Page 17 of Wicked Fortune

I nod, frowning as I process this news.

“That’s not a happy face. Bad detective work? Or bad result?”

“Neither,” I assure him. “You did great.” I hold up the bag. “But if he’s so cautious, why give me this?”

“Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the job interview. Hell, maybe it doesn’t have a thing to do with Masque. Was he specific?”

I shake my head, now more curious than ever.

A wide grin lights his gorgeous face. “Shall we continue our exploration? Meet and mingle? Make new friends?”

I laugh. “Do you mind if I leave you to friend-hunt alone?” I nod toward the bag. “I really want to get home and see what’s in here.”

“You are such a rule follower.”

I shrug. I’m not, and he knows it. But I’m doing all this for Jenny. If that means I need to follow the rules, then I follow the rules. Besides, I’m about to implode from curiosity.

“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to help me up. “I’ll get you in an Uber. And tomorrow,” he adds with a definite gleam in his voice, “I’ll give you a call and share all my adventures in wicked, dirty detail.”

I laugh. “No call,” I say. “Drinks. And every detail. It may be vicarious, but a girl’s gotta get some, too.”

Soon enough, I’m tucked in the back of an Uber, Clive’s kiss lingering on my cheek as the driver races toward Burbank at a speed designed to ensure that a) I don’t fall asleep, and b) he has plenty of time left to squeeze in at least one more ride tonight.

I’d forgotten to leave the porch light on, so it takes me a moment as I fumble with my key. Then I’m inside, and the instant I step over the threshold, all the tension seeps from my body.

We did it. We’d got into Masque, learned that the club isn’t connected to the meet-and-greets, and I’d taken the first step toward landing that job with Holt. And I have to land it. Because if Masque holds no answers, then the truth behind Jenny’s death is at Hardline. It has to be, because otherwise I don’t know where to look, and I can’t let Jenny down.

I glance at the bag I’d left on the table beside the door, then take a step toward it. Then I stop, turning around and head to the kitchen instead. I have no idea what’s in that bag, but I sobered up in the cab. And this unwrapping requires wine.

I pour a glass, then take a long swallow as I retrieve the bag. I settle on the couch, then reach in and pull out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. It feels like clothes, but it’s also crunchy. As if the clothes are wrapped in regular paper and not simply the decorative tissue that forms the outer layer.

I don’t think a lot about it, though. After all, everything I wrap is in a bag, and the inside gift is never wrapped at all. Just buried under a mountain of tissue. Why? Because I suck at wrapping. And it’s not a skill set that I feel particularly obligated to learn.

I stare down at the package that’s now in my lap and realize I’m procrastinating. I’m not sure why. It’s a gift. Surely a gift won’t be bad.

“Fuck it.” I gulp the rest of the wine, then rip into the paper. A little too vigorously, because there are regular sheets of typing paper in there. Thirteen, actually. And from the header, the pages form a binding contract regarding the terms of my employment as Mr. Holt’s PA. I’ve already ripped two pages almost in half.

Oops.

I skim the whole document, and though I’m no lawyer it seems straightforward enough. At least until I reach the last paragraph. One clause has been added in by hand, the letters firm and slightly slanted. A masculine hand, I think.

Holt’s hand.

The clause is about his property rights. And according to the clause, the property referred to is me. And as for those rights … well, I’m pretty much handing me to him on a platter.

There’s a Post-It on that page of the contract, with another note in that same bold hand: Open the bundle.

I do as instructed, my heart beating fast. My body more than a little tingly. I tell myself it’s only the lingering thrill of Masque.

Yes, I have mad skills of deception. I can even lie to myself.

My mouth goes dry when I pull away the tissue to reveal what’s inside, and I have to take a deep breath before pulling out a skimpy, lace bra that was clearly not designed with support in mind, along with a pair of equally useless matching panties. Thong style, of course.

The two pieces are held together by a piece of paper and a safety pin. That same bold handwriting is on the paper:

All right, Aria. Just how badly do you want this job? You’ll wear these on Monday. Whatever you imagine the possibilities are that could flow from these garments—whatever prurient act you might be called upon to perform—remember that act is part of the terms of your PA contract.

Think before you sign. Because once you’ve signed, I will, quite literally, own your ass.