SUSHI? HAD GRANT SERIOUSLY ASKED a stripper out to dinner? He couldn’t possibly know I’m Ksenya. Emma must’ve been right when she said he wooed the girls at Panthers, taking one out whenever he was in town. I knew he was single—no steady girlfriend since me—but when had this stripper fetish started? What if he’d cheated on me when we were together? Bile rose in my throat. Was I simply naïve expecting him to have been faithful to me?

Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out which girls were at Paul’s place the night of the murder.

But I couldn’t say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.

I seethed inwardly. I didn’t need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life I had proved I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe deposit box, but every red cent had gone toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.

What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.

What I would give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch . The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn’t going to blow my big chance.

I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he’d invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn’t control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia. I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.

I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant’s truck. Our club was next to used-car dealerships and Korean barbecues, and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.

The roar of a motorcycle shook the air. Grant had bought a bike? I was so pissed at him. He’d always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as road kill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.

I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya’s world.

His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jaw line, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.

“Hey, gorgeous. Hop on.” He handed me a helmet.

“You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?” Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.

“Nothing’s dangerous when you’re with me. Let’s go.”

Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I’d never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit. I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.

The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I’d never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one after my parents died. But gliding through traffic, I had to admit, for the first time since Joaquín had been arrested, that my pulse steadied, my heartbeat calmed. For our brief ride I vanquished memories of my parents, Joaquín’s troubles, my heartache—this overwhelming sense of urgency. I was truly enjoying living in the moment.

We pulled up to some hole-in-the-wall sushi joint. We weren’t in the ritzy part of downtown. We were on Broadway, a few blocks from the county jail where Joaquín was being housed.

I’m here, Joaquín. I haven’t abandoned you.

It was hard being so close to him and not being able to reach out to him, but I had faith I was on the right path.

I removed my helmet and crinkled my nose. The stench of urine and tar churned my stomach. Grant would never have taken me to a restaurant like this. This was a place where a guy took a girl to hide her, not to show her off. Was he shrouding me because I was a stripper? Or did he have a girlfriend somewhere who he was cheating on?

Last night, I almost felt guilty for using him to find the truth after having dumped him in the past. But he chose to date a stripper, who on the surface was clearly not the type of woman to get serious with. So if he wanted a fling, at least he would be spending time with a woman who actually cared about him.

Grant studied my face. “This place is great, I promise. I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food is incredible.”

Great, he could still read me even as Ksenya. “I’m sure it is wonderful. I’m excited for good meal.”

His eyebrows lifted. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who looks beyond outward appearances.”

I bit my lip. “Compared to where it is I am from, this place is like palace.” Grant had a point. This could be the best sushi in the city, but I would’ve never agreed to go here when we were dating.

I’d never considered myself to be pretentious, but I admit I’d been a tad judgmental. I wondered if Grant had held himself back with me, afraid to push me to try new experiences. Why hadn’t I just been more open when I was with him?

The waitress sat us at a cramped table, stuck between the sushi bar and the restroom. Grant ordered a bunch of rolls, Asahi beer for himself, and sake for me.

He held my hand across the table. “So, how long have you been in San Diego?”

“Few months. I lived together in San Francisco with my baba. She died, and it was too much money for me there to live. I have friend here who was dancer and made good money, so I come down. The clubs in San Francisco are good, but houses are not so cheap.” My story was solid—I’d gone over it a thousand times—but gazing across at a man who regularly interrogated terrorists caused my palms to sweat.

The waitress brought us the first batch of rolls. Grant swirled a neon green mound of wasabi in the soy sauce with such concentration I shuddered from his intensity. “So you live with your friend?” he asked.

“No. She got boyfriend and quit the club. I live with older woman. She gives to me room in home, and I help with cleaning and cooking.” I tasted a piece of sushi—the Motion in the Ocean roll. The spicy jalapeño sauce lit my lips on fire while the sweet citrus put out the flame. I swallowed the tuna, the slithery fish sliding down my throat. Dear God, please don’t let me gag. I had been a vegan for years. But I knew there was no chance I could remain one in front of Grant.

“You could clean and cook for me.”

“Very funny.”

He popped a crunchy soft-shell crab roll into his mouth. “I’m serious, I travel all the time for my job. I could use some help.”

Was he kidding me? He had to be joking—he did not invite a stripper he had just met to move in with him. I dated this jackass for two years and we hadn’t even lived together.

“No, thank you. I do not know you.”

His eyebrow lifted, and his mouth widened into a sly smile. “Well, get to know me.”

My head pounded and it wasn’t from the cheap sake. Who was this man who sat across from me? Was it possible to change that much or did every man reinvent himself when dating someone new? I fought the desire to kick Grant in the balls, hightail it out of there, and get back to my life.

“What is it you do for living?”

“I sell pharmaceuticals.” His nose didn’t even twitch; he’d become an expert at hiding his lies. Though this fib didn’t bother me. SEALs never told civilians what they did for a living. Joaquín told everyone he met that he drove an ice cream truck. That guy you met in a bar boasting about being a SEAL? He was a liar.

“Let’s get out of here. I want to take you somewhere.” He signaled to the waitress and paid the bill in cash.

We slid onto the back of his bike, and I placed my arms around him. I wanted to vanish into this moment, go back to the way we were when we had first fallen in love. Before he deployed that first time. Before I’d done something stupid. Before I didn’t have the guts to confide in him.

Grant headed down to the pier, in front of the USS Midway, a retired Naval carrier turned maritime museum. The millions of lights from the ship illuminated the ocean, as the view of Coronado’s Hotel Del beckoned in the distance. Grant might be lying to his date about his job, but he was also sharing his love of the Navy. Maybe he didn’t see Ksenya as just a conquest.

We stood under the world-famous Unconditional Surrender statue, which portrayed a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War II.

Grant took me into his arms, and I was sure he was going to kiss me under the moonlight. “You’re so incredibly hot. Let’s go to a hotel.”

“Nyet.”

“Come on, babe. We’ll have a great time. If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll take you home. I just want to spend some time with you.”

My first instinct was to slap him. But my panties became damp as I imagined what this new Grant would do to me. Which way should I go—sweet, shy, good girl forced into stripping? Or nasty, freaky, bad girl who owned her sexuality?

I had vowed when this deception started—hell, when this date started—to never sleep with him again, fearful that he would discover my identity. Now I decided I wasn’t going to make any rules. I’d fooled him so far—maybe I could fool him in bed as well. I’d spent every night for the past two and a half years imagining making love to him. As Mia, I’d been the girl next door, a young inexperienced virgin, petrified to ask him to act out my deepest fantasies. But I had always harbored a secret desire to play the temptress.

If Grant wanted to party, I’d be ecstatic to rock his world. This time, I wouldn’t hold back. I couldn’t. Ksenya would have to be a wildcat in bed for me to pull off this deception.

Sleeping with Grant might be the only way to truly have him let down his guard and open up to me. But this time, sex would be on my terms, on my timeline—and for once in my life, I’d be in control.