Hot Chick for Hire

by Cat Johnson

  She was the one who freaked out every time I replied to a Craig's List ad. She was convinced I'd be murdered. But so far the only thing that had happened was I'd gotten some real nice stuff for our apartment, thereby proving I was right and she was paranoid.

  I took that as further confirmation I would be safe with Tristan.

  Maybe it was his crazy-expensive car and his obviously pricey suit, or his oh-so-polite British speech, but I didn't get a bad vibe from him. Not even when we arrived at my apartment and, unasked, he locked the car he’d parked along the curb and followed me to my door.

  "Here it is. My humble abode." I let out a nervous laugh. All he did was nod as I led the way in. "My bedroom's right in there. I'll be quick."

  It wasn't weird he was inside. It's not like I'd expected him to sit in the car and wait for me to come out like he was my Uber driver.

  What was a bit odd though, was when he followed me into my bedroom and all the way to my clothes rack.

  When I noticed him behind me, I turned, brow raised, knee prepared to connect with his groin if he acted in a way that proved I was a horrible judge of character and I needed to defend myself against him.

  But he didn't even look at me. He only had eyes for my clothes.

  Tristan pushed past me and started to shove hangers to the side. Occasionally taking something out, eyeing it critically, and inevitably putting it back.

  Apparently my clothes didn't please him as he frowned at the selection.

  I waited for him to announce that I had nothing suitable, thank me for my time and leave to go find a more fitting date for this party.

  It was probably for the best anyway. This whole situation was way too odd for my first week on a new job.

  As he perused my meager offerings, my cell vibrated. One glance at the text from Morgan showing on the display made me feel enormously better about the man standing in my bedroom.

  Yes party tonight. How did you get invited?! Call me tomorrow!! I need to hear all about it!

  Sadly, the way things were going with my wardrobe, I feared my report of the evening's events to Morgan was destined to be a short one. Sliding the cell back into the pocket of my pants, I folded my arms and waited to be dismissed.

  He turned to me, a hanger in his hand. "This."

  "This?" I repeated and glanced at what he held. He thrust it toward me and I had no choice but to take it as he glanced around the room.

  "Shoes?" he asked.

  "Under the bed."

  He glanced down and then sighed as he got on his knees, flipped my dust ruffle out of the way and leaned to look beneath the bed.

  "I'm telling that cheap bastard Alexander that you need a raise. The man's family has more money than the Queen and you live here?" His grumbled complaint was muffled as he leaned lower and reached farther under the bed.

  Finally he emerged with my highest pair of heels.

  "These." He thrust them toward me, hoisting himself up off the floor after I took them. He spent a moment brushing the dust bunnies from the legs of his pants as my poor housekeeping skills became apparent, then turned to me again. "Lingerie?"

  My brows shot high but I had to admit I was intrigued at what kind of outfit he was going for.

  He'd handed me my black business suit instead of one of my dresses. Yeah, it was a really good brand and had cost me a small fortune, but there was nothing sexy about it. Even the mile high heels he'd chosen weren't going to make men look at me in this outfit.

  And now he wanted to look at my underwear?

  Not understanding any of it, I still seemed incapable of telling this man no. Or maybe I was just curious.

  Either way, I tipped my head toward the dresser. "Top drawer."

  He turned and yanked the drawer open and proceeded to literally paw through my bras and underwear. Thank goodness my comfy but hideous granny panties were all in the laundry basket. Since I hadn't had time to do any wash all week because I'd been working, I was down to the sexy uncomfortable stuff I only wore when everything else was dirty.

  Today, that worked in my favor.

  I couldn't have been more surprised when he held up my purple bra and said, "Perfect."

  He turned to me, bra in his hand.

  "What exactly am I supposed to wear? Because I thought you said it was formal." And so far I had a bra, a suit and some heels.

  "All that."

  "And what kind of top?" I asked.

  "This is your top." He smiled and laid the bra on top of the suit and heels cradled in my arms.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Trust me." He glanced around the room again. "Jewelry?"

  I snorted. If he thought my clothes had been slim pickings, wait until he saw my jewelry box.

  "On top of the dresser." Amused, I waited.

  This guy was delusional if he thought he knew anything about fashion, but I was willing to humor him just to prove my point.

  Once I finally put this all on and showed him it was a dumb idea, I could put on the long black dress I'd had to buy for a wedding I went to last year. He'd admit that was a better choice and we could be on our way.

  He spun toward me, something cupped in his hands. "These."

  I glanced down. They were huge fake diamond studs. Costume jewelry I'd bought for a play I was in years ago. My character was an heiress. They'd worked on stage but they were too comically big to be taken seriously at a black tie event.

  "I can't wear those."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  "They're fake. And humungous."

  He lifted a brow. "I'd wager ninety percent of the jewels in the room at tonight's party will be fake and also humungous, as you put it. Do you really think anyone in their right mind would travel internationally with real jewelry of that size?"

  "All right." I struggled to take them from him, hoping he was right. Hoping more it would be dark at the party so no one would notice my ten-dollar diamonds were so obviously and glaringly fake.

  "Go. Change."

  "I can't. You're in my room." If he thought my bedroom was small and shitty, he should see the bathroom. There was barely room in there for me to change the toilet paper. Never mind change my outfit.

  "Oh, yes. Of course. Pardon." He moved past me and toward the door. "When you're done, we'll work on your hair and makeup."

  "Oh, good. I can't wait." I rolled my eyes and pushed the door closed behind him, but not before I heard him chuckle.

  "You'll see," he said. "You doubt me, but I'm never wrong when it comes to sexy women."

  His words, coming to me from behind the closed door, had me stopping mid step.

  Tristan thought I was sexy? I enjoyed that more than I should.

  I stripped out of my clothes, tossing them onto the floor behind the rack to deal with later. While hooking my purple bra, I yelled, "What exactly do you do for a living, Tristan?"

  "I make problems disappear, so to speak."

  "I hope that doesn't mean you're a hitman or something. You're not, right?" I laughed, joking with him as I buttoned the pants to the suit.

  "Almost ready?" he asked.

  "Yup." I'd just slipped on and buttoned the jacket and was sliding my feet into the heels when I heard the door slide across the carpet. I turned and found him standing in the bedroom doorway.

  "You look beautiful." His gaze dropped, taking me in from head to toe.

  I rolled my eyes. "Thanks."

  "You don't believe me but look at yourself," he said, moving out of the way so I could get a look at the mirror.

  My cheeks were pink and my eyes bright . . . and my cleavage exposed. The single button wasn't cutting it considering my only top was a bra. I pulled the sides of the jacket closer together.

  "Don't fidget. It's fine." He moved farther into the room, closer to me, and I felt my cheeks grow warmer.

  He leaned forward, and my heart rate sped . . . then he reached past me and scooped up the earrings I'd laid on the dresser. He handed them to me.

  As
I put them on, I realized something. Tristan had never actually answered my question about him being a hitman or not.

  SIX

  "So you never told me how you know my boss."

  I was still determined to get some sort of information out of this man. Something that would make this night seem less surreal, because a man who could take what little I had in the apartment and make me look like I'd just stepped off the pages of Vogue, and who didn't deny it when I joked about him being a hired killer, was too strange.

  "Alexander? He and I have crossed paths in the past."

  "Socially? Or for work?"

  “Yes,” he answered, in what was no answer at all.

  I knew Zane's family was in the D.C. area. And some stalking online had yielded that his fiancée was a senator's daughter.

  It would make sense if Zane rubbed elbows with a diplomat from the British Embassy. The problem was Tristan didn't throw off a diplomat vibe. I couldn’t really explain how I knew, except that it didn't feel like he was in politics.

  Instead Tristan felt—dangerous.

  As if beneath the perfectly cultured exterior was a man who could really ruin your day if he put his mind to it . . . then meet his mum for tea afterward.

  I don't know why I got that impression—he'd done nothing to warrant it—but the feeling was there nonetheless, strong and clear.

  He slowed the car as we neared the block where the embassy was located, pulled to a stop along the curb and glanced my direction. "Some ground rules for when we get inside."

  "Okay." I nodded.

  "You work for Zane so I know you must be an experienced operator, correct?"

  "Oh, yeah. Of course." As office manager I was more than just a phone operator, but in my short time with the company I had manned the phones and I'd even mastered the scheduling app Zane and his partner used.

  "So you know all this already, I'm sure, but I want to go over standard operating procedure anyway. Don't drink anything anyone hands you. Pretend to drink it, then dump it or ditch it, but assume anything you're handed by anyone could be drugged."

  Drugged? Jesus. Swallowing hard as my pulse pounded, I nodded.

  His eyes on mine, Tristan continued, "Once I get the hand off, we'll mingle a bit so it doesn't look suspicious then we're out of there."

  Hand off? This was spy stuff worthy of a movie. And I'd somehow landed the role of supporting actress.

  "And I'm there as a distraction?" I asked, still trying to grasp the increasingly baffling situation I’d somehow become involved in.

  He nodded. "And, of course, there’s the fact that a couple will always attract less suspicion than a man alone would."

  I made some sound of agreement, like I knew that since he’d assumed I was an experienced operator, which now, in light of this discussion, I was beginning to realize had nothing to do with answering phones.

  Unless I was completely off base, I was beginning to think Tristan was some sort of secret agent.

  Given my own lack of knowledge in that area, I had to take what he said as truth. After all, he'd been right about the outfit. And had given me useful advice on my hair and makeup. He'd even chosen my purse.

  Did they teach this shit in spy school? Apparently they did.

  "Oh, I almost forgot." Tristan reached into his pocket and drew out his hand, holding it toward me, palm up.

  I glanced down and saw the twinkling diamond on the gold band. "What's this?"

  "Your engagement ring, love. You're my loving fiancée. I surprised you and proposed last weekend at dinner at your favorite restaurant, which is . . ."

  He paused and I realized he was waiting for my answer. I guessed Olive Garden wasn't the response he wanted so I said, "Maxime's Bistro on M Street?"

  It wasn't too far from Camelot. Morgan and I had gotten drinks and some appetizers there a couple of times.

  Tristan nodded. "I had the waiter put it in your glass of champagne. It was very romantic. You cried and said yes and the entire restaurant applauded. We haven't set a date yet."

  I saw where he was going, and I was all for a good backstory, but there were too many holes for my liking. "Where did we meet? How long ago? Are there going to be people you know here? Are they going to ask us questions? What do I do for a living? Where do I live?"

  I was starting to panic and second guess this whole thing.

  His lips twitched. "You're one of those who likes to be prepared, I see. I'm more of a fly by the seat of my pants type. But we can do it your way. Stick to the truth as much as possible. You live where you really live, such as it is. You work for Zane Alexander but lie and say you're his secretary or personal assistant or something."

  Little did Tristan know that lie wasn't going to be a problem.

  "As for how we met, let's say I was here on a visit over the winter, which I was, and he introduced us."

  I raised a hand, like I was in class. "Problem. The office wasn't open then. It's new."

  "Guardian Angel Protection has been around for a few years, no?"

  "Yes." That much I knew.

  "Then you could have been working for them before the new office opened." He shook his head. "You're really overthinking this. No one is going to delve that deeply. The news that we're newly engaged, and so obviously in love, is going to be enough for anyone we're forced to interact with."

  "So much in love, huh?" My lips twitched. "Good thing I have an advanced degree in theater." This was probably not the time for jokes, but I couldn't help myself.

  "Very amusing." He returned my smile with an indulgent one of his own and put his hand on the gearshift. "Ready?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be." That was the truth, God help us both.

  SEVEN

  The party was at the residence of the British Ambassador, which was a freaking gorgeous building that had my mouth hanging open when Tristan pulled the car up to it.

  We stopped in front of the valet stand and I tried not to be self-conscious as my door swung open and Tristan helped me out.

  I wrestled my mind off my lack of clothing and moved on to my next concern—that in an area where parking was near impossible, it seemed Tristan had carte blanche to pull right up to the front gate, hand the car off to a valet and we could just waltz away from it. No worries. No hike from the public parking blocks away.

  I shot him a sideways glance as his gorgeous car got driven away by the valet. "You're not worried?"

  "About?" he asked.

  Glancing over my shoulder to where we'd left the car I said, "Handing your baby over to a total stranger."

  He laughed. "No."

  My brows rose of their own accord. "Okay."

  Pausing in our walk toward the front entrance, he turned to face me. "You don't approve, I take it."

  "I'm just saying, you hand something that valuable over to a complete stranger where I come from, chances are you're never going to see it again."

  His lips twitched with a smile. "And from where do you come originally?"

  "Jersey."

  "Ah, yes. Home of the New Jersey Housewives from television."

  My eyes popped wide. "You watch that show?"

  He shook his head. "I had the misfortune of being with a woman once upon a time who had a strong affinity for it."

  "Is that why you broke it off with her?"

  "No, but it was a nice side benefit of the breakup that I'll never have to be subjected to it again. And to address your concerns about the car. I've parked here before for other events without mishap. And the valets aren't exactly strangers to me so you can put your mind at ease. We have more important things to worry about tonight."

  He was right about that. The whole hand off and fake engagement was more than enough for me to worry about.

  I was nervous as he pressed his hand against my lower back and steered me toward what could only be called a mansion.

  Given I was about to strut into a party while wearing my bra as a top, I had to dig deep, pretend I was on a runway, an
d pull out my aloof model face.

  I'd have no problem wearing this outfit in a fashion show.

  Hell, I'd strutted my ass up and down in front of a crowd of press, buyers and celebrities in way less clothing than this. Not to mention what revealing shit I’d had to wear at Camelot.

  This should be a breeze for me. Somehow, it wasn’t.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh . . . and couldn't help but notice Tristan's gaze drop to my chest as it rose and fell before he yanked his focus back up.

  Now that was interesting. I mean, yes, I was wearing a bra for a top, but still, until now he'd acted more like my gay bestie helping me choose an outfit. Not at all like a man looking at a woman.

  I liked the change. It gave me the confidence I'd need to pull off both this outfit and this spy stuff. If the other men in the party reacted as he had, I’d be a great distraction. Perfect.

  We paused a bit before the entrance. "Ready?" he asked, after clearing his throat.

  "I think so."

  He turned to face me and moved both hands to grip my forearms. "I need a yes from you. I think so isn't good enough."

  I drew in another breath, but this time he controlled himself, his chocolate brown eyes staying glued to mine. "Yes. I'm ready."

  "Good." He turned toward the entrance, and then mumbled a very British-sounding curse beneath his breath.

  "What's wrong?" My heart rate rocketed into the danger zone.

  "Just someone I don't want to talk to." He turned back to me and said, "Follow my lead." Then he hauled me close and crashed his lips into mine.

  Pressed up against his hard body, I could feel the fabric of his suit jacket against the bare skin of my chest. I didn't have much brainpower to notice much more than that, because all of my attention was focused on where our mouths met.

  He slowly backed me up a few steps. Between the rough cobblestones of the driveway, and my high heels, it was a good thing he was holding on to me so tightly or I would have ended up on my ass.

  Unsteady, I grabbed on to his arms with both my hands.

  When we finally stopped moving, he raised his palms to cup my face, tipped his head and deepened the on-going kiss.