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Which left only the seduction bit.
She’d done her research. Before his marriage to the glamorous Veronika (first name only, in true supermodel style) he had been a confirmed bachelor. The more obviously attractive his lover the better, and Maggie’s dress that night was nothing if not flagrantly obvious. Mag
gie had deduced that he was not one for subtlety, and not one for long-term relationships. He swapped lovers almost as often as he moved countries.
There was one crucial way in which this assignment differed to the targets she’d dealt with in the past. Fidelity was not in issue. That had already been established, and the clever wife didn’t require evidence to justify a divorce. She wanted to make him pay through the teeth for having broken her heart though, and photographs of him with another woman would help attain that. Maggie had felt a short jab of compunction, initially, but then she’d thought of the poor wife, and any sympathy had evaporated. It was his own fault for playing around, after all.
She lifted her hands and gave her hair a little tease, pushing the auburn curls at the roots so that they looked like she had just rolled out of bed. “Okay, Maggie. It’s now or never.” Her heels moved with a clickety clack across the highly sheened tiles of the foyer. As she approached the glass door entrance to the bar, a doorman swung them inwards, so that she could go in. That was the moment. The small moment she had to rethink her actions and walk away.
She did not.
The hotel bar was not busy, but even if it had been, she would have been able to pick Dante Velasco in the midst of a crowd. Had she not scoured the internet for photographs of him, she still would have just known. Men born to impossible wealth had a certain bearing about them. It was expressed in the way they held their shoulders square, their heads high, and the slight curl of disdain on their lips as though they knew they belonged to an elite echelon of society. She took a moment to steel herself for what lay ahead, and to inure herself to his obvious physical charms.
Without heels, Maggie stood almost six feet tall. She’d donned a pair of stilettos that night, knowing they made her legs look as though they stretched forever. The moment she began to weave through the bar, she felt his eyes arrest on her. Dark eyes, she knew from photos, followed her as she walked with an exaggerated swagger to the front of the room. She stood far from him. Far enough that he wouldn’t think she was interested; far enough that he would have to pursue her.
Though it was all a game of pretend, Maggie knew the way men worked. Getting a man like Dante to hit on her required him to truly be attracted to her. While she was playing a part, he was not. She leaned slightly forward, pretending fascination with the wine list. It draped her dress lower, and she knew he would be catching a good glimpse of cleavage if he were still looking.
She just hoped he wouldn’t see the way her heart was banging against her ribcage.
The one thing she’d overlooked was her manicure. When she’d worked for the agency full time, several years earlier, she’d always had a perfect set of false nails in place. Red and long, the kind of nails that men seemed to fantasise about. The kind of nails that were completely unsuitable for her new life, as the owner of her own café in Chelsea. The best she’d been able to do was to paint them herself with a black polish she’d grabbed at the airport. She ran a finger down the menu now, looking for a wine that would send the right message.
Concealing her smile, she fixed the barman with a steady gaze, and said in her huskiest voice, “One of the Vin Ros 2012’s, thanks.” She cursed the civility afterwards. Women like she was pretending to be did not say ‘thanks’ to wait staff. She assembled a shroud of unapproachable formality around herself and stared straight ahead.
“Would you like to start a tab, madam?” The barman spoke English with an obvious French accent.
“Put it on mine,” Dante’s voice was low and gravelly, his accent like a Spanish summer on her skin. Maggie felt her heart stutter. As always, she experienced a sinking feeling of depression to realise that she’d hooked her target. Oh, it was the purpose of her evening, so she should have been relieved. Only Maggie always hoped against hope that these poor wives were wrong. That their husbands weren’t out trying to shag anything that moved.
Her faith remained shaken; her hope unwarranted. In the two years she’d played her part in these undercover operations, not once had a single target turned her down.
She concealed her disappointment and instead, angled her head to fix Dante with a slow, steady appraisal. She had to convince him that she was interested. That she was available. She needed him to do something that showed his despicable morals for the sake of the camera.
It was always the same tactic. Get the man to make a move, be sure the photographer had snapped the image, then whisper something sexy about freshening up, and affect a silent escape before any real seduction could take place. She was happy to get the proof these women required, but not to be complicit in the marriage breakdown by actually doing anything with the sleazy husbands.
“That’s not necessary,” she demurred, all the while making a show of eating him up with her eyes. It was not hard. He was sinfully good looking. Not in that movie star way that some girls seemed to go wild for. He was darkly tanned, with jet-black hair and dark eyes that were flecked with caramel. He had a scar that ran from his ear to his nose; it wasn’t dark nor deep, but it was still visible – a silver highway on the roadmap of his face. She would have guessed it had happened many years ago. She banked down on her curiosity. This was an act. Nothing more.
“A beautiful woman on her own in a bar, buying one of my wines. Of course I will add it to bill.”
“One of your wines?” She blinked her huge blue eyes, feigning ignorance.
His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Si. Something I suspect you are well aware of.”
Maggie’s heart was pounding against her chest now. She propped an elbow on the bar, and lifted the glass to her mouth. It was a beautiful red wine, light in body but robust and spiced. “It’s lovely,” she complimented, replacing the glass on the bar top. She lifted an index finger to her lips and wiped an imaginary droplet of wine from the corner of her mouth along her lower lip. His eyes followed the gesture, and when he looked at her again, the desire was unmistakable.
“Shall we find somewhere more private to enjoy this?” He asked, leaning across her to pick up the bottle. In doing so, he brushed his arm across her breasts, and effectively trapped her where she was with his legs.
She gulped. If she sought photographic proof, then surely that gesture alone would suffice.
“Sure,” she nodded, leaning her head forward so that she could whisper in his ear. That would be the clincher for the snapper, she thought, inhaling his scent deeply. “Why don’t you find a table and I’ll go and freshen up?”
“You are fresh enough,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “And I am not a man to be kept waiting.”
Maggie’s pulse was going haywire; her nerve endings were reverberating with a strange energy brought on by this man.
“Oh,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes. Though she was certain she had proven his intentions sufficiently for the photographer’s purpose, what would the harm be in getting a few more shots? An extra snap or two wouldn’t hurt. Telling herself it was the only reason she acquiesced, she found herself nodding, slowly, her eyes holding his steadily.
“Excellent,” he said with a decisive nod of his raven-dark hair.
Maggie followed behind him, uncertainty flowing through her veins. It was impossible to separate the assignment she’d been given with the very real desire that was beating its own pulse in her body. But it was unmistakable, the desire. Like a force pounding through her, she felt a bone-deep attraction to Dante Velasco.
