Catch a Mate. Gena Showalter
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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 unwanted.
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.
Two
I miss my teddy bear. Would you sleep with me?
JILLIAN 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.