical to not pissing off a Client when asking if she was lying to me.

Dropping my hands into my lap and putting on a small smile, I worked up my reply. “What are you lying to me about, Mrs. Wallace?”

So much for delicacy and diplomacy.

Her eyebrows pulled together for a second before her expression ironed out. Leaning forward, her eyes locked onto mine. “What are you lying to yourself about?”

THE MEET HAD been the strangest one I’d ever encountered by a long shot, and I was hoping the rest of the Errand wouldn’t follow in the same vein. After tipping back another sip of my screwdriver, I’d told Mrs. Wallace that this whole thing was about her, so we should keep the focus on her and her husband, not me.

The rest of the Meet had gone fairly according to plan, but I had to admit her question was one I continued to repeat to myself long after I’d left that spa.
What was I lying to myself about?
My instinctual answer was
everything
, but that was far too sobering to accept, so I distracted myself by dissecting that all-encompassing answer. Was I lying to myself about who I was and who I wanted to become? Possibly. Was I lying to myself that the ends justified the means in my chosen career field? Conceivably. Was I lying to myself about how I felt for Henry Callahan? Positively.

So I was lying to myself about quite a few things . . . but what could I, or what would I, do about it? And damn it, this was not Eve Introspection Hour—these were the last few minutes before the all-important Greet. I thumped the steering wheel as I wove into a parking space that just barely fit the Mustang. Mrs. Wallace’s question had dropped a bomb inside me, and I needed to figure out how to diffuse it before it went off. I didn’t need to have the answers to realize the questions would bury me.

Calming my breathing, I emptied my mind. Once I was certain it was void, I started stacking block after block pertaining to the Wallace Errand and what my objectives were for the night. Mrs. Wallace had let me know yesterday that tonight her husband would be at a club that doubled as a concert venue. Apparently they’d booked a legitimate band that was one of Mr. Wallace’s favorites. I’d never heard of them, but I’d be hearing plenty tonight from the sounds of it. I was still a couple of blocks away from the club and could already hear what I presumed was the band Mr. Wallace was so eager to see.

Staging the Greet at a concert wasn’t ideal. I’d only encountered one in the past, but it hadn’t gone well and had required a second take to establish contact with the Target. Concerts were loud, bodies were smashed together, and the people in attendance generally ranged from shit-faced drunk to passed-out cold. Hardly the ideal recipe for catching a Target’s eye and slowly reeling him in.

But this was what Mrs. Wallace had given me and I was eager to get this over with so I could get back to focusing on Henry . . . on the Callahan Errand. I sighed as I approached the club. That was a big part of my problem lately. I could no longer determine what I was most focused on: Henry or the Errand. Although when another one of those instinctual answers fired off before I could snuff it out, I accepted that maybe that was just another thing I was lying to myself about. I knew exactly why I was so invested in my other Errand. I just wasn’t ready to admit it to myself.

When I made my way up to the entrance, I saw a Sold Out sign hanging from the ticket booth window. But when the guy behind the window saw me approaching, he had a ticket waiting for me on the counter.

“Not
quite
sold out,” I greeted, slipping a smile into place as I stopped in front of the booth.

“Never sold out for fine specimens like you.” He jacked his eyebrows, gracing me with an expression I guessed was his equivalent of a panty-melter. The kid couldn’t have been out of high school yet and was a good half foot shorter than I was in heels.

Ignoring his comment and look, I took the ticket. “How much do I owe you?”

I was sliding a few bills from my wallet when he replied, “Tickets are free for—”

“Fine specimens like me?” I interrupted, withholding the eye roll.

“The finest,” was the young man’s reply as I hustled through the club’s doors.

After handing my ticket to the tank-sized guy blocking the hall into the club, I continued toward my destination. The moment I entered the club where the band up front was screaming shrill notes into microphones, more heads than not turned as I began weaving through the crowd. Given the Target was a pro basketball player, I knew a legion of women shadowed him when he went to the grocery store, let alone a club full of single people drinking and looking to score, so I’d amped up my typical Greet attire. My hemline was shorter, my heel height taller, my dress a size smaller. One couldn’t simply bat their eyes at a professional athlete and expect to wind up in bed with him. I didn’t just have to be the most attractive woman in the room to catch a pro athlete’s attention—I had to be the most attractive women he’d seen.

That was my goal—to hopefully be the most, or at least one of the most, attractive women Damien Wallace had ever seen—and the heads turning my way and lingering assured me that I’d achieved my goal. As an added perk, the extra-high heels helped me peek above most of the crowd to pinpoint Mr. Wallace’s location. On television, they didn’t seem so tall since they were all about the same height, but when you dropped a professional basketball player in a group of average people, they stood a solid foot above the rest. Even without his height, the cluster of girls decked out in similar fashion to me helped me zero in on his location.