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do that if I find another Eve’s physical assets to be a better fit, you won’t get the Errand.”
    I rolled my eyes only because G wasn’t in front of me. If I ever tried that in front of her, I’d be the one found dead in a back alley a week later. “Come on, G. You know as well as I do I can transform myself into whatever version of a wet dream Mr. Eight or Nine needs. I want that Errand.”
    “Then let’s hope Mr. MoneyBags likes a tall, slim, busty build because stylists and surgeons can morph you to a certain degree, but no one except for the Maker could turn you into a short, athletically-built Asian. Sorry, love.” G didn’t sound irritated, she rarely showed emotion, but I knew I’d be pressing my luck if I pushed again.
    All I could do was hope the big Eight or Nine forthcoming was an aficionado to my brand of woman. Plenty of men were, but that didn’t mean every man was. That didn’t mean he would be.
    “Anything else?” I asked, knowing there wasn’t. G was all business, all the time. In fact, I didn’t know a single personal thing about her, including her real name.
    “Nothing else for now.”
    “Good night, G. I’ll text you when it’s done.”
    G chuckled a few notes. “And I’d say good luck if I thought you needed it.”
    After I hung up, I laid back down on the lounger to try to soak up the last few rays of sun. Not even a full minute later, a knock sounded on the door inside my room. No one knew I was there and I hadn’t ordered room service, so I was tempted to grab the little Lady Smith I kept hidden in the nightstand for emergencies. After a quick look through the peephole, I saw I didn’t need to answer with guns blazing.
    I could have slid into a cover-up, but it was South Beach. People would have gone to work in their swimsuits if it was allowed. I swung the door open and tried not to smile when the bellman’s mouth about dropped to the floor. I was only twenty-five, but I was only intimate with men ten, twenty, and sometimes even thirty years older than me. It was nice to be reminded I could turn the head of a guy my own age.
    “Can I help you?” I asked after a few seconds.
    The bellman shook his head a couple of times and picked his jaw up off the floor. “This was left for you at the front desk.” He held out an envelope.
    I gave it a curious look. G wouldn’t leave me mail at the front desk and Mrs. Silva better not be, so who in the world would have left that for me? “Who left it?”
    The bellman shrugged. “I don’t know. My manager just asked me to run it up here.”
    I could stand there staring all day, or I could rip it open and unveil the mystery. Grabbing my wallet off of the desk, I tipped the bellman, thanked him, and closed the door.
    I tore that sucker open quickly. The sooner I figured out who had sent it, the sooner I could figure out what the hell to do about it. Of all the things I imagined could be contained in that envelope—blackmail, photos, a microchip—the last thing I’d expected was a couple of tickets to Nice, France, complete with a note scratched down on the back of a business card.
    In case the mood to swim topless strikes you again. I wouldn’t want to miss it.
    The business card said Daniel Silva, Owner and Manager of The Pleasure Room, complete with his business and cell phone numbers.
    The first thing that hit me was that he’d been ballsy enough to send me his business card. I didn’t doubt a simple “Daniel Silva” typed into a search engine would result in a life history, including a mention of a Mrs. Silva. So why had he done it? Because he didn’t think I’d Google him? Because he wanted me to have his phone number? No, I guessed he wanted to impress me. A business card said what he couldn’t without sounding like a pretentious asshole. He was the owner of one of the nation’s most notorious nightclubs. He had money, status, and power.
    If Mr. Silva knew I already knew exactly how much was in his bank account, along