If You Dare

by Jessica Lemmon

They rounded the house and found a reasonably clean window that hadn’t been busted out. Marcus peeked through one lower corner and Clive through the other. He could make out a kitchen, and beyond that, a doorway. Lily’s face was lit with ambient light one room over.

  Marcus swore under his breath. “Is that…sushi?”

  Clive chuckled.

  His strawberry-blond, lethally sexy co-worker lounged in the center of an air mattress inside like the queen of freaking Sheba, pillows fluffed behind her. When she lifted a pair chopsticks to her mouth, Marcus’s own mouth went dry watching those plush lips close around the food, her delicate throat working as she swallowed. Damn.

  Those lips would be the death of him. Mainly because Lily refused to let him close enough to get a taste.

  “Mmm. Dragon roll,” Clive said, snapping Marcus out of a fantasy that had begun brewing. “Do you think she went to Sushi Café? I love when they throw in a free crab rangoon.”

  “Unbelievable,” Marcus grumbled.

  The soft bluish glow that lit her face came from the computer tablet on her lap. It must’ve been tuned in to something funny. She tossed her head back and laughed, and he felt a punishing jolt of attraction as he watched her—the same unrelenting attraction he felt for her at work. Made no sense. He’d asked her out. She’d said no. He’d been shot down plenty of times, and typically bounced back quickly. He’d bounced back, or so he thought, but dating other women seemed…wrong with Lily around. Which made no fucking sense whatsoever.

  “Yes, she looks truly terrified,” Clive said, chuckling again.

  “That’s why I brought these.” Marcus dropped the duffel bag at his feet.

  “You don’t think that’s a tad against the rules?”

  “I think all is fair in love and war and hard-won trips to islands.”

  Clive scrubbed a hand over his sandy blond hair and shook his head. “I don’t get it, man. If you want a date with her so badly, why don’t you just ask her out?”

  Well. Shit. Was he this transparent? Marcus shot him a look. “What are you talking about?” He tried really hard to make it sound like he was shocked, or like Clive was barking up the wrong tree, but his voice came out thin and a little guilty.

  Damn. It.

  Clive grinned knowingly. “Yeah. I kind of figured out you liked her, like, a millennia ago.”

  Marcus accepted defeat, dropping the innocent act and glad for it. He was a horrible actor. “Does Joanie know?”

  “No, man.” He clapped Marcus on the back.

  Relief.

  “I asked her out once,” Marcus admitted.

  “No way. Lily turned down the Marcus Black?”

  “Shut up.”

  Clive laughed. At his expense, if he had to guess. “So, ask her again. She didn’t know you then.”

  Yeah, well, she knew him now. And practically hated him. Or…not hated him. But she had his number…along with way too many women in Fantom who continued to call and leave him voicemails asking him for “one more date”. Life would be easier if he could hook up with one of them…or several of them. But the dates with anyone other than Lily only left him feeling empty.

  Which he did not understand. Thinking with his dick had worked fine and dandy up until he met the infuriating redhead. And now he was like some sort of lovesick puppy. And if that wasn’t pathetic enough, now his best friend knew.

  “Just stick with the plan, Clive.” He was not talking about this. Not now. Not ever.

  His buddy rolled a shoulder, unfazed as usual. It was impossible to intimidate the guy who’d known him since he was a gangly thirteen-year-old.

  “I don’t know, man.” Clive looked through the window at Lily again. “You may not be able to scare her off, costumes or no.”

  “She’s a prima donna.” Marcus admired the wave of her long hair, and the open, inviting smile on her face, even in the dimness. God. He was screwed. May as well return his man card along with his balls on a keychain. Some playboy he’d turned out to be. “The moment she breaks a nail, she’s out of there,” he grumbled, his insult not sounding the least bit genuine.

  Harmless insults had become the norm between him and Lily over the two and a half years they’d worked together. He used to do it to get her to sling one back at him, because he loved the feisty spark that lit her eyes when she was busting his balls. She’d answered the call, mouthing off to him with fervor. But really, he’d never been able to truly relegate her to role of prima donna or diva.

  First of all, it wasn’t true. She worked as hard, if not harder, than any of them. She cared about her work, and she was a perfectionist who often achieved her goals. Secondly, he had gone from simply thinking she was sexy to respecting the hell out of her. His admiration for her work trumped the admiration he had for her sweet backside. And that was bad. He didn’t want to change. Liked his eat-and-run style with women. Liked being the cad who kept things simple. But Lily… Nothing kept her from his mind. Not other women, not sex with other women… Nothing.

  Resistance was futile.

  “She’s hardier than she looks,” Clive said in her defense. “You remember the breakup with Andy.”

  Marcus ground his molars at the mention of Andy Lipnicky, King of the Douchebags. He didn’t deserve someone as smart and funny and attractive as Lily McIntire. Marcus didn’t think he deserved her, either, but he’d at least like the chance to prove himself. He’d burned that bridge by asking her out too soon…and had followed it up by severely bending the rules of the new account contest and taking the win for himself. Not his brightest move.

  “She’s a princess.” But she wasn’t. And even Marcus could hear the lack of conviction in his words. Wednesday night he’d had been shocked to learn that she was coming out to celebrate with them. It was the first time he’d ever been around her outside of work or an offsite meeting. It was like she purposefully avoided hanging out anywhere he was unless it was at work. He knew she had a social life, was dating a guy with a big nose and a stupid hybrid car, but he doubted she’d ever been to a rundown pub with a bartender named Curly. He’d looked forward to her reaction to the Shot Spot, where Marcus was a regular. Surely, Lily would turn tail and flee the moment she laid eyes on the fleet of mismatched chairs, and got a whiff of the smell of stale beer permeating the air.

  So. He’d thought he knew what to expect when she strode in behind Joanie and Clive on Wednesday night, looking out of place in her fitted blazer, her heels sticking to the tacky linoleum. Instead, when she’d spotted him, she’d flipped her strawberry-blond hair over one shoulder and sent him a derisive look down that pert little nose of hers. About then, he’d given her a smile of bald admiration and made it his evening’s mission to get her hammered.

  He’d seen Lily in control, competitive, and icy, but never sloppy and unkempt. He’d fill his tab with as many frou-frou girlie drinks like purple hooters or buttery nipples as she could drink, then kick back and enjoy the show. He’d like to see the rigidity slide out of her spine, maybe get one of those loose laughs she liked to give him every once in a while when she let her guard down. Then he’d ordered a tequila shot and she held up two fingers.

  “You drink tequila?” He’d been unable to hide his shock.

  “No, but we are celebrating, right?” Ah, Lily the competitor, alive and well.

  She’d arched a reddish brow and his thoughts had dropped to her skirt and into the gutter. Did the carpet match the drapes? God. What he’d give to know the answer to that question.

  He’d eased her into the shot using old school salt-and-lime training wheels rather than just chucking the tequila back like he normally did. She’d followed his lead when he licked the salt and sucked the lime, while he’d taken a bit too much pleasure in watching her pink tongue lap the granules from her hand. And when her perfectly glossed lips wrapped around the lime wedge, he’d had a stern talking-to with the parts of him residing south of his belt buckle.

  Pain in the ass, he’d reminded himself, tossing ba
ck his second shot. But that thought brought with it reminders of the way her skirt rounded snugly over her perfect butt each time she bent over to take her turn at the pool table.

  He’d sparred with her all evening, figuring arguing would keep the hound in his pants at bay. But each time he jabbed, she’d had a sassy comeback. He couldn’t help but admire her for it. Like he admired her at work. He’d always known she had talent—no one gave a confident presentation like Lily—but he hadn’t known until that night that she could be so much damn fun.

  Clive’s cell phone rang to the tune of Marvin Gaye. Marcus dragged him down from the window and out of sight, scowling over at him as he answered. It was Joanie’s ringtone. Clive shrugged an apology and answered with a hushed hello. Marcus gave him another pointed glare before risking peeking into the house again.

  Lily must not have heard the sound, her attention focused on the screen in her lap. And she was drinking—good God, was that wine? He should have made more rules. Limited her to only the most basic provisions like water and bread. And maybe some peanut butter. Protein was important.

  His frown deepened. She’d be a lot harder to spook while pleasantly buzzed on red wine, her stomach full of gourmet food. “I’m screwed,” he grumbled.

  “So am I.” Clive waggled his phone. “Gotta go.”

  “Why? Wife gonna ground you if you don’t?” He sent his friend a smug smile.

  Clive shot him a self-assured grin of his own. “Joanie called to tell me she’s drawing a very hot bath, lighting candles, and—”

  “Fine,” Marcus growled under his breath, not wanting to hear any more. “Wuss.”

  Clive clapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Let’s go, man. You wouldn’t have won anyway. And hey, maybe she’ll take pity on you and invite you to Hawaii with her. There are two tickets.”

  The image of Lily in a white bikini, pale, freckled skin on display, tiny triangles covering her most sensitive parts while she splashed in clear blue water, flooded his brain. He’d just lapsed into a daydream about applying sunscreen to every inch of her smooth, fair back when he noticed Clive heading down the hill. His buddy raised his arms as if to ask, are you coming?

  Marcus waved him off, annoyed that Lily now crashed his waking dreams in addition to the pornographic ones he had while asleep. He returned to his perch by the window.

  Clive trekked back to Marcus, tripping over a branch and stumbling. He was more Mr. Bean than Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. Stealthy, his friend was not.

  “Are you nuts?” Clive asked. “How are you getting home if I don’t drive you?”

  “It’s Hawaii.” And he wasn’t planning on handing it over without a fight. Lily hadn’t exactly been competing fair. She’d forced his hand into convincing his cousin to redesign his coffee shop. It was Marcus who had sought out the senior living center on Merchant Boulevard. It was his sunroom design that Margaret Beckham had originally chosen, his suggestion to add five hundred square feet to the already sprawling grounds of Sunny Acres Retirement Home. It should have been the winning account…in theory.

  But when Margaret stopped in to query about extras, Marcus’s idea for a patio redesign fell flat. Meanwhile, Lily swooped in and suggested a koi pond and a greenhouse, and Margaret had been wooed by the idea of fish and plants. Just like that, boom, she locked down the contract.

  Now that he thought it through again, Lily might have saved the damn contract.

  Still. It was a tick for her column, and he was one shy. He’d done what it took. But her calling him out on “cheating” to win Hawaii was almost as funny as believing she’d survive the night in the mansion and succeed in taking it from him.

  Not. Happening.

  “How are you getting home, Black?” Clive repeated with a frown.

  “Gee, Dad, worried about me?”

  “Jerk.” But his friend was smiling. Clive backed away, then halfway down the hill, called in an exaggerated whisper, “Let me know how it goes!”

  Marcus waved him off.

  After Clive lumbered down to where he’d parked the car at the base of the hill and reversed down the street, headlights extinguished, Marcus turned and unzipped the bag at his feet. He wasn’t worried about being stranded on the grounds. Once he boogeymanned Lily from the house, he was fairly certain he could coerce her into giving him a ride home. Since she understood the nature of their battle better than anyone, she probably expected him to do something juvenile to win.

  He smiled. Challenge accepted.

  He’d have to try really hard not to rub in the fact that she’d be on his arm at the design dinner this year. She may do it with a look of contempt on her face, but she’d do it. Lily McIntire wasn’t the type of woman to renege on a bet.

  It’d be good for him to be seen with someone as smart and design savvy as her. He was aware of his playboy reputation and the assumption that he relied heavily on his charm to make his way in this industry. But while he’d never had a problem landing a date, having just any woman warming his arm for the evening didn’t hold the appeal it once had.

  No, this year he’d rather have Lily at his side. And the no-panties thing would be a plus. God, that’d drive him insane, her sitting next to him at the table wearing nothing under her short dress. Not because he’d never been with a girl who went commando, but because he’d bet prim and proper Lily had never, not once in her life, eschewed the common decency of wearing undergarments. And her doing it for him? That was worth fighting for even if he didn’t want to go to Hawaii.

  If pressed, he’d admit there was more to it than getting her out of her panties. Her ease in social situations would put him at ease. Especially this year. How the hell was he supposed to graciously accept a Designer of the Year award when he’d be surrounded by several hundred more qualified designers? He could hold a pencil and talk anyone into anything, but…Designer of the Year?

  Part of him suspected this awards dinner was the ultimate practical joke to get him back for the pranks he’d played on his coworkers over the years. If it wasn’t a practical joke, well…that was worse. Because then he’d be expected to give a meaningful speech about his early influences, his process, his—

  God.

  The speech.

  Just picturing the podium at the center of the room, imagining the white-hot lights beating down on him from overhead, caused his brow to bead with sweat. He pulled at the collar of his favorite T-shirt and imagined a noose-like bowtie knotted at the front of his neck. How was he going to stand in front of five hundred of his colleagues and not die on the spot when just thinking about the acceptance speech made him break out in hives?

  A hooting owl snapped him back to the present. He could worry about the speech later. Right now, he had one mission. He knelt and dug through the costumes until his hand landed on the perfect one.

  He pulled the covering over his face and listened to his breath echo behind the mask.

  His mission was simple. His target clear.

  Scare Lily McIntire out of the house, and win the date he’d wanted since the moment he laid eyes on her.

  Chapter Four

  Lily folded the cover over her iPad and strained to listen to the silence hanging in the room. She swore she’d just heard something.

  A voice.

  Not necessarily, she thought with a shiver. She’d spent the last half hour streaming an episode of Friends. Maybe she’d confused the voice on her computer with the voice still echoing inside her skull.

  She turned to face the staircase. The room was swathed in darkness save for the circle of light her little lantern cast around the bed. In front of her, the grainy shape of the stairs rose up to the ominous upper floor, but the ceiling kept her from being able to see the landing. She’d spied it earlier, though, and knew there was nothing beyond the top step besides a yawning, cavernous hole. Just imagining the murky darkness made her want to curl up in that warm puddle of light and scrunch her eyes closed.

  Maybe you imagined the voice.

&nb
sp; It seemed to have come from behind her. Right behind her. A chill clipped its way down her spine, ticking every vertebra along the way. The hair on her arms stood on end. She tried, and failed, to convince herself she hadn’t heard a voice. A voice that had spoken one word, a word now etched in her memory like hieroglyphics.

  Go.

  She rose from the air mattress slowly, intentionally, her eyes tracking from the staircase to the closed front door. The urge to obey the unseen entity’s command, and bolt outside as fast as her Sketchers would carry her, was strong. But the practical half of her brain—the half logical enough to know a howl of wind could have masked itself as a two-letter word—kept her rooted to the floor.

  Blood pounded her eardrums as she pulled her shoulders back and attempted to listen past her jackhammering heart and jagged breaths. She watched the stairs until her eyes blurred and her forehead broke into a sweat. Come on. I know I heard it.

  An untimely chime from her phone made her yip. She slapped a palm over her mouth to staunch the pathetic sound and pulled the cell from her back pocket. A text. From Marcus.

  Of course.

  10 pm. is all well? send me proof.

  Bihourly photos were part of the bet. She’d promised to send evidence she was inside the house. A time-stamped photo from her smartphone would prove she hadn’t snapped them all in a span of five minutes then hoofed it off the property.

  She tapped her camera app, lined herself up with the mostly boarded-up window behind her, held up her middle finger, and snapped the picture.

  A few seconds after it sent, a return text read: ha!

  Weirdly, she could almost swear she’d heard the timbre of his deep chuckle coming from somewhere outside the house. But then, she was imagining hearing a lot of things tonight, wasn’t she?

  Two seconds later, her phone chimed again. what’s that weird ball of light over your left shoulder?

  Before she could stop herself, she’d snapped her head around to look behind her. And Marcus must have guessed she’d fallen for it. The next text read: sucker!

  The banter gave her a second of relief, for which she was grateful. So when she punched in the reply of asshat, she meant it as a playful compliment. The light on her phone dimmed, and she tossed it onto the mattress and sat, once again facing the creeptastic staircase…just in case. She reached for her iPad, and then reconsidered.