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  I tried to answer, but my mouth was as dry as my former boss’s dandruffy scalp. What if he’d hurt her? I knew firsthand those guys were mean.

  “Are you there?” Mum asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “Well, what is it then? Your new address?”

  The loan shark would find me no matter what continent I was on, but by “forgetting” to notify them of my whereabouts, I’d hoped to buy myself enough time to start earning paychecks before they sent some guy called Bruce-the-Bruiser to hunt me down.

  Looks like my time had run out.

  “Uh, sorry, Mum, something’s come up. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you later. Love you.” My voice wobbled on the last words, but hopefully she’d chalk it up to the overseas connection.

  I threw the phone back in my bag and pressed my forehead against the hot, hard steering wheel. At the end of the day, my choices were: die at the hands of Bruce-the-Bruiser; run home and be rescued by my parents (they’d have to front me the plane ticket first); or ignore my misgivings and take on this job.

  I couldn’t live with myself if I made my parents lose their house, so it was no choice at all really.

  Taking a deep breath, I removed my head from the steering wheel, picked up the phone again, and dialed my handler’s number.

  2

  My legs were sticking to the leather seat, so I turned over the ignition and cranked up the air-conditioning while waiting for my handler to answer. It was the first week of September and eighty-six degrees outside. In my hometown of Adelaide, it would be curl-up-in-front-of-the-fire weather.

  He picked up on the fourth ring. “State your ID.”

  “Hi, Jim. It’s me, Isobel Avery.”

  “No names remember? I only told you mine because you got so worked up about it.”

  I hadn’t actually gotten worked up. Fraternizing amongst Shades was discouraged, so Jim was my sole contact at the Taste Society, and I wanted him to think of me as more than a number. When he kept answering all my getting-to-know-each-other questions with “it’s classified,” I’d resorted to pitching my voice higher and higher and crinkling tissues near the phone. Jim then admitted disclosing his name and one little-known fact about himself was within regulations. It gave Shades the ability to verify their handler’s identity if they needed to.

  He’d also felt the need to point out that no one else had ever asked him to do this.

  “That was very sweet of you,” I said.

  He muttered something about how he must have been a dictator in a former life to be punished with fresh Shades in this one.

  “Let’s get a few things straight,” he said. “I am not sweet, and you will not address me by name under any circumstances. If I ask you to identify yourself, use your ID number and nothing else.”

  “Sorry. Let’s start again.” I cleared my throat. “This is Shade 22703.” It had taken me ages to remember that.

  “How did it go?”

  “Connor—”

  Jim cut me off. “No names.”

  “Right. Sorry. The client agreed to work with me.”

  “Good. Are you willing to take the assignment?”

  “Yes, although the brief didn’t say how long he expected to need protection.”

  “I’m not supposed to give out that information over the phone.”

  Boy, was this guy a stickler for the rules. Aunt Alice would love him.

  “Oh, come on,” I pleaded. “It’s not like anyone listening in would know who or what we’re talking about.”

  “That might be true if you’d kept to the no-names policy.”

  Touché. “Please? It’s my first case, and I’m nervous, and I bet there’s a loophole in the rule book about it somewhere…”

  I watched eleven cars crawl past before he caved. That may not sound like a long time, but traffic in LA is terrible.

  “Fine. But this is the last rule I stretch for you, and it’s only an estimate anyway. At the time of the application, the client thought it would be about two months.”

  Wow. Two months in a fake relationship with the charming Connor Stiles. Two months of spending every day together, tasting every morsel that passed his lips.

  It would be my longest relationship since my divorce.

  “Okay,” I said, keeping my voice even, “and thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jim said. “And by that I mean, don’t mention it.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll enter you into the system now, so your salary will start today.”

  The Taste Society provided room, board, medical care, and all other necessities, as well as a modest allowance during the months of training, but the hundred-grand salary only kicked in with the first assignment.

  Today.

  Despite the two-months thing, I smiled wider than I had in weeks. “Great, thank you so much!”

  “No need to thank me. It’s not coming out of my pocket.”

  “I take it back then.”

  I heard a noise that might have been a pencil snapping. “Goodbye, Shade 22703.”

  “Wait. Before you go—have you had that bite looked at?” This was the “little-known fact” he’d entrusted me with: that he’d been bitten by something on his belly button. It was oozing yellow discharge, so I’d told him to see a doctor.

  The dial tone sounded in my ear. The stubborn old goat hung up on me. My finger hovered over the button to call him back, but I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t push him any further today.

  Without talking about his belly button, however, I had no more excuses to procrastinate calling the stylist. It was makeover time.

  “Makeover time” lasted seven painful hours. Even the stylist looked weary by the end of it. In contrast, I’d made it just ninety minutes before I was hobbling so badly in my interview heels that she relented and purchased a pair of flip flops for me.

  The footwear substitution only cost five dollars, but the concession in style cost her a great deal more.

  Part of the problem was that Shades need to use low-scent products on the job that don’t interfere with our senses of taste and smell, so I told her fragrances of any kind gave me migraines. That meant she had to hunt down fragrance-free alternatives to all her favorite products, and I had a sneaking suspicion she’d dragged me around with her while she did it out of spite.

  The one silver lining was that we passed a food truck on the way in, and I snagged the special of eight churros for three bucks. Comfort food. My extravagant purchase left me with thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents to my name. Still, with the current exchange rate, it was equivalent to eighteen Australian dollars, so I wasn’t that broke. Plus I had a credit card, but it was reserved for emergencies. The last thing I needed was more debt.

  The stylist had wrinkled her pert nose in disgust. “Do you know how many calories are in those?”

  I’d smiled a blissful smile. “The perfect amount.” Then, mouth watering like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I lifted the precious paper parcel to my nose and inhaled the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and hot oil. It was mostly in appreciation, but I automatically checked for harmful substances too. Smelling nothing untoward except that the oil should have been changed a week ago, I pressed the first churro against the tip of my tongue and sampled it all over before swallowing.

  Then I devoured the rest with obscene pleasure.

  Come to think of it, maybe that was why she’d been so snotty.

  I found a parking space for my heavily laden Corvette only a block down the street from my new rental. My apartment was on the top floor of a three-story slab of concrete built during the affordable-housing boom in the 1960s. Unlike most of the apartments in the area, mine hadn’t been renovated since.

  I hiked up the outside stairs and opened the door to musty green carpet, which gave way to the dizzying geometric pattern of the linoleum as I walked through the kitchen. Some enterprising soul had painted the wood paneling and walls white in an attempt to open up and modernize the cramped
quarters. Although, for some unknown reason, they’d left a feature wall in the living room of original 1960s wallpaper depicting flowers, bananas, and pineapples in green and yellow. My housemate, Oliver, had taken it upon himself to draw eyes on the pineapples, which gave it a creepy feel, especially late at night when shadows played on the walls. The whole apartment was fitted out with mismatched furniture from secondhand shops and pieces previous tenants hadn’t bothered to take with them.

  Home sweet home.

  I cherished each piece of ugly since it meant I could afford to live in the safe neighborhood of Palms, minutes from Beverly Hills and Culver City. The fully furnished aspect had also been a big factor in my decision. The only thing I’d spent money on was some fresh bed sheets.

  It took me seven trips to carry my new wardrobe, makeup, and hair products up the two flights of stairs. I cheered myself by thinking of how much exercise I was getting without paying for a gym membership—and when that wore thin—by imagining Connor Stiles’s credit card statement. Shades are obligated to cater to the particular tastes of their clients, but the clients foot the bill. Maybe I should’ve snuck in a new duvet cover while the stylist was distracted by twelve indistinguishable hues of lipstick. Mr. Stiles wouldn’t have noticed the extra charge.

  I took a lot of pleasure in washing the makeover off me and changing into my comfy sweats. Meow, my housemate’s cat, twined herself around my ankles as soon as I emerged from the bathroom. One week of living together and she already knew I was a soft touch. I gathered her lithe body into my arms, carried her into my room, and flopped backward on the bed.

  She blinked her gold-green eyes at me and began kneading my stomach to make the perfect nest. I gave her free rein. She was a light little thing without an ounce of fat on her, and her sleek, short hair didn’t add any weight. But she didn’t let it hold her back. The bold, black tiger stripes on her gray coat suited her to a T. I petted her until she lay down, one paint-dipped black paw rested by my chin and her purr sending pleasant rumbles through my body.

  We stayed like that until the front door creaked open and Oliver moseyed in.

  “Izzy? You home?”

  Whenever things had gotten too much while I was boarding and training at the Taste Society facility, I’d escaped to the Fox, a nearby pub that reminded me of home. It was there I met Oliver tending bar. He was intelligent, funny, and absent of any ambition to become famous. He also had wholesale access to alcohol. That and rental prices convinced me he would be the perfect housemate.

  To convince him in return, I promised to cook.

  Seeing as I love all things food related, including its preparation, it wasn’t a hard bargain.

  “In here,” I called, mentally getting ready for the homework I’d set for myself on the drive home. I had to work on my acting skills, and Oliver was the perfect guinea pig.

  He came to my room, leaned his lanky frame against the doorjamb, and took stock of the shopping bags scattered all over the floor. “Looks like someone’s been on a shopping spree, love. No wonder you can’t afford better accommodations.” There was no disapproval in his tone, only cheerful amusement. “Wanna beer?”

  I eased Meow from my stomach to my lap and sat up to take his proffered drink. Oliver used his newly freed hand to tickle a sleepy Meow under the chin. He moved with a deftness and grace that seemed at odds with the careless way he drifted through life, but I was guessing it was useful in dealing with drunkards and glassware all day.

  “At least I’m not always drinking,” I said, putting off my announcement until I’d had some beer.

  My confidence in my acting ability was low since failing drama in high school. I used to believe I’d only failed because I’d cut a butt flap in the class bully’s costume and the teacher hadn’t seen the humor in it. Now that my new job depended on believable acting skills, I was less sure. Hence, the homework I’d set for myself.

  Oliver smirked at me and shifted a dark blond lock of hair out of his eyes with the neck of his beer bottle. “You know I’m still heartbroken over Adele. I have to drown my sorrows somehow.”

  “That was over two years ago.”

  He gave me a hurt look. “I left England and came to bloody California for her! It was true love, and you of all people should be sympathetic.”

  I eyed his sun-bleached hair and golden tan, both testaments to his love of the sun which was in short supply in freezing England. “You might have come to California for Adele, but you stayed for the weather.”

  He took another swig and shrugged. “Eh, guilty as charged.”

  “Besides”—I kept my voice relaxed even as my heart rate skipped ahead—“I’ve moved on. I’ve got a new boyfriend.”

  Oliver beamed at me. “Really? That’s great. What’s his name?”

  So far, so good. “Connor.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  Oops, didn’t think of that. “Um, in town. While I was going to a job interview.”

  “Uh-huh. Is he your new boss or something then?”

  I spun to see if I’d left the file on Connor out in plain sight. Meow was not impressed. “What? No. Why would you ask me that?”

  Oliver held up his hands. “Sheesh. I was joking. If you were that desperate for a job, I could’ve hooked you up without er, hooking up, if you know what I mean.”

  There was no file in view. “Yes, of course. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  Oliver was staring at me, all humor gone from his face. “Geez, Izzy, you weren’t that desperate were you?”

  “No!”

  Oh dear, this is going just like that improv skit in high school.

  Even Meow sensed it was a sinking ship. She leaped off my lap and sprinted out of the room.

  Oliver sat down next to me on the bed, keeping a careful distance between us. “I don’t want to overstep here, but you seem pretty wound up and unhappy for someone who just started a new job and a new relationship…”

  I shook my head, unable to think of anything I could say to salvage the situation.

  “And I know you must need money to pay the lease on your Corvette and support your shopping habit. So I won’t judge. But if you need help, I’m sure I can get you a job at the Fox.” He patted my shoulder awkwardly and stood up. “Sleep on it, okay? And don’t worry about cooking. I’ll eat leftovers tonight.”

  He let himself out, and I flopped back onto my bed.

  This did not bode well for tomorrow.

  At seven the next morning, I was cruising along Santa Monica Boulevard with my windows down and the music loud, trying to pluck up some courage. My copper-brown hair had been subjugated into an elegant updo by a third of a bottle of flashy hair serum that cost as much as a week’s rent; my makeup had been applied with painstaking precision using the stylist’s paint-by-numbers system (rather than my usual half-assed one); and my wardrobe had been updated to the twenty-first century. Today’s ensemble was a mid-waisted, yellow pencil skirt ending a few inches above my knee, topped off with a soft-fitting, silky black blouse and peep-toe heels.

  Annoying as it was to admit, I looked good.

  I couldn’t decide whether it would be worse if Connor was pleased or displeased with the result of his mandated makeover.

  Either way, now I just had to bluff the world with my D-grade acting skills and convince myself Connor Stiles was worth risking my life for.

  It was easier to be persuaded if I thought of Bruce-the-Bruiser at the same time.

  The address in Beverly Hills Connor had given me was claimed by an old Tudor-style mansion on a half-acre lot. The grounds were plain—well-kept green lawn with a few ancient maple and oak trees scattered about—encircled by a low stone wall. It was pleasant. Tranquil even. A stark contrast to its owner.

  The gate was open, so I parked in the circular driveway, left the safety of my vehicle, and banged the bronze lion-head knocker against the massive wooden door. I busied myself by tugging the skirt farther down my legs while I waited for someon
e to answer. Connor opened the door himself.

  I took a step back.

  Gone was the intimidating, dispassionate man from yesterday. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, with his hair wet from the shower and stubble softening the edges of his jaw.

  His voice softened to match. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

  I was overdressed. Yet I still felt like a cheap knockoff on his fancy doorstep.

  He leaned in to kiss me on the lips, and I stood there like a stunned mullet until I remembered to flinch away. Then I remembered I was supposed to be his girlfriend. Then I remembered the Taste Society contract stipulated:

  Lip contact is permissible on the hands, cheek, and neck but prohibited elsewhere unless explicitly agreed on by the two parties.

  “Cheek only,” I hissed.

  He aborted the kiss and moved his mouth to my ear instead, his stubble grazing my skin. I stifled a shiver.

  “Get in character,” he said. “My maid is here.” Stepping back, he looked at me in a way that would’ve made my heart work double time if it had been real. My ex-husband used to look at me like that. I wondered if it had ever been real. “I’m so glad you could make it for breakfast.”

  I reminded myself I was on the job and matched his soppy pretense. “Of course I came, schnookums.” His jaw tightened on hearing my chosen term of endearment. “Wouldn’t miss it for a year’s supply of donuts.”

  Okay, so my act was more soap opera than reality TV, but at least I hadn’t run home to Meow yet. I was proud of myself.

  His acting was better than mine. “Come in then, and let me introduce you to Maria. She’s prepared a feast for us.”

  Before turning, his eyes flicked over me and my makeover, and I thought I saw a hint of desire. He reached out and caressed my face. “You clean up nicely.”

  My stomach tingled.

  “But I suggest you rethink that nickname.”

  I decided my stomach was hungry. For food.

  I followed Connor through a wide hallway artfully renovated in a modern, minimalist style that somehow retained the character of the original structure. Exposed dark timbers contrasted with bright white paintwork, and the timber was picked up again in the floating shelves and art frames that created points of interest along the walls.