“Just have fun,” she said. “It doesn’t have to feel like work. Your waxing was probably more uncomfortable than your date could ever be.”

But . . . “It’s been more than three years since I slept with anyone.” And Edward’s pitiful attempts shouldn’t even count.

“That is . . . hmm. How strange,” she said, as if I’d told her I liked to wear other people’s skin. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, remember: sex is like riding a bike.”

I turned toward the elevator. “Mierda. I can’t. This was a mistake.”

Ivanna sighed. “I didn’t want you to get your hopes up too high, so I never told you my record for one night.”

“Are you going to now?” She’d been vague, saying the sky was the limit, but she’d refused to give me hard numbers.

“My record for a six-hour outcall is over twenty thousand in cash and jewels.”

Twenty. Thousand.

Money like that could catapult me directly into the next phase of my life plan! When I regained the power of speech, I sang, “And we’re off to fuck the wizard.”

She laughed. “I hope he’s a wonderful wizard. Oh, one last thing, Cat. You’re going to have a gut-check moment, and when you do, ask yourself: would I have sex with this guy for free? If the answer is yes, then why not view the money as a bonus?”

“Okay, muy bien. I can do this,” I said, psyching myself up.

“Go get ’em!”

Disconnecting the call, I turned to check my appearance in a lobby mirror. December was usually mild, but this year had been downright balmy, so I’d worn a wrap dress of forest-green silk. The style was understated, with a conservative neckline, in case he wanted to take me out, but the sides were held together by only a single bow at my hip. Stilettos gave a hint of naughty.

I twisted around to view the back. The thin silk was too tight across my ass, leaving little to the imagination. Nothing to be done for it now. I faced forward and eked out a smile.

I’d worn only lip gloss, mascara, and a touch of glittery bronze eye shadow. Ivanna said it brought out the vivid copper color of my irises, making my eyes look exotic, especially against my dark hair. I’d left the length of it down in long loose curls.

Makeup: in place. Hair: best that can be expected. Conclusion: If I were a horny Russian lech, I’d do me.

I checked my cell phone clock. I had less than two minutes to make an on-time arrival. Stowing my phone in my purse, I pressed the doorbell, then gazed around, battling my nerves. I glanced at that newspaper on the coffee table again. Would a guy this rich have a bodyguard or something—

The door opened, revealing my first-ever client. In escort slang, he was DDG.

Drop. Dead. Gorgeous.

He looked to be in his midthirties, with a full head of thick black hair and a built body. He was well over six feet tall. His blue eyes were hooded, his penetrating gaze roaming over me.

He wore a lightweight cashmere sweater, winter white, that molded over his rigid pecs. The color made the piercing blue of his eyes pop. Dark, tailored slacks highlighted muscular legs and lean hips.

If I was ever going to lose my “escort cherry,” I couldn’t imagine a more ideal client.

Yet the Russian glanced behind me, as if he expected someone else to be there.

“It’s just me,” I said, surprised my voice sounded so casual when my heart was pounding.

Without a word, he turned, heading into a living area. I followed.

Accent lighting illuminated the tasteful modern décor. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows offered what had to be the best view in the city. All the balcony doors were open, the sound of the waves reaching us even this high up. This place was huge, the size reminding me of my former mansion. Oh, to be rolling again . . .

He faced me. “I confirmed a woman named Ivanna. Your agency suggested her when I sent in my preferences.” His voice was deep and rumbly, his accent tingeing the words.

I was a sucker for men with accents. Edward’s slow Atlanta drawl used to light me up. Until I’d found out he was from England. “Ivanna was supposed to come tonight, but she had to call in sick.”

“I requested a tall, slender blonde, at least in her late twenties. Ideally from Europe. Perhaps her substitute could have matched any of my requests.”

Instead he’d gotten me—twenty-two, five feet two inches tall, curvy, brunette. Oh, and one generation away from Cuba. Giving him a fake smile, I teasingly said, “Isn’t variety the spice of life, querido?” Sweetheart.

He wasn’t budging. “You’re not what I ordered.”

I, above all people, knew that you shouldn’t have to pay for something you never asked for. I had a flash memory of Edward edging toward his gun, moments after declaring his love for me.

“Are you even of legal age?” the Russian grated.

“And then some.”

He looked unmoved.

I’d read and reread Getting to Yes, and I thought I could finagle one night out of this guy. But then, was I really ready to take this step? “I can’t change your mind?”

When his expression grew even colder, I was glad he was about to kick me out. I would make a better outlaw than I would an escort. Outlaw? Give it time, Cat.

In a stern tone, he said, “I never reverse myself on decisions.”

I shrugged. “Okay, your loss.” How confident I sounded! Like a working-girl pro. Relieved, I turned toward the door, sauntering away—