His eyes trained on the door, Turner sat in an armchair in the darkened hotel room and waited for Bridget.

She hadn’t told him which part she was going to play, that of a call girl or the timid wife masquerading as one. He knew how to respond to the first but not the second. As good as his acting skills were, they were limited to just a few roles, and the loving husband trying to provide his bored wife with some excitement was not one of them. On the upside, Turner didn’t need an actor to record French dialog for him. He could manage just fine on his own.

Still, Bridget might surprise him by coming up with a different game. He hoped she would. Turner’s ability to predict people’s words and actions meant that he was seldom surprised and rarely excited. Not that he was complaining. Most of life’s surprises weren’t good, and he would gladly do without them. Except, there was something to be said for the unexpected, it provided spice to an otherwise predictable existence.

The knock on the door pulled him out of his reverie. Should he answer in French?

“Come in.” He decided to stick with plain old English.

The door creaked open. “Mr. Turner? Is that you?” The voice was Bridget’s, but the tone wasn’t.

Bridget spoke with confidence, the tone she was using now conveyed anxiety. Had she chosen to play the part of the wife?

It was too dark for him to see her, but he knew she had no problem seeing him. “I’m over here,” he said. “Would you like me to turn on the lights?”

“No. It's better like this.” She closed the door behind her but didn’t move from her spot.

“Come closer,” he commanded.

The woman sighed and took a few tentative steps. “I’m sorry, but Stacy couldn’t make it tonight. She’s got the flu, and all the others have it too. I was the only one available. I’m sorry.”

Bridget was playing the part so well, Turner focused on her voice to reassure himself it was her. Still, which part was it? He needed more clues.

“What’s your name?”

“Gena.”

“Come a little closer, Gena, and tell me why you think you should apologize.”

“I’m not who you were expecting.”

As she took several small steps toward him, he could finally see the outline of her body. It was definitely Bridget.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

“It does.” She inhaled as if searching for courage. “I’m new. I was supposed to get training, but there was no time. I’m afraid I’ll be a disappointment to you. Perhaps you would prefer a refund? I’m sure the agency will give you back your money.”

“I don’t want my money back.” He extended his hand, and when she took it, he pulled her gently onto his lap.

Bridget didn’t look at him, her red hair spilling in thick waves on both sides of her face.

He hooked a finger under her chin. “Look at me.”

She did, chewing on her lower lip. “Yes?”

Damn, she was good. But he still wasn’t sure if Bridget was playing the role of the wife or not.

“Do you want to be here, Gena?”

She nodded.

“Why?” Maybe she would finally give him a clue.

A timid smile lifted the corners of her lips. “You’re very handsome.”

“I’m glad you think so. But if I’m your first client, you can still change your mind. In this profession, you don’t get to choose, and the next one might not appeal to you.”

She shifted in his lap, making herself more comfortable and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m not a call girl in training. I’m the agency’s receptionist.” Bridget aka Gena kissed his neck, the soft touch sending a bolt of desire to his shaft.

Nuzzling his jaw, she continued. “When Stacy called in sick, I logged into your account to let you know she had to cancel, but then I saw your picture and decided to take her place.” She lifted her eyes to him. “Are you mad? I know I’m not as gorgeous as Stacy, but I’ve been told I’m pretty.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She looked at him from beneath her lowered lashes. “Do you mean it? You’re not just saying it to be nice?”

It seemed he’d been right about Bridget’s inventiveness. This was a different storyline.

Was he still supposed to be the secret agent?

The role fit him well, so why not. He could roll with that.

Pushing up, Turner let her feel his hardness. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’m not the type who bothers with niceties. I know what I want, and right now it’s the curvy redhead sitting on my lap.”

“For real? Are you sure there is no one else you’d rather be with?”

“I would prefer a naked redhead.”

She giggled in a very un-Bridget-like way. “That could be arranged.” Now that sounded more like the Bridget he knew.

Victor moved her off his lap but kept his hands on her waist. “Stacy was supposed to perform a pole dance for me. Can you dance, Gena?”

He’d been looking forward to that part from the movie. The question was whether the doctor had moves.

“I can try.”

“Please do.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I need music.”

He was ready for that. “No problem.”

Turner pulled out his phone and pressed play on the soundtrack he’d prepared. “Is that good?”

“Perfect.” Sauntering toward the row of light switches, Bridget moved her hips as if she’d been walking the runway her entire life. She pushed one up a bit, illuminating the bed area and leaving the rest of the room in darkness.

Slowly making her way to the four-poster bed, she pulled her dress over her head and tossed it on the floor.

Clad only in a pair of red heels, a black thong, and a barely-there lacy black bra, she wrapped her arm around one of the posts, lifted her leg, and hooked it around the thing. She then bent so far backward that the ends of her red hair were touching the floor and her ample breasts were about to spill out of her bra.

Turner’s breath hitched.

The woman knew what she was doing with that pole. Where the hell had she learned how to do that?

Was it an innate talent? Did all immortal females move like that?

Doubtful.

Bridget was a vision. Her body moving in precise fluidity and perfect balance, she performed acrobatics he would have never suspected her capable of.

When the soundtrack ended, he was tempted to start it again even though it was torture to look at the woman and not touch her. But it was sweet torture, the buildup of anticipation a pleasure on its own.

He rose to his feet and clapped his hands. “Bravo!”

“Thank you.” Bridget smiled, kicked off her red shoes, and climbed on the bed. “I forgot you wanted your redhead naked.”

He didn’t forget, but dancing in her sexy lingerie had been just as titillating as dancing naked would have been.

Probably more.

Turner knew next to nothing about sexy lingerie, but he knew what looked good.

On her knees, she unhooked her bra with one hand, covered her breasts with her other arm, and tossed the scrap of lace on the floor.

“Are you ready to see what you’re paying for, Mr. Turner?” She turned around and bent forward, thrusting her luscious heart-shaped ass out as she wiggled out of her thong.

Turner smoothed a hand over his jaw. “Mercy,” he groaned.