Kitabı oku: «Catch a Mate»

Catch a Mate
Gena Showalter

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.

Three

Excuse me, I need your phone number to give my friend so he’ll know where he can get a hold of me in the morning.

GEORGIA CARRINGTON’S PHONE RANG just as Jillian stormed out of the building without a word or glance. O-kay. What had happened? She’d never seen her friend so upset.

Brrring, brrring, the phone sang as she pushed to her feet to go after Jillian.

After a momentary hesitation, she fell back into her chair. She’d have to find out later. Only one person called her at this time of day and she didn’t have the strength to ignore him. Besides, Jillian would probably appreciate time to cool down.

That’s lame. You’re a bad friend. Still, she picked up the phone and held it to her ear, already a little breathless. “Georgia Carrington.”

“Hey, you.”

Hearing that deep, tender voice, her stomach instantly clenched. Yep, she’d been right. Brent. Jillian’s older brother and the bane of Georgia’s entire life. “You have to stop calling me at work, Brent,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t.

Part of her was glad of that. The other part of her hated that part of her.

“I can’t help it,” Brent said in a low, whispered tone, as if they were sharing a secret. “I needed to hear your voice. It’s been twenty-four hours since we last talked, and that’s just too long.”

Her stomach clenched again and goose bumps broke out over her skin. Contact with Brent was dangerous, even over the phone. He was the only man in the world who could tempt her away from Wyatt and the only man in the world she would never, ever allow herself to get involved with.

He hadn’t wanted her when she’d wanted him, had rejected her time and time again, and now it was too late. Besides, even if she were to date him now, he’d walk away from her the moment she started aging. A wrinkle—bye—bye Brent. Gain a few pounds—where’d Brent race off to so quickly?

In school, she’d been the ugly duckling and he’d avoided her. Now that she was easy on the eyes, he pursued her relentlessly. It was insulting. So why don’t you put a stop to it?

“Want to go to the movies later?” he asked. “Don’t say no. I’m willing to see a chick flick, and if that doesn’t prove my dedication to you, nothing will.”

She closed her eyes, pictured sitting next to him, sharing popcorn. Wyatt hated going to the movies. Expensive dinners, galas, those were his preferences. “No, sorry,” she forced herself to say. “I’ve got plans with Wyatt.”

There was a thick, heavy pause. She used it to tamp down her regret.

Then Brent growled low in his throat. “I fucking hate that asshole.”

“How do you know he’s an asshole? You’ve never met him.”

“I don’t have to know him to know he’s not good enough for you.”

She shivered. End this. You’re just playing with fire. “Goodbye, Brent,” she said, once again forcing herself to do something she didn’t want. She placed the phone in its receiver, cutting the line. He isn’t for you. Don’t lead him on.

Hell, don’t lead yourself on.

So why did she suddenly want to cry?

The door to Anne’s office opened and that blond god of deliciousness peeked out. He stared down one end of the hall, then the other.

“Looking for Jillian?” she asked. He and Jillian must have come to blows because he seemed every bit as infuriated as Jillian had.

He didn’t say anything, just scowled at her and closed the door again.

“That went well,” she muttered. Time to get back to work. She’d think about the Greenes later.

INSIDE ANNE’S OFFICE, Marcus stomped to the desk and plopped into the swivel chair. He crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at the door, his nose twitching at the lingering scent of luscious female. A mysterious scent he couldn’t quite place. Maybe a sunset. Maybe a midnight ocean breeze. Maybe sulfur and brimstone.

Okay. So. The meeting hadn’t gone as planned. He blamed Jillian, of course. Infuriating woman.

He’d worked in this strip-you-of-your-innocence business for a long time, but he’d never encountered bait quite like her. She was…unpredictable. A sweet smile one moment, a tongue-lashing the next. Mmm, tongue-lashing. He frowned. Don’t go there.

He’d meant to behave, to show Jillian his polite side. She’d walked in, however, looking eatable in a scrap of nothing, and that intention had been blown straight to hell. At that point, the only politeness she’d have gotten from him would have been if she’d asked him to take her up on her clothing’s unintentional offer and eat her. He would have said thank you.

Hence the reason he’d done everything in his power to piss her off.

If she despised him, she’d continually push him away and he’d never have to worry about giving in to temptation. Or trying to seduce temptation. Firecracker that she was, she’d ignited at every barb he’d tossed her way. That shouldn’t have been such a turn-on. Insulting her shouldn’t have been such a turn-on. But they had been. Oh, they had been.

Sadist, he berated himself. He didn’t usually allow women to affect him on any level except a sexual one. But Jillian had done that and more—and she’d done it while looking at him as if he were a pus-filled wound on a horse’s ass one moment and a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries the next.

Anger? Yes, he’d felt angry. She’d accused him of fucking the boss to land a job. Admiration? Definitely. She’d faced him nose to nose, matching him in insults and in (pretend?) disregard. Excitement? Abso-freaking-lutely. More than he’d experienced in years.

Conclusion: buying CAM from Anne without personally meeting all her employees first had been a mistake. One it was too late to rectify. He’d gone through their files, of course, but hadn’t considered their actual personalities. Or clashing with their personalities. Or lusting after their personalities. In his defense, he’d simply wanted to expand his business and had been blind to everything but the profit margin.

He wasn’t blind anymore.

After calling and offering him the company, then changing her mind the next day, then changing her mind yet again when he visited her, Anne had suggested Jillian Greene as his second-in-command. No way in hell he’d consider that now. One, he was attracted to the infuriating demoness. He’d never been attracted to bait before and didn’t like that he was now. To this woman. Two, Jillian was a danger to society with her innocent face, killer body and forked tongue. And now she was his.

His body instantly hardened in all the right places. Whoa, boy. Not mine personally. My employee.

Fighting the wildfire in his blood, he leafed through the employee folders resting on the edge of the desk. When he found Jillian’s, he tugged it free and flipped it open. Her deceptively innocent features stared up at him. You want to taste me, don’t you? her half smile seemed to say.

Yeah. He did.

She had a button nose, a small scattering of freckles barely visible—he’d had to search intensely for them when he’d met her in person—and, sweet Jesus, the cutest dimples he’d ever seen. He hadn’t had to search for those. They’d snagged his attention and hadn’t let go. Added up, these features were the attributes of a Sunday School teacher.

She also had glossy dark curls made for a man’s hands, lush pink lips and wide blue eyes fringed by inky lashes—the attributes of a well-sated sex puppet. An exquisite combination that made him wonder which she’d be in bed. Maybe both.

Don’t go there, asshole.

He coughed, shifted in the chair, hot and definitely bothered. Reading on…Under strengths, Anne had marked: loyal, honest, determined and trust issues. How was trust issues a strength? Under weaknesses: gives to charity, is a closet do-gooder and considers her friends’ well-being before she considers her own. Those were weaknesses? He shook his head. Anne was weird.

He himself had seen no redeeming qualities from Jillian. Okay, that was a lie. She’d apologized to him the first time she’d inadvertently insulted him, after she’d asked why Anne had hired him. Also, there was her mouth. That was certainly a redeeming quality. And her legs. And her breasts, with those so-hard-I-need-a-lick nipples.

All of his blood rushed south again. Please, he mused in the next instant. Like it’s ever migrated north since Jillian stepped inside the office.

What was he going to do with that woman?

I can think of something, his cock replied.

“Shut up,” he muttered darkly. “You don’t get a voice in this situation.” Hell, no. Erections turned men into, well, dicks. Made them do stupid things. He wasn’t stupid. Most of the time.

Women were vipers by nature; Jillian clearly more than most, what with her trust issues and all. Getting involved with an employee—especially one who wouldn’t hesitate to slice and dice her opponent to shreds—would be tantamount to cutting out all his vital organs and selling them on eBay.

Not that Jillian had wanted anything to do with him.

Not that Marcus wanted anything to do with her. Really.

He was a gambling man but she was high stakes. Too high. Still, he would have liked to play naked poker with her. To have all of Jillian’s passion directed at a hand of cards while she was bare-assed naked…Ah, hell. Anymore of that and he might lose all common sense and go ahead and try to seduce her.

Did she have a boyfriend? Was Jillian the type who demanded a commitment? Surely not. Like him, she probably kept her relationships strictly about sex, sex and more sex. No strings. Ever. And never with employees, he reminded himself. Or coworkers. Or other bait.

He’d probably need the reminder a few (thousand) more times because he’d been in a slump lately and wasn’t getting even a little sex. Not his fault. There’d been offers—oh, there’d been some offers. Fine. There’d been two. In his defense, again, he hadn’t been nice to anyone who approached him.

Lately he just wasn’t interested and (embarrassingly enough) couldn’t get hard because all he could think about was the doomed nature of the whole mating dance. Meet, screw, say goodbye or try for something lasting, then wait for failure. Then he’d seen Jillian and the slump had ended. Literally.

What have I gotten myself into? he wondered again.

Despite his need to keep Jillian at an emotional distance, to keep her mad at him so there was no chance she’d want to be friends or lovers, he had to smooth things over with her or life at the office would be hell. Tonight would be hell. He didn’t need more hell. He’d been looking forward to relaxing, to simply watching an assignment unfold and critiquing it in his mind. Now he’d have to step in and do cleanup when Jillian messed up. And she would mess up. Women that emotional were volatile and out to get everyone in their path.

That wasn’t a stereotype. That was simply the truth.

As dread (and anticipation) uncurled inside him, he glanced at Jillian’s home address. He’d have to go over there, smooth things over while still keeping her at a distance. He’d have to use his notorious “bluff” face to cover his dread (and anticipation).

Good thing he liked a challenge.

JILLIAN stormed through her front door. Stupid. Idiot! she seethed, not sure if she meant herself or that smart-ass Marcus Brody. She couldn’t recall having been this mad in a long, long time. How could one person be so rude? So diabolical?

So damn sexy?

She tossed her keys and purse on the side table in the foyer and pounded to her bedroom. Usually her home was her place of comfort, her refuge from the maddening, always disappointing outside world. Lush tawny-colored (fake) plants abounded, spilling from every corner. She’d painted them herself. Her walls were caramel, the color of coffee—her biggest weakness. The floors were wood and polished to a high gloss. Nothing was out of place, every surface was clean.

Jillian was a woman who despised clutter and messiness.

Marcus Brody was total chaos.

“The man must die!” she told the bronze lamp hanging from her hallway ceiling. “But first, he must experience pain and suffering,” she told her bedroom.

With a screech, she fell onto her sleigh bed. The velvety brown comforter—too close in color to Marcus’s eyes for her peace of mind—puffed around her. She punched it once, twice, then let loose a storm of fury, determined to release her temper so that she wouldn’t bite her target’s head off before she even tested him. By the time she finished, she was panting and tired, but she felt better.

“I can, too, control my emotions,” she muttered, despite her outburst. Sometimes.

Everything would have been fine if Marcus hadn’t awakened such potent desires inside her with his lame-ass insults. She hadn’t wanted a man in a long time, and to want him…now…. Grrrr!

She’d stopped dating, damn it, had stopped feeling anything but disgust when it came to males and relationships. Then Marcus had walked past her cubicle and her nerve endings had sparked to life—no one should smell that good and look like heaven in a pair of jeans—and that was one very good reason to despise him more than most.

Except, she hadn’t hated him. Not right away. Then he’d opened his mouth and said rude things and looked at her with loathing—and it should have been enough to remind her of her own predisposition toward hatred, as well as to turn off any sane girl. Instead, his attitude had excited her. Intrigued her. No one had ever treated her like that before. Men flirted with her, damn it.

“Maybe I’m becoming my mother,” she muttered. Hating something one moment, loving it the next. Happy one moment, depressed the next. “God save me.” She sighed. Marcus Brody should be illegal in fifty states and three countries. “Pig.”

As she expounded on the reasons he belonged in a pen, rolling in mud and fattening up so he could be carved into thick strips of bacon, her phone rang, startling her. She jolted upright and glanced at her caller ID. Carrington, Georgia. Brow furrowed, Jillian picked up the line and held it to her ear. “What’s up?”

“Oh, good. You’re home,” Georgia said. She was whispering. “You have to tell me what happened between you and the blond.”

“Where are you?”

“A bathroom stall. Not important. Concentrate and spill. He saw that you’d left, went back into the office, then stormed out a few minutes later.”

She experienced a prickle of satisfaction that he’d left in a huff, too. He’d probably needed a little alone time to stroke his overinflated…ego. Jerk. “Did he leave the building or just Anne’s office?”

“The building.” Georgia expelled a frustrated breath. “I couldn’t hear you guys through the door. What did he say? What did Anne say?”

Jillian explained Anne’s odd behavior, the way she’d commanded Jillian to work with Marcus and then abandoned her, her voice clipped with irritation. Of all the men Anne could have chosen to work at CAM, she’d had to pick that one. That…“Ass,” she muttered.

“That’s not possible.”

“You didn’t hear the way he insulted me.” And aroused me with those very insults. Idiot. “He’s an ass, I assure you.”

“No, I mean Anne actually hired him? A man?”

“That’s right.” See? Jillian wasn’t the only one to be astonished by such a happening. Her reaction had been justifiable. She only wished Marcus were here so she could hold the phone to his ear and shout, “Did you hear that? I did nothing wrong!”

“Dear God, why?” Georgia said.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“She could have a brain tumor that’s making her do weird things.”

“An alien being could have taken over her body,” Jillian suggested.

“She could have stopped her medication and is now listening to the voices in her head.”

True, so true. “Whatever her reason, we will be the ones to suffer. Marcus actually thinks women are untrustworthy, that we’ll do or say anything for an orgasm.”

“Well…”

“Georgia!”

“I haven’t had one in a while,” she said, defensive, “and I’m feeling a little desperate.”

Jillian pinched the bridge of her nose. “An hour ago, you told me everything was great with Wyatt.”

“It is.” An unspoken kind of hung in the air. “I just, well, I stopped sleeping with him when he asked me to marry him that first time and I miss his Jerry Seinfeld clockwise swirl with a twist.”

What the hell was wrong with the world? Georgia was the optimist who wished on stars for love, and Jillian was the coldhearted bitch who didn’t believe in happily-ever-afters. It wasn’t like Georgia to stop sleeping with a man because he wanted to marry her. “Are you trying to drive him away?”

“No, of course not,” Georgia said, but again there was doubt in her tone. “I just want to be sure he’s the man for me.”

“What are you so unsure about? You tested him and he passed.”

“I don’t know, okay. He tells me how beautiful I am. He tells me how much he loves looking at me. But what happens when I gain a few pounds or, God forbid, get wrinkles? Will he still love me or will he be like B—boys?” she rushed out. “Be like other boys? I mean, Jill, I don’t let the man come around me when I get a pimple.”

“So let him.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered with a desperate edge.

Jillian massaged the back of her neck. She had no real answer for her friend. “If you’re not sure about Wyatt, date my brother. You know he’s in love with you and he won’t mind if you’re a fat, pimply, wrinkled old hag.”

“Not true,” she said. With longing? “Even though he doesn’t tell me I’m pretty, I know Brent is just as in love with my appearance as Wyatt is. He wasn’t interested in me in junior high or high school, when I was the ugly girl everyone loved to tease. Only when I developed breasts did he even glance in my direction.”

Georgia was right. Brent hadn’t looked twice at her back then. He’d treated her like a pesky sister and had even left the house on the weekends he’d known Georgia was staying the night. Maybe he didn’t deserve her—even if he was one of the best guys Jillian knew.

“So tell me the rest about our newest coworker,” Georgia said.

Deciding to ignore that earlier longing and what it possibly meant—she would not get Brent’s hopes up, only to have them dashed—Jillian explained their bet about whether or not her target would come on to her and Marcus’s assurance that he wouldn’t. “Honestly, I didn’t know whether he was cheering for his fellow man or insulting my appearance.”

“What a waste of chiseled features and movie-star muscles,” Georgia said with a sigh. “Is this a cold shoulder situation or an all-out war?”

God, she loved her friend. Besides her brother and sister, there was no one else in the world who would automatically take her side and be willing to do anything necessary to help her. “War,” she answered without hesitation. Marcus and his sexy rudeness had to go.

“Cool. We haven’t gone to war together since we convinced that bitch Judie Holt to quit.”

Jillian grinned. Ah, good times. From day one, Judie had caused nothing but dissent. She’d gossiped, lied, slept with her targets and gotten a friend of theirs fired. At that point, they’d snapped. They’d laxatized a cake and thrown her a birthday party. They’d moved her computer to a stall in the bathroom at least once a week. They’d taped “kick me” signs to her back as often as possible. Childish? Yes. Did they care? No. Even Anne had found the whole thing amusing.

“Hang on.” Georgia’s breath cackled over the line. “Someone just entered the bathroom.” A long pause. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, then gagged. “I think they’ll be in here a while.” She didn’t wait for Jillian’s response. “I’ll call you later.” Click.

Jillian stared at the phone for a moment before shaking her head. She pressed the cordless off and tossed it aside. What should she do now? She didn’t want to think about Marcus anymore—not if she hoped to stay calm. She could worry and think and dream about his demise tomorrow.

Sighing the same way Georgia had, she labored to her feet. What to do, what to do? She had wasted half an hour and now had three more to go. Maybe she should write a few pick-up lines for her newest target. Nah, she decided in the next instant. She’d have him at “hello, let’s get freaky.” Maybe she should add a little more gloss to her lips and cut a few inches from her already short skirt. That’d waste a whole five minutes and then she’d only have one hundred and seventy-five more to go.

The doorbell rang.

Her mouth dipped into a frown. She didn’t want to deal with a visitor. It could very well be her mother—who adored impromptu visits to check on her. Her grandmother—who liked to borrow her sluttiest clothing so she could peruse cemeteries looking for widowers. Her sister—who loved to expound on the bliss of married life. Her brother—who enjoyed showing her charts and statistics on the wonderful creation known as man (to “prove” what she saw on the job wasn’t the norm) before asking about Georgia.

Jillian strode to the front door, her heels clicking against the wood floors. She glanced through the peephole, froze, cursed under her breath, peeked again, cursed again, then pulled the door open. There stood the devil himself. Marcus Brody.

Her heart immediately kicked into overdrive; her breath burned her lungs. Once again, just being near him caused her nipples to harden. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, the question flowing from her mouth as soon as it formed in her mind.

“Hello to you, too, Dimples.”

They were playing nice, were they? “Oh, my. Where are my manners? Hello, Mark,” she said, sugar-sweet this time. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“It’s Marcus.” A muscle ticked below his eye and he regarded her with a scowl before leaning against the door frame, a mockingly casual pose. “I came to apologize.”

“Really? What for? Living? Breathing? Having a penis?”

“Do you respond this way to everyone who apologizes to you?”

A wave of guilt hit her. She was being rude, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“No. Now isn’t a good time.”

“Great. Thanks.” He barreled past the door and her. His shoulder brushed hers and she bit back a gasp at the electric sensation. At the live-wire jolt that zinged through her entire body.

She stood in place for several seconds, eyes narrowing, mouth opening in astonishment. In arousal. In anger. That man…Oh, that man! Fuming, she turned. “I have Mace,” she told his retreating back.

“I’m not surprised,” he replied over his shoulder, striding into her living room and disappearing from view.

“You’re not welcome here.” She remained where she was, holding the door open, determined to make him leave. She had to stay away from him and that freaky body chemistry playing Russian roulette with her common sense.

“You want to get rid of me,” he said, “you have to talk to me first.”

“Or I can call the police and report a break-in.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich and filled with challenge. “Tell Chief Higgins I said hi. I’ve been meaning to go see him, but haven’t had time.”

“You do not know the police chief,” she said, her back stiffening. What was Marcus doing in there? She could hear shuffling.

“I always make friends with the local law enforcement. Plus, he plays poker.” Heavy pause. “Is this picture of a naked baby on a bearskin rug you? I bet it is. Same blue eyes, same dimples. I’ll have to check your ass for the heart-shaped birthmark to be sure, though.” He sighed. “Oh, the things I do to assuage my curiosity.”

She saw red. “Put that photo album back!”

“But it’s so pretty.” Another pause, the swish of a page. “Ah, look at you in this one. Ten years old, is my guess, and you’re wearing rain boots, a leather duster and a cowboy hat. Not smiling, big surprise. I like the one beside it better. Still not smiling, but you have panty hose on your head, which I’m assuming is supposed to be braids. Liked to play dress up, did you?”

I will not respond. I will not respond.

He chuckled again, and this time the sound was filled with genuine amusement. “Well, now. These just get better and better as you get older.”

“I’ll count to three,” she said. Her jaw was clenched so tightly, her teeth throbbed. “You better be walking toward this door by the time I reach the end or you’ll regret it. One.”

“Your prom date looks constipated. What’d you say to him before Daddy snapped the picture?”

Bastard! “Two.”

“Three,” he said helpfully. “Please tell me you still own this…can something comprised solely of bows and ruffles be called a dress?”

Argh! Fists clenching, Jillian abandoned her post and stormed into the living room. She’d never killed anyone, but there was a first time for everything.

Four

There are two-hundred-and-sixty-five bones in the human body. How’d you like one more?

MARCUS HAD SETTLED on Jillian’s sofa and now glanced around her home with unabashed curiosity. Not what he’d expected. Everything was color-coordinated. From the tan couch that matched the beige walls to the bronze rug that matched the amber vases spilling with gold-sprayed plants. Also, everything was clean. Precise. Too precise.

Seemed Little Miss Sex Puppet Sunday School Teacher was a neat freak. The glass coffee table was speck-free. The floral portraits on the pristine walls were hung in perfect alignment. Not a hint of dirt or lint marred the glossy perfection of the wood floors.

Foolishly, the neatness aroused him. Didn’t take much today, it seemed. Still. He wanted to mess everything up. While having sex on it. Dirty sex. With sweat and body oil and handcuffs. Mind out of the gutter, Brody. You’re dealing with a sexual piranha. She’ll smell any hint of arousal and attack. He didn’t need to know the woman herself to know that for a fact—he just needed to know her type.

Female.

But damn it, he shouldn’t have looked through her photo album. She’d been a cute kid, a little sad—which made his chest ache—with a head full of curls and huge blue eyes that had dominated her face, and now he wanted to know if the birthmark on her butt had faded or gotten darker.

She stomped into the living room, a cloud of that let’s-go-to-bed fragrance accompanying her. He held his breath as long as he could. He didn’t want to smell her, didn’t want to be attracted to her anymore. He’d come here to smooth things over—not that he’d had any success, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. That didn’t mean he had to be friends with her. Far from it.

Stopping in front of him, she grabbed the album from his lap—fingers brushing his thigh and making his penis stand at (higher) attention, which made him scowl. She tossed the book behind her. Oblivious to anything except her own anger—he hoped—she anchored her hands on her hips. “I told you that you aren’t welcome here.”

Happy as he was to be back in the me-man, you-woman game and out of his sexual slump, he folded his hands in his lap to cover his erection. It irked him that Jillian had been the one to bring back his desire, making him want to forget that all relationships, even those based solely on sex, were doomed.

“You also told me I needed to be gone by the time you counted to three. You lied then, too.”

Her blue eyes glittered and snapped. Steam might very well have curled from her nostrils. What a little fireball she was, which was sexy as hell. Damn it! He liked passive, take-whatever-he-dished-out women. Didn’t he? He definitely liked women who wanted to sleep with him. Right? Jillian was neither of those things, or so he told himself because he didn’t think he would be able to control himself if he knew she wanted him.

But he liked her more and more each time she opened her smart mouth. He could see her doing a thousand different things with that mouth and none of them involved talking.

Gutter, he reminded himself. Don’t go there. Not with her. But he liked her wit. If her insults hadn’t been directed at him, he would have thought they were funny.

“Get. Out,” she said.

“Just zip it and listen, Dimples. I told you I came to—” He ground his teeth together. God, this was difficult, saying it again when she’d probably reject it again. “Apologize.” He didn’t mean it this time, but he’d said it all the same.

“Apologize?” she said, incredulous, as if he hadn’t just apologized a few minutes ago.

“That’s right. Apologize. For your attitude,” he couldn’t resist adding under his breath.

“Hey.” She frowned. “I heard that.”

“Well, yeah.” He frowned right back. “That’s because I said it out loud.”

She stepped on his foot, hard, her spiked heel digging into his big toe. “You aren’t truly sorry. Admit it.”

Grimacing, he looked up at her and spread his arms wide. “So?” He didn’t comment on the toe. That’d give her a sense of power and right now he needed all the power he could get. “Does that matter?”

Her mouth opened and closed; a gurgling sound escaped her throat. At least she removed the heel. “Yes, it matters. You could have the decency to lie about meaning it.”

“Now wait just a second.” He frowned again. “You accused my apology of being a lie—something that obviously pissed you off since you tried to impale my favorite toe—and now you’re mad that I didn’t lie again.” His brows arched in sardonic amusement. “Typical.”

He could tell she wanted to yell at him, at the very least offer a stinging retort. But she took a deep breath, then another. Her expression smoothed, but her color remained high and pink. Pretty. “I do believe I’ve forgotten my manners again,” she said sweetly. “Can I get you something to drink? Arsenic? Bleach?” She batted her lashes at him, all innocence.

He had to admit he often had that effect on women. Not the innocence, the death threat. But those usually weren’t made until after he’d dated them. According to his mother, he was lucky someone hadn’t murdered him in his sleep. According to his father, who’d divorced his mom years ago, women didn’t really want to kill him, they wanted to reform him.

He didn’t need reforming. He liked himself just fine.

He’d rather be considered cold and emotionally unavailable than a sappy romantic who would tolerate anything for love. Morons. That’s what lovesick people were. They were also cheat-on-me targets. Something he would never be again. He’d done the whole marriage thing and it’d been nothing but a waste of his time.

“Beer will be fine,” he said graciously.

Jillian ran her pretty pink tongue over her pretty white teeth and stepped away from him, but she didn’t venture into the kitchen. She plopped into the chair across from him. “There’s beer at the convenience store down the street. You can show yourself out.”

Yep. If she’d said it to someone else, he would have laughed. “Despite what you might think, I didn’t come here to argue with you. We work for the same agency now. We need to get along.” Just not too well, he silently added. They needed to be able to tolerate each other while secretly cursing each other to everlasting hell and not ripping each other’s clothes off. Not that she looked willing to rip his clothes off. She did look perfectly willing to rip out his heart and eat it in front of him, though.

His erection, which had begun to behave and act like a mature adult, jumped to attention once more. He scowled. How the hell was the thought of her feasting on his organs—well, any organ except his favorite—exciting?

Jillian lifted her dainty shoulders in a shrug. “You’re right. I admit it. We need to get along. Feel free to leave now that we’ve established that.”

“So,” he said, because he was a bad, bad boy who had a gambling problem. Five dollars said she’d stab him in the thigh with this next jab, but he just couldn’t resist. “Your rudeness in the office obviously wasn’t an aberration of character.”

Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. She was probably planning his death in her mind. But she didn’t stab him. He owed himself a five spot.

“I can totally tell you want to get along with me,” she said darkly.

He rested an ankle on his knee and regarded her intently. “Fine. You want the truth? We bring out the worst in each other.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Finally,” he muttered. “Something you won’t argue about.”

Jillian’s nostrils flared and he had to press his lips together to keep from smiling. He really hadn’t meant to say that aloud. It was just that she provoked the beast inside him. Something about her fired him up and set his every nerve on alert.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted. He’d come to smooth things over with her, but so far he’d only managed to make things worse. “Listen, do you need any help setting up for tonight’s job?” There. That was a safe enough topic.

“No.” Her tone was clipped. “Everything’s in order.”

“Good.”

“Yep. Good.”

They looked at each other, looked away. He didn’t know what else to say at that point and for a long while silence slithered between them, a poisonous snake ready to bite, so uncomfortable it was almost painful. The ticking of the wall clock became audible, a time bomb. Detonation imminent.

Should he leave? Try and stick it out?

Things still weren’t amicable between them, so he should probably stay. At least he wasn’t hard anymore.

“So,” he said, just to break the silence.

“So,” she said.

“Oklahoma has had warm weather lately.”

“Yep.”

“I haven’t been here long. Is it always this warm?”

“No. It can change in an instant,” she said, glancing anywhere but him. “Hot one minute, bone-chilling the next.”

Like Jillian herself, he thought, but didn’t say that out loud. This had, without a doubt, developed into the most blah, boring conversation he’d ever experienced. Or maybe he just wished it was boring, because talking about the weather should have been a fucking nightmare. And would have been, with any other woman. But here he was, on the edge of his seat, wanting to hear Jillian’s husky voice again, even if she told him more about the goddamn weather.

If he’d been on top of his game lately, he never would have reacted to her this strongly. At least, that’s what he told himself. But…why had she broken through his lack of interest when no one else had been able to?

He almost wished she’d yell at him. That he understood. Yelling equaled anger and anger equaled passion. Passion he liked. Passion he could control. Wait. He liked those things with anyone except her. No passion with Jillian. Too dangerous.

“Maybe tomorrow will bring rain,” she said.

Argh. How had they gone from snipping at each other, which was exciting and wrong and practically foreplay, to this, a fucking weather forecast—which still wasn’t boring the way he wanted it to be, but instead was exciting and wrong and practically foreplay. He pictured her naked in the rain and hello, Marcus Jr.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she reiterated.

Why the hell did he need to get along with her, anyway? At the moment, he couldn’t recall. They worked together—so the hell what. She’d make life at the office uncomfortable—that didn’t seem so bad now.

“You still want that beer?” she asked, casting a wistful glance toward the kitchen.

That eager to get away from him, was she? Either she found the direction of their conversation as disturbing as he did or she just found him boring. “Yes,” he said and thought, I’m not boring! “Thank you.”

With a relieved breath, she popped to her feet and beat a hasty retreat out of the living room. Sweet solitude—he wished. He was tempted to make his own escape out the front door, maybe a window, just so he would stop weirding himself out about what was going on here.

She had him so turned on he couldn’t think straight. If she’d started talking about snowflakes, he might have been able to come. Leaving now would mean Jillian won, though, and he refused to let her win even this minor skirmish.

Marcus had a long time to think about the skirmish and its victor and what would happen during said skirmish if things got a little out of control—calling each other dirty names and breathing hard and liking it way more than he should—because Jillian was gone way longer than necessary. That seriously irritated him. Like he was the problem in their little tête-à-tête of weather and insults and horniness.

“Here you go,” she said when she finally returned, holding out an uncapped amber-colored bottle.

He didn’t take it at first, just stared at it suspiciously. “Will I need to be rushed to the E.R. if I drink this?”

Her eyes flashed that delicious blue fire at him. What a shame so much sexiness was wasted on someone completely off-limits to him. “No,” she snapped. “Unfortunately.”

Oh, good. Anger again. That was more like it. But he could feel his excitement mounting, his pretend boredom receding. He took the bottle without further comment, careful not to touch her. One touch and he might push for another. Then another, until they were naked. Until they were writhing together, panting, part of a wild dance that would damn them both to hell.

She reclaimed her seat across from him. Her jean skirt rode up her thighs, revealing several delectable inches of pure temptation. He gulped back a drink, but the cool liquid did little to douse the raging fire in his blood.

Stupid hormones. Stupid chemistry. Stupid penis. If he weren’t so attached to it, he would punish it until it screamed for mercy. Mmm, screaming. He frowned and shook his head. Dumbass.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Jillian reiterated. She hooked several silky curls behind her ear.

He caught a glimpse of multiple diamond studs. They circled the shell of her ear. The effect was surprisingly erotic and he wondered what it would feel like to run his tongue over each of those earrings.

“What agency did you used to work for?” she asked. She studied her cuticles as if she didn’t care about the answer.

“The Ultimate Test in Dallas.”

“Why’d you leave?” She brushed a piece of lint from her leg. “Or were you fired for pissing off your coworkers?”

He shrugged. He wasn’t ready to tell her the truth yet, that he owned TUT and had wanted to expand. That he was now her boss. Was it wrong of him to so anticipate her violent response when he did tell her? If she played her cards right, he might just introduce naked Tuesdays to the company. “I wanted a change of scenery,” he finally said. “And no, I wasn’t fired.”

“You’re from England, right?”

“Manchester.”

“Cool.” She twirled a denim string around her finger.

She didn’t sound impressed by his origins the way most women were, just curious—and even that, not so much. Maybe he’d done what he’d set out to do in the first place: made her dislike him so much she’d never be tempted to sleep with him. Which was exactly what he’d wanted. Really.

“I’ve lived in the States half of my life, though,” he said, just to expand the conversation.

“Cool,” she repeated, clearly still not really caring.

I’m not fucking boring. He chugged another gulp of beer and glanced at his wristwatch. One hour and forty-seven minutes before they were due at the club. Surely he could spark her fury again—uh, continue to smooth things over—in that time.

“Well,” she said. She, too, glanced at her watch, a silver chain that looped around her small wrist bone. “I guess I should start getting ready for tonight’s assignment….”

A roundabout way of saying get the hell out. Funny, she’d been more forthright earlier. “I thought you were already prepared.” He should want to leave. He did want to leave. She was trouble, their conversation had the potential of becoming even more boring—weather, for God’s sake; he still couldn’t get over that—and things were probably as smooth as they’d ever be between them. “That’s why you turned down my offer of aid, remember?”

“I—well.” She leaned forward, black curls falling over her face as she rested her elbow on her knee. He was given a spectacular glimpse of her cleavage. Round breasts, absolutely perfect. No bra. His favorite. “Look,” she said. “We got off to a bad start. You apologized,” she added dryly, “and I accepted. Sitting around chatting isn’t doing either one of us any good. Let’s cut our losses now, before we drive each other to suicide.”

Okay. That pissed him off royally. Drive her to suicide, indeed. He was allowed to feel boredom; she wasn’t. Not that he’d felt any, damn it.

“Since you so sweetly patched things up between us,” Jillian continued, “we’ll now be cordial to each other at the office. That doesn’t mean we need to socialize after hours.”

“I didn’t ask you to socialize after hours, now, did I?” There was more heat and anger in his tone than he’d intended.

“Good.” She popped her jaw, silent for a moment. “Because I’d rather crochet oven mitts with my depressed mother than spend another second in your company.”

The excitement that ignited every time they fought returned full force. “I’m going to make you eat your words,” he said, praying he was bluffing because he truly couldn’t afford to sleep with her, which was a damn shame, but still. “And you’re going to find every one of them delicious. You’ll even beg me for a second helping.”

She shivered. A shiver of dread? Or anticipation? “The only thing I’ll be begging for,” she said, “is your absence.”

“I wouldn’t say anything else if I were you. The more you say, the more you’ll regret later.”

She yawned. “Your accent is annoying.”

“Liar.” He hoped. “Do you like to gamble?”

“No,” she said, brow furrowed with confusion over the sudden change in topics.

Too bad. Would have made her irresistible, so maybe he should be happy about that. Already he wanted her, which wasn’t necessarily a newsflash. Stripping her, throwing her on the ground and penetrating her would be a bonus.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she growled.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m dinner.”

“Want to be?” he couldn’t help but ask. You can’t have her, idiot!

“No,” she gasped.

Good. He was glad about that. Really. “I guess you do know something about poker. You’re a good bluffer.”

“I never bluff.”

“Please. You’re all about the bluff, Dimples. And FYI, you’re going to lose our bet tonight.” He said it just to bring them back on track, even though he wanted to continue down the slippery slope of temptation. “I have every faith that Darren Sawyer will see you for the walking heartbreak you are and send you on your way.” Marcus stretched to his feet and strode to the door. Better to leave now before he did something more stupid than getting a hard-on while discussing sunshine and cool breezes.

Was there anything more stupid than that, though?

God, he was tempted to turn around, leap across the room and kiss those lush, pink lips of hers, drinking in her breath until she could only gasp his name. Hell, maybe he should do it, just to get it out of his system. He was primed and ready. Kissing wasn’t sex, and as long as they didn’t have sex, they’d be fine.

Yeah. Right.

If he started kissing her, he wouldn’t stop until he’d kissed every inch of her. No kissing. He quickened his steps to the nearest exit.

“I have every faith someone’s going to murder you while you sleep,” she called after him.

He grinned. Yep, it was a damn shame she was off-limits.

Five

If it’s true that we are what we eat, then I could be you by morning.

MUSIC BLASTED from large speakers that hung overhead. Smoke billowed in every direction, cutting through the darkness. Waiters and waitresses pranced back and forth, serving drinks and smiles. A strobe light swirled from the center of the two-story structure, illuminating the throng of writhing, dancing patrons in a multitude of colors. There was more skin displayed here than was usually found between the pages of Playboy. More breasts and thighs than the good Colonel served on any given day.

Ah, yes. It was Friday night and The Meat Market was open for business.

Jillian worked her way through the gyrating, sweating crowd. Her camera and mic were in place, pinned at the cleavage of her tank in the form of a bejeweled flower. Everything was being transmitted to and monitored on Anne’s computer. Tomorrow, she’d review the feed with Anne, who would then meet with Darren Sawyer’s girlfriend. Poor thing.

Jillian wouldn’t be there for the meeting—to avoid outbursts of jealousy, bait was never allowed in the room when the victim was told. But if she chose, she could watch from the screen as Georgia had this morning. Sometimes she did that, too, sometimes she didn’t. She didn’t think she would this time. This girlfriend was a crier; she knew it, felt it and didn’t think she could stand to see another woman cry.

As Jillian sauntered toward the bar, her purse bounced at her side. In it, she carried Mace, lip gloss, a little cash and a slightly tampered-with ID. She never wanted a target to locate her home address, therefore all of her identification listed CAM’s. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a table of twentysomething women. All but one laughed and chatted. The one who didn’t looked…sad as she stared into a margarita glass.

Had she been cheated on? Was this the girls’ night out that was supposed to cheer her up? How many of those had Jillian witnessed over the years?

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone said, drawing her attention. “I’m fighting the urge to make you the happiest woman on earth tonight.”

She ignored him. Lord save her from cheesy come-ons.

She found herself scanning the masses for Marcus rather than her target. Was he here yet? Had he changed out of his sinful jeans? After all, those jeans had proudly showcased his very large erection the entire time he’d been inside her house. Wrong, that’s what it was. He should wear a tent to keep that thing hidden. No woman should be subjected to that and no man should be that well-endowed and gorgeous. And what the hell had excited him? A discussion about the freaking weather?

No doubt about it. Marcus was strange.

Never mind that she’d felt white-hot embers of desire the whole time he’d been there. Never mind that fighting with him had aroused her. Again. I hate that man.

Wherever he was, whatever he was wearing, he was damn well going to watch her win their bet. She would rub it in his face for the rest of his life. Not that she planned to know him that long. She wanted him fired ASAP. He was too dangerous to her peace of mind. Too dangerous, period.

When she reached the bar, a man in his mid-to-late fifties offered her an eager grin. Or was that a scowl? Hard to tell with Botox. He held out a chair for her as he looked her up and down, lingering on her breasts, between her legs. He had thick silver hair, a plastic face and a suit-clad body that shouted wealth. He even smelled expensive. And he was wearing a wedding ring.

“My name’s Ted but you can call me anything you want, as long as you call me,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but your body is exquisite.”

“Thanks, grandpa,” she muttered, taking the seat. She was in a bad mood. Which could totally be blamed on Marcus. All men were on her shit list just then. Aren’t they always?

“Grandpa?” His frozen expression didn’t change, though his eyes glinted with affront. Jillian often had that effect on people. Without another word, he slinked away. If he hadn’t been wearing a ring, she would have felt guilty for insulting him. Am I becoming cruel and heartless like Marcus said?

“Ginger ale,” she told the bartender, a stacked little bleached blonde with bright orange streaks in her hair. Jillian would have liked a beer, but drinking on the job only caused mistakes, so she never indulged.

Her drink arrived a moment later and she sipped from the straw. The coolness wet her too-dry mouth, the sweetness teased her tongue. God, would this night—

“Screwdriver,” a sexy voice said, suddenly beside her. The speaker didn’t touch her, but she felt his luscious heat, smelled pure sin. Wanted. Yes, she wanted.

Marcus.

She shivered and sipped again at her soda, the sugary carbonation now like acid in her throat. She forced her attention to remain straight ahead—even though she felt Marcus’s eyes on her, burning bright, burning…burning…Time to concentrate and find her target.

“Make it two,” he added, his accent suddenly thick and richly erotic, as if he’d just gotten off a plane from England. “One for me and one for the special lady next to me.”

Obviously they didn’t share the same beliefs about drinking on the job.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest thing,” he said then. Gone was all hint of his earlier disdain and in its place was smooth charm. Seduction. Persuasion. His warm breath caressed the back of her neck and she once again found her nipples hardening in his presence, her blood sizzling. Her heart even skipped a beat as provocative tingles moved over her skin.

Jillian pressed her lips together. What did he think he was doing, talking to her like this? After the way he’d treated her today, she had expected him to arrive with a pitchfork and a one-way ticket to hell with her name on it. This had to be some sort of game to throw her off guard, to make her lose their bet.

Yes, that’s exactly what he meant to do, she realized, hand clenching on her drink. Well, she would show him.

Drawing in a deep breath, she turned toward him and, starting at his feet, gradually moved her gaze up his body. He hadn’t bothered changing, was still wearing those butt-hugging, erection-showing jeans and that muscle-kissing T-shirt. The only difference in his appearance was the very masculine, black stone necklace he now wore, which she suspected was actually a camera.

His eyes were dark and luminous, at half-mast, radiating a single word: orgasm. His hair was disheveled and fell over his forehead. His lips were lush and slightly parted. Kiss me, they said. She loved—hated!—the way the strobe light surrounded him in a bright multicolored halo. An angel. A fallen angel.

“Is that the best pick-up line you’ve got?” she asked, her voice more breathless than she’d planned. “Because it sucks.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.” He grabbed his drinks, swirling the ice, and moved around her, only to skirt up to the woman on her left.

Jillian’s jaw dropped open and she gasped. Why, that rat bastard! He’d done that on purpose. Payback for telling him she’d rather kill herself than talk to him? When she took over CAM, he was soooo fired.

The woman’s cheeks bloomed with a pretty blush as he leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her ash-blond hair was teased and sprayed, her makeup just a little too thick. Her look-at-me dress could have earned her the title of Whore of Babylon if Jillian hadn’t already held that title herself.

“What’s your name, love?” Marcus asked her, his back to Jillian. His accent was even heavier than before. And he’d called the woman “love.” She suspected his soft, lush lips were curled in a devastating smile. And he’d called the woman “love.” She had no doubt his brown eyes were glowing with a knowing, wicked intent. And he’d called the freaking woman “love.”

Why do you even care?

I don’t, she assured herself. She certainly didn’t want him for herself. No way. No thanks. He probably hadn’t had all his shots.

The woman giggled like a schoolgirl. But Jillian was willing to bet the only class that female had attended lately was Slut 101. And no, she wasn’t jealous. She was merely stating a fact. Don’t be cruel. You’re pro-female, remember?

“I’m Rhonda, but my friends call me Ronnie. With an ie.”

“Well, Ronnie with an i e, I’m Mark and I’ve bought you a drink. I saw you and just had to approach.”

Another giggle. “I’m so glad. I’ve been eyeing you since the moment you walked inside and I would have cried if you’d ignored me.”

Jillian practically threw up in her mouth. He was letting Ronnie with an i e call him Mark and she would have freaking cried if he had ignored her. Please. Again her hands clenched around her ginger ale.

“Are you married, Ronnie with an i e?” he asked.

Jillian watched unabashedly as Ronnie lost her grin and dropped her left hand behind her back—as if her two-caret rock hadn’t been visible during the beginning of the conversation. “Oh, uh. No. Just divorced.”

“Have the intelligence to take it off before you go out, at least,” Jillian muttered.

Marcus tossed Jillian a pointed glance. And wouldn’t you know it was a quick I told you so? His features gleamed with victory.

Jillian flipped him off. His lips twitched into a smile. Enjoying himself, was he?

Ronnie with an i e hurried to change the subject, tracing her right hand along his shirt to regain his attention. “Where’re you from, Mark? I can’t place your accent. Wait, let me guess. Somewhere with sun, right? Australia?” She paused. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re so tan.”

“You should ask him about the weather there,” Jillian said and turned away. “He really likes that.” The man wasn’t just a pig, he was bacon, already sliced and ready to be served. So he’d made his point. So what. Some females were as nefarious as males. Big deal. That didn’t change the fact that on the scales of immorality, men won. Every time.

She downed the rest of her soda, wishing it were a (double) shot of tequila. The giggling continued. The nauseating love endearment was used several more times and Marcus was blatantly propositioned each time, which he expertly sidestepped with compliments about her hair, eyes and “amazing” curves.

It was pure torture, listening to the sickening exchange.

“Hey, Ronnie with an i e,” she found herself saying as she slammed her glass onto the counter. She turned back to the happy couple, expression purposefully concerned as she peeked over Markie’s shoulder.

Marcus scowled at her, but there was only devilry in his eyes as he leaned forward to—smell her hair? She frowned. Ronnie frowned, too, not liking that she’d been interrupted.

“I wouldn’t get too attached to this one,” Jillian said, patting Marcus’s shoulder. “I hear he’s a premature ejaculator.”

Marcus choked on his drink. Ronnie’s mouth fell open. When Marcus was able to breathe, he stiffened and glared at Jillian, all hint of devilry gone.

She flashed him an innocent eyelash flutter. A second later, she caught a glimpse of a muscle-bound hulk entering the club. Familiar receding hairline. Familiar strong jaw. Darren Sawyer. Her target. Thank God.