I was in Chicago for business. Uncomfortable business. Business that should have been on the up and up but could turn unseemly in a heartbeat. Which is how I found myself in the company of Mike Woodman, a despicable man who had the veneer of legitimacy but if you scratched the surface, was shady as shit.

Woodman was an agent of sorts, a guy who could procure things. Some were honest and legitimate. Others were on the fringe. I was a man looking for the latter, searching for something, make that, someone, specific. It was probably my well-deserved karma that I was seated at a table next to the uncouth ass who treated that poor waitress despicably.

My first instinct was to pop the guy but I feared someone would snap a photo, I’d be recognized, and all hell would break loose. I couldn’t afford that right now because I was here on a secret, urgent matter of the utmost importance. And then she hustled up to our table on a mission to rescue her friend.

I could practically see the steam puffing out of her nostrils. I’d overheard bar patrons call her Vivian. She was fresh faced, pretty, early twenties. She had long, brown hair, full lips, a tight, low-cut T-shirt that covered what looked like a great set of tits, and legs from here to eternity. My balls tightened because man, this girl was hotter than hell when she was riled up.

I was curious how she’d handle the wanker, and laughed when she played him for a fool and doused him with a pitcher of margaritas. I wondered what else she could manage when that odious prick Woodman fired her. I thought she’d cuss him out, but Vivian just bit her lip and turned white as a ghost. She turned heel and walked down a hallway into the back of the establishment. She stomped out a few moments later in those sky-high boots that started a few inches below her skirt, with her purse slung over her shoulder. Her friend accompanied her, the two of them whispering on her short trip to the front door. A few older men in the corner hollered out, inquiring whether she needed a ride home. “I’m good,” she said. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

I admired her spirit. She’d stood up to that loser who deserved far worse than being showered with a pitcher of margaritas. She was awfully sexy in that mini and I racked my brain trying to remember why she reminded me of someone… and oh holy crap, the opportunity I’d been desperate to pay a fortune to Mike Woodman had just landed in my lap with a bow on top. I almost missed it because I was too busy imagining her beautiful legs wrapped over my shoulders as I thrust into her.

She slammed the door on her way out of the tavern. I sprung to my feet and strode after her. It was close to midnight on a warm and muggy summer evening. Except for the biker bar squatting on the corner, it was a quiet, residential neighborhood populated with older, small homes. There was a low rumble from planes that landed at nearby Midway Airport. Street lights glared overhead on the narrow avenue lined with parked cars. The air smelled of fast foods: Italian, Chinese, fried chicken, with an underlying layer of rotting garbage and lower-middle class fierce work ethic.

I paused for a few moments to check Vivian out. She was the right age, feisty as hell, and could clearly think on her feet. She had that girl-next-door kind of look, the girl that you’d known forever but one day blossomed and poof, like magic, became sexy as sin. A myriad of unknown factors could screw my scheme to high heaven but I couldn’t help but wonder if my crazy plan could play out.

Unfortunately, the beautiful girl who might have been the answer to my prayers was also walking away from me at an alarming clip. She threw her hands up in the air, either speaking with ear buds into a phone or talking to herself. “I’ll have you arrested for assault,’” she said in a falsetto. “Fucking wienie with short fat fingers. We all know what that translates to.”

Yes. Definitely talking to herself.

“Who needs this shitty, fucking job? Crappy hours. Minimum wage plus tips. Stupid short skirt that makes me look like I’m giving away pussy shots for free. Ugh.”

I snorted but clapped a hand over my mouth and followed after her.

“And I am done with these cheap, blister-producing boots.” She stopped in the middle of the street, propped one hand against a parked car, balanced on one foot, and unzipped a boot.

I was mesmerized as that zipper slid down her upper thigh, past her knee, over her calf and all the way to her ankle. She latched onto the heel, wriggled her hips, and wrangled the thing off. My cock started throbbing. I turned my head to see if indeed there was a free pussy shot, but sadly there was not. I was spying on her like some kind of weirdo voyeur. What kind of prince was I?

A prince who needed to get his act together or the golden opportunity that had presented itself would slip away. I walked toward her.

“Hey lady. Maybe you shouldn’t be undressing in public. But if you insist, allow me to help—”

She blinked under the glare of a street lamp. “Pervert! Stay away from me!”

“Not a pervert. The guy from Mugshot’s Bar. The one who—”

“Asshole!” She threw her boot at my head.

The boot bounced off my face. I stumbled backwards and caught myself on a parked car. “Ow.”

“Wait. You’re not that asshole,” she said. “Sorry! Then again, maybe you should think twice about approaching a single woman late at night on a deserted street and scaring the crap out of her. I’m in no mood. Leave. Me. Alone.”

She turned and hobbled away, which wasn’t easy considering she had one bare foot and was still wearing the boot on the other.

I could feel my eye socket swelling but I couldn’t help but laugh. I picked up the boot. “Hold on, Cinderella. You forgot your glass slipper.”

She turned and stared at me. “It’s pleather. Burn it. Oh crap, did I hit you in the eye?”

“Yes, Rocky. I’ve endured worse. It sounds like you’re out of a job. Will you be looking for a new one?”

“Will politicians always lie?”

I fumbled in my pocket for a card and extended it toward her. “I might have something of interest for you.”

She walked a few feet toward me, took it, and held it up to the light. “Your name’s not on here. Who has a business card that doesn’t have their name on it?”

“My name’s Maximillian—”

“Nice to meet you Max.” She slipped the card down her cleavage and unzipped her other high heel. “You have an accent. Where are you from?”

“Bellèno.”

She kicked off the other boot. My gaze was torn between her gorgeous tits, her curvy hips, and her long, toned legs.

“Aha. The word on the card. I’ve heard of that place. It’s a skiing town in the Alps, right?”

“Something like that.”

She stood up straight, barefoot on the asphalt on a warm summer night. She was around five feet six inches tall. The right height.

“Tell me in one sentence what the job entails.”

“Tough to describe in one sentence.”

“So, it’s illegal,” she said, arching one eyebrow.

“Not really.”

“‘Not really’ means quite possibly.”

She looked even more wholesome without the high heels, a far cry from the majority of women I met.

“You’re smart. And you’re impossibly gorgeous.”

“You’re hot,” she said. “But I’m not looking for that right now. Apologies about the eye. I wasn’t aiming for it. I’ve gotta go.”

“Change your mind, Vivian, give that number a ring. Mention ‘The Crown Affair.’”

“That doesn’t make your offer sound more legitimate, you know. Go home and put some ice on that eye.”

“I’m staying at a hotel.”

“I bet they have ice, too.”

“I’m in town for a few more days. Trust me, this is a great opportunity.”

“Thanks, Max.” She waved at me as she rounded a corner and then disappeared from my sight. “That’s what they all say.”