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“With a donor.”

“Correct.”

She tilts her head farther. “Why me?”

“Because you’re available. And you”—I clear my throat—“fit the required specifications.”

Her lips flatten.

I suppose that wasn’t very flattering.

“That is to say, you’re…presentable,” I add.

Her eyes flash with that anger I saw earlier.

Why shouldn’t she be angry? I’m using her to fill a chair at a gala so a donor will give the foundation money.

I lean back. “You’re also employed by this house, which means you’ve already been vetted. You understand discretion, hierarchy, and how to remain composed around difficult people.”

“Difficult people?”

“Rich men.”

“I know nothing about rich men,” she says.

“You know how to smile and look beautiful,” I tell her. “That’s all you’ll need to do. And you’ll be compensated.”

That gets her attention. The money. Good.

“What do I have to do?” she asks.

“Attend the gala. Sit beside Quenton Stanley. Smile. Make conversation. Keep him comfortable enough to bid aggressively during the live auction.”

She frowns. “Uh…just how comfortable?”

“Socially comfortable,” I say. “Nothing more.”

“Will he know I’m staff?” she asks.

“No. You’ll be introduced as a guest of the foundation.”

“That sounds dishonest.”

“Perhaps, but it’s technically true.”

She stares at me.

I stare back.

Then she lets out a nervous chuckle. “At least you admit it.”

“I find honesty useful when lying.”

She wrinkles her forehead. “That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Maybe to you.”