Catch a Mate (6 page)

“I'm not sure if I should.” She batted her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, going for an I'm-so-innocent-but-I'm-such-a-naughty-tramp aura. “You're strangers.”

“Then allow me to make introductions so you
will
know us,” Darren said, his gaze
still
on her breasts. “I'm Darren and these two clowns are leaving.”

The two men groaned, but they didn't protest as they pushed to their feet and slinked to the bar. They were obviously used to helping each other with the ladies. Like Georgia, Jillian sometimes wanted to tell men like these who and what she was so badly she could taste it. Oh, the satisfaction she'd feel…

But she couldn't say a word, not even if the target passed the CAM test. Admitting such a thing truly would lead to trouble. Men freaked when they knew their sins had been filmed. Years ago, Jillian had heard about a woman, bait, who had been killed by a target, murdered so that she couldn't tell his wife what he'd done.

“I'm Jane,” she said. She offered Darren a hand and he twined his fingers around her palm, holding her longer than necessary. Forcing another smile, she settled atop one of the now-vacant seats. “You want to buy me a drink?” It was a standard agency question, used to test the waters.

He hesitated for several seconds and for an agonizing moment Jillian thought she might actually lose her bet with Marcus. He studied her, gauging…what? Her easiness? Finally, he motioned the waitress over. “So what can I get you, sweet little Jane?”

She was both relieved and depressed. “I'll have a ginger ale. I really shouldn't have any more alcohol. Already I feel so loopy.”

“One more won't hurt,” he cajoled.

“Well, maybe just one. I'll have another pink nipple.” She giggled. God, she hated giggling.

He ate it up, like she'd spoon-fed him sugar.

The waitress hurried off to get the drink and as she moved away, Marcus and Ronnie claimed the table next to Darren's. Of course, that table was already occupied by a group of loud, cackling women…who didn't mind Marcus's company at all. They practically drooled on him as introductions were made. Ronnie wanted to claw their eyes out, Jillian could tell.

“So what's a sweet little thing like you doing in a place like this?” Darren asked Jillian, oblivious to the newcomers.

She barely refrained from sighing. How many times would she have to hear that line? “Well,” she said, leaning forward and letting her arms rest on the table surface. “I just finished work—I'm a dancer—but I wasn't ready to go home.” Usually she said “librarian.” Most men liked the innocent-turned-wildcat fantasy, but Jillian knew from Darren's file that he wasn't into innocence. “I thought it might be fun to, I don't know, be a little wild.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said, grinning happily. His knee purposefully brushed hers. “A dancer. Wow. So you like…strip and stuff?”

“Strip and all kinds of stuff.” She didn't jerk away, but she wanted to. Crap like that always pissed her off. She didn't want to be touched by cheating scum. Expression rapt, she scooted back in her chair. A few more minutes and she'd have the evidence his girlfriend wanted, then she could get out of here. Away from Darren, away from the crowd. Away from Marcus and his dangerous appeal.

She was opening her mouth to ask Darren if he was married when she heard Marcus say, “Ronnie, you saucy wench. I've never met a more beautiful woman.”

Giggle, giggle.

Jillian's hands squeezed at her sides. “Darren,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to carry and oh, so eager, “you did save my life, and you mentioned I owed you a favor. What kind of favor are we talking?”

He leaned toward her, brows wiggling. “What kind are you willing to give?”

“Ronnie, you're driving me crazy. You smell so good.”

“Darren, what would you say if I told you I was willing to do
anything?
”

He gulped. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Let's see…” He tapped a finger against his chin. His green eyes gleamed with triumph, as if he already had her in bed. He reached out and clasped her hand. “I have something in mind, but I don't want to seem forward.”

“Ronnie, you're everything I've ever dreamed of in a woman.”

“Darren, you delicious thing, you can't be too forward with me. Tell me what you want and I'll—Oh, wait. You're not taken, are you? Please tell me you're not married.”

“Hell, no, I'm not,” he said. “No girlfriend, either. You?”

“No girlfriend.” She leaned into him and grinned slowly, even though she really wanted to scratch his eyes out. He'd be the first to go up on her Internet Wall of Shame. Rating: pig shit. “Why don't you come home with me? I'll put on a little music, model my lingerie collection for you and thank you properly. And just so there isn't any misunderstanding, I'm talking about sex.”
Say no. For your girlfriend's sake, say no.

She'd only seen his girlfriend once and that at a distance, but she easily recalled the nervous tension the girl had radiated. The hope that she was wrong. Jillian realized in that moment that she would happily lose her bet with Marcus if only she could go to CAM tomorrow and hear Anne tell the girlfriend that her man had passed the test.

“I'd love to,” Darren said, nearly stuttering in his haste. He whipped to a stand. “Just let me tell my friends goodbye.”

Disappointment slammed into her, hard. “Don't bother,” she said, losing her grin. There. She had the proof his girlfriend wanted. She'd won her bet with Marcus. But she'd never felt so lousy.

Good things had come of the night, she told herself. Darren's significant other would now know what a loser she was saddled with and would hopefully leave him. Jillian had earned a hundred bucks proving Marcus wrong. Still, somehow neither of those prospects lifted her spirits.

She wanted to grab Marcus by the hair and shout, “I told you so!”
Then kiss him,
her hormones added,
and lose yourself for a little while.

No,
she told them firmly,
and collect my money.
Dumb hormones. Marcus was an enigma, that was all. Men like Darren, she understood. They saw something they wanted and they took it, no matter the damage it would cause. Marcus had done nothing but the unexpected. Surely that was the only reason he was affecting her so badly. Once she figured him out, he'd be exactly like every other male she'd known and the wanting would stop.

She hoped.

Frowning, she twisted toward him. Their eyes met, locked. Jolts of electricity trekked along her spine. “I believe I mentioned that I don't take checks,” she said, hopping to her feet.

“Hey, where are you going?” Darren asked, confused. “Do you want me to follow you or something?”

“I've changed my mind.” Pig. “I'm going home. Alone.”

“Hey!” Darren said. “You can't change your mind.”

Jillian anchored her hands on her hips. “Well, I just did.”

He latched onto her arm, a little too firmly for her peace of mind. She dug in her purse with her free hand and whipped out the Mace. She held it in his face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus tense, as if gearing for a fight.

Darren's jaw dropped and he released her so quickly she almost fell.

Jillian suppressed a smirk. And a shudder. She hadn't had to threaten anyone with the spray in months. Wouldn't you know fate would choose tonight to make her job more difficult than usual?

“You're pressing your luck,” Marcus snarled to Darren, who paled and backed up a step. To Jillian, he said more calmly, “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” she said, trying to sound strong and assured but not quite managing it.

He studied her a moment. Trying to read her? “Double or nothing says you won't get on that dance floor with me,” he said.

She was tempted to dance with him. Oh, was she tempted. To let him wrap his arms around her. To let him hold her close. And it had nothing to do with money and everything to do with seeking comfort. A man had just threatened her. Not with words, but with force, all because his toy had been taken away. Jillian liked to think she was tough, but perhaps it would have been nice to let someone else take care of her, just once. Which was silly. Relying on a man for anything was bad, bad, bad.

“You win that bet. I don't dance with pigs,” she said, then she strode away without another word. For once insulting Marcus felt wrong—he'd genuinely wanted to know if she was okay—yet it was the only way she could think to keep him at a distance. More than anything, she needed to escape the club, escape the dangerous things Marcus made her feel, escape everything, but his next words stopped her.

“You know what? There are only three kinds of women in the world, Dimples,” he called over the music. He'd never sounded more mocking.

She didn't want to, but she found herself pivoting and facing him, somehow needing to hear what he had to say more than she needed to leave. He was standing beside the table. Both Darren and Ronnie were looking from him to Jillian and Jillian to him, their faces puckered in angry confusion.

“And?” Jillian prompted, tapping her foot. God, he was sexy. He looked dangerous just then, capable of anything. If he'd been any other man—besides Darren, that is—she might have thrown herself at him. Anything to taste all that dark exhilaration, to forget her own fears and the heartbreak Darren's girlfriend would experience tomorrow.

Watching Marcus, need and desire continued to spiral through her, sinking…sinking her resolve, and that angered her. She shouldn't want him. Shouldn't have wanted him earlier today, shouldn't want him now.
Leave. Leave, damn it.

“I'm waiting,” she told him, and thought,
Say something that will make me truly hate you so I can stop wanting you.

“Some are cock teasers.” Marcus held up one finger. “Some are cock junkies.” Another finger. “And some are cock haters. You're a hater, Dimples. You'd rather bite a man's head off than trust one even a little. No wonder Anne wrote such glowing things in your file. And by the way,” he added on a growl, turning to Darren. “You really let the team down tonight. Thanks a whole fucking lot.”

Damn this. And damn Marcus. Somehow his words only made her want him more, made her want to prove him wrong.
If I'm such a cock hater,
she thought, spinning on her heel and striding away for real,
why do I want yours buried deep inside me?

Shaking her head, she quickened her step and let the door of the club slam behind her.

A
NNE
C
OMMINGS
-B
AKER
-M
OSSEY
(damn those three marriages!) sat propped on her decadent bed of silks and satins, gazing at her laptop and trying not to laugh. She didn't want to wake the sex toy snoring beside her. Okay, he wasn't a sex toy. But he was too young for her, too sexy. Still, he made her shiver every time he looked at her, so she'd decided to have a go at him, however long he'd let her.

Marcus had just called Jillian a cock hater and Jillian had just given him a look that said “you're disgusting, kiss me” and they had both looked as if they'd enjoyed the sparring a little too much and hated themselves for it.

Now they were separated.

Anne watched the whole thing transpire on two different sides of the computer screen, one view from Jillian's camera, one from Marcus's.

On the right side of the screen, Jillian was getting into her car. On the left, Marcus moved through the bar—to follow Jillian? Anne might never know because he stopped himself before he'd made it halfway.
Why stop? You obviously want her. And I want to see one of you throw a punch.

“What's going on?” the cupcake hanging on to Marcus's arm demanded.

“Yeah,” Jillian's target, Darren Sawyer, said. “What the hell is going on? She wanted to go home with me, then nearly peppers me? That's some crazy shit. And I didn't let the team down! I'm not even on a team.” He took one look at what Anne guessed was Marcus's murderous expression, lost his nerve and raced away to find his friends.

“Go home to your husband,” Marcus told Cupcake. “It's not nice to cheat.”

“What? I don't know what you're talking about.” She laughed nervously. “I'm not married.”

“Yes, you are, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Cupcake gasped in shock, outrage, indignation and disappointment. Outrage won. She glared up at him. “There's nothing wrong with having a little fun.”

“And that,” Marcus said dryly, “is why I gave up relationships years ago. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Hey.” Scowling, she jabbed a finger into his shoulder. Her wedding ring glinted in the multihued light, pink one second, yellow the next. “You're a dickhead, you know that?
You
flirted with
me. You
came on to
me!
”

“For your husband's sake, you should have sent me on my way, now shouldn't you?” He walked away from her then, pushing past dancers and talkers, and strode outside just in time for Anne to see the sedan Jillian drove—one of the few company cars every bait used when on assignment so no one would know their real plate numbers—whip from the parking lot, gravel spewing from the rear tires.

Marcus cursed under his breath, froze for several seconds, then ripped the camera from around his neck. He turned the lens to himself and Anne caught a glimpse of narrowed eyes, thinned lips and fury. Total fury. A luscious sight, to be sure. “I hope you enjoyed that,” he growled, then his side of the screen went blank.

Oh, I did.
Anne laughed wickedly.

Jillian, meanwhile, was slamming her fist into the steering wheel. “I am a stupid, stupid woman and I should be shot to save the world from myself. That was not a turn-on! He is rude and insufferable and just because he fills out his jeans every time he looks at you does not mean you should get excited when he calls you bad names. You are not a masochist. You didn't used to be, anyway,” she muttered darkly.

She hit the steering wheel again. “Oh, this sucks!” she said, sounding mortified. She ripped off her camera and threw it on the floorboard. Her side of the screen went blank.

Anne laughed again. She didn't normally watch the feed live. Since this was the last assignment she'd ever get to observe, however, she'd decided to make an exception. Thank God she had! Jillian's life needed a little shaking up. The girl was becoming too jaded, too closed off.

Too much like Anne herself. And Anne didn't want that for Jillian. Yes, she'd once found kindness and caring to be weaknesses, and had done her best to leech them from Jillian. Now…

Anne sighed. She'd had good reason, she'd thought. She'd endured three no-good, cheating husbands. After kicking out number three, bitterness took root and she'd decided to start CAM. Women had a right to know what they were getting—or had gotten—themselves into. At the time, the business had also been good therapy, allowing her to take out her frustrations on the targets.

Over the years, though, as she watched more and more men cheat on their women, she'd grown to hate them. That hate had soon consumed her life. All day, every day, she'd thought of nothing except ways to castrate and maim the male species.

Then, a few weeks ago, she'd gotten a phone call. Husband number two had died of a heart attack. He'd been a year younger than Anne.

Even though she'd often fantasized about his death, it had rocked her. She wasn't promised a tomorrow, she'd realized, and she'd wasted most of her life already. Wasted it on hate and loneliness and despair. That realization had been a defining moment for her. No more would she cut herself off from the opposite sex. No more would she allow cynicism to color her every move. She'd live in the moment; she'd enjoy everything thrown her way.

She'd do it now, before it was too late.

Her companion rolled toward her and exhaled softly. A moment passed in silence, then he was reaching out and caressing her bare arm. “Ready for another round?” he asked huskily.

She was fifty-one and in her prime—a prime she'd denied herself for the past fifteen years. During her marriages, she'd been a woman who liked her sex often and hard. After the third one, she'd pushed sex from her life completely. Her body was delighted to finally be back in the game.

That's why she'd left work early today. “Personal business”—a.k.a. Operation Orgasm—was now a priority. She was through denying herself.

Picking this guy up at the supermarket—all right, liquor store—had been an aberration for her. One, he worked the cash register at the aforementioned liquor store. He wasn't the corporate type she'd been attracted to in the past. Two, she was twenty-five years older than he was.

Three, she was twenty-five freaking years older than he was.

He had to think she was an alcoholic, as many times as she'd come into the store lately. But he was always sweet to her, always flirted. Before, she'd treated him like dirt to mask her attraction. This time, she hadn't. This time, she'd invited him over for shots of the vodka she'd just bought from him.

What Anne wanted, Anne now went after.

To her surprise, he'd happily accepted.

“Well?” he prompted, already hard.

She set her laptop aside and sank into his waiting embrace. The chemistry between Marcus and Jillian was enough to light a fire inside any woman with a clitoris. Anne definitely had one. And her lover knew just where to find it….

 

T
HE PHONE RANG
, and Jillian was startled out of tossing and turning and imagining Marcus hovering over her, his mouth taped shut so he couldn't say anything while he pleasured her, and then imagining his death because he had no business pleasuring her, in dreamland or otherwise, and disrupting a peaceful night of rest—the phone rang again—a peaceful night of rest she was never going to get, it seemed. Dreams or no dreams.

Another ring.

She grabbed for the phone, missed, but managed to knock it down. Cursing under her breath, she rooted around on the floor. Her eyes burned, she was aroused, it was dark inside her bedroom and she was cranky, so it took her a while to find the little bastard. When she finally held it to her ear, she rolled to her back and snarled, “What?”

“Just making sure you arrived home safely.”

Marcus. She sucked in a heated breath. Hearing his voice after all that imagining was like having her legs spread, Marcus crawling on top of her. Moving, moving so wickedly, hammering hard, so hard, and pushing her all the way to orgasm. Shivering, she glanced at the alarm clock on her dresser. 1:03 a.m. Why was he calling?

“Jillian?” he said.

“What?” she repeated, breathless this time. Her nipples pearled and her stomach quivered. The (seemingly never-ending) ache between her legs intensified.

“You did make it home okay, didn't you?”

“You're talking to me, aren't you?”

“Sounds more like snapping to me,” he pointed out.
He
sounded happy about that. Too happy. Excited, even.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you turned on?”

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause. “You?”

“How dare you ask me something like that, you don't even know me.”

“You asked, I answered. I asked, so you had better answer. Are you turned on?”

“Hell. No.”

He chuckled. “Liar.”

Yes, she was. “You called me a cock hater and you're right. You're a cock and I hate you.”

“You want to know something?”

“No,” she said, breathless again. What was he going to tell her? Something sexy, judging by his tone. “No, I don't.”

“I'll tell you anyway. Arguing with you turns me on. It's stupid, but there it is.”

Dear Lord. Their arguing affected him the same awful way it affected her. They were doomed. Doomed! Unless…No, no, no! But there was no help for it. She had to be sweet to him. So sweet he'd gag from a sugar high. She'd do it, though. Anything to stop the madness.

Tomorrow, she'd tell Georgia to forget the war, to forget doing horrible, mean things to Marcus. In Jillian's current state of insanity, that might seem like foreplay. She did not need more foreplay. She might jump him.

“Did you and Ronnie with an
i e
have fun tonight?” she asked in a syrupy tone. “She seemed like such a nice girl.”

“Jealous?”

“Please. You're such a—”
egotistical pig, I can see why you'd think so
“—
nice
boy for helping her with her obvious self-esteem issues and being
nice
to her. Yep, we women love it when men are
nice
to us.”

“So what are you?” he asked, confusing her.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren't really a cock hater, since you're lying about being turned on right now. Are you a junkie or a teaser?”

“You'll never know,” she gritted out.

“Great. A teaser.” He sighed. “What a pity.”

Her blood boiled. “This conversation is boring and so are you. Next you'll be asking me about the weather forecast. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” he said in a rush. “Don't hang up. I have to tell you something.”

She paused, stupidly happy that he wanted to keep her on the line. “What?”

“Double or nothing, remember? You didn't dance with me. Don't forget to bring my two hundred dollars to the office tomorrow,” he said. “Like you, I don't take checks.”
Click.

Openmouthed, she stared at the phone. Then, scowling, she pressed *69. Marcus answered right away. “I won the first bet and you owed me one hundred dollars,” she said. “You won the second, so you just keep your money. I owe you nothing. If you need me to use Happy the sock puppet and explain it in simpler language, just let me know.”
Click.

A second later, her phone rang. “What?”

His drugging laughter caressed her ear. “We aren't playing the American way, baby. We're playing British. The right way. You owe me two hundred dollars.”
Click.

Again she found herself staring at the phone. Unethical, that's what he was. No way the British rules for gambling were different than the American rules; he'd made that up.

The phone rang again a second later and Jillian grinned. She was tempted to let it ring all night, but found herself eager for round four. She pressed talk and said, “Don't ever hang up on me again or I'll—”
stab you in the heart
“—bake you chocolate-chip cookies and bring them to you in a pretty, decorative basket.” There. That was sweet. Well, sweet as long as it wasn't Jillian's mom doing the baking…but that didn't bear thinking about right now. “Now admit it. I don't owe you a cent.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't hang up on you, and I know you don't owe me any money. And why are you threatening me with chocolate-chip cookies? What'd I ever do to you?” her sister, Brittany, said. Without waiting for Jillian's response, she added, “Listen, Mom just called me. She's having one of her breakdowns.”

“What? Why?” Suddenly serious, Jillian jolted upright. Dark curls cascaded down her temples and back.

“She's decided to try the dating scene.”

“No, no, no,” Jillian groaned. “Why would she put herself through that again? Why would she put
us
through that again?”

“Because she has
needs,
” Brittany said, her tone dripping with disgust.

“Gross. Don't ever, ever,
ever
say that to me.”

“Hey, I'm just repeating what she told me.”

“Well, don't.”

Brittany sighed, loud and long and frustrated. “What are we going to do? We—” Pause. “Apple, Cherry, what are you doing up? It's way past your bedtime.”

Jillian heard giggling and pictured her ten-year-old twin nieces running around Brittany's bedroom. They might look like angels with their sweet, round faces but they were devils in their souls.

The chance of Jillian settling down and having kids was very remote, so she lavished all her attention on her nieces.

“Go. To. Bed. Or I'll tell Daddy you misbehaved.” Pause. “Thank you.” Pause. “She refuses to take her antidepressants,” Brittany said, picking up their conversation as if it had never stopped, “so she'll end up crying on the shoulder of every man who approaches her, those men will drop her and then she'll become even more depressed because no one wants her. I feel a suicide attempt coming on—and it won't be Mom's!”