Mischief in Miami Read Online Free PDF Page B

were, I knew I’d caught his attention. The right attention. “I’ll let you get back to it then.” I headed toward the door, adding just a bit more sway of my hips to my step. “Have fun.”
    I hadn’t gotten more than five feet when Mr. Silva’s smile slid into place. “You can stay and play if you like,” he said, letting his gaze linger on my chest for so long I was worried he would go cross-eyed. “The more the merrier.” His voice was deep and smooth, and that confident expression was even more impressive in person than it had been in his photograph.
    “I’ll pass. Thanks though,” I replied, as I lifted one eyebrow at him on my way to the door. “I don’t do that. Anymore .” I caught the look flash over his face before I unlocked the lounge room door to let myself out. That flash said I was the treat placed right under a child’s nose they were told they couldn’t have. Wanting what they couldn’t, or thought they couldn’t, have was every man’s Achilles’ heel.
    I smiled my whole way out of the club. I was still smiling when I wandered into my hotel room a little while later. Despite the cluster-fuck of unexpected events, the Greet had been made of win. I’d caught Mr. Silva’s attention, and I’d held his undivided attention while two half-naked girls were pressed up against him.
    The job was going to be easier than I’d thought.
     
     
    FAMOUS LAST WORDS. After five years, you would have thought I’d learned no job is ever easy. It’s just not in the cards.
    I returned to The Pleasure Room the following night, quite certain that if Mr. Silva caught sight of me, he’d drop anything and anyone and come my way. Again, that wasn’t conceit talking; it was experience. The look on his face, the way he’d licked his lips as I passed him in the woman’s lounge were strong indicators that what I was sending out, my Target was picking up.
    I waited around until the club closed. Mr. Silva didn’t show his face once, which seemed odd given it was Saturday night, The Pleasure Room was bustling, and Mr. Silva didn’t seem as though he would ever willingly miss out on a party.
    So back to the drawing board early Sunday morning. After thumbing through Mr. Silva’s file again, I got into my car and zipped over to his country club. According to Mrs. Silva’s notes, he went there every Sunday morning from seven to eleven a.m. Apparently, he soaked in the club’s mineral pool before hitting the green for eighteen holes. I hoped Mrs. Silva’s notes were “apparently” correct. Every hour wasted was one I’d never get back.
    I pulled up to the club a half an hour before seven. The club, just like the spa where I’d met Mrs. Silva, only had valet parking. I’d had plenty of experience with those kinds of places. They didn’t let just anyone off the street inside. You couldn’t get inside the front door if you made less than seven figures a year. So how would I get past the front desk without so much as a second glance?
    By pretending I owned the place, the way the rest of those upper-crust broads did.
    These kinds of country clubs weren’t the place where you scanned a membership card before being granted admission. Your membership card was the handbag on your arm, the name stamped on your shoes, the entitled tilt of your brow when you sashayed in.
    I rolled my shoulders back as I walked through the front doors. I tipped the doorman and made it a good one, but I didn’t make eye contact, and I didn’t smile. The young woman attending the front desk glanced up as I passed her, but after a moment or two, she went back to her computer. And I was in. I’d just “snuck” into one of the most prestigious country clubs in the nation by doing what we Eves had mastered: hiding in plain sight.
    The Louis Vuitton handbag on my arm, the Jimmy Choo’s strapped onto my feet, and the rich-bitch expression I’d perfected didn’t hurt either.
    Other than the golf course, the club was pretty dead