“Vodka martini with Stolichnaya if you have it,” Phoebe orders, ending my stare down with Andy.
“Coming right up.” He moves away to make the drink.
“Stolichnaya?” Fancy, I think but don’t say.
She shrugs. “Ever since I visited Moscow, I can’t stand other vodkas.”
The enigma grows. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to explore the mystery of Phoebe right now. I pull a picture out of my bag. “This is our target.” The man in the picture is good looking, no doubt about it. He has curly brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes, and a lopsided smile with two dimples.
“And I just sit here? You don’t want me to try and attract him?”
I look her up and down. “You can maybe cross your legs when he’s looking.” She has fantastic legs. Nicely shaped. Unlike mine, which are pretty much two sticks that take me from A to B.
“When he approaches you, you’ll need to flirt with him. Try to get him to commit to going upstairs to a room with you.”
“Nothing more? I don’t have to …” she leans in close and whispers, “kiss him or fondle him or anything?”
I shrug. “It helps if you kiss him when you get to the room, but there’s no need for it in this case. Mrs. Wilson wants proof he’s picking up women at the bar, nothing more. She specifically said she didn’t want any obscene pictures.”
Andy sets her drink down on the bar in front of her. “Enjoy.”
Phoebe drinks half of it down in one gulp. She wrinkles up her nose. “Watered down? I don’t think there’s an ounce of vodka in this thing.”
I pat her shoulder. “Not getting drunk, remember? It was rule number two.”
“Should I be writing this down?”
I snort and walk off to get a room key from Peggy. I chat with her for a while as I wait for six o’clock, aka the witching hour when all the cheaters come out to play, to arrive. Sure enough, at five minutes past six, a group of men in suits arrive. I spot Mr. Wilson among them.
“Time to work,” I tell Peg as I follow the group into the bar. I saunter past Phoebe and place the key on the bar in front of her. She nods and I keep moving. I position myself in a dark corner no one ever notices – except for couples who are too impatient to make the trip up the elevator to a room, because apparently, the entire world thinks I’m a voyeur.
From my hidey-hole, I watch as the men order drinks from the bartender. Every single one of them, wedding ring or not, glances in Phoebe’s direction. I can’t blame them. She is a stunner. I also don’t have a problem with looking. It’s the touching that crosses the line and gets you in trouble.
Mr. Wilson takes his beer from Andy and immediately zeroes in on Phoebe. This is going to be a short night. Phoebe tilts her head down and smiles from beneath her lashes at him as he approaches. Oh, she’s good. I take out my camera and start taking pictures.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re still flirting at the bar. Come on, Phoebe. Seal the deal. Wilson raises his hand to order another drink, but she grabs it as she bites her bottom lip. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but – judging by the excitement lighting up his eyes – she’s asking him to her room. Good girl.
Wilson drops his hand to help Phoebe out of her chair. She grabs the keycard and looks around the bar until she spots me. I give her a thumbs-up. She nods before returning her attention to Wilson.
As soon as they are out of sight, I move. I rush to the stairwell and run up the two flights of stairs to the third floor. I open the door and listen for the elevator. It opens, and I hear Phoebe giggle. And I thought I was a good actress. I ain’t got nothing on her.
Once I hear them walk down the hallway, I push through the door and follow them. They disappear behind a room door, but the door doesn’t close completely. Of course, it doesn’t. This isn’t my first rodeo. I wait a few beats and sneak into the room behind them.
Wilson has Phoebe pressed against a wall. He’s licking her neck as his hands roam up and down her sides. I snap a dozen pictures and then mouth got it to Phoebe. Instead of ending the charade, she looks at me with big round eyes begging me to take action. Well, damn. I forget to tell her how to get herself out of these types of situations. All she has to say is she changed her mind. If he gets violent, I have her covered. But I didn’t prepare her properly. I’m an idiot.
I put my camera in my bag and take a few steps back before banging on the door. “Hello!” I saunter in as if this is my room. Wilson moves away from Phoebe to glare at me.
“What are you doing in here?” he growls.
I point to myself. “What am I doing in here?”
He stalks toward me. “Yeah, you bitch. What the fuck are you doing in here?”
I look around all befuddled. “But this is my room, I think? Isn’t this room 350?” I make a huge production of looking at the number on the door. Sure enough. It’s 350.
Wilson looks confused now. “I thought you said this was your room,” he asks Phoebe.
She shrugs all innocent like.