Kitabı oku: «Catch a Mate», sayfa 4

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.