Mischief in Miami (Great Exploitations #1)(6)
Author: Nicole Williams

I was.

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

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

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

The Heat

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

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

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

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

“Almost,” I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing else for now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I still wanted to be on the beach, but I wanted to put some distance between the last hotel and my new one. After circling Ocean Drive a couple of times, I settled on a quieter hotel that wasn’t right in the middle of it all. It wasn’t quite as luxurious as the last hotel, but the suite was bigger. Once I’d unpacked, I wandered into the bathroom to take a bath.

I avoided the full length mirror on the wall as well as the one over the sink. I knew that for most women, mirrors were either their best friends or their worst enemies, but for me, they were more like ghosts. I was conscious of them, but I did my best to ignore them.

I’d been soaking for all of five minutes before one of my phones chimed. I groaned, but I fumbled through my handbag until I found the ringing phone.

Shit. That was fast.

I took a moment to compose myself before answering. “Hello.”

“I’m struck with monogamy.”

Of course he was. Most men are struck with anything if you give them enough motivation.

“And why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Because you’re you and I’m me,” Daniel said. “That’s why.”

That was the first true thing I’d heard him say.

“I take it you’re calling because you received my envelope.”

“Those were first-class tickets, you know? A woman’s a fool to turn those down.”

“Or maybe you’re the fool for giving them to a woman you barely know,” I replied.

He didn’t have an immediate response. “Maybe, but I feel a little foolish when I’m around you.”

Good. Then I was doing my job.

“You act a little foolish when you’re around me,” I replied. Then, because the sooner I closed out the Silva file, the sooner I could be finished with the Mr. Silva, I turned the faucet on with my toe so water started trickling into the tub.

“Do you need any help?” he asked, his voice low and confident.

Cocky bastard.

“None that requires your assistance,” I nearly snapped back.

“So what am I supposed to do now that I know, wherever you are right now, you’re nak*d and probably soaping that beautiful body of yours?”

Add brazen to the cocky bastard lineup.

“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you go find one of those four girls I’ve seen you with over the past few days? I’m sure they’ve got something that could help you out.”

Daniel chuckled. “They’ve got something that could help me out, but not the thing to help me out.”

“If you hadn’t tracked me down at my hotel to deliver airline tickets to Nice, I’d ask you who you think’s got the thing to help you, but that would make me seem dumb or naive.”

“Which you are neither,” he answered.

“Flattery gets you nowhere with me.”

“And honesty won’t either.”

Hmm.Another kernel of truth from the mouth of Daniel Silva. “I’m afraid you’re right.” I turned the water back off.

“Which is why I must have the opportunity to see if I’m wrong. Just in case. We owe it to ourselves.”