Книга - Catch a Mate

Catch a Mate
Gena Showalter


How to catch the love of your life. . . with his trousers down! Jillian Greene is always getting caught in the act. After all, it’s her job! Working at Catch a Mate, Jillian gets paid by suspicious wives to smile, flirt and prove that no man can be trusted around the opposite sex. But she never gets physical – until a heart-stoppingly gorgeous male walks into the office. Marcus Brody has just been hired to test female fidelity.But the last thing Jillian needs is a partner…especially an infuriating, irresistible man who’s got her fantasising about tearing off his clothes!









Catch a Mate

Gena Showalter





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


This book could not have been written without

Jill Monroe. (Road trip + Gena Showalter +

Jill Monroe - Sanity = Trouble.)

I’ll leave it to your imagination as to why.

To Merline Lovelace and Sharon Sala.

Thank you!

To Pennye and Terry Edwards and

Max and Vivian Showalter.

Much love!




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue




One


Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?

IN LIFE, there was only one guarantee and that, Jillian Greene hated to say, was that all men were pigs. “Will you repeat your question?” she asked her coworker and friend, Selene Garnett. “I’m positive I misheard.”

“Nope. You didn’t mishear. I asked what you would say to a man who told you to take off your panties so he could smell them.”

Jillian gazed over at Selene, a blond goddess in black leather, who was untouchable in a way that made men want to touch her. And keep touching her. Over and over again. “Is that a trick question?”

“Hardly.” Selene stood in the opening of Jillian’s cubicle, slender arms braced on the blue makeshift walls. Her hands covered the two posters Jillian had pasted up only a short while ago. One said, Where There’s a Man, There’s a Lie. The other read, Behind Every Good Man Is a Gun. “A guy said it to me last night,” Selene added. “I was so shocked, I froze.”

“Do you like this man?”

“Please.” Selene rolled her eyes. “He was a target.”

“In that case, you tell him the only way you’ll allow him to sniff your underpants is if they’ve been laced with the Ebola virus.”

“I knew you’d have the perfect reply.” Selene smiled that cool smile of hers and practically floated down the hall on a cloud of violets and jasmine, throwing over her shoulder, “Danielle owes me ten bucks.”

Oh, yes. Men were pigs.

Some were piglets, all oink and no bite. Some were swine-in-training, teetering on the edge between man and boar. Some were Miss Piggies, no explanation needed. And some were hungry hogs, devouring everything in their path.

Those, Jillian hated most.

But no matter where a guy fell on the Pigometer, Jillian didn’t let his bestial qualities upset her. Since men were oinkers, it was safe to say that she was the slaughter house. She quite happily cut the different breeds into bacon and served them to their owners on a silver platter.

It was her job and her greatest pleasure.

She (and Selene) worked for Catch a Mate. How deliciously romantic that sounded, right? Except Catch a Mate was the place women came to test their significant other’s trustworthiness. Here’s how it broke down:

Jane Doe enters the CAM office, cites three incidents that make her believe her man has cheated, then flips through a book of photos and chooses the face and form that will most appeal to her husband, boyfriend or asshole lover too cheap to fork over a ring. The woman she picks—a.k.a. the bait—is then given the man’s—a.k.a. the target’s—schedule and proceeds to “accidentally” meet him, laying on the charm. Of course, she’s wearing a hidden camera and a microphone, recording his every transgression.

Jillian was bait.

She was paid to smile, to lie. To flirt. These already attached men ate it up, too, no spoon required, proving just how disgusting they really were.

Some people (those who were guilty) might consider what she did entrapment. Some people (those who were very guilty) might consider what she did wrong. But she never kissed, touched or screwed the men, just allowed them to incriminate themselves with their own words, so her conscience was safe. Besides, there wouldn’t be a problem if her targets would simply send her on her way.

Instead, they returned her smiles, told her lies of their own and flirted back. They were willing to forget years of fidelity, sweep aside their honor and completely disrespect their lover for one supposed night of wildness.

To Jillian, they deserved what they got.

She never told her clients their men had cheated; that was her boss’s job. However, she often watched those conversations on a monitor in another room, and what she saw was heartbreaking. Tears, curses, depression. The emotions of the victims of infidelity ran the gamut, but they all had one thing in common: a ruined life. That’s why she so enjoyed taking these men down a peg or two. Because of them, their partners would never be the same.

And for what?

Married men pretended they were divorced—just to get a little booty. Engaged men pretended they were single—just to get a little booty. Boyfriends pretended they were unattached, just to—you guessed it—get a little booty. Not one of her targets had ever not tried to pick her up.

She didn’t understand it, either. She was cute, sure, but not drop-dead gorgeous. Average height, a decent figure she worked very hard to maintain, long, curly black hair, big blue eyes, slightly rounded cheeks and dimples. God, she hated those tiny, innocent schoolgirl dimples.

Without a doubt, she was nothing special in the looks department. However, if a man thought she was going to ride him like a carnival pony, it didn’t matter what she looked like. She suddenly represented every sex fantasy he’d ever indulged.

Bastards. Jillian had worked for CAM for six years now; she’d started when she was only twenty-one. From day one, she’d gained a perverse satisfaction in nailing a man’s ass to the wall and saving a woman from further heartbreak. That sense of fulfillment had only grown over the years.

But, uh, speaking of nailing male ass…she glanced at her wristwatch and pushed out a sigh. She should have met with her boss thirty minutes ago; instead, she’d watched Anne enter her office with a tall, blond specimen of deliciousness. Jillian had gotten only the barest glimpse of him, but it was enough of a glance to know he was tanned and muscled and wearing jeans that hugged a perfectly squeezable butt.

She might think—know!—guys were pigs, but she wasn’t blind and she liked to look. Looking was all she allowed herself anymore, so when she looked, she really looked. X-ray vision that saw past clothes, past all hint of decency.

Sometimes she reminded herself of a window-shopper, gazing inside the store with her nose pressed to the glass, never actually buying the pretty, overpriced merchandise because she knew that she’d later experience buyer’s remorse.

Why fork over hard-earned cash when the item in question undoubtedly would be stolen, tainted, stained or ripped to shreds?

Once (or twice) she’d allowed the “salesman” and his sweet, sweet sales pitch to convince her to purchase, but each of those occasions had ended at the return booth. Yep, the few boyfriends she’d permitted herself over the years had all failed CAM’s test, which was especially pathetic since they knew what she did for a living. Finally, she’d cut up her credit cards (so to speak).

She sighed. What depressing thoughts. She needed to think about something else. Like her boss. Which, incidentally, led her straight back to Cute Ass. He and Anne had closed the office door and no sound had emerged since. Not even pressing her ear against the shuttered glass wall had proven useful. And yes, she freely admitted to spying. To her, there was nothing wrong with listening to private conversations, opening someone’s desk drawer, sneaking a peek through their wallet, glove compartment, whatever.

Sneakiness was the best way to learn about people. To learn the truth about them, anyway.

Sipping her coffee, Jillian leaned back in her chair and cast her boss’s door another glance. She had an assignment tonight and she always met with Anne to outline a strategy beforehand—as if it took more than a push-up bra and an I’m-so-innocent-but-I’m-not-wearing-any-panties smile to stir a man’s interest. Still. She was due at the scheduled rendezvous point in four hours and she had yet to look at photos of her target.

As her feet tapped impatiently, her black spiked heels clicked into the floor tile of her very blue, very plain cubicle. Besides her posters, she had no personal items here, no pictures of family. She liked to keep business, business and—what did she care about her cube? She wanted to know what No-Nonsense Anne and Cute Ass were talking about. She wanted to know what they were doing.

“Did you see the guy Anne escorted into her office?”

At the sound of the husky feminine voice, Jillian pivoted in her seat. Georgia Carrington stood at the opening of Jillian’s cube, the fragrance of vanilla and sugar wafting from her. Rich, silky red hair framed exquisitely delicate features.

Georgia had gentle cheekbones, a dainty nose, almond-shaped green eyes and flawless skin. Her body was a smorgasbord of naughty curves, and right now those curves were encased in a strapless, barely-there red sheath dress. Men became slaves to their hormones whenever Georgia approached, so it was no wonder she was CAM’s most popular choice of bait.

That hadn’t always been the case, though. Jillian had known Georgia since grade school, when Georgia had been a gangly, freckled kid. Everyone else had teased her unmercifully, but Jillian had recognized a kindred spirit when she saw one—two girls against the rest of the world.

But it hadn’t been an official friendship until Thomas Fisher called Georgia a speckled carrot-head. Jillian had socked him in the nose, Georgia had bandaged her hand, and they had been best friends ever since.

“I saw him,” Jillian said now. She set her coffee aside, lifted a pen and tapped it against the armrest of her chair. “Who is he and why’s he here?” A client, perhaps? But they only dealt with women. Unless…did he suspect his wife was a lesbian? That was a possibility, though what woman would prefer a female to that prime, grade-A quality meat, she didn’t know.

“Maybe Anne decided to give up her stance on the merits of self-gratification and take a lover.” Georgia sashayed around the desk and plopped onto the edge, crinkling papers and files. The hem of the red dress rode up her thighs and revealed several inches of tanned, firm flesh.

Jillian shrugged. “Maybe he’s her sister’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s uncle and he’s here to borrow money.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want a piece of her sister’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s uncle. I almost slid out of my chair when he walked past me.”

Jillian, too, had experienced a very feminine reaction: breathlessness, beaded nipples, quickened pulse. It had been a long time since she’d been intimate with a man and, well, the scent of sin—that’s the only way to describe it—had followed this one, lingering in the air long after he’d stepped into the boss’s office and shut the door.

“I thought you had a boyfriend,” Jillian said, trying not to frown at the image of Georgia and Cute Ass. Together. Naked.

A dark, haunted glint entered her friend’s eyes but was quickly extinguished. “I did.” Georgia sighed. “I do.”

“Problems?”

With a dismissive—forced?—laugh, Georgia waved her hand through the air. “Of course not. Things are the same as they’ve been for the last several weeks. Wyatt tells me I’m beautiful and asks me to marry him every single day. And every single day I tell him I’m still thinking about it.”

“If you have to think about it, he’s not the man for you.” Jillian didn’t think he was the man for Georgia, anyway. He treated her like a queen, sure, lavishing endless compliments on her physical beauty. But where were his compliments on her witty mind and kind heart?

“I’ve heard your argument against him a thousand times, counselor, so no need to rehash the case. I just want to be sure we’re forever, that’s all.” She sounded miserable.

“We could put him to the CAM test again.” Every woman who worked here ended up putting her man to the test. Only two had passed. Wyatt and some guy Selene had dated—and later dumped when she found him in bed with another man.

“He’d just pass again. Since he knows what we do for a living, he’s always suspicious of pretty women who approach him.” Georgia crossed her legs and her skirt rode all the higher. “No more talk of Wyatt. I want to discuss, in minute detail, Anne’s possible new lover. He has to be a superhero. Pleasure Man or something like that, able to cause orgasm with a single glance. No ordinary man could have charmed his way into a private meeting with Frigid Anne.”

Jillian eagerly returned to the topic of Cute Ass. “Did he look at you when he passed you?” she asked pensively, replaying his hallway stride through her mind, step by sexy step. “Did he give you any sign of interest?”

Georgia’s forehead furrowed and her red brows drew together. She blinked in dawning confusion. “No. He didn’t.”

“He ignored me, too,” Selene said as she strode past Jillian’s cube, head bent over a file. “Danielle, too.”

“He didn’t look at me, either,” Jillian assured Georgia. Hadn’t cast a single glance in her direction, actually, and she had been making plenty of noise as she’d struggled to pick up her jaw and draw in even a molecule of air. It wasn’t that she thought she was entitled to male appreciation or anything like that. But to completely ignore the women of this office as if they were nothing more than asexual beings…maybe he was gay.

“What a waste if he’s gay,” Georgia said, confirming her thoughts.

It was telling, really, that neither one of them thought there was a chance in hell he was so devoted to a wife or girlfriend that he failed to notice other women. It wasn’t even a possibility in their minds.

“But I didn’t get the gay vibe,” Georgia added. “Did you?”

“No.” So if he wasn’t gay, what was he? Jillian didn’t like mysteries (they sucked), hated working puzzles (they blew), and wanted to spit on surprises (they both sucked and blew). Maybe that was one of the reasons she enjoyed working at CAM. Every night, the outcome was the same. The target cheated. End of story.

Okay, so that was a little sad.

“Do you think he’s blind?”

“Come on, Detective Carrington. You can do better than that. He didn’t have a Seeing Eye dog or a cane. Nor did he stumble or need Anne to lead him.” She thought about it for a moment. “My guess is he’s so self-absorbed, he didn’t realize anyone else was in the building.”

“Oh, no doubt you’re right. What an ass!” Discussion over in her mind since that made Cute Ass a jerk and unworthy of their time, Georgia pushed to her feet and twirled. “So…do you like my new outfit?”

“You look like a slut. I love it.” Jillian grinned. “Do you have an assignment tonight?”

Returning her grin, Georgia plopped back onto the desk. “Nope. This outfit is for Wyatt. After last night’s assignment…” Her full, red lips curled in revulsion. “I may not go into the field again. I sat next to my target—at a coffeehouse, of all places—and the slimy bastard immediately tried to talk his way into my pants. Your dad has to be a thief. That’s the only way to explain those stars in your eyes. Gag! He’s married, for God’s sake, and had just celebrated his sixteenth wedding anniversary.”

“Let me guess. He claimed he’d just gotten a divorce, the loneliness was almost more then he could bear and a pretty girl like you could sure ease the pain in his heart.”

“Bingo.”

“Men can’t be trusted,” Jillian muttered with an appalled shake of her head; black curls swished in every direction. “Did you tell him to go fuck himself?”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “I wish. I wanted to tell him who and what I was, but couldn’t bring myself to break the rules.”

Telling a target the truth could lead to panic—and panic from a target could be a dangerous, even life-threatening, thing. “So what did you do?”

“I made sure he won’t be getting in anyone’s pants for a while, maybe not even his own.”

Jillian patted her friend’s knee in approval. They’d both taken self-defense lessons after joining the agency, courtesy of Anne. Anne refused to pay for bodyguards—they were too expensive—so the girls were on their own when in the field. Jillian actually preferred it that way. She didn’t want to rely on a man/lying piece of swine for her safety. Her Mace acted as her hired muscle, bringing down the strongest of opponents.

“Anne showed his wife the video earlier and the woman burst into tears. I know because I stupidly watched on the screen in the conference room.” Georgia expelled a slight puff of air, as dainty as the woman herself. She drummed her perfectly manicured nails against the desk.

Jillian didn’t mention that she’d seen the wife, too, just as the woman was leaving the office. Those tearstained cheeks had almost made Jillian cry. Poor thing. She had a tough road ahead of her.

Victims were always told the day after the evidence was gathered. No reason to put it off and prolong the torture. The criers always caused Jillian’s chest to ache. The punchers—well, they might hate her and the other bait now, but they’d thank them later.

Still. Maybe she and Georgia needed to start coming in late the day after an assignment.

“I despise that part of the job, you know?” Georgia said. “Just once, I’d like to see a happy ending, a man who doesn’t care about a pretty face. A man who’s happy with what he has at home, even if she’s gained weight or acquired a few wrinkles.”

“Me, too, but we both know the odds of that happening. And women are better off learning the truth now instead of later,” Jillian said, her tone firm with conviction. After all, she should know. Years ago, her dad had cheated on her mom and her mom hadn’t known, hadn’t suspected at all. But little Jillian had known—her dad had taken her to the neighbor’s house to “play with the cat.” She’d chased that stupid tabby all the way into the bedroom and gotten an eyeful.

Her dad hadn’t explicitly asked her to keep quiet, but he had to have known she would never speak of it to her mom, too afraid her parents would split.

The guilt of not telling her mother had eaten at her.

A few months later, the knowledge had become too much for her to bear and she’d confided in her older brother and sister. They had begged her not to tell Mom, not wanting to cause their parents’ divorce, either. So she’d kept quiet. Again. Pretending her dad really was going to the grocery store when he sneaked next door.

She’d been the only seven-year-old with an ulcer.

About six months after that, her mom flew off to visit her sister. But then Evelyn decided, for whatever reason, to come home early. That’s when she found Jillian’s dad in bed with the neighbor. Her mom had been shocked and devastated, and the truth had finally spilled from Jillian.

The next morning, her mom tried to kill herself.

A familiar rage kindled inside of Jillian, images of her bleeding and unconscious mother flashing through her mind. She’d been the one to find her. Not her brother, Brent. Not her sister, Brittany. Not her dad. She’d been the one to cry over her mom’s bloody—Jillian quickly shoved those memories away before she punched a wall. She didn’t like thinking about those worry-filled weeks, her mom teetering between life and death.

Needless to say, she hadn’t spoken to her dad since. Her mom had divorced him and he’d taken off. He still called Jillian about once a week, but she never picked up. Brent, the easygoing contractor, and Brittany, the tenderhearted stay-at-home mom, begged her almost daily to forgive him, but she just couldn’t. Maybe one day, she thought…. No. Never, she decided in the next instant. There was simply too much pain there.

“Without us,” she said now to Georgia, teeth clenched, “women would be lost in a world of lies, thinking their men loved and respected them.”

Georgia pondered those words for several minutes, then shrugged. Her body glitter caught the light, making her bare shoulders shimmer. “Maybe believing the lie is the only key to happiness.” Today was the first time she’d ever voiced doubts about their profession.

Anything to do with Wyatt and his marriage proposal?

“So where are you going tonight?” Georgia asked before Jillian could question her. “You look like a cheap hooker.”

“Thank you,” Jillian replied with a genuine smile. She wore a skintight white tank top with a low V-neck for ultra cleavage, a barely-there jean skirt with a frayed hem, a thick silver belt and tall black boots. Her hair was a wild, untamed mass of curls, her makeup heavily applied.

At the moment, everything about her screamed “saddle up and take me for a ride.” But then, the man she was supposed to “catch” later apparently liked his women dressed that way. The trashier the better, or so his girlfriend, who dressed like a dime-store prostitute herself, had said.

“I’m going to The Meat Market,” Jillian explained. No lie, that was the name of the nightclub situated in the pulsing heart of downtown Oklahoma City. It was supposedly the place for prowling singles.

Her target’s live-in girlfriend said her man had been visiting the club for weeks. For “beer.” Jillian believed that one-hundred percent—if beer was the new name for T & A. If the guy was simply throwing back a few cold ones, why couldn’t he take his girlfriend with him? Why did he leave her at home and insist she stay there?

Anne had suggested the girlfriend follow the guy herself before resorting to bait, but the woman had shut down that idea immediately. Jillian thought she knew why. It was one thing to believe your man was cheating; it was quite another to actually witness it yourself, live and in person. Plus, the girlfriend could be spotted and the guy could alter his behavior accordingly.

The door to Anne’s office suddenly jerked open, startling her. Surprising Georgia, too, who gasped.

Jillian jolted upright as Anne stuck out her head. She caught a glimpse of the woman’s graying hair and stern, wrinkled features before Anne called, “Jillian. Get in here ASAP. I’ve got some bad news for you.”

She disappeared without another word, but left the door open.

O-kay. Jillian’s heart skipped a beat. She flicked Georgia a nervous glance, and it didn’t help that her friend was wide-eyed and openmouthed. Hands beginning to sweat, she eased to her feet.

“Bad news,” Georgia said quietly, her attention veering between Jillian and the door. “She’s usually abrupt, but that was…”

“Maybe my case has been reassigned,” Jillian said, hopeful.

“Maybe.”

Georgia didn’t sound convinced and deep down Jillian wasn’t, either. Shit. Shit! More than going over her assignment tonight, Jillian had hoped to talk to Anne about making her a partner, or—what she really wanted—selling her the business outright.

She’d tried to broach the subject a few times already, but each time Anne had been busy and had shooed her away with a promise of “later.”

There was no one better equipped or readier to take over than Jillian. She’d been here forever (it sometimes seemed) and had many wonderful ideas, if she did say so herself, about taking CAM to the next level. Like a counseling center for victims of infidelity, support groups and even a Web site dedicated to warning women about particular men. Sort of an Internet Wall of Shame, appropriately dubbed the Swine Whine, with ratings of just how high on the Pigometer certain individuals ranked. Oklahoma’s most unwanted.

If she had her way, CAM’s clients would get the kind of help her mother hadn’t.

Now that conversation would have to wait. Again.

Bad news…she gulped. Something was about to go down, that was for sure, and from the sound of Anne’s voice, Jillian suspected it was herself.




Two


I miss my teddy bear. Would you sleep with me?

JILLIAN STEPPED INTO Anne’s office, her heart thundering. Anne was already settled behind her desk. She was a stern, no-nonsense woman, always abrupt and demanding, but she’d never commanded Jillian’s presence with such force before. Never told her she had “bad news.”

What was going on? Does she want to get rid of me? Why? What could Jillian possibly have done? She studied her boss. Anne was of indeterminate age and refused to discuss the matter on threat of death. Jillian’s guess? Two thousand, give or take a year. Deep lines bracketed her mouth, eyes and cheeks. Coarse gray hair frizzed—no. Today her hair wasn’t frizzed. Today her hair was slicked back from her face, making her look almost…pretty. Huh. That was a first, too.

Anne glanced up from the papers on her desk; her hazel eyes, normally devoid of any emotion except annoyance, were now colored with guilt. “Shut the door,” Anne said, returning her attention to the papers.

Without turning her back on her boss, Jillian pressed the heavy glass door closed. The blinds were drawn, so no one could see inside. She sent her nervous gaze around the spacious room. Large windows consumed the far wall and numerous dying plants were lined up in front of them. An opened bottle of Scotch rested on the wet bar.

One day, she wanted this office to be her own. Was that even a possibility now?

Cute Ass sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. His back was to her and he didn’t bother turning to acknowledge her. He remained slumped in the plush blue seat, completely relaxed. A little irreverent.

“What’s going on?” Jillian asked, proud that she sounded at ease and unconcerned.

“Sit down.” With a brusque chin tilt, Anne motioned to the other chair—the one beside Cute Ass.

Did Anne plan to fire her? Was the blond here to protect her in case Jillian went ballistic? Instantly her mind replayed the last few assignments she’d taken. Sure, she had kneed one target in the balls. But he could still father children. Sure, she had caused a barroom brawl. But no one had died.

She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and strode to the chair. She eased down, smoothing her jean skirt with shaky hands. “What’s going on?” she asked again.

“Jillian Greene,” Anne said, “meet Marcus Brody. Marcus, Jillian.”

You’re breezy. Not a care. “Nice to meet you,” she told him, twisting and holding out a hand.

His attention never veered in her direction. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, merely arching a brow in acknowledgment of her words. O-kay. So he didn’t want to look at, talk to or touch her. Bad news…

The moisture in her mouth dried. Maybe he wasn’t so cute, after all. Jillian’s hand dropped to her side.

Anne propped her elbows on the desk and pinned her with a hard stare. “Marcus has joined the agency as bait.”

“What?” Her jaw dropped open, but she closed it with a snap. Of all the things she’d expected to hear, that didn’t even hit the bottom of the list. So many times she had heard Anne swear to God and her three bastard ex-husbands that she’d never hire anyone with a penis. Still, Jillian experienced a kernel of relief. Not fired. Thank the good Lord. “I thought you wanted to keep this office testosterone-free.”

“I did, but I changed my mind.”

What kind of response was that? Anne hated men. H. A. T. E. D. That’s the reason she’d opened the agency. The fact that she’d now hired one, and would pay him to prove women were just as untrustworthy as men, boggled Jillian’s mind. She couldn’t even count the number of male applicants Anne had refused (with relish) over the years.

She had to be missing something here and floundered to understand. “Are we trying to draw gay clients, then?”

Marcus Brody snorted. That was it, his only reaction. Yet still she shivered. How could one little snort be so…sensual? What the hell would his voice be like, then?

“No, he’s not gay,” Anne said, rolling her eyes.

Jillian’s confusion increased. Was this some kind of joke? She discarded the idea almost as soon as it formed. Anne had no sense of humor. Could this be—she gasped as the answer slid into place. “Anne, can I have a minute alone with you?”

“No.” Anne peered at Jillian over the rim of her glasses, unbending. Stern. A familiar expression. “Time is of the essence, and I’d like to get this meeting out of the way.”

Fine. She’d voice her suspicions out loud, in front of Marcus. “Is he blackmailing you?”

Finally the man in question decided to spare her a glance. At the exact moment she looked over at him. Their eyes met, her blue against his velvety brown, and her breath snagged in her throat. From behind, he was gorgeous. From the front, he was even more delicious than she’d suspected. Unbelievably delicious, actually. Tall, blond and muscled. Tanned and rugged. Almost savage looking, as if he didn’t belong in this time period but with a band of bloodthirsty Vikings intent on raping and pillaging.

He was eyeing her up and down with a hint of disdain in his dark gaze.

Disdain? What had she done? You accused him of blackmail, dummy. And don’t forget you also accused this manly-man of being gay. Oh, yeah. Still. The look in his eyes lit a fiery heat inside her. Some people might call that heat lust. She called it annoyance. He shouldn’t regard her as if she were beneath him, no matter his provocation. He didn’t even know her.

“What’s so hard to believe about my legitimately working here?” he demanded.

It was the first time he’d spoken and his voice washed over her in rolling, erotic waves, her every cell sizzling. It was more seductive a voice than she’d suspected. Decadent. Okay, maybe she felt a little lust.

“Well? No response?”

He spoke in a deep, humming rhythm, a slight English accent making his words orgasmically crisp. Her nipples hardened—damn those traitors!—and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to cover them with her hands because her thin, too-tight tank revealed everything. Everything. He’d have to be blind not to notice the two-nipple salute she was giving him.

She gulped. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. That wasn’t my intention. You just aren’t the kind of person Anne usually hires.”

His sandy brows arched. “And just what kind of person is that?”

“Someone with a vagina,” she said bluntly.

“I have something better, I assure you.”

Jillian blinked, took a moment to digest his words, and shook her head. “Please tell me you did not just imply what I think you just implied.”

“Implied?” He chuckled, the sound rich and smooth, utterly captivating and completely mocking. “I spoke only truth, Dimples.”

Dimples? Grrrr! So, not only had Anne hired a male, she’d hired one with an overinflated ego. Life would only be more perfect if Jillian scheduled a pelvic exam and gained four hundred pounds. She was kind of glad he’d revealed his true nature, though. Knowing he was a hungry hog lessened his visual appeal. Or so she told herself.

“I’m the best bait in the business,” he added, “and you’re lucky to have me here. You, on the other hand, are of questionable morals, questionable character and prone to extreme bouts of emotion. I’ve read your file.”

He’d read her file? While it was okay for her to sneak around and read confidential files, it was not okay for someone to read hers. Double standard be damned! But something hot—very hot—washed through her blood as she thought about him doing it. Something very much like…desire? Oh, hell no. You’re mad that he just insulted you. You are not excited. Your stomach is clenching in anger, not arousal.

“First, you shouldn’t have read my file. That’s for Anne’s eyes only. Second, I am not of questionable morals or questionable character. I have never, ever slept with a target.” It was the truth. She felt nothing but contempt for her targets, now and always. “I’ve punched a few in the face, yes, so I won’t argue the ‘extreme bouts of emotion.’”

“Gold star for Jillian, then,” he muttered, “for managing to keep her clothes on at work.”

That hot, fiery something sparked again. “Do you hear the way he’s insulting me?” she demanded of Anne. “Do you realize what kind of person he is, that he can say something like that?”

Amusement flashed in Anne’s hazel eyes. “I hear and I realize.”

“And you’re still going to hire him?”

Anne gave her an enigmatic smile. “Something like that.”

She gasped. Just shut your mouth. Act like a professional—unlike Marcus. “You’re telling me you want this…this miva working for you?” she found herself saying anyway. One child in the room obviously wasn’t enough.

“Miva?” Anne echoed, confused.

“Male diva,” Jillian replied.

“Nice,” Marcus said, sarcasm dripping from that one word. “I’m right here, you know. You might save this stimulating conversation for after I’ve left.”

“And you’re fine with that?” she continued, as if Egotistical Ass hadn’t spoken. Everything—well, almost everything—inside her wanted him gone. Now. He’d insulted her and rather than experiencing fury as she’d tried to convince herself, she wanted to tear off his clothes. There. She’d admitted it. This kind of thing had never happened to her before and it creeped her out. “His attitude doesn’t make you want to feed his organs to your cats?”

Anne held up her index finger. “One, I don’t have cats.” Another finger. “Two, his attitude doesn’t bother me because you’re the one who has to deal with him. He’s going with you tonight.”

“What!”

“You heard me. He’s going with you.” There was no room for argument in Anne’s tone and all traces of humor had vanished from her expression. Jillian barely had time to react before Anne added, “As Marcus said, he’s done this type of work before. But I want him to observe how we at CAM run our operation.

“Here are photos of your newest target.” She handed one to Jillian and one to Marcus. “I’ve got personal business for the rest of the day, so I’ll be back tomorrow. You’re a professional—I hope—so you should be able to handle a day without me.”

What? What! “Where are you going?” Jillian gasped out. Her fingers closed shakily around the photo.

“I told you, it’s personal. No more questions. Now, have a good day.” And with that, Anne gathered her purse, stood, and strode to the entrance. Her starched black pantsuit crackled as she walked.

“Anne,” Jillian called, shock pounding through her. Anne practically lived in the office. Why was she leaving early?

“The answer is no,” Anne said, reaching for the doorknob.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. The answer is still no.” With a tug, she opened the door. Georgia spilled inside and tumbled onto the crimson carpet. Never breaking stride, Anne stepped over her, saying, “Get back to work, Carrington.” Then she disappeared down the hall.

Georgia popped to her feet, cheeks blooming as bright a red as her hair. She tugged on her strapless dress before the twins popped out. “I, uh, was just about to knock. Would anyone like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Jillian muttered. The caffeine might be the final push her heart needed to achieve full arrest. She never would have gotten out of bed this morning if she’d known this kind of day awaited her.

Marcus didn’t utter a word.

“All righty, then.” Georgia hurriedly shut the door, closing Jillian and Marcus inside. Alone. Together.

Heavy silence filled the room.

Say something. Do something. She shifted in her seat and her gaze flicked to CAM’s newest employee. He was watching her, something unreadable in his eyes, something hard and soft at the same time. Something dangerous to her peace of mind. She shifted again. Be nice so he’ll stop insulting you. Then you won’t get turned on anymore.

Which, by the way, her mind added, is ridiculous.

When had she become such a masochist?

“How did you convince Anne to give you this job?” she asked, her voice breathless as it pushed through the sudden block of ice in her throat.

A muscle ticked in his temple. “You may not realize this, so allow me to enlighten you. That question is insulting. In fact, you’ve done nothing but insult me since you first entered this office. Or maybe you do realize it and you just don’t give a shit.”

She held up a hand, palm out. “Honestly, no insult intended.” Good, you’re doing good. “It’s just, I know Anne, you don’t. This isn’t like her. You’re not the only man who’s wanted to work here. She’s always said no in the past.”

“I may not be the only man to want to work here, but I promise you I’m the best.”

Jillian had no doubts about that. No woman would be able to resist that potent allure of his. Still…“There’s got to be more to it than that.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked through clenched, white teeth. “That I’m Anne’s boy toy?”

Suddenly on the defensive, she stiffened her spine. “Well, are you?”

“FYI, Dimples. I’ve never been so hard up for a job that I had to sleep with the boss to get one.” Tone crisper with every word, he added, “Even though you’re obviously slow, I really hope you understand my next words so I won’t have to bring out Happy the sock puppet. Pay attention. There might be a quiz. Anne. Wants. To. Expand. The. Business. End of story.”

Her eyes narrowed. A wave of intense loathing—yes, loathing and not some other, brainless emotion—swept through her. Some people clicked at their first meeting, some people…didn’t. They obviously hadn’t. And every moment together made the dislike—yes, dislike and not some other, even more brainless emotion—intensify.

Be in control. Don’t let him see how much he’s affecting you. “My questions and concerns were legitimate,” she said (somewhat) evenly.

“No, they weren’t,” he ground out.

“Of course you don’t think so.” She smiled sweetly at him. “You’re unreasonable.”

“I bet you’re a real bundle of joy in—the job,” he said, then mumbled, “I really hope I don’t have to step in and douse the fire you’re sure to start tonight. I hear you’ve caused several brawls.”

“Blame the Brotherhood of the Raging Hard-on,” she said, still nauseatingly sweet, “not me.”

“Is that why you’re so grumpy right now, Dimples? Afraid I’ll cramp your style tonight and keep you from all those hard-ons?” There was more disgust in that one sentence than she’d ever heard from another person. “You probably get off on arousing your targets and walking away.”

That was low. So low. It was one part of the job she didn’t like, but she’d resigned herself to it because the end results were so important to the victims of infidelity. “That observation is funny, Mark. Coming from you. Did you not just take a job that requires you to arouse women and then walk away from them?”

“It’s Marcus,” he said tightly. “I only answer to Marcus.” Was that a flash of guilt in his eyes? No, surely not. Probably pride. Most likely he was giving himself a mental high-five.

She shrugged. “Whatever you say, Markie.”

A long while passed as he stared at her intently. Then, “What I said about the hard-ons was uncalled-for,” he admitted grudgingly.

Jillian shook her head, blinked. Had he, dare she believe it, apologized to her? Her dad had done it. Past boyfriends had even done it. But the words had never coasted over her skin with the fervency of a caress before. They’d never affected her to the marrow of her bones and made her want to forgive.

“Let’s just get to work,” she said after clearing her throat, not knowing what else to say. She forced her mind off Marcus and onto the photo Anne had given her. Good distraction. The man she was to charm tonight was in his early forties. He had a slightly receding hairline, nicely fringed brown eyes, a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Overall, not a bad-looking swine.

By tomorrow, life as he knew it would be in ruins.

Maybe she was emotionally barren or something, because that would have made most people feel a little sad, a little guilty. Perhaps even made them back away from the job. Jillian, well, she wanted his girlfriend to know exactly what kind of loser she’d been cooking and cleaning for, sleeping with and giving all of her time and energy to.

Like Georgia, Jillian would have loved to encounter a man with honor and integrity, who wouldn’t crumble under the allure of forbidden temptation. A man who placed more importance on love than sex.

That thought brought her back to the male she didn’t want to think about but couldn’t seem to keep from her mind, making her wonder what kind of person he was. She didn’t think she could have enticed him away from a steaming pile of shit. Did he have a girlfriend? Did he treat all women with such disdain or just her?

How would he treat someone he loved?

“What do you know about Darren Sawyer, tonight’s target?” All business now, Marcus leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his stomach. His shirt strained against his hard sinew and velvet skin. “I haven’t had a chance to read his file yet.”

“His girlfriend says he’s in the middle of a midlife crisis.”

Marcus paused, a lock of pale hair falling over his brow. Pretty, yet somehow wholly masculine. “The girlfriend says that? Or you do?” He propped his elbow on his upraised knee and his chin in his palm. “The tone of your voice says the man’s already been tried and convicted. We’re supposed to be objective, aren’t we?”

“No,” she scoffed. “We’re not supposed to be objective.”

“And why not?”

“What does objectivity matter? The man will either cheat or he won’t.” She waved the folder in the air. “Darren traded his Toyota for a Cobra. He spends two hours a day at the gym when he used to spend those two hours talking with his girlfriend. And he’s been visiting nightclubs every weekend. He’s most likely decided to trade his old girlfriend in for a new one, too, only the old girlfriend doesn’t know it. Yet.”

That now-familiar glaze of disgust blanketed Marcus’s eyes, piercing her like a laser beam. “A new car, working out and dancing equals midlife crisis, does it, Dimples? Maybe the man just wants to improve himself.”

Damn, his accent was freakishly sexy. It made her tingle. Still, she hated, hated, hated the way he said the word dimples. Sounded like an endearment, right? Not from his lips. It was more of a curse. “And maybe that time I ate a large pizza on my own, in one sitting, was for medicinal purposes.”

“I drive a bloody Jag. I work out. Does that mean I’m in the middle of a bloody crisis?”

Two bloodies. Had she, perhaps, hit a nerve? “Well, let’s see.” She tapped a finger on her chin and pretended to mull over her next words. “Did you trade your old car in for one you couldn’t afford?”

“No,” he said stiffly.

“Did you just get a tattoo that says I’m On Fire?”

“No,” he said, a little more stiffly.

“According to his girlfriend, Darren Sawyer has done both of those things. Do you think he put himself into debt and permanently marked his skin simply to improve himself? Or—and I know this is a stretch but bear with me, Mark—maybe he’s trying to nail some hot, tight ass.”

Marcus ran his tongue over his teeth. He was like a banked inferno, ready to explode. He didn’t need a tattoo to tell the world he was burning. “One hundred dollars says Darren doesn’t hit on you tonight.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Planning on sabotaging me?”

“Hardly. I simply have faith in Mr. Sawyer. I think you’re wrong about him. I think he’s just trying to express himself. I think he’s going to take one look at you and run the other way. As a betting man, I really like my odds on this one.”

What was he trying to say? That she couldn’t attract a man, even one on the prowl? Her hands clenched, crinkling the photo. Oh, she would show Marcus. With great pleasure. Express himself, indeed. Run the other way? Not likely. “You’re on.”

“No hesitation?” he said, sandy brows arching and giving him that insolent appearance she was coming to hate. And desire, damn her hormones.

“None whatsoever.”

“I’m not surprised.” He shook his head, more blond locks tumbling over his forehead. “You obviously have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Actually, I have a low opinion of men.” Pig, she inwardly cursed, even as she stayed the urge to caress that hair from his face. What was wrong with her? She needed a spanking for these masochistic tendencies. A bad, naughty spanking and, oh yeah, a—Dummy. Stop. “Darren won’t cave because he wants me specifically. He’ll cave because he’s a walking penis and walking penises can’t even tell an anatomically correct doll no.”

“I should have known you’d say something like that.” Marcus uttered another dark, rich chuckle. Darker than chocolate. Richer than whipped cream. “You’re a man-hater, aren’t you, Dimples?”

She bit the inside of her cheek so forcefully a metallic tang flavored her tongue. “I hate liars and I hate cheaters. So yeah, I guess I am a man-hater.”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right man yet.”

“Is that man supposed to be you, Markie-warkie?” she sneered, making it obvious how ludicrous she found the concept. God, she’d never disliked someone so much, so quickly. He was vile. Absolutely vile. And so desirable her hands were shaking with the need to touch him. She was definitely a masochist. Funny she’d never realized that before today.

“You don’t have to worry about me coming on to you,” he said. “You’re not my type.”

“And what type is that?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Cold and heartless. And my name is Marcus.”

“Are you calling me cold and heartless or is that the kind of woman you like to date?”

“You.”

Oh, how her blood boiled, white hot, consuming. She was not cold and she was not heartless. But the insult hit home and hit deep because sometimes—just sometimes—she was afraid that she was becoming both of those things. After all, she helped ruin people’s lives and she wasn’t sorry. “Why the hell are you so malicious toward me? If you don’t know what malicious means, I’d be glad to borrow your Happy the sock puppet and explain it to you.”

“You’re a woman, Dimples.” He stared over at her, a half smile, half sneer curling his delectable mouth. “That’s all it takes to bloody piss me off.”

She blinked. “You don’t like me because I’m a woman?” Maybe he really was gay.

“No, I like you just fine. Parts of you, anyway.” His gaze slid over her body in a leering once-over, lingering on her breasts and between her legs, slowly stripping away her already scanty clothing. Daring her to challenge him. Begging her to do it, actually.

As if she would ever, ever let that swine see her naked. And knead her breasts. And roll her nipples between his fingers. And lick his way down her body. And—she growled low in her throat.

“Women are the cheaters and the liars,” he said, “not men. They blithely forget their morals when they think they’re going to get an orgasm. Or a man with more money. Or a man who will stupidly do anything they ask. The list could go on and on.”

She blinked again as realization slammed into her. Oh, the irony. She laughed, incredulous. Marcus Brody was the male version of her. This savagely beautiful specimen thought women were pigs. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. Priceless.

“That wasn’t funny,” he said tightly.

“Yes, it was.” Forcing herself to sober, she studied him. “Exactly how long have you worked in this business?”

He pressed his lips together in a mutinous line. Apparently sharing personal information wasn’t part of their hate/hate relationship.

“Well?” she pressed.

“Eight years,” he finally responded. He glanced at his wristwatch. “And now this conversation is over. I have the information I need on the target. You may go.”

“I may go?” She gasped. “I may go?”

“Yes. Is there an echo in the room?”

Had she mentioned that she hated this man?

“I’ll meet you at the club in three and a half hours,” he said. He pushed his big, hard body out of his seat and strode around Anne’s desk. He plopped into Anne’s chair.

Shocked at his daring, Jillian shook her head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He gazed down at the papers. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Anne told me to make myself at home.”

“I can guarantee she didn’t mean at her desk.”

He leaned back and stretched out his legs, anchoring his ankles on the surface. He met her gaze. “Were you here? Did you hear the conversation?”

“No,” she gritted out.

“So you don’t know what she meant, do you?”

Smug bastard. More than puzzles, more than this man, she hated being bested. She wanted Marcus out of this office so she could go through Anne’s desk. She wanted to read his employee file, like he’d read hers. And what the hell had Anne put in her file to make Jillian seem of questionable morals?

“Well?” he prompted. “How long do you plan to sit there?”

Fine, she decided in the next instant. Let him stay. It might piss Anne off when she found out, and Anne might (please, please, please!) fire him. Besides that, arguing with him was still arousing her. More so now than before. Her skin was heating and hot blood was flowing through her veins at an alarming rate.

“Leave the door open on your way out,” he added smugly.

Eyes slitted, panting a little, Jillian stood. Better to leave now, before he called her a bad name—a worse name, anyway—and she jumped his bones. What’s wrong with me? she wondered for the—what?—thousandth time?

She strode toward the door, calling with mock breeziness over her shoulder, “I’m going home to purge myself of your nastiness. I’ll see you at the club, Markie. Make sure to bring that hundred dollars you’re going to owe me. I expect payment the moment you lose.” She slammed the door behind her, making the glass vibrate, and sauntered down the hall.





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