Machiavellianism.

Narcissism.

Psychopathy.

I would imagine that all escorts demonstrate a tendency toward Machiavellianism. They need a certain level of manipulative tactics to control their clientele. It’s just plain survival instinct.

But when we account for the other two traits on the triad, how does she score?

Psych has never been my strength. Math is my comfort zone, and I tally her up pretty quickly. Machiavellianism = 8; Psychopathy = unknown; Narcissism = 7.

It’s not an accurate score, but my estimations are high enough to urge me out of my seat in pursuit of her. “Excuse me,” I say to the girl, and she saunters off to another member of the crew while I head in the direction that Lilah went.

I take out my phone. It’s darker in this part of the club, making my display a beacon as I tap the app and hurriedly run the scanner. Now, it’s much more difficult to scan for SIM information as phones are digital and signals are encrypted. However, there is a flaw in the system, and if one knows how to exploit that flaw, it’s still very possible. In highly public places—such as a night club—analog stations are used as backup to help with overflow.

With the right software, one can target a cell phone and collect its identifying information.

The VIP lounge accommodates its exclusive patrons with private restrooms. I spot Lilah coming out of the women’s bathroom and head in that direction. The narrow hallway is set back from the main area, offering the illusion of privacy.

“Lilah—” I call out. When she doesn’t respond, I put myself right in her path. “I didn’t think that was your name.”

“You’re a clever one.” She tucks her clutch under her arm and squares her shoulders. “None of the girls go by their names.”

None of the girls. As if she’s just simply one of them. “What is your name, then?” I demand.

“Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she fires back.

My mouth slants disapprovingly. That line doesn’t work for her. My presence here is bothering her. I’m an interference for some reason.

I step closer and slip my phone into my front pocket. “I noticed you don’t seem too bothered to entertain your clients.”

“You seem to notice a lot,” she says, her gaze tracking over me deliberately. “I notice a lot, too. Like the fact that your name isn’t Lawson. Not according to your credit card, Alex.”

A heated spark shoots up my back, a current of electric excitement. She just ticked up the score a notch on her assessment.

“You’re extremely observant,” I say. “Maybe I wasn’t comfortable enough to give my real name, either.”

Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me. “Look. My time is better spent entertaining in private. That’s what my clientele pay for. Which”—she makes it a point to look at my clothes—“I’m sorry to say, is very out of your price range.” She levels me with a severe glare. “You should leave, whoever you are.”