KEELEY UNLOCKED the door to her second-floor walk-up apartment and hung her waist-length brown leather jacket on a hook in the narrow foyer. She walked into the small kitchen with its metal 1950s cabinets and tossed her keys on the gold-speckled Formica counter.

      Her vintage 1905 greystone was one of the few buildings left untouched by the renovation bug sweeping through the Ukrainian Village neighborhood. Her landlady lived downstairs and had successfully resisted her sons’ attempts to move her into an assisted living home and sell out to a rehabber. Of course, once everything was overdeveloped, Ukrainian Village would lose the qualities that made it a fun place to live—reasonable rents, decent parking and a laid-back, yet hip atmosphere.

      Keeley grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed into the bedroom to decide what on earth to wear on her first day as an undercover bimbo.

      She opened the tiny closet and reached past the white-and-cream high-neck blouses, brown, black and gray suits, and the sensible neutral pumps and subdued silk scarves, to the clothes she never wore anymore, but hadn’t been able to let go of.

      She pulled out skintight sleeveless tops in fuchsia, red and lime-green, skirts so short they were illegal in certain jurisdictions and the literal kicker, four-inch high stilettos and platform heels in black, white and clear plastic Lucite.

      If bimbos ever got together and wrote a dress code, she could comply perfectly. She stripped off her khaki pants and cream-colored blouse and exchanged them for a low-cut white top, black miniskirt and black open-toed heels with rhinestone ankle straps.

      She took a few experimental steps across her bedroom, her old sashay falling into place. The heels were higher than she was used to, but the rhinestones still sparkled nicely, if not as much as they had under the stage lights.

      She stopped in front of the mirror. Something was out of place. The clothes were okay, her bod still fairly decent, but it was the hair. Too brunette.

      She reached up to the top shelf—easy to do in her platforms—and picked a round white box. Blowing the dust off, she set it on her bed and studied her emphatic hot-pink printing on the top. Property of Cherry Tarte!!! She shook her head at the juvenile writing. At least she hadn’t drawn hearts to dot the exclamation points.

      She removed the lid and lifted out her absolutely favorite red-haired wig, its luxuriant waves cascading over her hands. Brenda Starr-red. Rita Hayworth-red. Ann-Margret-red. And of course, stripper-red.

      Pulling the wig on, she tucked her hair under it and stared at her reflection. “Hello again, Cherry,” she said to herself. “Bet you thought you’d never come out of retirement.”

      For it had been the infamous Cherry Tarte, Keeley’s alter ego, who had paid for her accounting degree by baring it all for the boys at the Love Shack. It was ironic, to say the least, that she’d use Cherry’s persona for what could be the biggest accounting job of her career.

      And it was all thanks to Dane Weiss and his need for a bimbo forensic accountant. She couldn’t wait to see his face when his new executive assistant started work tomorrow morning all tarted up. Or rather, “Cherry-Tarted.”