A knock at the door wakes Dexter from a dead sleep. He’s on my bed—I know it’s a little gross, you don’t have to tell me—and grunts in irritation at being disturbed. I, however, am not irritated at all. I am hopeful that the hand that did that knocking belongs to one Ms. Tessa Sharpe.

I stride across the room and open the door, ready to say, “Is this a booty call?” but when I see who it is, my face falls.

Damien stands before me with a large yellow envelope. “Sorry to call so late, Your Highness. The investigator has returned his report on Ms. Sharpe.”

“Ah, thank you.” A twinge of guilt hits me. Now that I’ve gotten to know her a little, this seems somehow wrong. Especially after all the flirting and the fact that she’s not the completely evil witch that I thought she’d be. She’s a little bit goofy and vulnerable underneath that tough-girl act, and even though I shouldn’t, I like her. “Anything interesting?”

“You’ll easily be able to maneuver her in the necessary direction with what he’s found out.”

“Should it come to that.” I take the envelope. “Let’s hope it won’t.”

“Anyone else have copies?”

He pauses, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out what I’m about. “Do you mean, have I sent this to your father?”

“No, I meant what I asked.” God, Damien, I’m not an idiot. You can’t lead me into one of your traps.

“The investigator keeps records of everything. I took the liberty of copying it as well, just in case.” He gives me a mealy-mouthed smile. I stare at his chin for a second. Not one whisker. How?

I walk across to the living room and flop down onto the couch. Damien sits across from me on an armchair.

After a half-hour, I know everything there is to know about Tessa Adelaide Sharpe from her bra size (a very delightful 34C), first pet’s name (which I shall not share with you, as she probably still uses it for passwords), to every grade she’s ever gotten in school. There’s a particularly useful online dating profile that she filled out almost three years ago but then deleted. It holds the cheat codes to her heart.

Tessa Sharpe

Age: Twenty-five

Occupation: Journalist at major newspaper

Interests: I love photography, running (especially on the beach), yoga, reading, dancing the night away with friends, watching romantic comedies but they must be well-done and have an excellent plot. I also enjoy a good mystery book or film. My favourite music is pop, especially Pink and U2.

People I dislike tend to: be lazy, overly critical, or sponge off of others.

People I like tend to: be kind, make their own way in the world, and work hard.

Favourite Food: Jelly Babies – world’s best candy. And crisps, any flavour will do.

Biggest dreams: To one day be an award-winning journalist or writer. To see the world. To find someone who will understand me and love me unconditionally.

Biggest fears: Sometimes it feels as though the world is spinning too fast and that life is going to pass me by without me having really lived or enjoyed it.

My dream date would include: Doing something active like rock-climbing, going for a long bike ride or hike, followed by great conversation over an unhurried, delicious meal. Then we could sip some wine while watching the sunset, and then who knows?

What I’m looking for in a man: Someone fun, honest, caring, energetic, and hard-working to share my life with. It matters less to me that he makes a lot of money and more that he is passionate about his work. I am hoping to find a true partnership with a man who will be supportive of my dreams—even when I fail—and who will let me do the same for him.

Huh. I don’t know whether to be impressed or skeptical. What woman really wants a man who is passionate about his work but makes no money? I call bullshit. She also seems to have an obsession with finding a hard-working fellow, which makes me wonder if her father is a real deadbeat. The funniest part is the bit where she claims to dislike people who are ‘overly critical.’ Ding! Ding! Hypocrite alert! But none of that really matters in the end, does it? What matters is that I now have an excellent jumpstart on ‘Operation Impress the Knickers Off the Royal Watchdog.’

I flip to the next page in the dossier that lists her former relationships.

Damien is so excited that he looks like a five-year-old who has to pee. “She had a brief affair with Barrett Richfield when she was working for The Daily Times. Ended with him engaged to Helena Jones and Ms. Sharpe out on her arse.”

The thought of her sleeping with a bottom feeder like Richfield makes my blood turn cold. “So, she quit when he dumped her?”

“No. He fired her.” Damien is positively radiant right now, glowing like a spring bride.

“Why didn’t she sue?”

“Who knows? Couldn’t stomach the humiliation, maybe.”

I shrug, pretending I’m not in the least affected by this infuriating story. Because I shouldn’t be, should I? “Not exactly usable information, is it?”

“It wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the fact that she’s been trying to get on at another paper or news program since she was let go. But she’s been completely out of luck, which is our gain.” He rubs his little hands together. “There’s nothing easier than using someone’s dreams against them.”

“Not against her. In our favour.” My heart drops. I really don’t want to do this, but all’s fair in love and war, right? Although, this is low, even for us. “Damien, I’d like to make sure that no one finds out about any of this.”

“No one will. I’ll see to it.” He stands. “It would render her completely useless to us.”

He leaves, and I sit staring at everything I need to both win her over and screw her over. I should be elated, but somehow having it in my hand makes me sick. Ruining her life like that, for my own gain. Although, I really shouldn’t feel bad, since she has been trying to ruin mine for years now.

I gather up the papers and walk over to my bookshelf and pull out one of the books. The bookcase immediately slides open revealing a hidden—wait, you didn’t actually buy that, did you? God, you watch too many movies.

I put the envelope in a desk drawer and lock it, then pocket the key.