Nicolò drums his fingers on the table. “That won’t be a problem foryou, silver fox daddy,” he grins.
I shoot him a glare that says if he calls me that again I’ll give him a silver fox ring around his eye.
This is tough. I haven’t dated in years, preferring the no-strings, hassle-free alternative of a few trusted escorts. The problem is, they’re fairly high profile. The Russians might not recognize me, but they’ll recognize the hookers.
“My regular girls aren’t an option. Too well-known and not convincing enough to play wife for a week.”
Cristiano nods. “And the Russians will sniff that out in five minutes.”
I release a long breath.
Benito runs a finger around the rim of his glass, sending a soft trill into the air. “Tess might do it. I could ask her.”
Nicolò cracks more knuckles. “No, not the sisters. The paparazzi loves them.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. How can this be so difficult? It’s not like I’ve been impersonating a hermit the last few decades.
“So, I need a woman nobody would connect to me.”
Cristiano sighs. “Exactly.”
Silence stretches. Then it hits me.
Soft eyes. Sharp mouth. Attitude for days.
Erin Applebaum—a proven wife and mother—would be perfect.
I laugh to myself. “Oh, but what a terrible idea.”
Cristiano raises an eyebrow. “What is?”
I lower my chin and look back at them all.
“There’s this woman. Erin. Single mom, going through a divorce. Working at a dive bar on Rivington.” My lips curve and I shake my head. “But she’ll never agree.”
“Why not? She sounds perfect,” Cristiano says, frowning. “No criminal ties. No history. Completely off the radar.”
“She’ll kill me.”
Cristiano smiles. “I thought you liked danger.”
I rub my jaw, giving this serious contemplation. She’d be perfect for the role, if only she were willing to play it. “She already thinks I’m an asshole,” I murmur.
“Good.” Benito rubs his hands together. “Married couples fight. Makes it believable.”
I stand and scrub a sweaty palm down my face. “I’m going to need a miracle.”
“No,” Cristiano corrects. “You’re going to need to convince a woman who thinks you’re an asshole to pretend to be your wife.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the folder—my brief. “Piece of cake.”
But my pulse has kicked up beneath my heavily inked skin. Because navigating a room full of armed Russians is easy.Convincing Erin Applebaum to pretend to be my wife for a week? That could be the hardest part.
Erin
“Is this a pity job?”
I direct the question at the Pink Floyd concert dates printed on the back of Mallorie’s vintage tee as she rummages through what appears to be a dumpster of decaying Halloween props.
