Prologue

      “SEX FOR HIRE?” Cait Sullivan asked, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper. “Are you serious?”

      With the critical eye of a reporter, Cait examined the man across her desk. The expensive suit and Italian loafers were apparel that bespoke money, and not the garb of some crackpot. If she ignored the small bandage across his nose and the fading double shiners that made him resemble a jaundiced racoon, his face didn’t look as if it belonged to a crazy, either, but maybe someone who’d had his nose broken.

      “I’m perfectly serious, Ms.—” he glanced at her nameplate, then slid his pale blue gaze back to her “—Sullivan. I know for a fact that a representative of Fantasy for Hire was paid to have sex with a client. A very wealthy client.”

      Cait’s instincts kicked into high gear. There was a story here, a good story that wouldn’t require her to dress up and play nice with the debutantes of San Francisco—spoiled little girls who made her feel gauche and out of place. It might even keep her away from the boring charity auctions of the rich and infamous, another assignment she found distasteful. This was a real story. And if she could pull off the exposé Louden Avery kept hinting at, it might just mean the end of the fluff she’d been writing for the past two years and push her into the type of reporting she craved—hard-hitting news. Investigative reporting. Maybe even move her out of print and into live, on-location shots with one of the networks, or even CNN.

      This is Cait Sullivan reporting live…

      She tucked the fantasy away and pulled out a yellow pad instead. First things first. “What proof do you have?”

      “One of my former employees obtained the—shall we call them services,” he said, his voice dripping with innuendo, “of Fantasy for Hire. I have no physical proof but I did see a one-thousand-dollar receipt for services rendered. That’s a bit steep for a male exotic dancer, wouldn’t you agree?”

      She’d never personally hired an exotic dancer, but she’d been to a few bachelorette parties and pretty much guessed what these guys did for a living cost nowhere near what he was suggesting.

      From what Avery had told her thus far, Fantasy for Hire was a rather small, albeit successful, agency that hired out male strippers for bachelorette parties, birthday parties and the like—something he insisted was merely a front for a more lucrative business.

      “I need more than your telling me you saw a receipt, Mr. Avery,” she said, making notes on the pad.

      “You’re a reporter. Isn’t it your job to find out the truth behind what I’m telling you?”

      “Well, yes, but…”

      He stood and looked down his bandaged nose at her. “If you don’t want the story, Ms. Sullivan, I’ll go to the Examiner. I’m sure they’d be interested.” He turned to leave.

      “Wait!” She stood and circled the desk, unwilling to let her chance to prove herself as a serious reporter slip away. “Give me a few days to check it out and get back to you. If I think there’s a story, we’ll talk again.”

      He smiled, but it was more of a feral grin. “Oh, there’s a story, one hell of a story, and I’m giving it to you, Ms. Sullivan.”

      She didn’t want to question why he’d approached her when there were dozens of other reporters on the Herald with more experience. Who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth, as her mother would say?

      She took the business card he offered and promised to call