It had gone wrong, very wrong. But she'd adapted, improvised, and persevered. And won. Tia Street shook her head to dispel the hot, edgy tension eating at her, said to herself, "C'est la guerre," and sent the text.
She dropped the snoring man's phone on the bed beside his naked body, picked up her stylish Louboutin bag, and, after grabbing the chic floppy-brimmed hat, she left room 8533 in Caesars Palace. Carefully staying clear of Cat's beam - the one projecting the image of an empty corridor onto the lens of the hallway security camera - Tia removed the hairnet and surgical gloves, dropped them into her bag, pulled her hat low on her head and walked quickly to the elevator. After she entered, Cat turned off her laser and punched the Lobby button.
Taking care that the brim of her large hat hid her face from the camera in the elevator, Tia raised her head just enough so Cat could see her face and smiled at her assistant. She was the boss and had to exude confidence and élan. Always. They wouldn't speak until they were safely away from Caesars, but Tia's nod communicated that, despite the far longer duration than anticipated, the mission had been a success. As the elevator whisked them to the lobby, to distract herself from the skittish, anxious energy coursing through her, Tia thought back, remembering how everything had come about.
***
Bart Johnson was an ass. A real estate tycoon of the lying and cheating variety, his despicable nature became crystal clear when Tia read the prenup he'd coerced his far younger second wife, Alice, into signing. It was a monstrosity. Even if he treated her like dirt, had blatant affairs, and kept her on an impossibly tight financial tether, Alice would get but a pittance if he divorced her, and next to nothing if she filed against him. Though the contract could be broken only if Bart committed a serious crime, he could end the marriage anytime, just on a whim. Or when he decided that Alice had become too old and wanted to trade her in on a newer model.
As was now the case.
So Alice Johnson had done what any self-respecting, still-gorgeous-at-40 woman would do. She called TiaTec. Based in Kansas City, it was the only all-female private detective agency in the country. Not only were all 8 operatives women, strikingly beautiful women at that, but the firm took only female clients. Those who were being screwed over by their bastard husbands.
Alice had flown to KC after the phone call and met with Tia and Cat, her right hand. She was a bit aghast at the fee. Like class-action law firms, TiaTec took 25% of all that was "recovered," plus expenses. Alice was reassured, however, when Tia explained that payment was contingent on success. It would come due only upon completion of the mission, when the prenup was successfully terminated.
In that case Alice would get half of what Bart was worth, and though he was totally worthless, he was filthy rich. Even after the firm's 25%, Alice would get eight digits of dollars, and the first number would not be a one. Or a two. It was a win-win, as long a TiaTec delivered.
The odds were it would. Clients, who heard of the firm through murky backdoor channels - bridge clubs, health spas, sororities, women's clubs, garden societies, all word-of-mouth - knew TiaTec was famous for righting wrongs inflicted on aggrieved women.
As they listened to Alice give as many details as she could about her husband, especially his sordid sexual quirks, Cat sat back, taking notes. And smiling at how, like everyone else, Alice was completely in Tia's thrall, charmed and awed by her boss.
Tia's long, luminous dark brown hair flowed to the middle of her back and framed a noble, classic face. A natural blush alluringly tinted the creamy, flawless skin on her concave cheeks as they tapered to a narrow chin, and inverted Nike-swoosh eyebrows pulled attention to her mystifying eyes. Because they seemed to change hue with the light, no one could quite pin down their color. Cat thought they could best be described as the color of wheat, just as it began to ripen, turning from green to amber. Regardless of their tint, everyone surrendered to their beguiling power.
The most kissable mole adorned her left cheek just above luscious lips that began paper thin at the edges and blossomed to a voluptuous pucker. When those lips smiled the room lit up, and the dimples thus formed were so captivating that everyone found themselves trying to be clever, striving to provoke another ray of sunshine.
Tia's body evoked the statues and portraits of history's most beautiful women. Perfect breasts with small areolae were capped by markedly large, lovely nipples that flushed to hot pink and hardened to eraser firmness when cold. Or fondled. Broad shoulders tapered to a high, narrow waist which ripened beguilingly to surprisingly voluptuous hips and a derrière that just cried out for caresses. Her yoga and aikido-toned thighs and calves were as shapely as they were appealing, and her dance background lent her a grace and poise that made her irresistible.
But what really captivated everyone was Tia herself, her keen intellect, easy manner, and remarkably quick and incisive wit. Tia was fun. She constantly saw the paradoxes in life, and always found the perfect bon mots to express her ironic observations.
As Alice continued recounting all of Bart's quirks, when Tia heard that he was headed to Las Vegas the next week to indulge his most perverse sexual cravings with his favorite dominatrix, a plan began to form in her mind. It It was a variation on the one she had created for the caper in Moab, Utah, which itself was a spinoff of the St. Louis job. It was one of her basic modus operandi and had never failed.
Tia briefed Alice on the plan's rough outline, reviewed the details in the contract, and had Alice sign on the dotted line. Standard operating procedure. Though clients didn't need to know the specifics of what the firm was going to do, Alice did need to realize that Tia was going to make it appear that Bart had committed a crime serious enough to void the prenup. As Tia's actions would likely fall just a tad outside the strictures of even Nevada's lax legal code, it was essential that Alice knew enough that she would also be implicated should the plot be discovered.
That, too, was standard operating procedure. Tia could see into the future, and knew that Alice would be grilled incessantly by her jealous friends about how she had managed such a lucrative settlement. Having abetted in the commission of a crime always proved a powerful incentive to remain mute.
After Alice had returned home, the plan was quickly finalized, and Tia, Cat and Anne flew to Sin City. And went fishing.
It had taken three casts before Bart took the bait. That bait was Tia, doing one of her patented boob flashes, adding the Vegas strip to her long list of saucy reveals. Each morning found Anne stationed in the Caesars lobby, waiting to text when Bart went out for his daily morning constitutional.
The first day he'd turned north, towards The Mirage. Stationed to the south where most of the strip's action took place, Tia did the flash anyway and Cat took the pic. As part of her persona, the one that her targets, like Bart, always found so intriguing that they became putty in her hands, Tia bared her breasts all over the country, and, using a catchy alias, posted the results on Reddit. It was another win-win, both fun for Tia and a perfect cover story for her jobs. Just a fun-loving, sexy young woman bent on having a good time.
They had positioned themselves to the north on the second day, but Bart turned south. However, on that fateful third morning, he again went north. Right into Tia's clutches. She had on her favorite flashing dress, the black one with the small white polkadots that buttoned, or in this case unbuttoned, in the front. The one that stayed closed even with the top five buttons undone.
