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In fact, she was contemplating a third location, this one in Manhattan.
The moment she finished her vodka, she would leave the apartment through a back exit, wearing clothes that were much more casual than what she’d worn less than thirty minutes before.
She would then drive home.
Pepper Michaels was a woman who thrived off rituals and repetition.
And it was my job to gather every piece of information I could find out about the entrepreneur and her business.
Three months after I had begun my investigation, I was an expert.
I knew every layer of Lush’s affairs—from their list of members to the company’s monthly income to their processes and procedures. I was a fly within their infrastructure, recording each piece of available data.
As for Pepper, my knowledge was far more intimate.
I had mastered her thoughts, actions.
More importantly, her needs.
And yesterday morning, I’d handed my client an envelope that was one hundred thirty-six pages thick, containing everything I had gathered on Lush and its owner in exchange for three million dollars.
Tomorrow, at precisely ten in the evening, I’d report to my next job. A location that would take me far away from Miami and LA.
That meant I had today to play.
To do whatever I wanted.
To go anywhere I yearned to be.
It was no coincidence that I’d timed this one day off to land on a Friday.
That I was still in Miami.
That I was at the bar inside Lush.
I parked myself toward the left side of the horseshoe-shaped bar, making sure there was a spot next to me so when Pepper walked in at nine on the dot, like she’d just done, she would have a place to stand when she ordered her drink.
The members of Lush had a sexual itch that needed scratching.
Mine came in the form of a woman.
One I’d just gotten a whiff of as she made her way next to me.
One I’d been studying for the last three months, tempting me in ways I’d never felt before, teasing every ounce of strength I had.
There were rules that came with my job.
Rules that couldn’t be broken.
Touching and tasting a mark were two of those rules.
Pepper Michaels was the exception, and I was fully prepared to break those rules tonight.
“Let me take a stab at your order,” I said the moment her fingers rounded the edge of the bar when she leaned forward to claim the bartender’s attention. “You’re a vodka soda kind of woman, aren’t you?”
Her eyes penetrated mine, like she was looking through the viewing lens of a gun.
As a watcher, I’d studied hundreds, if not thousands, of women over my tenure—wives and/or girlfriends, siblings, or employees of marks.
