Scandal in Seattle

  As soon as I crossed the finish line, I tilted my head back and hooted. After pulling off to the side of the track, I checked the rearview again. I gave my hair a tease and added a coat of cherry lip gloss before sliding out of the car.

  The other cars were staggered along the edge of the track, and every last head was turned my way. When the remaining few who hadn’t witnessed my grand stall out saw I was a woman, their bitter expressions turned more to shock.

  Yeah, because a woman kicking your ass in anything is the most inconceivable thing in the world.

  If Ian wasn’t there, I would have stuck my tongue out at each one of them. However, Ian was most definitely there and, presently, sauntering my way.

  Game time.

  “Aren’t you just full of surprises.” Ian’s smile slid into place, the one that tipped the menacing scale. “I didn’t know you were into racing.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned into the side of my car. “You know hardly anything about me.”

  His eyes flashed in the encroaching darkness. “That’s not true. I know what you look like without your clothes on.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. I came that close. “What does seeing me in my birthday suit have to do with knowing anything about me?”

  One side of his smile tipped higher. “Everything.”

  Getting into an argument with him over that was a failed effort. To Ian Hendrik, I suppose seeing a woman naked did tell him everything he needed to know about her.

  “So what place did you get?” Time to put the guy back in his place and, from the way that smile of his ironed out, that one question did just that.

  “Well, I would have taken first if a late entry bluffing her skills at the start line wouldn’t have shown up.”

  “You’re so sure of that, eh? First place if I hadn’t beaten you to it?”

  “So certain I’d bet my own life on it.”

  Ian Hendrik was a bigger idiot than I’d given him credit for. I’d rectify that immediately.

  “Are you one of those people who always take first place or one of those who always thinks they deserve it even when they don’t?”

  The twisted smile was back. “Both.”

  I exhaled and shook my head.

  “Got any tips for how I can keep my winning streak up?”

  “Yeah.” My eyes locked with his. “Don’t go up against me.”

  A flash of excitement rushed through his eyes as he studied me. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but whatever it was, it was intense.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked. The staring match was getting old fast.

  “The truth or the filtered truth?”

  “The truth. The cold, hard one,” I replied.

  Ian’s eyes landed on the hood of my Acura. “Right now, I’m thinking about throwing you down on the hood, ripping off your panties, and giving you the best fuck you’ve ever had.”

  At least he was honest.

  “Got any truth right in between filtered and cold, hard?” I asked, putting my plan together.

  Ian stroked his chin, watching me like I was a rabbit to be snared. “Yeah, I do,” he said, leaning in so close, I could feel the hard and hot truth against my body. “I want to fuck you. And I know you want to fuck me, too. So why don’t we cut this dance early and get it out of our systems already? I’m not the kind of man who does delayed gratification well.”

  No man did delayed gratification well. Some just knew how to grin and bear it. The men I worked with hadn’t honed that skill.

  “Maybe I do want to fuck you. And maybe I don’t,” I replied, stepping aside to show he couldn’t manhandle me at will. The only way he could manhandle me was if I gave him permission. “But I will make a bet with you.”

  “Oh?” That flash of excitement was in his eyes again. “What kind of bet?”

  My eyes shifted to the hood of my car. It was a perfect plan, a way to get the philandering Neanderthal out from behind locked steel doors. “I’ll let you fuck me on the hood of my car.”

  Ian waited a few seconds. After another moment, his patience ran out. “There was an if condition in your tone. So give me the if condition before I convince you you don’t need or want an if when it comes to my dick working its magic.”

  Dicks didn’t work magic. The men behind them did. To date, I’d only known one worthy of claiming the “making magic” skill, and that was the same man I hated to hell and back.

  “If—if—you beat me in our next race”—I quirked an eyebrow as I glanced at the prominent bulge in his pants—“I’ll let you fuck me on the hood of my car.”

  “If?”

  “If.”

  Ian grinned. “You’ve got that all wrong, Ally. It’s not if I beat you, it’s when I beat you.”

  “When you beat me?” I repeated, giving him a skeptical look. “We’ll see.”

  “Yes. Yes, we will.” Ian grinned widely before patting my car’s hood and heading back to his.

  I WAS JUST about to step into the shower to wash away both the actual and figurative filth from the race when my G phone buzzed.

  I’d thought I would be flattered she was checking in on me so much. Now that it was reality, it was just plain annoying. I knew what I was doing and didn’t have to be handheld the entire way—with a Ten as a Target or not.

  I didn’t have a chance to issue my usual not-so-usual greeting.

  “You’re leaving Seattle.”

  I cinched the tie of my robe. “When?”

  “The first plane out you can catch. Let’s see . . . you’re at the Four Seasons, thirty minutes give or take traffic from the airport. Shall I book you for the ten or ten-thirty?”

  “G, I just flew back today, and you want me out again tonight? You know I’m willing to do whatever it takes, but can’t it wait twenty-four hours until I close the Hendrik Errand? What’s the rush anyways?” I flopped into the chair outside the bathroom and eyed my suitcase. At least I hadn’t unpacked yet.

  “I don’t care about the Hendrik Errand. We’re dropping it. Right now, I need you giving one hundred percent to the Callahan Errand.”

  I’d officially heard it all. “Could you repeat that because I swear I just heard you say we’re dropping an Errand. Since we’ve never dropped an Errand, since I’ve never even considered dropping an Errand, I know I must have heard you wrong.”

  Eves didn’t drop Errands. Hell, we rarely failed an Errand, let alone burned the file and ran, and damn if I was going to be the first to do so.

  “You heard me right, Eve. Dispose of the file, check out, and get your ass on a plane.”

  “Mr. Callahan just left to fly halfway around the world. He’s probably just landed, and for some reason, you think he’s going to hold a two-minute meeting in the airport then fly back in time for lunch tomorrow?” I wasn’t upset about the Callahan Errand taking up so much energy; I was upset G had just ordered me to hightail it away from another Errand. In my book, that was unacceptable.

  We remained in business because of our reputation, and if word got around that we were ditching out on Errands, the Eves would go from dining on filet one week to ramen the next. I’d dined on enough ramen in my lifetime to put an entire college to shame.

  “Mr. Callahan is still expected to be out of the country until the day after tomorrow. Right now, my concerns aren’t about him directly.”

  “Would you care to share your concerns with the Eve you’ve assigned to the Errand?”

  G stayed silent long enough for me to know I was deep into faux pas territory. As rule, her Eves did what she said, no questions asked. She said march, and we didn’t stop until she said so. She said wag your tail, and we faked it until we made it. The only reasons I could get away with testing that rule were because I was one of her favorites and I was assigned to the biggest Errand to ever fall into her lap.

  “No, I wouldn’t care to share my concerns with you at all,” she started. I could feel her glare through the phone. “But since I know you’re go
ing to make this hard on me until I tell you, I’ll get it out of the way.”

  I would have thanked her if I wasn’t positive it would have only pissed her off more.

  “I’ve heard through what you might call the grapevine that Mrs. Callahan is shopping other I Clause agencies. She doesn’t care who or how someone lures her husband into bed, just as long as it’s soon.”

  “Whoa, G, hold your I Clause horses.” I got up to pour myself a glass of wine. From the sounds of it, alcohol was a good idea. “Did you just say other agencies? As in agencies like the Eves?”

  Two long seconds of silence, and then, “Precisely like, other than the name.”

  Good thing the wine glass was big, because I just kept pouring. “How long have you known about these other agencies?”

  “Sweetpea, what do you think gave me the brilliant idea to get into this line of business? I didn’t wake up with this brilliant plan to bring the philandering husbands of the United States to their financial knees.”

  I don’t know what it was, or that it was intelligible, but something must have come out of my mouth because G kept going.

  “I’m a business woman, Eve. Not an inventor. I took something I knew was already on the market and made it better. Plain and simple. Did you really think we were the only ones out there doing something like this? You and I both know there are enough cheating bastards out there with wedding bands on their fingers that ten thousand women could be working simultaneous Errands, and we’d still be understaffed.”

  I suddenly felt rather stupid. Like a naive little girl. I’d always assumed that we Eves were the only ones because . . . well . . . because we were the only ones. Who else would be up to the task of dealing with the world’s filth?

  Apparently, according to G, there were plenty of us willing to deal with the filth. Even I wasn’t naive enough to believe that was all due to the ultimate payout and not to the actual job details. “I guess I never even considered it . . .”

  “That’s fine. Your job isn’t to consider it; that’s mine. Your job is to do what you’ve been trained to do, what you know you need to do, and what I tell you to do.” G exhaled slowly. “How about a little more doing and a little less considering?”

  “So what exactly would you like me to do if another Eve”—I had no idea what to call the girls who worked for those other agencies—“has been assigned to Mr. Callahan? Stick my tongue out at her? Pull out her recent weave? Compare breast size?” I cut it short only because I knew I was past pressing it with G. Long past.

  “No, I want you to show her what she’s up against. I want you to prove that you are so far superior to whatever shadow of a woman she is and make her doubt herself so badly, she either flies back to her employer and hands in her resignation or decides to jump out the window of her top floor suite.”

  Well, I’d asked for it. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I want you to put a bullet in her brain if she refuses to be intimated by your superiority. If she doesn’t want to play nice, then neither do we.”

  Okay. After working for G for over five years, I knew she was a bitch. I just didn’t know she was a . . . bitch. “So when I’m not seducing men, you want me whacking the competition? Come on, G, get real.”

  “I think you’re the one who needs to take that advice.”

  Think, Eve, think. You’re smart. Maybe not conniving like G, but smart nonetheless. You can put together a logical argument that will appeal to her bottom-line ideologies.

  “I need to finish the Hendrik Errand, G. Not for me, but for you,” I added when I heard her ready to break into her rebuttal.

  “For me? And why is finishing some run-of-the-mill Seven all about me and not you? Because when we look at what you make compared to what I make in a year—and believe me, Eve, I look every day—you’ve got a lot more to lose proportionately dropping this than I do.”

  I didn’t need the reminder than I made close to seven figures a year, and G cashed in what I guessed was closer to eight figures. “I’m doing this for you, G. You don’t have to believe me, but you and I both know that if word gets around that your Eves are ditching out on Errands, your competitors will gain a larger portion of the market share.” Thank you, Econ 101, for making me sound moderately intelligent. “Plus, I texted the final S to Mrs. Hendrik right before you called. I’m afraid we’re past the so-called point of no return.”

  White lies. They weren’t only a part of real life; they were majorly a part of our business. Had I texted Mrs. Hendrik the final S, along with the time and address of her husband’s upcoming demise? No, I had not. Did G need to believe I had so I could save her, my, and her entire business’s reputation? Yes, she did.

  “And you neglected to text me the same because . . .?”

  “Because you called about one hot second before I hit send.”

  “Eve, I don’t like this. I don’t want our biggest Target ever to slip through our fingers because we were so worried about cutting a Seven loose.” G’s voice sounded just as harsh, but I could tell I was wearing her down. She was close to caving.

  “Well, I don’t like it either, but it’s too late, G. The Client has been sent the final message that I’m closing the Errand tomorrow night. For all I know, she could have already arranged it all with her Contact. I can’t just give her a ring and say, oops, not so fast, I’m off the case. Oh, and by the way, good luck with your cheating ass husband.”

  G almost groaned. “Dammit, Eve. Why does your timing have to be so terrible?”

  “Bad luck, I guess. But good thing for you I’m one of the best at what I do. You don’t have to worry about anything going wrong with either the Hendrik or Callahan Errands. I’ve got them both.”

  G was silent.

  “I promise.”

  When G finally did reply, her answer kind of creeped me out. Maybe it was her tone, or maybe it was her words, or maybe it was just because I knew G wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to get on the bad side of. “I hope that’s a promise you intend on keeping.”

  BASED ON JUST the hours I was actually in Seattle, that Errand was probably a record. Not that it was closed yet, but I didn’t doubt it would be closed in the next hour. Although it had been expedited, it had been a cut-and-dry Errand. Actually, it had been almost too easy, but when it came to the likes of Ian Hendrik, I’d take “too easy” because that meant spending as little time with him as possible.

  It was safe to say I hated the guy. Sure, I didn’t know all of his backstory, insecurities, or the things that make a person the way they are, but one of the luxuries of my job was that I didn’t have to. I didn’t want, need, or have to know if his mommy had ignored him or if his daddy had packed his bags one night and never seen him again. Backstory wasn’t my job unless it directly related to me closing the Errand. Backstory, more times than not, created sympathy, and that was an emotion I didn’t want anywhere around one of my Targets. That was part of the reason I’d stopped Henry from explaining what had happened that night. I didn’t want to have any smidgeon of sympathy for him. The other part of the reason was exactly what I’d admitted to him: It didn’t change a damn thing. The whys of what had happened couldn’t go back and change history. Backstory was a no-no. Backstory didn’t get an Errand closed in record time.

  I sped into Sound Speedway just before eight, and I already knew Ian was waiting for me. The anticipation of banging a girl made a guy eager . . . overzealous even. Ian tipped more that overzealous scale. Then, of course, there was that sixth sense I had when it came to his type. They basically emitted a run-in-the-other-direction frequency; they were that vile. But I was an Eve, and that meant I didn’t run in the other direction. That meant I didn’t even flinch when I was neck deep in vile.

  Which was exactly where I was about to go.

  Ian was waiting for me at the start line, as expected. Leaning against the driver’s door of a different car than he’d driven last night, his arms were crossed and his expression smug. One of the wors
t parts of my job, other than having to sleep with those types of guys, was witnessing their expressions ranging from smug to all-out gloat on Sheet night.

  My only vindication was knowing that expression was long gone when their ass got nailed to the wall in divorce court a few months later. I’d let Ian have his gloat. He wouldn’t have anything to gloat over very soon.

  “You must be scared my winning last night wasn’t some random stroke of luck, eh?” I called out my window as I pulled up beside him.

  “Maybe,” Ian replied, his smile tugging high on one side. “But maybe my motivations for winning are especially high in this situation.”

  Nothing like getting to screw a girl on the top of a hood to “motivate” a man. I used to believe there was hope for mankind. After the number of men I’d dealt with as an Eve, I’d come to the conclusion that mankind had been screwed from the beginning. “Is that the 2011 or 2012 Saleen?”

  Ian peaked an eyebrow. Guys were always surprised when a woman knew about cars, like gearhead knowledge was only reserved for someone with a dick.

  “The 2012. And it’s fast.”

  “Fast enough to beat me?” I hung my elbow out the window.

  “It damn well better be, or I’m firing my mechanic.”

  “Well”—I shrugged—“enough talk. Let’s do this.”

  Ian shoved off his car and pulled open the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone’s as eager for me to win as I am.”

  On Sheet night, it was all about accommodation. It was all about getting the Target closer and closer to the bed or, in that night’s instance, the hood of the car. It was about saying and doing whatever it took to put it into his head that he simply had to have me. He simply wouldn’t live a full life if he didn’t.