She focused on the view through the windows so she didn’t have to look at her employer right away. A shady courtyard three stories below nested inside ivy-covered brick walls where fat yellow mums made bright spots in the shade. The ferns had begun to brown at the tips, and the leaves floating in the basin of the stone fountain announced that fall was approaching.

She forced herself to turn toward the couch. Graham sat sprawled in the center, his crossed ankles propped on a wood-and-glass coffee table shaped like a flying saucer. His white robe had fallen open far enough to reveal bare calves and an angry scar on his right knee. Another smaller scar marred his ankle. How many others did he have? And what was he wearing underneath that robe?

The thrum of female awareness infuriated her. Too much caffeine.

She put down her gray messenger bag. The couch was deep-seated, designed for a large man instead of an average-size female. If she sank back into it, her legs would stick out in front of her like a kindergartner’s, so she perched on the edge.

He took in the scorpion on her T-shirt. “Company logo?”

“Still trying to choose. Either this or a smiley face.”

Graham’s own face was tan against the stark white robe, and the open neck showed a little chest hair. She gave him a few begrudging points for not manscaping, then took them back just because she could.

He smiled, as if he’d read her mind. “What’s your plan for improving my security? I know you have one.”

She wouldn’t let a barely clothed client ruffle her. “Before I reopened the agency, I worked as a reputation manager and digital strategist for a chain of Chicago auto stores.”

“What the hell is a reputation manager?”

“An online watchdog. I monitored business sites and social media platforms for bad press. Pushed down negative search results. Put out Internet fires and fine-tuned the Web site.”

Graham was quick to catch on. “And that’ll be your cover?”

“It’s the simplest. Although that ghoul you call a door manager might recognize me.”

“Doubtful.”

“I need to get going,” Champion said. She caught the glint of a wedding band on his left hand and pictured his wife—an otherworldly buxom centerfold model with two-foot hair extensions and lips inflated like pool toys.

“You and Annabelle ditching the city for a lovers’ getaway?” Graham asked.

Piper hoped Annabelle was the buxom centerfold wife and not an unauthorized sex partner.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Champion said.

“Take some tomatoes with you.” Graham tilted his head in the general direction of the open kitchen, an efficient arrangement of aluminum and steel. “And whatever else you see that you want.”