Everyone in the industry called me the king of hosts, but in all my years working the nightclub scene, I'd never crossed the line. I poured drinks, played flirty little party games, kept the clients entertained. That was it.
This time was different.
Even if I was willing to sell my body, how the hell was I supposed to make this woman fall for me and sleep with me in such a short window?
I didn't sleep that night.
Early the next morning, the client had someone deliver a thick dossier.
The woman's last name was Fletcher. Twenty-seven years old. Recently returned from studying abroad. Her social circle was practically nonexistent. Other than the occasional trip out for coffee, she had no hobbies, no habits, nothing to latch onto.
At the very end, the client had written a single line in red ink:
"Extremely guarded. Will not trust anyone easily."
I frowned without realizing it.
The wealthy wives I'd dealt with at the nightclub all had a way in. Some were lonely. Some had physical needs their husbands weren't meeting. Others just wanted someone to make them feel something. There was always a crack in the armor.
But this woman was different. She'd sealed herself off on purpose.
There was no way in.