Catch a Mate. Gena Showalter

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, ready 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.”