"Seduce. Seduce?" I trample to the door for the tenth time, keeping an eye on the time as if everyone should feel the urgency in this situation as I do. The champagne needs to get here and get here now 'cause your girl can shoot a target down a gun range with ease and accuracy, but apparently not turn on her charm.

I've never "seduced" a man. Never needed to. What does that even mean? Am I supposed to throw myself at him? Smile, like a maniac, with my bottom lip? Flutter my eyelashes at him like dust blew in my eyes, and I can't get it out.

I've tried every variation of these in the mirror for the past hour and a half, and the only conclusion I've reached is: I suck at seduction. Unless Carter is into women prancing around his hotel room in tiny shorts and a tank, and her wavy hair loose because all the videos I crammed in the 'art of seduction' since I got back to the hotel said men find that sexy, then sure. Colour me yellow and call me happy.

What's taking room service so long?

I peep through the eyehole only to catch sight of Carter staring at the door, right at me, as if he's Clark Kent and has X-ray vision, and suddenly I'm feeling overdressed and underdressed all at once.

My heart hammers away in my chest with a painful squeeze. I'd hoped when he arrived, he'd 'find' me 'cutely tipsy' on the couch watching some romcom flippantly while sexily biting on a chocolate-dipped strawberry I just happened to order 'cause I needed a 'pick me up' after that harrowing flight and jet lag. I had planned to sit there like a Greek goddess with my long, bare legs sexily curving along the couch.

Instead, I'm peeping through an eyehole right at the man of my nightmares, and I'm looking more like Gracie Hart than Gracie Lou Freebush than a Greek goddess.

"Shit." I scramble back into the room as fast as I can, hoping that by the time he walks in, I've at least managed to bring up a selection of movies as if I'm in the middle of choosing and mumble "Leave it there," when the door opens and I pretend he's room service. Then proceed to get him drunk over the course of the evening so I can get him inebriated enough to squeeze out a confession (by hook or by crook).

Hope the man likes champagne.

The way I launch myself over the sofa is anything but graceful. I immediately dive for the remote. It's a few minutes before I realise the door behind me is still closed. Why the hell is he standing out there this long?

I glance at the door. My stomach knots like knitted yarn. Was he planning to do something with me, too? Or, did he leave? Change his mind about sharing a suite with his stalker? Gone to get security? Maybe I'm about to be thrown out of the room like a pest.

'Relax,' Neil's voice barges in at that. 'You're assuming again. Work with the facts you have.'

The facts I have? I bite my nail as I count down from fifty—relax—all the while staring at that fucking door.

Why isn't Carter Thebes walking in like he owns the world right now?

Carter Thebes, the interim CEO of Thebes Lux Realty. The man who returned home from a business trip thirteen weeks, three days ago, without Nina. And no amount of probing has made him spill what happened to his personal assistant, my sister. Since then, he's hired a new replacement—me—and so far he's hit on me as much as he's hit on a fly, so I don't know how I'm supposed to seduce such a man—

I jump to my feet and text Neil. 'He hasn't hit on me... I mean, not really. Not the way we expected him to. Why? Something's fishy.'

Just as the message pings off, the lock clicks on the door, and I sprawl myself on the couch, waving a hand in the air like I'm a person caught in a rip, waving for help. "Leave it here, please!"

I wait a second before peeking over the sofa to stare at the man standing just inside the door, wearing an expression that tugs something in my chest.

Had he looked like this when I caught a glimpse earlier? Dishevelled hair, like someone had a grand old time running their hands through it as if they belonged there. His rolled sleeves pushed up against solid forearms where I can see the dark tail of a tattoo peaking out. One I've never noticed before. A strange desire to see it rears its head. I squash it down immediately. There's no room for distractions right now. Not when it's him. The man who might have potentially hurt my sister.

But the shirt, slightly untucked; the loose buttons up top, revealing the scoop neck of a rib singlet beneath; the loose tie hanging off his neck begging me to loop it around a hand and pull him closer to me, and that jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder like a goddamn runway model.

Was Carter Thebes always this smoking, or have I been wearing hate-tinted glasses so long, I only saw a monster until now?

My mouth dries as I say, "Sorry, I thought you were room service..."

I half expect him to say, "I could be," with a sly grin. The kind of services I haven't had in a while... That's the kind of man my mind had painted when I did my research, but now, as I watch him stand before me, flashing me a meek smile, I wonder, as I have been the past week or so. Am I wrong about him? Is Carter Thebes not the carefree, careless Casanova the media has painted? Could he really look at me and not see sex written all over my face, my body—though I'm kind of trying here.

"I—I ordered room service." I point at the door behind him as if he asked why. "Champagne and strawberries." Even as I say those words, I hear how absurd it sounds. "Have you had dinner?"

What am I, his wife?

He pulls his tie off his neck in a slow motion, his eyes pinned on me, before he shakes his head. "No."

Then he heads for his room. "Had other things on my mind..."

'Seduce him!' Neil may as well be shouting in my ear at this stage. I'm losing my chance. I know it. If we pass tonight as mutuals, I'll never be able to disarm him without using physical force, and I'm not exactly here on any official capacity as a cop.

"I'll happily share." I lean over the sofa as casually as I can while keeping my chest perky. Lesson #2: Men like perky chest/breasts? Who knows. "We could watch a movie? Relax."

He turns around and eyes the TV, then me. As if relaxing is what he really wants to do, but maybe not with me?

"I won't bite," I say sweetly and throw in a wink. I'm supposed to be encouraging him, right?

His brows faintly gather, and his head tilts slightly, as if he's considering my words.

"How did your meeting with your friend go?" I break out my most charming smile. Even add a quick two-blink flutter to the routine.

Something shifts in his eyes at that, and I can't help thinking he saw me, didn't he? He saw me trailing him earlier. He knows I'm probing.

Good one, Ann!

"You look like you had a good time." I sweep my gaze over him as if I'm only teasing him, before I throw myself back on the couch, and chuckle. As if I've always been this person who teases him about his sexscapades. "You probably have a girlfriend in every county you go to. I'll yell when the room service gets here."

He mumbles something that sounds like, "Probably does," and disappears into his room.

And I'm left with a can of worms in my stomach. First of all, what did he mean by 'probably does'? and secondly, seduce. Right. 'Cause it's so easy to do. 

How the hell am I to turn this night in my favour now?

I should have ordered two bottles of their finest. And maybe then I'll look half as appealing as whoever he spent the afternoon with from the bakery. 

I don't know why I feel a sting at that and rush to my room. I sweep on a bit of gloss on my lips, pinch my cheeks to blush them up, and pull my hair into a high ponytail.

What else can I do to up my sex appeal? I stare at myself in the mirror, where glimpses of Nina's eyes stare back at me. I can almost hear her saying, "You could get rid of that bra. You have great tits! Flaunt them more," like she's said many times before.

Fine.

I slip my bra off, leaving only the tank top. It's stupid. But if it works in my favour, great.

Before the worry turns into a heartburn, I scramble back to the lounge, turn the thermostat down a couple of degrees to 'encourage him', dim the lights, try not to think about turning this into an interrogation—I mean, I could use his tie to tie him up—and grab the nuts and chips from the mini bar so he can munch on them and not drink on an empty stomach.

By the time Carter returns to the fore and the bell rings for room service, I've staged myself well enough (I hope): I'm 'engrossed' in choosing a movie before I settle for my all-time favourite. Miss Congeniality. I need something with magic in it. Maybe it will rub off on me, too.

Had I thought a month ago, when applying for Nina's job, that one day, I'll be desperate to try anything—even kiss the damn frog—I'd have said I've officially lost my mind. Hell. I may as well have.

Let's just hope the damn frog wants to kiss me too (and not kill me).

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