She pushed past him and headed up to VIP. Her first night on the job, and she’d already made an enemy.

This lounge was decorated in bronze and black like the rest of the club, but with lacquered lattice screens separating conversation areas and a golden jewel of a bar at one end. The female servers’ uniforms were identical to the ones on the main floor—suggestive but not trashy. Black slip dresses with twin spaghetti straps that crisscrossed at the back and a midthigh hem edged with an inch of black lingerie lace. Some of the women wore calf-hugging leather stiletto boots, others, gladiator sandals that laced up their calves but still looked more comfortable than the shoes Piper was wearing.

A man she recognized as the Stars’ new running back sat with a couple of Bears players and a predictably gorgeous quartet of swishy-haired twenty-somethings. She wandered over to the bar and chatted with the bartenders while she observed her surroundings. Here, most of the guests tended to keep their attention on the people at their own tables instead of letting their eyes wander from group to group like the main floor clientele. The VIPs apparently assumed they were the most important people in the room.

She made her way to the small ladies’ lounge at the back. As she stepped inside, she saw a dramatic-looking brunette she dimly recognized as an actress on one of the Chicago-based cop shows. The actress sat on a padded cube in front of an oval mirror, staring at her reflection as muddy mascara tears rolled down her cheeks.

Piper stopped inside the door. “Are you okay?”

“My life is shit,” the actress said in a slurred voice, not taking her gaze from her own reflection.

Judging from the size of the diamonds in her ears, and her exquisite royal-blue one-shoulder dress, it couldn’t be too shitty.

“Men are shit. It’s all shit.” The inky tears kept rolling.

Piper debated making a quick exit, but she’d been on her feet for hours, and her heels were killing her. She sat on the next cube and slipped them off. “Sounds like you’re having a bad night.”

“A bad life. It’s shit.”

“Kick him out. Just a suggestion.”

The actress turned a pair of startled blue eyes at her. “But I love him.”

Oh, lord . . . How many stupid women could one planet hold? Piper tried to sound compassionate. “Not to get all Zen on you, but maybe you should love yourself more.”

The actress grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her mascara tears. “You don’t understand. He can be so sweet. And he needs me. He has problems.”

“Everybody has problems. Let him fix his own.”

The actress’s perfect nostrils flared with hostility. “You obviously have no idea what it’s like to love from the very bottom of your soul.”

“You’re right. Unless you’re talking about taco-flavored Doritos.”

The actress was not amused, and she leaned closer, bringing the scent of her zillion-dollar perfume along. “Who are you?”

“Nobody. An employee. I’m doing social media for the club.”

The woman took in Piper’s less-than-memorable dress, so out of place in this rarefied air, then rose none too gracefully from the stool. “I feel sorry for you. You have no idea what you’re missing.”

“Misery?” Piper said as kindly as she could manage.

The actress stormed out.

Piper stared glumly at her reflection in the mirror. So much for a fallback career as a life coach.

She wasn’t used to keeping nightclub hours, and she dampened one of the black guest towels with cold water. The door opened, and the prettiest of the swishy-haired blondes who’d been hanging out with the football players came in. “You, too?” she said as she saw Piper pressing the cool towel to the back of her neck. “I have to get out of here. I’m seriously sleep deprived, and I have my orals coming up in two weeks.”

“Orals?”

The blonde leaned toward a mirror and wiped a lipstick smudge from her front tooth with her index finger. “I’m getting my doctorate in public health.”

Swishy-haired, beautiful, and smart. “So not fair,” Piper muttered.

“Sorry?” The woman cocked an inquisitive ear.

“It sounds challenging.”

“Easier done on a full night’s sleep, that’s for sure.” The woman made her way toward one of the three toilet cubicles.

As Piper headed back downstairs to be with the common folk, she reminded herself that a good detective didn’t make assumptions like the ones she’d been making about the swishy-hairs.

***

The theme from Buffy awakened her the next morning. Momentarily disoriented by her new surroundings, she fumbled for her phone, knocked it to the floor, and then hung upside down over the edge of the bed to get it. “’Lo.”

“Open the door, Esmerelda. We have to talk.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

She groaned and flopped back onto the luxurious mattress. The bed was heaven, and she didn’t ever want to leave it, especially now, when she wasn’t nearly sharp enough to go one-on-one with her employer. She gazed at the time through bleary eyes—nine thirty. But she hadn’t gotten to sleep until after three. Thank God the club wasn’t open every night. Four nights a week was more than enough.

She’d slept in a Chicago Bears T-shirt and underpants. She fumbled with her jeans and awkwardly zipped them as she crossed the living room on bare feet. She didn’t look at him as she opened the door. “I don’t even talk to myself until I’ve brushed my teeth.” Turning away, she headed for the apartment’s tiny bathroom, where she peed, brushed, and pulled herself together. When she came out, he was sitting on her couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, a Starbucks cup curled in his giant hand. She looked around hopefully for a second cup but didn’t see one.

“You’ve spent one night on the job,” he said, “and I’ve already had my first complaint about you.”

She didn’t have to think long to come up with the most likely source, but she played dumb. “No way.”

“You pissed off Emily Trenton.”

“Emily Trenton?”

“The actress on Third Degree.”

“That’s the worst show,” she retorted. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting sick of seeing women’s bodies with slit throats and bullet holes every time I turn on the TV. Whatever happened to letting audiences use their imagination? And don’t get me started on the autopsy shots. I swear if I see another—”