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I adjust the camera and scrutinize her closer. “What color are your eyes? And don’t tell me they’re green. I can see the edges of your contacts.”
She flushes. “Umm…they’re grey.”
I check the notes on my tablet. “Missy, is that your real name too?”
She nods eagerly.
“Did you read the brief?”
“Umm…yeah,” she answers, her voice trailing off in a semi-question. This one is clearly dim.
“What did it say about lying?”
The blow-you expression drops. “They’re just contacts.” She leans forward, nearly knocking out the camera with her double Ds. “Here, I can take them out—”
“No, don’t bother. Your interview is over. Leave now, please,” I command in my best non-psycho voice, and press the intercom again.
I may be slightly unhinged, according to some spectrum my shrink keeps harping on about, but Mama, God rest her pure soul, taught me to be a gentleman. Mama’s worm food now, but that’s no reason for me not to honor her with a touch of politeness.
Missy’s lips purse, then part, as if she’s about to plead her case. The burly guard who enters the room and taps her on the shoulder convinces her words have lost their meaning at this point.
I turn to the last screen.
Her eyes are downcast. Her lashes are long enough to make me wonder if I have another fake on my hands. I sigh, then take in the rest of her face. No makeup, or barely any if she made the effort. Her lips are plump, lightly glossed. I use the controls on the remote to zoom in. There’s a tiny mole on the left side of her face, right above her upper lip. Not fake.
I zoom out, examine the rest of her that I can see. Her grey T-shirt is worn to the point of threadbare, and her collarbones are a little too pronounced. Malnourishment wouldn’t be a crowd-pleaser, but that problem can be easily taken care of.
Unlike the previous stock from which I plucked my prior subjects, she doesn’t seem like the BDSM club-going type. For a second, I wonder where my carefully placed adverts unearthed this one.
Beneath the T-shirt, her chest rises and falls in steady breathing, although the pulse hammering at her throat gives her away. I zoom in on the pulse. The skin overlaying it is smooth, almost silky, with the faintest wisps of caramel blonde hair feathering it.
Something about her draws me forward to the edge of my seat. I like her pretended composure. Most people fidget under the glare of a camera.
My gaze flicks to her skeleton bio. “Lucky.”
Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyelids flick up. Her eyes are a cross between green and hazel with a natural dark rim that pronounces its vividness. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about that look in her eye sparks my interest.
Hell, if I had a heart, I’d swear it just missed a beat.
“Is that your real name?”
She shrugs. “It might as well be,” she murmurs.
Fuck, I have another liar on my hands. “Cryptic may be sexy if you’re auditioning to be the next Bond Girl. It’s not going to work here. Tell me your real name. Or leave.”
“No.” Her voice is a sexy husk, enough to distract me for a second before her answer sinks in.
“No?”
“With respect, you’re tucked away behind a camera issuing orders. I get that you hold the cards in this little shindig. But I’m not going to show you all of mine right from the start. My name, for the purposes of this interview, is Lucky. It may not officially be on my birth certificate, but I’ve responded to it since I was fifteen years old. That’s all you need to know.”
Well…fuck. I note with detached surprise that I’m almost within a whisker of cracking a smile.
I rub my gloved finger over my mouth, torn between letting her get away with mouthing off to me this way, and sending her packing.
Sure, she intrigues me. And whatever relevant truth I need would be dug out before she signs on the dotted line, should it come to that. But for this to work, she needs to obey my commands, no questions asked.
“Stand up. Move away from the camera until you reach the wall.”