Catch a Mate (2 page)

“You look like a slut. I love it.” Jillian grinned. “Do you have an assignment tonight?”

Returning her grin, Georgia plopped back onto the desk. “Nope. This outfit is for Wyatt. After last night's assignment…” Her full, red lips curled in revulsion. “I may not go into the field again. I sat next to my target—at a coffeehouse, of all places—and the slimy bastard immediately tried to talk his way into my pants.
Your dad has to be a thief. That's the only way to explain those stars in your eyes.
Gag! He's married, for God's sake, and had just celebrated his sixteenth wedding anniversary.”

“Let me guess. He claimed he'd just gotten a divorce, the loneliness was almost more then he could bear and a pretty girl like you could sure ease the pain in his heart.”

“Bingo.”

“Men can't be trusted,” Jillian muttered with an appalled shake of her head; black curls swished in every direction. “Did you tell him to go fuck himself?”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “I wish. I wanted to tell him who and what I was, but couldn't bring myself to break the rules.”

Telling a target the truth could lead to panic—and panic from a target could be a dangerous, even life-threatening, thing. “So what did you do?”

“I made sure he won't be getting in anyone's pants for a while, maybe not even his own.”

Jillian patted her friend's knee in approval. They'd both taken self-defense lessons after joining the agency, courtesy of Anne. Anne refused to pay for bodyguards—they were too expensive—so the girls were on their own when in the field. Jillian actually preferred it that way. She didn't want to rely on a man/lying piece of swine for her safety. Her Mace acted as her hired muscle, bringing down the strongest of opponents.

“Anne showed his wife the video earlier and the woman burst into tears. I know because I stupidly watched on the screen in the conference room.” Georgia expelled a slight puff of air, as dainty as the woman herself. She drummed her perfectly manicured nails against the desk.

Jillian didn't mention that she'd seen the wife, too, just as the woman was leaving the office. Those tearstained cheeks had almost made
Jillian
cry. Poor thing. She had a tough road ahead of her.

Victims were always told the day after the evidence was gathered. No reason to put it off and prolong the torture. The criers always caused Jillian's chest to ache. The punchers—well, they might hate her and the other bait now, but they'd thank them later.

Still. Maybe she and Georgia needed to start coming in late the day after an assignment.

“I despise that part of the job, you know?” Georgia said. “Just once, I'd like to see a happy ending, a man who doesn't care about a pretty face. A man who's happy with what he has at home, even if she's gained weight or acquired a few wrinkles.”

“Me, too, but we both know the odds of that happening. And women are better off learning the truth now instead of later,” Jillian said, her tone firm with conviction. After all, she should know. Years ago, her dad had cheated on her mom and her mom hadn't known, hadn't suspected at all. But little Jillian had known—her dad had taken her to the neighbor's house to “play with the cat.” She'd chased that stupid tabby all the way into the bedroom and gotten an eyeful.

Her dad hadn't explicitly asked her to keep quiet, but he had to have known she would never speak of it to her mom, too afraid her parents would split.

The guilt of not telling her mother had eaten at her.

A few months later, the knowledge had become too much for her to bear and she'd confided in her older brother and sister. They had begged her not to tell Mom, not wanting to cause their parents' divorce, either. So she'd kept quiet. Again. Pretending her dad really was going to the grocery store when he sneaked next door.

She'd been the only seven-year-old with an ulcer.

About six months after that, her mom flew off to visit her sister. But then Evelyn decided, for whatever reason, to come home early. That's when she found Jillian's dad in bed with the neighbor. Her mom had been shocked and devastated, and the truth had finally spilled from Jillian.

The next morning, her mom tried to kill herself.

A familiar rage kindled inside of Jillian, images of her bleeding and unconscious mother flashing through her mind.
She'd
been the one to find her. Not her brother, Brent. Not her sister, Brittany. Not her dad.
She'd
been the one to cry over her mom's bloody—Jillian quickly shoved those memories away before she punched a wall. She didn't like thinking about those worry-filled weeks, her mom teetering between life and death.

Needless to say, she hadn't spoken to her dad since. Her mom had divorced him and he'd taken off. He still called Jillian about once a week, but she never picked up. Brent, the easygoing contractor, and Brittany, the tenderhearted stay-at-home mom, begged her almost daily to forgive him, but she just couldn't. Maybe one day, she thought…. No. Never, she decided in the next instant. There was simply too much pain there.

“Without us,” she said now to Georgia, teeth clenched, “women would be lost in a world of lies, thinking their men loved and respected them.”

Georgia pondered those words for several minutes, then shrugged. Her body glitter caught the light, making her bare shoulders shimmer. “Maybe believing the lie is the only key to happiness.” Today was the first time she'd ever voiced doubts about their profession.

Anything to do with Wyatt and his marriage proposal?

“So where are you going tonight?” Georgia asked before Jillian could question her. “You look like a cheap hooker.”

“Thank you,” Jillian replied with a genuine smile. She wore a skintight white tank top with a low V-neck for ultra cleavage, a barely-there jean skirt with a frayed hem, a thick silver belt and tall black boots. Her hair was a wild, untamed mass of curls, her makeup heavily applied.

At the moment, everything about her screamed “saddle up and take me for a ride.” But then, the man she was supposed to “catch” later apparently liked his women dressed that way. The trashier the better, or so his girlfriend, who dressed like a dime-store prostitute herself, had said.

“I'm going to The Meat Market,” Jillian explained. No lie, that was the name of the nightclub situated in the pulsing heart of downtown Oklahoma City. It was supposedly
the
place for prowling singles.

Her target's live-in girlfriend said her man had been visiting the club for weeks. For “beer.” Jillian believed that one-hundred percent—if beer was the new name for T & A. If the guy was simply throwing back a few cold ones, why couldn't he take his girlfriend with him? Why did he leave her at home and insist she stay there?

Anne had suggested the girlfriend follow the guy herself before resorting to bait, but the woman had shut down that idea immediately. Jillian thought she knew why. It was one thing to believe your man was cheating; it was quite another to actually witness it yourself, live and in person. Plus, the girlfriend could be spotted and the guy could alter his behavior accordingly.

The door to Anne's office suddenly jerked open, startling her. Surprising Georgia, too, who gasped.

Jillian jolted upright as Anne stuck out her head. She caught a glimpse of the woman's graying hair and stern, wrinkled features before Anne called, “Jillian. Get in here ASAP. I've got some bad news for you.”

She disappeared without another word, but left the door open.

O-kay. Jillian's heart skipped a beat. She flicked Georgia a nervous glance, and it didn't help that her friend was wide-eyed and openmouthed. Hands beginning to sweat, she eased to her feet.

“Bad news,” Georgia said quietly, her attention veering between Jillian and the door. “She's usually abrupt, but that was…”

“Maybe my case has been reassigned,” Jillian said, hopeful.

“Maybe.”

Georgia didn't sound convinced and deep down Jillian wasn't, either. Shit.
Shit!
More than going over her assignment tonight, Jillian had hoped to talk to Anne about making her a partner, or—what she really wanted—selling her the business outright.

She'd tried to broach the subject a few times already, but each time Anne had been busy and had shooed her away with a promise of “later.”

There was no one better equipped or readier to take over than Jillian. She'd been here forever (it sometimes seemed) and had many wonderful ideas, if she did say so herself, about taking CAM to the next level. Like a counseling center for victims of infidelity, support groups and even a Web site dedicated to warning women about particular men. Sort of an Internet Wall of Shame, appropriately dubbed the Swine Whine, with ratings of just how high on the Pigometer certain individuals ranked. Oklahoma's most
un
wanted.

If she had her way, CAM's clients would get the kind of help her mother hadn't.

Now that conversation would have to wait. Again.

Bad news
…she gulped. Something was about to go down, that was for sure, and from the sound of Anne's voice, Jillian suspected it was herself.

J
ILLIAN 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.