Catch a Mate

by Gena Showalter

  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, r
eady 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 wer
e 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.