The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  That's why I didn't really blame my friends for not believing me. If someone had told me a year ago that right now I would be engaged, I probably would have laughed, too.

  I guess a lot can change in a year.

  7

  two-timing

  I tapped the next stack of crimson folders against the conference room table to kick off the Tuesday staff meeting. "Good morning, everyone. We have a busy week this week. So let's get started."

  I had been engaged for exactly seven days now, and it still didn't feel any more real. I had spent the past week playing hide the engagement ring. I'd wear it around the house and out to dinner when I was with Jamie, and then in the mornings, as soon as I got within a block of the office, I'd slide it off my finger and hide it in the interior compartment of my purse or briefcase. I'd keep it off all day when I was at work and then slide it back on again as soon as I returned home.

  Yes, it was something of a hassle pretending to be one person during the day and someone else entirely at night. But what could I do? I wasn't about to let the five people in this room know that I was engaged to be married.

  "Lauren?" I turned toward my technical guru. "How'd it go last weekend with the recently engaged software developer in Minneapolis?"

  Lauren pulled her attention away from a small PDA device that sat in front of her, half-dismantled, and replied, "Fine. The assignment went smoothly. I approached him at the cocktail party after the sales conference ended and just commended him on his speech. He seemed apprehensive of my attention at first, but he continued to lead the conversation, and the more beers he consumed, the less apprehensive he became. He asked me to join him for dinner, and afterward he asked if I wanted to see a beta version of his new Web project. I said yes and followed him up to his suite. He wasn't extremely bold or assertive. I think he was waiting to make sure I would reciprocate an advance before he made any. He took me through the basic foundation of the software on his laptop, and the more I reacted to the programming, the more aroused he seemed to become. And then he eventually asked to kiss me."

  I noted this down on my legal pad. "Interesting that he asked. What time did you finally leave the room?"

  With lightning speed, she reassembled the device in front of her and tapped on the screen a few times. "One oh-two A.M. I met him in the conference center at six-thirty, so it was a fairly long night."

  "All right, then," I said, continuing to scribble on the page. "I'm sure his fiancée will find this information useful, since she was about to put down a hefty deposit on the venue rental for the wedding."

  I picked up the folder on the top of the stack and flipped it open. "How much do you know about an online role-playing game called . . ." I squinted at my notes. "Intergalactic Battle Quest?"

  Lauren shrugged casually. "It's all right. Graphics need some updating and the interface has several bugs, but it's very popular among the young twenty-somethings."

  "And apparently a few thirty-somethings as well." I handed her the file. "Jarod Cunning. He's an avid player. His avatar is 'Quelth Commander.' According to his girlfriend of five years, he's a bit obsessed."

  Lauren nodded understandingly. "It's easy to do. Especially if you're bored with your life."

  "Find him online," I instructed her, "and build up a rapport. Make sure you set up a player profile with your photo and a location in Seattle, so that he thinks you're local. Wait for him to request a meeting."

  "No problem," Lauren confirmed, flipping through the contents of the folder. "I'll even set up a few dummy sites with my alias and photo and index them through Google. Just in case he searches for me online."

  I flashed her an approving smile. "That's why I hired you."

  She grinned back and then set off on disassembling her device again.

  "God, you're a dork," Katie said jokingly, picking at her fingernail. "I can't even figure out how to pimp my MySpace profile."

  "Well," I said, turning to Katie and moving on with the meeting, "fortunately, for your next assignment there is no computer knowledge necessary. Although I must ask, do you have any experience with children?"

  Katie shot me a befuddled look. "No. Um . . . why?"

  "I need you to go on a long-term undercover assignment . . . as a nanny."

  After a few instants, the entire room (minus Teresa, whose nose was buried in the latest issue of Vogue) cracked up laughing. I fought hard to keep my composure. I suppose it was a bit funny, the thought of Katie running around after two small children. But she was the best associate for the job. After all, she was the one with the acting experience. If anyone could handle a long-term cover like this one, it was Katie. The most difficult part was the fact that I didn't have any idea how long this assignment would take. If Mr. Stanton really was sleeping with his nannies, who knew how long he usually waited to make a move. Did he get to know them first, build a relationship, and throw in some harmless flirtation for a few weeks? Or did he just go for it the first week on the job? And if he didn't show any signs of inappropriate behavior, then it was only a matter of how long Mrs. Stanton wanted to wait (and pay) before she felt confident that he was, in fact, trustworthy.

  "You want me to do what?" Katie repeated, dumbstruck.

  I smiled patiently. "I know you're probably not much of a kid person, but with your acting skills, you're the best person for this job. You could be there for a while, and I need someone who's capable of pulling off a lengthy cover."

  My flattery seemed to persuade her somewhat, but she still looked hesitant. "Don't you have a nice little poker game or a trip to the track you could send me on?"

  I walked the file over to Katie and placed it on the table in front of her. Then I gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry. The client knows that child care is not your primary responsibility. She assured me that you will never actually be alone with the children."

  Katie reluctantly flipped open the folder and studied the picture clipped to the inside cover. It was a family portrait supplied by the client: Mr. and Mrs. Dean Stanton and their two twin sons. "How old are they?" she asked, scrunching up her nose as if she had just taken a whiff of bad cheese.

  I referred to my notes. "Nine." And then for good measure, I threw in, "A really fun age." Not that I knew anything about boys at the age of nine. Or any boys under the age of eighteen, for that matter.

  Katie took a deep breath, and I tried once again to ease her mind. "Don't focus on the kids. Focus on the husband. That's who you're there for. You'll be posing as a twenty-two-year-old college student who's taking time off of school to figure out which direction she wants to go. Dean Stanton, the husband, is a high-profile movie studio exec. He runs New Edge Cinema. Pretty big deal. Just pretend you've been hired to play the role of the nanny on a popular sitcom or something. You don't really have to take care of the kids. You just have to act like you can."

  She considered this and finally surrendered a weak shrug. "Fine. Whatever. Bring on the little demon children."

  "That's the spirit," I offered back with an amicable grin. "I'll need updates twice a week. To be safe, you and I will only make contact via e-mail. But keep your phone on just in case."

  "No problem," she muttered.

  After Teresa and Cameron had reported that both their subjects had, in fact, expected happy endings—in Teresa's case from his Asian masseuse and in Cameron's case from her new pool boy—and I handed them each new assignments for the week, I finally landed on Shawna Miller, the beautiful blond bombshell seated to my right. "Shawna, how did it go at the strip club in West L.A. this weekend?"

  Shawna shook her head. "He didn't keep his word."

  "So he went for the lap dance?" I confirmed.

  "Yes. When I came around to the table, his friends offered to buy one for him, and he didn't hesitate for a second. And he didn't exactly want to stop there, either."

  I noted this down. "I see. So what was your exit?"

  "I told him it was against club policy for me to sleep
with the customers, and then he just kind of smirked and said, 'So when do you get off work?' It was pretty slimy, actually."

  "Well," I replied, exhaling, "I guess the client will get some use out of that information." Then I picked up the final two files on the stack. "I'm afraid I had to double-book you on Saturday night," I explained as I passed her the folders. "With Katie out for at least a week, we're gonna be a little short-staffed around here. Fortunately they're both in Vegas, so you shouldn't have any problem with timing. The first one is a bachelor party at the MGM Grand. Ken Littrell is getting married in a few weeks, and . . . well, you know the drill. They're going to a Halloween party at Tabú. Hadley is working on getting you a costume."

  "No fair. I want to dress up," Katie pouted with her arms crossed.

  "You are," Cameron pointed out, clearly mocking her. "You're going as Mary Poppins. I'm sure you'll be able to find an umbrella in the prop closet."

  Katie scowled back at him. "Very funny, pool boy."

  I cleared my throat. "And the second assignment is Benjamin Connors, who often comes into town by himself to play blackjack. He's staying at the Palazzo."

  Shawna listened, taking diligent notes as I spoke.

  "I would have postponed this one, but it's a bit of an unusual situation. The client came to see me yesterday. She and her husband are trying to adopt a baby. They've been on the waiting list for almost two years now, and they're finally meeting an interested birth mother next week. But apparently the client's sister claims that she saw the husband try to make a pass at someone at a neighborhood party after he'd drunk too much. Now the client is freaking out and doesn't know if she can trust him. And she doesn't want to bring a baby into the equation until she's sure."

  "Wow," Lauren mused. "That's pretty intense."

  I nodded my agreement. "It is. And a very worthy cause. Shawna, I'm going to book you a suite at the Palazzo. You can get ready there and then head over to the MGM to meet Ken Littrell, who should be in the club by nine, nine-thirty. Afterwards, you can head back to the Palazzo to play blackjack with Benjamin Connors. His wife says he often plays until four or five in the morning when he comes to Vegas. So you should have plenty of time. Find him at the tables and let him teach you how to play. Call me if you have any questions."

  Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at my desk when I heard a knock on my office door. "Come in!" I called with my head bent over a mountain of paperwork.

  I heard the door creak open, but when no sound followed, I looked up to see Hadley standing timidly in the doorway with an unsettled look on her face.

  "Yes?"

  "Um," she began hesitantly, her eyes blinking at an unusually rapid pace. "Lexi Garrett, your first appointment, is here."

  I eyed her warily. "Is she all right?"

  Hadley's face softened. "Oh, yes. No. I mean, she's fine."

  I nodded. "Okay, then go ahead and send her in."

  But she didn't move. This is the part when she usually moves. Nods her head, smiles graciously, and then ducks out to finish whatever it was she was doing before she was interrupted. But instead, she just kind of stood there in the doorway, staring at me with a blank expression on her face.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  Hadley stammered slightly, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. "The client," she began, her big brown eyes barely meeting mine. "She's young."

  I laughed at her endearing naïveté. "Oh, that's all right, Hadley. Sometimes we get younger women in here. In fact, Lauren took a case just a few months ago where the client was a college student. I think she was only about twenty."

  "No." She shook her head adamantly, and I could have sworn I heard a chill seep into her voice. "I mean, she's a child."

  8

  child's play

  I have seen a lot of things in this job. But nothing had prepared me for what I was about to encounter.

  The girl who stepped into my office couldn't have been older than twelve. Maybe thirteen. But her eyes reflected the life experience of a forty-year-old. She was small and slender; the oversize black-and-red backpack that was strapped to her shoulders looked as if it weighed twice as much as she did. She had scratches on both sides of her face, the kind you get from climbing trees, scaling forbidden walls, or playing touch football with the boys during recess. Under any other circumstances, I would have found the entire situation endearing in a way. A young girl, out on her own in the big city of Los Angeles with nothing but her backpack and her tough-girl scars. But at that moment, all I could think was, What on earth is she doing here?

  I was too speechless to invite her to sit down, but it quickly became apparent that she didn't require an invitation. She sauntered through the doorway with poise and confidence and immediately took a seat on the white chenille couch in the corner of the room. Then she shimmied out of the straps of the oversize backpack and placed it by her feet. She looked up at me, her face showing no signs of distress or anxiety. Those were the expressions I was used to seeing on that couch. But then again, this obviously wasn't just another eleven o'clock meeting. This promised to be something far more complicated.

  At first I was convinced that she was in the wrong place. Dialed the wrong phone number, written the address down wrong.

  So I decided to play dumb. It was the only way I could get her to tell me what she was doing here without having to divulge any real information about the agency. I smiled politely, grabbed my notepad, and took a seat on the matching white armchair that faced the couch. "Hi," I said brightly, coming out of my speechless trance. "How are you?"

  Her face revealed nothing. She didn't return my smile. Nor did she respond to my attempt to make small talk. She simply stared straight into my eyes without a trace of fear or apprehension and in an unforgiving tone said, "I know what you're thinking, but trust me, I have good reason to be here."

  I swallowed hard and struggled to maintain my plastered-on smile. "And what might that be?" The only comfort I was able to give myself was my certainty that the question would be returned with something completely unrelated to the subject of infidelity. Or any other word spoken on a regular basis within these walls.

  But apparently I was wrong.

  "I need you to prove that my dad is a cheater."

  I coughed loudly, choking on my own disbelief. "Excuse me," I managed to get out after I'd finished hacking up an imaginary chicken bone caught in my throat. "What did you say?"

  "Let's just cut the bullshit," she said in all seriousness. "I know exactly what it is you do here."

  I glanced nervously down at my notes. "You are Lexi Garrett?"

  The small-framed girl who occupied my couch nodded confidently. "Yep, that's me."

  I still couldn't believe what I was sitting across from. That couch was usually reserved for suspicious fiancés, distrustful wives and husbands, maybe the occasional long-term girlfriend with serious doubts in the back of her mind. But never anyone like this.

  "And, how old are you?" I asked, trying to figure out how this girl even managed to get an appointment. Hadley was instructed never to ask for specific details over the phone, but she had to have at least heard how young she sounded.

  "I'm almost thirteen," she said proudly, as if this were some kind of major accomplishment. And I'm sure for an almost thirteen-year-old, it was. But for me, it was like a stake in my heart.

  "Uh-huh," I said, staring at her as if I were seeing a child for the very first time. Well, for all intents and purposes it was the first time. The first time in this office, no doubt. Not even my niece, Hannah, who had just turned fourteen, had ever been allowed to step foot in here, let alone know about what it is we actually do. "And why aren't you in school?"

  Lexi shrugged. "I forged a doctor's note."

  I coughed again, grasping at my throat like a choking victim. "Wow, it must be really dry in here. I think I need some water. Do you want some water?"

  The girl shook her head as I jumped up and practically div
ed for the intercom on my desk. "Hadley, would you mind bringing us a few bottles of water?"

  "No problem," her voice came obligingly back through the speaker.

  I sat back down in the armchair, shifting restlessly in an effort to get comfortable. But I knew it was probably a futile attempt. There was nothing comforting about any of this.

  "So, um . . ." I struggled to find the right words. Did they even exist? Somehow I doubted it. "How did you hear about . . . the . . . um . . ."

  "About the Hawthorne Agency?" she completed my thought, and I felt a small shiver run up my spine.

  "Yes."

  "From my best friend, Elisa," she said matter-of-factly. "Her mom hired you guys about six months ago. Elisa overheard her mom telling her aunt that you completely changed her life. I need you to do that for my mom."

  "So your mom knows that you're here?" I asked, half hoping and half dreading that it was the truth. Because as much as I wanted to think that this girl didn't come here to interfere with her parents' marriage on her own accord, I wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of a mother sending her child to hire a fidelity inspector, either.

  "Hell, no," Lexi replied. "She would never do anything like this. And that's the problem. They've been together since they were eighteen. She doesn't know anything else but him. And she trusts him so blindly. She's clueless! She goes through life with her eyes closed. She doesn't see any of the signs."

  "And what signs would that be?" I asked, a chiding condescendence seeping into my voice.

  Lexi rolled her eyes at me, clearly losing her patience. "The signs of a cheater!"

  I nodded slowly, trying to absorb the words that were coming out of this young girl's mouth. "But you've seen them?" I asked doubtfully. "These . . . signs."

  "Yes! They're so obvious. He works a lot. Or so he says. One night he came home at like eleven-thirty and he totally smelled like a bar. I think he's out prowling for chicks with his friend Rob, who just got divorced. And," she continued dramatically, waving her finger in front of her face to make her point. "He's always texting on his stupid little BlackBerry. Like all the time. And I've heard him talking on the phone at two in the morning when my mom is asleep. He's talking to a girl. I just know it."