In New York City, there are brownstones and then there are brownstones. The one that holds Olivia’s mysterious The Agency is four stories of absolute old-money glory. I swear the carved stone lintels over the windows have their own lintels. A wrought iron fence surrounds the lowest floor. The door looks like solid mahogany. A sweeping set of stairs leads up to it, with marble lion’s heads peering at me on either side.

Whatever business this Olivia is in, she’s making some serious money here.

I climb the front steps and press the intercom. A soft chirpy voice carries out. “The Agency, who’s come calling?”

Interesting greeting. “Hi!” I say, feeling tongue-tied. “I, um, this is Hallie Gage. Olivia told me I should come by about a job?”

There’s a brief silence. Olivia did mean that invitation, didn’t she? It wasn’t just some polite brush-off? I bob on my feet nervously. Please don’t tell me my one bit of good luck in the last twenty-four hours was a sham.

Before I end up bounding right back down the steps, the chirpy voice comes back. “Sorry about the delay. Please come in, Hallie.”

The lock clicks over. I nudge the door open.

The inside of the place looks . . . surprisingly normal. Like someone’s home. Okay, a really fancy home, but what else would I expect from Olivia?

There’s a main lobby, with vintage-looking marble floors, a huge vase of fresh lilies on the table, and a staircase sweeping upwards, so I follow it to the top, my pumps sinking into a plush cream carpet so thick, I could lie down and take a nap right here.

A petite young woman appears at the top, dressed in a retro-style pencil skirt and silk blouse. Her fawn brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and her tortoiseshell glasses frame inquisitive green eyes.

“Please come right on up!” she says, beckoning. “I’ll get you set up with everything. Olivia’s on a call, but she’ll be out to see you as soon as she can. Oh, and I’m Alice.”

She gives my hand a firm but quick shake when I reach the top of the stairs. “You can sit in the parlor.”

The room she ushers me into is like something out of a magazine. The vintage French furniture is all upholstered in luxe shades of velvet, with elegant lamps perched on antique tables, and a stunning crystal chandelier overhead.

It looks like Olivia: expensive, and untouchable.

I sit nervously down at one end of the sofa. A clear, crisp voice I recognize as Olivia’s filters through the doorway from farther down the hall. I can only make out some of the words.

“Yes, of course. We . . . Every time. You don’t need . . .”

“Meow!” The interrupting noise comes from my feet. A large, mangy-looking ginger cat butts against my calf with his head. His skull is hard enough that I hear a thunk of impact.

“Hey there,” I say. “Try not to leave a bruise.”

He peers up at me with bright yellow eyes. It’s hard to tell which of the markings on his face are stripes and which are scars. He’s not exactly a match for his elegant surroundings. But then again, neither am I.

I scratch gently between the cat’s ears, and he immediately starts purring louder than a revving motorcycle engine. He smacks his head into my leg again.

“I get it, I get it,” I protest. “More scratching, coming right up.”

Alice comes hurrying into the room. “Oh, you met Thor,” she says. “Don’t mind him. He’s our litmus test. Olivia knows which clients to take on from how they treat him.” She watches Thor drool happily all over my suede pumps. “Looks like he really likes you. We’ll just need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement,” Alice continues, handing me a clipboard with a few pieces of paper fixed to it. “And then fill out the form underneath. Like I said, Olivia should be out really soon.”

She scurries back into the hall to sit down at a majestic secretary desk. I look down at the clipboard.

A non-disclosure agreement? What kind of work is this that disclosing it would be a problem?

As I read the agreement, my eyebrows rise. No mention of any activities arranged through The Agency . . . Any use of information overheard while with the client is strictly forbidden . . . What kind of activities? What would these clients be doing? So many questions and so few answers.

Well, I’m not going to get any answers unless I sign this. I scan the rest of the contract, but it’s standard language I recognize from my years with Jack. Nothing crazy, so I scribble my signature and flip to the form. Ah. More questions, these ones for me to answer.

Thor bumps his head against my ankle, purring even louder. As I write in my name, date of birth, and contact info, Olivia’s voice carries faintly into the room again.

“None of our girls would ever . . . That’s between you and her . . .”

None of our girls? Something about the phrasing sends a prickle over my skin. I glance over the rest of the form.

What leisure interests do you enjoy in your spare time?

Do you currently have any romantic attachments?

How comfortable are you making conversation with strangers?

I blink at the paper. What kind of weird employment questionnaire is this? What could my “romantic attachments”—which, okay, I have none—have to do with a job? The uneasy prickling comes back.

“You’ll always get the exact amount of time you paid for,” Olivia’s voice carries. “If she leaves early . . . all activities agreed to in advance.”

Wait a second. My face flushes. “Their” girls going off with clients . . . “Activities” paid for by the hour . . .

Is this some kind of escort service?

I drop the clipboard on the table and leap up. I stride towards the staircase, but Alice scrambles out of her chair “Wait!” She leaps in front of me. “Where are you going?”

“This job, it’s not for me.”

Alice gives me a frantic smile. “Olivia really wanted to talk to you herself. I’m sure if there’s been any confusion—”

“I’m not confused. I just have no interest in being a prostitute.”

My voice echoes, and a moment later, Olivia emerges from her office.

“Good. I don’t hire prostitutes.” She looks as calm and elegant as ever, despite the fact I’m basically calling her a pimp. Or madam. Either way, the fact I don’t even know the right word says I definitely shouldn’t be here.

“Fine. High-class call girl, or whatever it is you call it,” I correct myself. “No judgment or anything, but it’s not for me.”

“Hallie.” Olivia’s smooth voice cuts through my babbling. “Would you please come talk with me just for a minute? I think you’ll feel much more comfortable after I’ve explained. I promise I wouldn’t ask you to degrade yourself in any way.”

I pause. I’ve got to admit I’m pretty damn curious now, and whatever the Agency is about, it’s clearly afforded Olivia some pretty sweet digs. “All right,” I finally agree, curiosity getting the better of me. “But you’re lucky I can’t resist a mystery.”

The corner of Olivia’s mouth quirks up. She motions for me to follow her into her office.

Inside, it’s just as beautiful as the rest of the building, with a sleek, modern desk set against a wall of antique bookshelves. In the corner, there’s a loveseat and chaise, and Olivia takes a seat there, crossing her ankles beneath her like she’s Grace Kelly brought to life.

“Now,” she says, “let’s talk. The first thing I need to make completely clear is that what we do here has nothing to do with sex. In fact, a client pushing for physical intimacy is strictly against our rules. If one did, the contract would immediately be void and you’d be released without penalty.”

“Oh,” I say, sagging back in my chair. That’s pretty clear-cut. “So what does the job have to do with? What’s with all the crazy questions on the form?”

She gives me a warning look. “I’ll just remind you that everything I tell you now is covered by the NDA you already signed.”

I nod. “Top secret, pain of death—or lawsuit. I get it.”

“Good.” Olivia breaks into a smile. “I apologize for the cloak and dagger routine, but, well, discretion is important here. Tea?”

What? I blink. Olivia is pouring from a china tea set. “Um, sure,” I answer, impatient to find out what, exactly, is behind all this mystery.

Olivia passes me a teacup and saucer, then takes a breath.

“Here at The Agency, we solve a problem for wealthy men. Namely, how to find a suitable woman.”

I furrow my brow. “You’re a matchmaking service?”

“In a way.” Olivia looks amused. “But our matches are short-term. And about practicalities, not love. Say you’re a workaholic CEO, but you need a date for work functions, one who understands exactly who you need to network with—and why. Or the terms of your trust fund won’t release until you’re married. Or you’re an A-list actor with a wild reputation, and you need to be seen settling down to make that Oscar campaign work. You need the right woman on your arm, and you’ll find her here.”

“So . . . it’s all pretend?” I ask, fascinated. “The women just do a big public show of being their girlfriend?”

“Exactly.” Olivia beams at me. “The client gets a date without all the messy romantic attachments, and the women are paid handsomely for their time. Plus, they often find the networking useful for their own careers. Being introduced in high-flying circles in business or the arts can be worth more than any paycheck.”

I nod. I’ve seen for myself how many deals get done over dinner, or drinks at the right club. And with some VIP introducing them . . . It’s a ticket to the big leagues. “So, do people actually believe them?”

“Why not?” Olivia smiles. “And most of the time, they have fun,” she adds. “I’m careful to only match people who will be compatible and get along, and I’m very selective about the clients we accept. So it doesn’t really feel like work at all.”

Well, when she puts it like that . . . I can see the appeal. If my old boss, Jack, hadn’t been so good at picking up women wherever he went—before he went and fell in love—I could have seen him turning to a place like this for the sake of convenience.

“So . . . why did you ask me to come here?” I ask. “Do I really look like the fake girlfriend type?”

Olivia laughs. “There is no type. But personality is very important, and if you could manage an alpha male like Jack Callahan for four years . . . well, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I actually have a client in mind for you,” she says. “You’re even a little familiar with his business already.”

Okay, now I’m really intrigued. “Who?”

Olivia reaches for a file. “Maximillian Carlisle.”

I blink. “You mean, like Carlisle Publishing?”

“One and the same,” Olivia says. “He needs a girlfriend to accompany him to a family gathering. It’s a week-long contract, down in Palm Beach.”

A week with the Carlisles of Carlisle Publishing? A spark of excitement runs through me. But still . . . pretending to be some stranger’s girlfriend? Is that really something I want to get myself into?

“What exactly would I have to do at this family gathering?” I ask, still cautious.

“Make small-talk, run interference, act as if you can’t resist him.” Olivia smiles. “Everything a normal girlfriend would do.”

“Almost everything,” I remind her quickly. She laughs.

“Exactly. Why don’t I set up a meeting for the two of you?” she suggests. “You can chat it through and make sure you’re comfortable. If you don’t like him, then I’ll find another match. No hard feelings.”

I waver. It sounds insane, but insane in a weirdly exciting way. Getting to meet the Carlisle’s could be the break my career needs—and this Maximillian would be getting something out of the deal, too. He’s probably one of those trust-fund playboys who refuses to settle down, trying to keep his matchmaking mother off his case. I can smile and call him baby for a week if it means getting my portfolio in front of someone who will actually take the time to look at it—without leaving salad dressing all over the pages.

“OK, I’m in,” I tell her. “But just for the meeting. He might be a pompous idiot. With halitosis. I’m not making any promises.”

Carlisle or not, I’m not going to sign up to be the fake girlfriend to a complete jackass.

Olivia laughs. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

She taps out a message on her phone, and a moment later, looks up. “He’s just finishing up a meeting at the Soho Grand. Are you free to head over there now?”

I pause a moment, but I’m already in this now.

“Why not?”

---

I head over in a cab, courtesy of The Agency, of course. On the way, I wonder if I’m dressed like a prospective fake girlfriend for a billionaire playboy. How does a fake girlfriend even dress? At least I made an effort, knowing I would be meeting the immaculate Olivia. In a navy shift dress, with boots and a little swingy jacket, I hope I look the part.

Not that I’m the one auditioning here. No, this Maximillian Carlisle is the one who needs to live up to my standards if this arrangement is going to work. And OK, so my standards are basically “don’t be a total jackass,” but you’d be surprised how many men can’t even clear that basic hurdle.

There’s a reason I’m single right now.

I sigh. Working for Jack, there wasn’t time for any other man in my life. Dates didn’t take it too well when he called at eleven p.m., needing me to make last-minute travel arrangements, or summoned me into the office on the weekend for a big business deal. I’ve had a few off-again/on-again flings, and casual hookups, because they were the only ones who seemed to last with my grueling schedule. But watching both Jack and my big brother, Oliver, fall head over heels last year, I’ve promised myself that the next guy I date needs to be for real. Someone grounded, and down to earth, who doesn’t play games. Someone ready for a mature relationship. Someone I can depend on.

Plus, you know, leg-wobblingly sexy, with a sense of humor, and a sharp mind.

How hard could that be?

Not that a real boyfriend is on the menu today. This arrangement will be completely pretend—if the client is halfway tolerable.

I step into the hotel lobby and take the directions to the lounge. It’s the middle of the day, and the seats are pretty much empty, save a cluster of Japanese tourists by the door.

“Can I help you?” A hostess glides over.

“Yes, I’m supposed to be meeting Maximillian Carlisle.” It’s a mouthful just saying it. Poor guy, getting saddled with a name like that. I’m surprised there aren’t a bunch of roman numerals tacked on too, just for full preppy measure.

“He’s waiting for you in the dining room.” The woman looks me over, like she’s surprised. Uh oh. I follow her through, my heart already sinking. I didn’t ask Olivia how old he was. What if he’s barely out of college, and I’m going to look like a gold-digging Mrs. Robinson? Or worse, he could be pushing sixty, and I’m supposed to play arm candy to a wrinkly Hugh Hefner wannabe.

“Mr. Carlisle? Your guest is here.”

The hostess deposits me beside the corner table, and the man there rises to his feet, turning at the same time so I can see his face for the first time.

I freeze.

The man staring back at me isn’t some college kid—or a wrinkly old man. No, he’s a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of manly hotness. Broad shoulders, smiling blue-gray eyes. And a mouth I know—intimately.

“Wait a minute,” I say, stunned. “You’re—”

“Max Carlisle,” says Max, aka the hot guy I made out with at the wedding. “And you must be my new girlfriend.”