The Art Of Deception

Evelyn Fox had always been good at lying. It wasn’t just a skill—it was an art.

She could forge a signature so flawlessly that not even the original owner would question it. She could slip into a crowded room wearing a stolen identity like a second skin. And when it came to men… well.

Men were easy.

A tilt of her lips, a knowing glance, a well-timed laugh—she could weave them into whatever story she wanted. A journalist in need of a source. A bored socialite looking for adventure. A thief, hungry for the thrill of the chase.

All of which were true. At least in some capacity.

But as she stood in the dim glow of the hotel penthouse, wrapped in nothing but silk sheets and secrets, she had the creeping realization that this time, she might have miscalculated.

Because the man lying beside her—very much awake, very much smug, and very much not dead—was not the mark she thought he was.

It had begun five hours earlier, in The Red Orchid

It was the kind of place that smelled like money and bad decisions. Overpriced drinks. Corrupt clientele. Chandeliers so gaudy they had to be ironic.

Evelyn had been watching him for weeks. Damien Shaw.

Tall. Expensively dishevelled. The kind of man who could buy you a small island or make you disappear, depending on his mood.

She’d done her research.

Owner of a high-end security firm. Connections with the elite. Rumoured to have a fondness for beautiful women who were bad for him.

Which, in this case, was perfect.

Her target was a keycard to his office. A tiny, innocuous thing that would unlock a vault of information powerful people didn’t want made public.

A simple job, really.

Seduce him. Drug him. Take the card. Leave before he woke up.

Only one problem.

She was now awake in his bed, the drugged champagne bottle still sitting—untouched—on the nightstand.

And Damien was watching her like he had expected this from the start.

“So,” he murmured, stretching with deliberate ease, the movement pulling the sheets lower over his infuriatingly well-defined torso.

Evelyn’s gaze flicked downward on instinct. Damn it. She dragged her eyes back up, only to find amusement curling at the edges of his lips.

“Distracted?”

“By what?” she shot back, folding her arms, silk slipping a little lower down her shoulders. “Your inability to button a shirt properly? Your ridiculous name? The fact that I—” she gestured vaguely “—am clearly in the middle of an existential crisis?”

He laughed. The worst kind of laugh—low, rich, completely entertained.

“You’re charming,” he admitted, sitting up. “Terrible at assassination, but very entertaining.”

Evelyn scowled. “Assassination?”

He gestured toward the untouched bottle.

“You were going to drug me.”

“I was not,” she lied, deeply offended.

His eyebrow lifted.

“Alright, I was,” she amended, sighing. “But in my defence, you were meant to be unconscious, not dead; and certainly not awake and judging me.”

“Well,” he drawled, “if it makes you feel better, I would have drunk it. But I saw you slip something into your own glass first.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

“I needed to make sure it worked first,” she said, as if this was perfectly reasonable.

Damien grinned.

“You are, without a doubt, the most ridiculous person who has ever tried to rob me.”

She ignored the robbing comment, choosing instead to focus on damage control.

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” He reached for his phone on the nightstand, unlocking it with infuriating nonchalance. “This has been a very entertaining evening.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He smirked. “Ordering us breakfast.”

Twenty minutes later, Evelyn was fully clothed (after a minor territorial disagreement about who actually owned the silk robe—she insisted she did, he disagreed) and sitting across from Damien at the most expensive hotel breakfast she had ever seen.

She had every intention of leaving.

Really, she did.

And yet… here she was.

Sipping coffee. Watching him tear into a croissant with the satisfaction of a man who had just won a bet.

She hated that she was having fun.

“So,” she said finally, tapping her nails against the edge of her mug. “How did you figure it out?”

Damien wiped his fingers with deliberate care.

“You used the name Sophia Laurent when you checked in.”

She frowned. “So?”

He gave her a deeply unimpressed look.

“Sophia Laurent,” he repeated. “The alias of a French jewel thief from the 1920s. And before you say anything, yes, I read.”

Evelyn groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “Oh my God.”

“Sloppy work, Miss Fox.”

She peered at him through her fingers. “You already knew who I was, didn’t you?”

He lifted his coffee cup in salute.

She exhaled slowly, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Well. This is awkward.”

Damien smiled, lazy and amused.

“You could always try again,” he mused, tilting his head. “A second attempt. See if you get further next time.”

Evelyn should have walked away.

Should have disappeared into the morning and left him behind. Instead, she smirked, finished her coffee, and started planning.

Because if there was one thing she loved more than winning,

It was a good challenge.