“You are almost thirty,” Gabriel pointed out.
Sloane rolled her eyes. “I meant close to thirty.”
“In fact, you are going to celebrate the big three-oh in two months,” he continued.
“So what? You passed that milestone two years ago.”
“True,” Gabriel said. “I will always be older, wiser, and better at cracking the cases.”
His comment poked at a sore spot deep in her chest. One her older brother didn’t know was there. The truth was, Sloane had been trying very hard to measure up to her brother. To prove that she was a good investigator too. Sure, Dad was no longer living, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still make him proud. Lucky Gabriel—he’d been able to make his mark before Dad died.
“So you have some guy who is about your age, and you’ve got approximately twenty-four hours of alone time to pry intel from him,” Gabriel said, summing up what she’d shared. “Not a bad set up. He will probably be spilling his life history—along with his bank passwords—by the fourth or fifth hour.”
“Trust me, if it was his brother I was dealing with, I could probably have all of that by tonight.”
“Tough break. Can you jump ship? Spend time with the other guy instead?”
“No. How would I do that?”
“Act like you are interested in the other one.”
Sloane was already shaking her head. “No. I am stuck with this one.” A spot of heat spread over her chest as she pictured the anger visible on the man’s handsome face. “If he can just accept his fate and start the courses with me, I might be able to soften him up. In fact,” she said, puffing her chest and forcing a boost of confidence into her lungs, “I definitely will. I have never had a hard time sweetening a man out of intel before.”
It was then she recalled the book she’d seen in his hands. A laugh snuck up her throat as she recalled the horrified expression that came when he tucked the thing behind his back. “You want to know something funny?” she said. “He was reading a book about hownotto be a playboy or something. Oh, it wasWhy Playboys Are Only Playing Themselves.”
“You are kidding,” Gabriel blurted. “That might complicate things for you.”
“How so?”
“The guy is in reform mode. Trying to change his ways. If you’re planning to flirt your way into some intel, you are probably going to have to try harder than usual.”
Sloane sighed. Emmitt was already proving to be more of a challenge than most. “Maybe,” she said. But then she thought back on how successful her method had been during previous jobs. She allowed those experiences to boost confidence back into her lungs. “I doubt it will betoodifficult. In my experience, men are predictable. You press A; they do B. You want them to do D and E, simply press C.”
“You thinkmenare easily manipulated,” Gabriel said. “You should see how easy it is for me. Women are like putty in the hands of a charming man.”
“Ick!” Sloane cringed. “Maybesomewomen are lured in by a charmer, but notthiswoman.”
“I would not be so sure. If this guy’s searching out self-help books, he is probably good at what he does. He could fall off the playboy wagon and end up playingyou.”
“That would only make him fall into my carefully designed web, would it not, Gabe?” She recalled the one detail that had encouraged her at their first meeting—the way Emmitt’s gaze trailed from her legs to her face, a slightly lost look in his eyes. Sure, he’d recovered quickly enough, as angry as he was, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel at least a spark of interest for her.
“Trust me,” she said, a rush of warm determination filling her lungs. “When it comes to my new subject here at The Homestead Inn—playboy or no—I am theonlyone who will be pulling the strings.”
Chapter 4
Emmitt stared at the blurring words of the book in his hand.
“This is stupid,” he spat under his breath. Here he was, reading a book about shedding theonetrait that had kept him comfortable most of his life. Sure, the rules in his current playbook might have kept him single all this time, but they’d also prevented him from getting his heart broken again.
And the truth was, Emmitt wasn’t out there breaking a bunch of hearts himself. He’d made it a rule to not make promises he wouldn’t keep. Sure, ladies often put their number into his phone, fully expecting a call or a text from him, but not because Emmitt said they could count on either.
Besides, wasn’t this whole effort ill-timed? The playbook he was about to extinguish was the very tool that might just get him out of this ridiculous training course he had coming to him. A couple of hours alone withPlayboy Emmittmight have the French beauty singing a different tune. She may be willing to crack open her record book and pencil in a few fake hours on his behalf. Spare him the wasted time and energy of rehashing every technique and precaution he already had down to a science.
With that thought, Emmitt closed the paperback, glanced about his cabin, and spotted the garbage can in the adjoining kitchen. Dozens of second thoughts raced through his mind as he adjusted his grip, holding the thing like a frisbee. Was he really committed to throwing the book away? If he remembered correctly, there was a half-eaten éclair at the top of the trash heap. It’d make a real mess of the cover. And he’d only just now gotten his hands on it.
Yeah,and it had embarrassed the crud out of him at the roundtable meeting. And the embarrassment didn’t end there—the blonde had seen it too.
A stir of hot irritation spiraled through him. It was enough to have him flicking his wrist in a few testing motions toward the trash. He fixed his gaze on the inside wall of the bag-covered garbage can. Just like the backboard of a basketball hoop. Using that spot as his aim, Emmitt flung his hand back once more, this time releasing his grip on the book.
