Catch a Mate. Gena Showalter

all, she helped ruin people’s lives and she wasn’t sorry. “Why the hell are you so malicious toward me? If you don’t know what malicious means, I’d be glad to borrow your Happy the sock puppet and explain it to you.”

      “You’re a woman, Dimples.” He stared over at her, a half smile, half sneer curling his delectable mouth. “That’s all it takes to bloody piss me off.”

      She blinked. “You don’t like me because I’m a woman?” Maybe he really was gay.

      “No, I like you just fine. Parts of you, anyway.” His gaze slid over her body in a leering once-over, lingering on her breasts and between her legs, slowly stripping away her already scanty clothing. Daring her to challenge him. Begging her to do it, actually.

      As if she would ever, ever let that swine see her naked. And knead her breasts. And roll her nipples between his fingers. And lick his way down her body. And—she growled low in her throat.

      “Women are the cheaters and the liars,” he said, “not men. They blithely forget their morals when they think they’re going to get an orgasm. Or a man with more money. Or a man who will stupidly do anything they ask. The list could go on and on.”

      She blinked again as realization slammed into her. Oh, the irony. She laughed, incredulous. Marcus Brody was the male version of her. This savagely beautiful specimen thought women were pigs. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. Priceless.

      “That wasn’t funny,” he said tightly.

      “Yes, it was.” Forcing herself to sober, she studied him. “Exactly how long have you worked in this business?”

      He pressed his lips together in a mutinous line. Apparently sharing personal information wasn’t part of their hate/hate relationship.

      “Well?” she pressed.

      “Eight years,” he finally responded. He glanced at his wristwatch. “And now this conversation is over. I have the information I need on the target. You may go.”

      “I may go?” She gasped. “I may go?”

      “Yes. Is there an echo in the room?”

      Had she mentioned that she hated this man?

      “I’ll meet you at the club in three and a half hours,” he said. He pushed his big, hard body out of his seat and strode around Anne’s desk. He plopped into Anne’s chair.

      Shocked at his daring, Jillian shook her head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

      He gazed down at the papers. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Anne told me to make myself at home.”

      “I can guarantee she didn’t mean at her desk.”

      He leaned back and stretched out his legs, anchoring his ankles on the surface. He met her gaze. “Were you here? Did you hear the conversation?”

      “No,” she gritted out.

      “So you don’t know what she meant, do you?”

      Smug bastard. More than puzzles, more than this man, she hated being bested. She wanted Marcus out of this office so she could go through Anne’s desk. She wanted to read his employee file, like he’d read hers. And what the hell had Anne put in her file to make Jillian seem of questionable morals?

      “Well?” he prompted. “How long do you plan to sit there?”

      Fine, she decided in the next instant. Let him stay. It might piss Anne off when she found out, and Anne might (please, please, please!) fire him. Besides that, arguing with him was still arousing her. More so now than before. Her skin was heating and hot blood was flowing through her veins at an alarming rate.

      “Leave the door open on your way out,” he added smugly.

      Eyes slitted, panting a little, Jillian stood. Better to leave now, before he called her a bad name—a worse name, anyway—and she jumped his bones. What’s wrong with me? she wondered for the—what?—thousandth time?

      She strode toward the door, calling with mock breeziness over her shoulder, “I’m going home to purge myself of your nastiness. I’ll see you at the club, Markie. Make sure to bring that hundred dollars you’re going to owe me. I expect payment the moment you lose.” She slammed the door behind her, making the glass vibrate, and sauntered down the hall.