Catch a Mate (12 page)

“Mom, you don't like golfing and you don't like sailing. You don't even like swimming. And you hate spicy food. It gives you indigestion.”

“But I could have liked those things! He didn't e-mail me back, he didn't even give me a chance, so I e-mailed him again.”

A chance! How she was coming to hate that phrase. Jillian covered her eyes with her hand, blocking out the light. “How soon did you e-mail him again?”

“I don't know, ten minutes. It seemed like an eternity.”

“Mom,” she groaned.

“I might have called him a bastard for ignoring me, I can't remember. Then he finally e-mailed me back and told me to leave him alone. Then he blocked me. That was cruel, right? I cried a little, but just a little. You would have done the same, right?”

And she'd wanted honesty. More fool her. “Mom, maybe Internet dating isn't for you.” Jillian could remember a time, as a little girl, when she herself had been fascinated by love and romance. Cinderella and her prince. Her favorite bedtime story.

Reality had a way of destroying those illusions, though. Hurt had a way of obliterating everything else. She'd thought her mom was long past the need for such things. She'd thought her mom was smarter. “The men on the market are no prizes,” she added.

“Brittany says there's a man out there for me. Just waiting for me like Steven waited for her,” her mom said. “I'm a woman and I have needs, you know.”

“Please.” She almost groaned. “Don't tell me about your needs.”

Her mom drew in a shuddering breath, probably trying to get herself—and keep herself—under control. She uttered a forced laugh. “Of course I won't, baby. I didn't call to whine. I truly did just want to hear your voice. Everything always seems better when I talk to my sugar. You think I'm wonderful, right? Right?” she insisted, desperate, when Jillian didn't respond right away.

“Of course I think you're wonderful. I love you. Just…rethink the dating thing. Okay?”

“Okay,” was the still-forced, still-happy reply.

“I'd love to see you tomorrow afternoon, as well as Brent and Brittany and Granny,” Jillian said. “We can have a little party. Will you call them?” That would give her mom something to do. “You took that cooking class and I haven't had a chance to test your new skills.”

“Oh, I'd love to cook for you! We could all get together and talk and laugh. No one comes to see me anymore.” She clapped after the guilt-inducing words, her happiness no longer forced. “I'll cook your favorite, roasted pork chops and corn bread dressing.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, then.” Hopefully, the lunch would lift her mom's spirits and put her in a good frame of mind. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, sugar.”
Click.

Confident her mom would be okay, for the night at least, Jillian threw the phone aside and raced out the front door, locking it behind her. She was going to be late. Was already late. Anticipation whipped through her. She couldn't wait to see Marcus in action with a target. Yes, she'd seen him with Ronnie with an
i e,
but his actions had been born of revenge. How would he treat a true target? Touch the small of her back? Would his eyes dip to half-mast as they'd done just before he'd kissed her?

She shivered, then spent the entire drive to the bar thinking about him, picturing his face, eager to see him and chastising herself for it. When she was parked, she checked the driver-side mirror, gave her lips another swipe of gloss, then exited. The gravel parking lot teemed with cars and people—some already drunk.

One guy grabbed his crotch when he spotted her and slurred an invitation to join him for a late-night snack. She could guess what the snack was. Him. Ew. She ignored the invite, but quickened her step toward the shadowed red-and-black building.

Muted music seeped from the walls. The air was cool, fragranced with beer and exhaust and wafts of cigarette smoke. She'd once had to proposition a target at a horse race with manure all around her. Once at a convenience store while eating a warmed-up burrito. Twice at a used-car lot while a salesman tried to pair her with the “perfect” vehicle for her (a convertible for easy access, naturally). This was no worse, she supposed.

Just before she reached the door, a hand shot out from the darkness and latched onto her arm. She was jerked against a hard, hot body of steel. Jillian gasped. Her heart pounded erratically. Mace—had she remembered her freaking Mace? Didn't matter, really. She'd dropped her purse when the man had grabbed her. What should she do, what should she do?

Acting on pure instinct, she elbowed her captor in the stomach. He hissed out a breath. Spinning, she balled her fist and planted it in his face, hard.

A howl. Then, “Bloody hell.”

At the sound of that harsh, sexy voice, she stilled. “Marcus?”

“As if you didn't know,” he grumbled. “That hurt!”

“Of course it did. I punched you. Don't ever grab me like that again.” Her heart had yet to slow down and had, in fact, sped up with the realization of who held her. His spicy male scent enveloped her, driving away the noxious odors she'd lamented only moments before. She bent down and grabbed her purse strap.

“I think you blackened my eye,” he growled. He was angry, yes, but he also sounded grudgingly impressed.

“Big baby.” She latched onto his hand and ushered him aside, into the streetlight. Rays of gold ribboned over him, illuminating his savage beauty. His brown eyes were narrowed, the lashes so thick they intertwined. His lips were thinned in pain. And yes, there was a definite circle of red around his left eye.

“Oopsie,” she said, trying hard not to laugh.

“Laugh it up, Chuckles. Just remember I now sign your paychecks.” He rubbed the slightly swollen bone. “God, beaten up by a girl.”

“I told you I could take care of myself. Why did you grab me?”

“I wasn't trying to hurt you. I called out, but you didn't answer. You were about to slam into the door, woman.”

“No, I wasn't.” Her gaze strayed to the door, closer than she'd realized. Okay, maybe she had been.

His gaze traveled over her dress. “Nice, but unnecessary,” he said, his anger seeming to intensify. “You're not supposed to flirt with anyone tonight.”

She scowled. “The dress is to help me blend in so I can stay out of the way as my new boss, the office Nazi, has ordered.”

“One, I doubt you could ever blend in and two, I'm offended by that description, Dimples. It so happens I'm very easy to work with.”

She snorted.

“You didn't let me finish.” He faced off with her and their noses almost touched. Their chests
did
touch. “I'm very easy to work with when the employees are reasonable and not prone to violent fits.”

Her breath began to come in shallow pants and her blood was heating inside her veins. His warmth was intoxicating. His banter…more so. Beyond them, she could hear the hum of speeding cars, the giddiness of drunken laughter, and somehow they only added to the sensuality of the moment.

Then Marcus cleared his throat and stepped away from her. She took a minute to study the rest of him, desperate to release herself from his magnetic pull. Black button-down shirt, black slacks. Each fit him perfectly and emphasized his delicious muscles. Her mouth suddenly watered. She, too, stepped back.

“Let's go inside,” he said, “and get this over with.”

He walked away without another word, forcing her to follow him inside the building that was as dark and dim as the night. The moment he opened the doors, music blasted, a
bump, bump,
grind; people strolled past, laughing, talking, drinking.

The intelligent part of Jillian's brain—which was barely functioning lately—told her to run. Run as fast as she could. Go home. Instead, she found herself increasing her pace to keep up with Marcus.

“Pig,” she muttered. But this time she was talking about herself.

T
HE WOMAN WAS A MENACE
, Marcus thought, but then, he'd already known that. She was too sexy to be loose on the streets and too poisonous to be around without common sense dying a quick, painful death.

Well, that wasn't true. She wasn't always poisonous. Sometimes she was nice, sweet…vulnerable. He still remembered the way she'd looked at him during lunch, her features soft, her eyes needy. Impossibly, he'd liked their easy camaraderie as much as he liked fighting with her.

According to his hormones, she could do no wrong.

He wanted to kiss her again—wanted to do more, really—and almost had while they'd stood outside, shadows and light fighting for dominance around her. Breathtaking, that's what she'd been. She'd punched him, for Christ's sake, and he'd still wanted her.

Do people like us ever get a happy ending?
she'd asked him earlier. He'd said no and he'd meant it. He'd tried for a happy ending once, had fought for it with no thought to pride. All he'd gotten was a painful divorce and another lesson in distrust. No thanks, not again. Yet…

Jillian was starting to make him want things. Impossible things. Foolish things. Starting? Ha. He'd wanted impossible things from her the first moment he'd seen her. She was so wrong for him, though, wrong in every way imaginable.

Unfortunately, that made no difference to his dick.

He didn't have to look behind him to know she followed him through the smoke and darkness; he could feel her. His body was hyperaware of her every move, every breath.
Touch me,
he wanted to say to her.

Eye still throbbing, he showed the bouncer who waited at the register his stamped hand, then paid Jillian's cover charge. Without a backward glance, he maneuvered through the thick crowd of dancers, singles and not-so-singles, each looking for a good time. Rock music boomed, so loud his ears rang in protest. Manufactured smoke wafted through the perfumed air, giving off too many clashing scents. He wrinkled his nose.

He'd been here half an hour already. His target was here, too, but he'd been too worried about Jillian to approach the woman. He'd had such stupid thoughts. Had she been in a car accident? Had she decided to quit? Had someone grabbed her and hurt her? Finally he'd gone outside to wait—only to be clocked in the eye for his good deed when she finally did appear.

Disgusted with himself, he found two empty seats at the bar, claimed one for himself, then patted the other.

“Thought we weren't supposed to have contact with each other,” she said, but she sat down beside him.

They weren't. He just didn't want to leave her. “Stay.” He ordered a beer.

“A beer?” Jillian
tsked
under her tongue. “How interesting.”

He frowned at her. When the beer arrived, he turned and faced the dancing, hedonistic crowd. He didn't drink, just watched…waited.

“Ginger ale,” Jillian told the bartender, then flicked Marcus a half smile.

His blood hummed, rushing faster, wanting her all the more. He forced his gaze to remain straight ahead, searching for Amy, the night's target. He spotted his prey quickly enough; she was exactly where he'd left her, except now she was seated on the leg of a young man who didn't look old enough to be here. She was licking salt off his lips. Marcus sighed. Looked like he wouldn't have to flirt with her, after all.

“I'm going to film.” Beer in hand, Marcus straightened and approached Amy's table. He could feel Jillian's eyes on him, burning deep, so deep.

Amy kissed the boy, a twenty-second Frencher that had the rest of the kids at the table cheering. So much for singing karaoke. The camera hidden in the Buddha necklace he wore captured everything as Marcus pretended to watch the dancers just beyond them. He wouldn't have to flirt or proposition to prove to Jillian that women were as treacherous as she considered men. Amy was proving that quite nicely. Her husband was going to be devastated and Marcus felt a wave of pity for him.
Been there, done that.

“Hey gorgeous,” a sultry voice said beside him. She purred the words loudly over the music, keeping her face close to his as she stroked her hand down his back. Her perfume was heavy, a little spicy. “Would you like to dance? I promise not to bite you…unless you ask. But then again, you look like a man who likes it rough. Mmm, want me to kiss that eye better?”

He faced her without moving the camera from Amy. The new woman was a delectable blonde with big blue eyes and enough cleavage to lose a small army in. He'd decided to find a willing, easy woman, hadn't he? He'd decided to sleep with someone other than Jillian and rid his body of its constant ache. Hadn't he? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that he wasn't interested in this one. Her hair wasn't dark enough, wasn't curly enough. Her eyes weren't blue enough. She didn't have a smattering of freckles, nor did she have dimples.

“No thanks,” he said. “I'm waiting for someone.” He twisted toward the bar, about to motion Jillian over, but she was already walking toward him, her expression determined. No, not walking, he realized in the next second. She was sashaying, a temptress. Every man she passed watched her; he had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

When she reached Marcus, she draped her arms around his shoulders. Even kissed the side of his neck. Holy hell!

“He's taken,
sweetie,
” she snapped. “And I don't share.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he prefers—”

“Get lost before I unstuff your bra. Understand?”

Paling, the clinger scampered away.

Jillian released him, but stayed at his side. She sipped her drink and kept her gaze straight ahead, as though she were reeling from what she'd done and said. Multicolored lights from the strobe took turns highlighting her lovely face.

“You're welcome,” she finally said.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Seriously. That had turned him on.

Her gaze latched on to Amy, who was still going at it with loverboy, and she shook her head. “I don't care what the target's doing. Women still aren't as bad as men and you still owe me a lot of money.”

She was too stiff, too serious and he was suddenly filled with the need to loosen her up. With his free hand, he cupped his ear and pretended he couldn't hear her. “What was that?”

She frowned and repeated her words.

“What?” he said again.

Rather than relax, she scowled and leaned into him, breathing her comment straight into his ear. The side of her sweet, sweet breast meshed into his chest, the decadent scent of her teased his nose and wisps of her soft hair brushed his cheek. The heat of her, always that dangerous heat, enveloped him. He experienced an instant and unwanted hard-on.

Didn't he always when she was near?

Teasing her, he realized, had been a stupid idea. But then, he'd been very stupid lately, especially where she was concerned. When she finished speaking, she didn't move. She stayed just where she was, close to him. Too close, not close enough. Her nose brushed his ear, almost…nuzzling? Maybe not so stupid, after all.

Unbidden, he found his arm reaching for her, wrapping around her waist. His hand gripped the curve of her hip, his palm grazing the top of her ass. Holy hell, it was heaven. A perfect fit, as if her body had been made just for him. He couldn't help himself; he inched his fingers lower. Still she didn't back away, but she did draw in a sharp breath. For more…or did she want him to stop?

She worried her bottom lip, stepped closer.
More.

The music faded from his ears. The crowd disappeared. There was only Jillian, her lush sexiness, her vivid sapphire eyes. God had done the male population a huge disservice, unleashing this woman into the world. He couldn't move, though. Couldn't find the will.
Mistake. Trouble. Rule two.
The words echoed through his mind, but he ignored them.

As if her thoughts mirrored his, Jillian's cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Her eyelids dipped. The need to kiss her again grew, intensified. Just one more taste and he could sate himself. Just one more…

“I was looking forward to watching you in action,” she said breathlessly.

Not the best words to say to an aroused man. He'd have to remember to turn off the volume when he showed the client the video feed. Or maybe he wouldn't have to since the music was so loud.

Someone bumped into Jillian, shoving her forward. They lost eye contact and the spell between them was shattered. Her cheeks reddened, no longer an aroused flush but now an embarrassed crimson.

You can't stand this woman, remember? She's evil. A heartbreaker.
At least he'd always know where he stood with her. Still.
Push her away.
“You were about to kiss me again,” he said. “We agreed you weren't going to do that anymore.”

Slowly her eyes narrowed to tiny slits, blocking the blue irises from his view and revealing only dark, spiky lashes, yet somehow he could see the fire glowing inside. “If I let you keep the cash you owe me, will you swear to jump off a bridge and break your neck?”

“I don't owe you any money. But if I did, I'm sure you'd lose every cent soon enough. You're a terrible gambler.” Marcus glanced at his target. Amy was in the process of giving her boyfriend a lap dance, seemingly invigorated by the crowd around her. The guy had his fingers spread over her waist, an I'm-gonna-get-me-some smile on his face.

Yes, the husband's safe, happy world was going to be shattered because of this. It was depressing. What made people cheat? Marcus knew the standard response:
I'm not getting what I need at home.
Why commit, then? Why not leave? Or try harder to make a relationship work?

“I've filmed enough,” he said to Jillian.

She nodded, spun on her spiked heels and walked away from him, leaving him confused. She strode to an empty booth in back and eased down, sliding her half-full drink to the side as if she were done with it. Her features were blank, devoid of emotion. Ah. Playtime.

Without asking permission, Marcus joined her and slipped his beer next to her forgotten glass. He wasn't ready to go home. To be brutally honest with himself, he wasn't ready to leave her. Making sure Jillian watched him, he tugged off his necklace and stuffed it into his pocket. “Now you know I'm not trying to film you.”

“I don't remember asking you to join me,” she said, brows arched. She removed the flower pinned to her dress and dropped it in her purse. “But just so you know, I'm not filming you, either.”

He waved a waitress over. A few seconds later, a bubbly brunette stood in front of them, notepad in hand.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Screwdriver,” he said and Jillian raised her chin and echoed his order. The waitress nodded and hurried off. “No Hpnotiq?”

She shrugged and her bare shoulders glinted in the light. Pure cream. Totally lickable. “I'm no longer on the clock and I feel like drinking something stronger.”

Marcus stretched out his legs and his knees accidentally-on-purpose brushed Jillian's. She jumped. He almost smiled. “That aware of me, are you?”

“That cautious,” she stated blandly. She thought about it for a moment, then added, “Maybe disgusted is a better word.”

He wasn't offended; he saw the aroused shimmer in her eyes. A shimmer, he was sure, that was reflected in his own. “What happened to our truce?”

“You happened.”

“You know, Jillian, I'm really not a bad guy.”

“Except for a few rare instances, all I've seen since we met yesterday is a bad guy,” she grumbled.

“Your fault, I assure you. And has it only been a day? Seems like a lifetime.”

“That's the typical response of a bad person, blaming someone else. And yes, only one day.”

“You just gave me the typical response of a woman. Can't accept blame to save her life. And I didn't mean any insult by the forever thing. Quite the opposite. So there's no reason to sound so offended.”

Their drinks arrived and for a long while neither spoke. They just sipped and looked out at the crowd of dancers. Their banter had, as always, invigorated him. He wanted it to continue, but knew it had to stop.

Finally Jillian said, “Do your male employees only get one chance to screw up or does that honor go strictly to the women?”

“I've worked with the men before.” He gulped the rest of his drink. “They won't screw up.”

“You can't know that for sure.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Double or nothing?”

He didn't hesitate, was actually thrilled to bet. “Done.”

Another silence ensued. Why couldn't he bring himself to leave her? “Why'd you choose this line of work?” he found himself asking as he settled deeper into the booth.

A shadow played over her face. “I saw an ad and I needed a job. It…fit my personality. What about you?”

He shrugged. “My father owns a similar agency in Manchester. My mother hated him so much—he liked to dabble with the bait himself—that she moved us to the States when I was just a boy. But I visited him once a year and began to realize it was the perfect job for me.”

“Have you ever regretted it?” she asked softly, looking down at the table. She traced a figure eight with her fingertip. “Becoming bait, I mean?”

He could have lied. He
should
lie. Strangely, he felt compelled to give her the truth. “A few times over the years I've questioned my decision to enter this line of work. I saw the kind of person my dad was, saw how alone he was, but I also saw the victims, the ones affected by betrayal, like my mom. I never wanted to be in their place and wanted to help them as best as I could.”

“I feel the same,” she said, still using that soft tone.

“Ah, a second thing we agree on.”

Her lips twitched as she fought a smile. “What was the first thing?”