Scandal in Seattle

  Ian Hendrik’s type, though, didn’t need much handholding. I could pretty much fire insult after insult at the guy, and he’d still wind up with his pants around his ankles.

  But . . . better to play it safe. I wasn’t the number one Eve in G’s little black book because I took blatant risks. I followed the guidelines, most of the times, and if a risk was required, I made sure it was a calculated one. “Maybe I am a little eager for you to win. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make you work any less hard for the win.”

  Ian slid into his car, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just how eager are you?”

  You know those guys who can make you skeezed out with one look? Yeah, that was Ian Hendrik.

  “Why don’t you win, and then you can find out firsthand just how eager I am?” Lifting an eyebrow, I revved the engine.

  “I’m made of win, babe.” Revving his own engine, he waited for me to call the start.

  Raising three fingers, I lowered one, then the next, and when the third one was down, we both punched it off of the line. The Saleen, as predicted, exploded ahead; it wasn’t an iconic race car for nothing. However, what advantage Ian had at the start of the race, I more than compensated for in experience.

  At the halfway point, we were almost neck and neck. When the finish line was in view, I’d taken the lead. I could hear Ian cussing his car to hell and back even over the roar of the engines. Or at least I could imagine it. As good as it felt last night to kick his ass at something he loved, and as good as it felt to be kicking it just as hard when he was in one hell of a fast car, that night wasn’t about winning.

  Not the kind that involved race cars anyways.

  It took me two tries before I could pull back on the accelerator just enough that Ian’s Saleen slipped by. It was my turn to mutter a string of obscenities. He might have won the race, but only by half a car length and only because I let him. Only because it was part of a larger plan. I had to get him out into the open to have sex with him so some third party could catch us on film so his wife, who I strongly disliked, would come out of a divorce with more than the Dolce on her shoulder.

  Most days, my job didn’t seem one hundred percent morally reprehensible. That day wasn’t one of those days.

  Hitting the brake, I checked the time on the dash. We were good. As long as the Client had gotten in touch with the Contact and that person was there at the intended time, we were good to go. Before stepping out of the car, I eyed the hood, sighed, then got to it. Ian practically bounded out of the Saleen with a wide smile. He caught sight of me and that smile shifted into something more devious. I’d brought a few mini bottles of vodka along just in case he needed some liquoring up before he humped a girl who may or may not be legal on the hood of a car, but it didn’t look as though he needed it.

  Stopping in front of me, his hands dropped to my hips as his hips pressed into mine. Yep, definitely didn’t need the vodka to lower his inhibitions. “So . . . just how eager are you?” he asked. He lowered his mouth to my neck at the same time his hands fisted up the material of my dress.

  I gasped in an attempt to sound surprised, but to my ears, it sounded a little forced. To Ian’s ears? At that point, I don’t think the guy was using his ears at all. His hands and mouth were picking up the slack, though.

  “Eager. Very eager,” I breathed, pulling my dress straps down to tug it past my chest. That was about the time Ian’s hands lowered, his fingers eagerly exploring as he moaned.

  In true Sheet night fashion, I didn’t have on any underwear. No panties. No bra. No wasted time. It was all about efficiency and speed. The sooner the Target got caught on film nailing me, the sooner I got to get away.

  “Oh, my god. You really are eager.” He moaned again when his finger moved deeper inside of me.

  Shoving him away playfully, I stepped back until I felt the Acura’s bumper against my calves. Slowly lying back, I spread myself on the warm hood and gave him a face no man could mistake. The fuck-me expression. “So? Are you going to play with me all night, or are you going to fuck me?”

  Ian wet his lips, unable to take his eyes off of the spot where my knees rocked together and apart. When I lowered my hand to the spot he couldn’t take his eyes from, and I began gliding my finger up and down, his zipper lowered about one second before the rest of his jeans.

  “Oh, baby. I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll never be able to be with another man without thinking about me and what I did to you.”

  No guy who was actually a pro in bed had to clarify that. He wouldn’t even think it, because he just knew. To date, I’d never met a single Target who hadn’t said something similar. In their minds, they were the be all end all. Especially when it came to knowing what to do with their dicks.

  To date, for the record, not a single one had gotten me remotely close to orgasm. None had even made my nipples harden. I would have found crocheting baby booties more thrilling, honestly, than having sex with any of my Targets.

  That whole morally reprehensible part? It was really hitting hard that night.

  Ian tugged his shirt over his head before lowering himself over me. Two more things that added up to Ian Hendrik being a Giant Douche? He was about to drive his dick into me and he had yet to kiss me, and . . . and he was trying to drive said dick into me without a condom.

  Probably why the bastard liked his conquests young. Less to worry about in the STD arena, although I’d run across teenagers getting twice as much action as I was, and what did Ian Hendrik care if he knocked up one of them? He wasn’t going to raise a child when he was still one, and the word of a married, renowned photographer would be taken over the word of a young woman his lawyer would paint as a greedy youth trying to pin an unplanned pregnancy on a man of means. Not that such a case would ever wind up in court in the first place. I didn’t doubt Ian would pay a conquest off before it ever got that far.

  “Easy there, Grand Prix,” I said, shoving Ian’s chest. “Suit up or get up.”

  “I don’t like condoms,” Ian replied, almost panting.

  “Then I hope you like not getting laid because that’s exactly what’ll happen if you don’t put one on.”

  Ian’s hand covered my breast, playing with my nipple. He wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, that one.

  “I didn’t realize my winning came with so many conditions,” he said, his mouth taking his hand’s place on my breast.

  “I didn’t realize a condom needed to be a condition these days. I thought that came pretty standard. You know, like cup holders in cars. You don’t have to ask because those little buggers are expected, not preferred.”

  His tongue continued to circle my nipple as either he debated or hoped I’d change my mind. From the handy work his mouth was not making, he certainly wouldn’t have changed my mind, even if it could have been changed.

  “Ian, I’m serious. Get off of me if you don’t have a condom or intend on using one.” I gave him another shove to prove how serious I was. I would do few things to jeopardize an Errand, but lack of a condom was one of them. As a hedge against Targets who “forgot” one—and with the men I dealt with, a good percentage of them usually did—I made sure to always keep a couple handy in my purse, clutch, dress, shoe, etc.

  “Fine, but I don’t—”

  Raising my leg, I slid my heel off, grabbed what I needed, and flashed the condom in his face. “Good thing I do then.” I lifted my eyebrows and waited.

  He groaned before punching the hood of my car and standing up. If a man could look like a petulant little boy, Ian Hendrik had just nailed it. He grabbed the condom and was just moving it into position when a bright flash surprised us both. It came from the side and a ways up in the grandstands, but I didn’t need two guesses to know who had made it. If the grim outlook on humanity’s future didn’t kill me, an ignorant Contact would. Who in their right mind would use a flash at a dark race track? That’s right, no one. Which m
eant the Contact was a raging idiot.

  “What the hell was that?” Ian grumbled, frozen as he surveyed the grandstand.

  One sure way to distract a man’s attention from . . . anything, a speeding train included? Roll a condom down his shaft.

  Slowly.

  With your mouth.

  “Oh, hell yes, baby. Now we’re talking.” Ian’s fingers wove through my hair, and he guided me a bit forcefully. After a few seconds, that flash and what it meant was a distant memory.

  Having to be just as forceful as he was, I yanked my head away from his packaged, ready, and if I’d been a virgin bride on my wedding night, rather disappointing dick. I lay back over the hood. Time to get it over with.

  Ian almost pounced on me, his hips frantically trying to gain purchase. Done with the swing-and-miss routine, I grabbed hold of him and guided him the rest of the way. When he entered me, it wasn’t slowly. Or gently.

  “That feels so damn good,” he panted outside of my ear, driving a little deeper. “You’re not a virgin are you, babe? You’re so damn tight I’m starting to wonder.”

  That’s because I do more Kegels than the girlfriend of a rock band’s lead singer. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d done that more than usual with the Hendrik Errand. “No, I’m not a virgin.” And if I was, the last place and person I’d want to lose it with would be here and with you.

  “Good. That means I don’t have to play gentle.” Grabbing my breasts with both hands, he moved inside of me. That was my cue to go somewhere else. I knew Ian wouldn’t take long, a minute or two max, but I didn’t want to be present for those one or two minutes. A one-minute memory of Ian Hendrik rutting against me was enough to cause some serious psychological damage.

  Right before I went to my “happy place,” I lifted my hand to the side and raised my middle finger. Stupid Contacts. My job would be twice as easy if not for the incompetent people I dealt with along the way.

  Thankfully, my mind didn’t escape to Henry. Thankfully, that time, it wasn’t his body I felt moving against mine. Thankfully, it wasn’t the memory of the things he’d do and say when we’d made love that flashed into my head. I knew to be thankful for those things, but it was difficult to feel genuinely thankful for some reason.

  I guessed it was a reason I didn’t want to dive too deeply into.

  When Ian shuddered in what I guessed was closer to the minute mark, I almost shoved him off of me. As far as my part went, the Errand was done. I’d closed it successfully, and he was one Target I couldn’t wait to put as much space between us as possible. Ian Hendrik was one of the reasons God should never have created man in the whole creation-of-the-earth thing. Talk about a bad idea.

  “So? How was it?” Ian smiled stupidly, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. “Pretty damn fantastic, right?”

  I’d already adjusted my dress and was back into the heel I’d taken off. “You really are quite the man, Ian.”

  His expression went smug. “Did I rock your world or what?”

  I don’t know what it was, maybe because he was still standing buck naked in the middle of a race track with a stupid grin on his face, or maybe it was because he thought sixty seconds of pumping was enough to rock a girl’s world, but I almost laughed. Laughter came so close to slipping out, but I bit it back just in time.

  “Not as much as I’ve rocked yours, Ian.” Flashing him a wink, I slid into the Acura, fired it up, and sped past Ian Hendrik with his pants still around his ankles.

  THANKS TO IAN Hendrik, the one-minute-to-blast-off lover, I arrived at SEA-TAC with plenty of time to spare. I parked the Acura, said goodbye to it, and was about to pat the hood when I thought the better of it. That hood had seen plenty of action; no need for any more. I didn’t know who or how our cars for each Errand were delivered and returned, but it wasn’t my concern. G took care of it, and as long as she kept sending sweet, fast cars my way, I wouldn’t complain.

  Once I’d texted the V for victory to both G and Mrs. Hendrik, I disposed of the phones as I’d been taught, grabbed a quick victory shot of cheap tequila in the airport bar, and boarded the ten o’clock to San Francisco. My first class seat felt especially deserved after who I’d put up with on that Errand, and the plane hadn’t left the tarmac before I was asleep.

  Henry had worked his way back into my dreams again, and even in my dream state, I knew that was a bad thing.

  It was a few weeks after our “official” meeting, and we’d become known as the lab partners to beat. Before I’d partnered up with him, I wouldn’t have believed he had any weaknesses when it came to programming, but Henry’s weaknesses were my strengths and his strengths were my weaknesses. We were the IT dream team.

  But that didn’t stop everyone from saying behind our backs—and a few to my face—that the only reason we were at the top of the class was because Henry was pulling all the weight. Of course, there were also the rumors that came along with just about any kind of male and female partnership. Depending on the day, I was either screwing Henry as payment for being my partner, or I was a lesbian who’d slept my way through California. I hated automatically being viewed as a man-screwer on my way to the top, or a female one. Holy epiphany, I sure couldn’t be a straight, hardworking woman who planned to be successful in my career.

  And look at me now. Screwing men as a career. Irony, if you’re listening, eat shit and die.

  Enough with the ironies; back to the dream. I was working as a computer lab assistant in a work study program since I hadn’t come from a family who’d paid for my entire college education before I was out of diapers. Just like any other day, I was taking my fair share of harassment from the future country club flies. Some days it was nothing more than a vulgar sketch dropped in my lap, and some days it wasn’t so tame. Like that day.

  Baron VonStraub—yes, there were actually pricks who named their kids that—was one of the worst offenders. He’d search me out to make my life even more miserable than it was. My guess was that his karma from a former life had given him a misshaped, minuscule dick. Plus he had to go through life with the name Baron. Mostly, he was just a Grade A dickhole.

  His comments that day had included something along the lines of informing me if I was still undecided about the kind of “equipment” I liked, he’d be happy to give me the full run-down of his equipment. He said he’d meet me in the women’s bathroom in five because he’d heard I’d spent as much time on my knees in there as I had in class.

  Several times that year, I’d come close to punching Baron in the throat. That time, I came the closest. The longer he laughed, even elbowing a couple of his buddies who were laughing just as hard, the more my fists balled at my sides.

  Baron VonStraub was about two seconds from being knocked out when in came Henry. The instant he saw me, he grinned and headed my way. Henry and Baron were good friends, but I swore he never noticed Baron two feet to the side when he approached. He didn’t even notice when Baron lifted his hand and said something genius to the effect of What’s up? or My man.

  Henry didn’t stop until he was one step in front of me. I remember I’d tried to act busy, or like I wasn’t flustered having him so close and grinning at me that way, but I hadn’t been very convincing. Without so much as a hello, he told me he’d like to ask me out and asked me if I’d like him to ask me out. Looking back, what he’d said wasn’t nearly as confusing as it had seemed.

  After a few moments of proverbial open-mouth shock, Baron said something to Henry about being desperate for a low-rent piece of ass. With his expression perfectly flat, Henry had replied with something about how teasing girls he liked became socially unacceptable after sixth grade. He’d capped it with Grow up and get lost until you do. Baron promptly did. The get lost part, at least.

  Returning his attention to me, Henry had lifted a brow and waited. I stared at him for another minute, trying not to be fazed by his handsome face or the fact that Henry Callahan appealed to me in so many ways I’d almost become a beli
ever in soul mates. And I was looking at him.

  Finally, I was able to give him an answer.

  It was no.

  Henry walked away that day with his shoulders an inch lower, and him walking away that way broke a tiny piece of my heart. That’s what I used to remind myself why I needed to say no to the Henry Callahans of the world. We hadn’t even been involved yet, and my heart was already breaking. I averted one major heartbreak that day.

  Henry didn’t stop asking though and, as we all know the tragic end to the story, I eventually said yes. Falling in love with Henry Callahan was the single most easy and natural thing I’d ever done. In true ying-yang fashion, falling out of love with him was the utter and total opposite.

  AFTER WAKING UP from my latest Henry nightmare, I was done with sleeping on planes. I wasn’t sure if it was the planes, or having him thrust back into my life, or what, but I’d rather run on caffeine and no sleep than dream about Henry.

  By the time I’d practically crawled off of the plane, stumbled around the parking garage until I found the Mustang, and made it back to the condo without wrapping the car around a street lamp, it was almost two in the morning. I fought sleep off for as long as I could, but I lost the battle thirty seconds later and fell asleep face down and fully clothed.

  When the alarm on my phone blasted me awake a few short hours later, I was relieved I hadn’t dreamed about Henry again. That relief was short-lived when I realized I had to get up and ready to go see the real one. He was supposed to be back sometime that day, and given the urgency of beating some other girl to the philandering-punch, G wanted me outside his office door thirty seconds before the start of business.

  G didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. If Mrs. Callahan really had contacted other agencies like ours, G wouldn’t be satisfied until we’d shouldered, shoved, and squashed them out of the way. It was our Ten. That wasn’t an Errand to lose to a competitor.