Catch a Mate

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.”