Dirty Devil / The Fling. Stefanie London

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      His last wish before he’d died was for me to keep that business running, his legacy to the world, and as he was the one who’d pulled me off the streets, given me a home and a job, I felt I owed him.

      So that was why I was here. On a job. A request had come through via the third party who acted as our intermediary for a necklace called the Red Queen. It had been stolen some twenty years ago and now had miraculously turned up in Damian Blackwood’s possession. Its previous owners wanted it back and they didn’t much care how that happened. Hence hiring me.

      Ignoring the shenanigans beside the pool, I glanced once more at the man from whom I was to ‘reacquire’ the piece in order to make sure of his location.

      The typical Hong Kong humidity was making me sweaty, my uniform prickling, but I’d learned to ignore all physical discomforts when on a job, and I didn’t let it get to me. Instead, I adjusted my hold on the tray and took a moment to study Blackwood himself.

      He was sitting in the corner of the terrace, where a number of couches had been arranged, in the centre of a group of stunningly beautiful, incredibly attentive women, all hanging on his every word.

      I wrinkled my nose and tried to be my usual cynical self as I surveyed him. But it was difficult to be my usual cynical self. Because, despite my own good judgement—not to mention my common sense—and no matter that it was a really bad move professionally, I’d somehow developed a bit of a...crush on him.

      Embarrassing, yes, and I didn’t like to acknowledge it to myself. And maybe it wasn’t any wonder, given what a very fine specimen of manhood he was—certainly there was a reason why all those women couldn’t take their eyes off him. But still. I should know better than to get all starry-eyed over a good-looking man. Or indeed any man.

      Mr Chen had been clear that involvement with anyone in our line of work was out of the question and that had never bothered me. Being an unwanted kid, I was used to being alone, and I’d never met anyone worth wanting to get to know better anyway. And as for sex, well... There was a reason humanity had invented vibrators.

      Still, knowing all of that didn’t stop me from being transfixed by the reality of Damian Blackwood himself.

      I’d done my usual research, immersing myself in the history of Black and White Enterprises, and Blackwood’s background in particular, studying news articles, looking at photos, watching interviews, the works.

      He and his two co-owners, Ulysses White and Everett Calhoun, a Brit and an American respectively, had made huge amounts of money in crypto-currency speculation, initially starting Black and White as an online vault that boasted better security than the banks in Switzerland. They’d enjoyed phenomenal success with it and from there had gone on to build a billion-dollar empire that encompassed finance, import-export, luxury hotels, construction, security and God knew what else. They had their fingers in so many pies even they probably didn’t know which was which.

      The three of them were famous—or infamous, depending on how you looked at it—for being totally uncompromising both in business and in their private lives, for living however they wanted and not giving a damn.

      Certainly Blackwood didn’t.

      He was a womaniser who spent millions on massive parties, his luxury lifestyle the stuff of legend. He was renowned not only for his love of beautiful women but for his love of fine jewels. He was a highly regarded collector and connoisseur of gems, and was constantly being talked about on every news platform and every social media channel there was. The man seemed to thrive on attention, a master of the perfect sound bite and the off-the-cuff witty comment, making much of his humble origins as the son of a Sydney burlesque dancer.

      He had the kind of confidence and cocky charm that only a lot of money and extreme good looks could buy, and was pretty much my opposite in every possible way. Which I suppose made it strange that I was so fascinated by him. Then again, maybe that was kind of the point; opposites were supposed to attract, weren’t they?

      Not that he’d ever be attracted to me. With any luck he wouldn’t notice me at all.

      I stared at him from beneath my lashes, watching his mesmerising smile along with all the other women around him. It was a thing of beauty, caught on the cusp between charming and wicked, promising all kinds of naughty, dirty things, and I found my heart beating a little faster than it had before.

      He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored dark blue suit that showed off his long, tall, muscular frame to perfection, and he sat on the couch like a king holding court, the women his adoring courtiers.

      His black hair was shaved on the sides of his head to leave a soft, spiky kind of Mohawk on top, highlighting the intensely masculine perfection of his face. He had a jawline so sharp you could cut yourself on it, high cheekbones that would do a Hollywood superstar proud and a long mouth that curled at the ends, pure sin and wickedness. His eyes were silver, the light colour emphasised by the thick black of his lashes, and were just as wicked as his mouth.

      A pretty man. Maybe too pretty. At least he would have been if not for the piercing in his left eyebrow and the bright colours of the tattoos that peeked through the open neck of his black shirt.

      But those things I already knew about. Those things only added an edge.

      What I hadn’t understood until now, what all the articles and the interviews hadn’t told me, was that the real source of his power lay in his charisma. It radiated from him, an unholy mix of charm, confidence and focus, bathing people in its light. Rendering both men and women speechless with adoration.

      I wasn’t overstating. It was simply a fact.

      Watching him was like watching the sun rise after a dark, cold night.

      He was in the middle of telling some ridiculous story, his handsome face full of expression, his silver gaze making eye contact with his rapt audience as he made fluid gestures with his large, long-fingered hands.

      I tried to resist him, tried to take refuge in my usual distrust, yet still I found myself edging closer, trying to listen, his charm like a tractor beam reeling me in.

      His voice rolled over me, rich and deep. He didn’t have that strange transatlantic accent that some ex-pats had, his Australian accent slight but there. He smiled as he told his story—some nonsense about a woman he’d once known back in Sydney, and her dog and her husband, Damian hiding in the closet.

      His audience was enthralled, their eyes shining, laughing as he punctuated the story with jokes, some blatant, some dry.

      He was a natural storyteller, weaving magic with his hands, and I nearly laughed myself at some ridiculous aside. Though I stopped the instant I realised what I was doing, appalled at myself.

       Stupid.

      I was letting myself be dazzled and I shouldn’t. I had a job to do and that wasn’t standing around watching him.

      I was here to find the necklace he’d bought at a private auction three days earlier and take it back to its rightful owners, not get distracted by staring at his undeniably pretty face.

      Making a few more adjustments to my tray, I kept an eye on Blackwood to make sure he stayed on that cripplingly expensive couch of his, only to freeze in place as he turned his head, the full force of his attention suddenly slamming into me.

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