Chapter 2

2

S ol had always been curious to know who had the luxury to attend the mid-morning classes at Josie's studio. As an entertainment journalist for a mid-level publication with a sort-of-regular nine-to-five-on-most-days job, she seldomly had the time or opportunity to catch one sweaty session in the middle of the workday. But the class that Monday morning appeared to be populated by the same mixture of middle-aged career women, stay-at-home moms, and active elders who also frequented the afternoon and evening classes Sol regularly favored.

She even recognized and promptly greeted two of the studio's assorted group of hardcore regulars: Philippa (or was it Phyllis?), the social media empress and person with the most flexibility Sol had ever met; and Agatha, the impossibly nice TV agent. Sol wondered once again how they both made it to pretty much every single class.

Only one person in the group of six students—Josie's classes were expensive and unfilled by design—gave the impression of being a bit out of place: the Tall Dark Stranger (TDS). Sol had him pegged as a banker or lawyer from the City area of London with the sort of structured schedule that wouldn't allow for many daily indulgences. Yet there he was.

Sol had seen him for the first time a couple of weeks earlier during her regular reformer session at 5:30 p.m. on Wednesdays. It would have been impossible to miss him, not only because he was indeed tall, thoroughly bronzed, sharp-jawlined, and fetching in a nearly Mediterranean way she'd come to miss in London. He was the only other student with her taking the exclusive two-people class with Josie.

He'd tried chatting with her after the sweaty, grunt-inducing, fifty-five-minute class. Sol had smiled at him politely, agreed mildly to whatever banal observation he'd made, grabbed her stuff, and made a quick escape. She'd been a bit short on time to get home that evening. She still needed to have a quick shower, get changed, and make it to her 7:30 p.m. dinner reservation. Regardless of his good looks, she didn't have the inclination or time to grant attention to a man who undoubtedly wanted someone to patiently listen to him and marvel at his many talents and high-earning job.

And yet the TDS had decided to sit next to her in class that Monday morning too. He placed his thick Pilates mat close to hers and imposed himself on her yet again . There sure was something with young handsome men like himself believing any woman over forty must be happy to pay attention to whatever they had to say.

"Hello again," the TDS said.

She smiled demurely. In close range, she had to admit that he was objectively gorgeous, but there was something off-putting about the clean-shaven-ness and poshness of him.

"We were also in class together the other day, right?" the TDS said, taking Sol away from her contemplations.

She needed to remember to add lemons to her grocery list. If only Meyer lemons could be found anywhere in London. She sighed inwardly.

"The weather is looking much better today. Such a splendid March morning," he went on, and Sol considered pretending she hadn't heard him.

The irredeemably polite person in her simply half smiled. She really couldn't handle inconsequential conversation and hoped to be as unencouraging of further tedium as possible. Even after three years in London, she still hadn't comprehended or adopted the natives' ease for weather talk.

The mark smiled uncomfortably at him, and he felt embarrassed. A bit stupid too. Why couldn't he stop babbling in this particular gig? He was a professional. He knew he should be inconspicuous, watching without arousing suspicion, disappearing in the class's background.

He also knew that was literally impossible. He was good at blending in and becoming invisible, but he was a fish out of water in that particular fitness-for-the-middle-aged-and-somewhat-wealthy milieu.

He'd rather go for a run or join a crowded, Chaturanga Dandasana–filled yoga class than endure another Pilates session with its boring footwork, swan dives and mermaids, and painfully crushing hundreds and side-leg series. Yet here he was, about to suffer from a very sore arse and not making much progress in deciphering her. Sol was either a writer with a set routine and a very grown-up social life, or she was the best mark he'd ever met on the field at pretending they had nothing to hide.

She wasn't the only one to be observed that morning though. Philippa was also there. Some people at the agency referred to her as Trophy, yet he resented the nickname—even if Philippa's husband was one of the most prolific and successful producers in television. No one at the agency seemed to realize that Philippa had amassed her own money as a lifestyle influencer and entrepreneur. Maybe no one had bothered to look her up online.

He also had seen Agatha in attendance. The TV agent had had a semi-promising career a couple of decades before, but the size of her agency and the number of her clients dwindled by the day. You would never know judging by her lifestyle, though. He didn't think Agatha was all she let on at first sight. Yet he couldn't attribute that sensation to anything more than a mere gut feeling—and that alone didn't solve cases.

Josie, on the other hand, was definitely hiding something. That didn't mean he thought she was the swindler he was trying to catch, although like in Agatha's case he was basing that belief in mere speculation. Josie was probably in her sixties—even if she could pass as someone in her mid-to-late forties—and she taught most if not all of her classes personally (partially because some of her students had a cult-like adoration for her and preferred that she was present during all of the sessions). Yet she barely broke a sweat and seemed to have no problem keeping up with the demands of teaching several times a day.

What he really wanted to know wasn't if Sol, Philippa, or Agatha were involved with the case the agency was currently investigating, but how Josie managed to keep up with her own schedule.