Eros (Olympia Alien Mail Order Brides Book 1)

by K. Cantrell

  “Right on time, honey,” she says and shoves the door wide to admit me into an old fashioned living room complete with overstuffed, fussy brocade couches that sport wooden legs that look like claws. Oriental rugs cover the worn hardwoods and a crystal ball on the sideboard would not be out of place. I might be a little disappointed there’s not one.

  As unique matchmaking goes, this is pretty over the top. I can’t imagine that Charmaine gets much business, especially given that I tried to research her company after I got the email and there’s nothing out there. No reviews, no one who claims he or she met the love of their life via Out of This World. I mean, even the most casual of searches reveals someone’s twitter bio that says met my soulmate on match.com and live in Seattle, or whatever.

  Maybe she lures unsuspecting women to her lair and cuts them up with chainsaws in the basement. I send Clem a quick text to let her know what I’m doing, the address and the time I entered the house. Just in case. I’m not usually so jumpy but there’s something off about this whole scenario.

  Maybe what’s off is me. I am not good with men. At all. I should be at the salon, where I have a never ending to-do list, but instead I’m here under the premise of finding a fake boyfriend, which suddenly seems really dumb.

  And then I remember that my mom will be calling me to ask if I’m bringing my new man to brunch. Square those shoulders and let’s do this.

  “You, um, have a match for me?” As I perch on the couch, the heavy corded brocade bites into the bare part of my skin below the short skirt I’m wearing, one of the few I have that might pass for first date material. Which reminds me of the other weird thing—why couldn’t I contact the guy on my own? Instant message him a few times and see a picture first before committing to anything?

  Of course, that would only matter if I planned to actually date the guy. My spine relaxes a fraction. None of this counts if it’s not real and that’s much easier to handle than an actual date that requires me to be charming instead of controlling. Odd how men don’t like a woman who has opinions about the way things should go.

  Charmaine nods. “It was instantaneous. Usually it’s not that clear cut, but you are a great match to John Smith.”

  My eye roll is probably a little unwarranted. But really? What have I signed up for here, an anonymous prisoner rehabilitation program? No one is named John Smith by accident. “I’m sorry, I have to ask. What kind of matchmaking service is this? You specifically drew me in with the idea of a pretend boyfriend to get my mom happy with the state of my love life. But what sort of men are in this program?”

  I should have dragged Clem along with me. But I didn’t because…I don’t know why. It feels desperate or something to be here working with a matchmaker strictly to fool my family. And maybe that’s not the only reason I’m here. If Clem was sitting next to me, she’d sniff that out and I really don’t want to examine the tiny little part of me that has hope for a match that might lead somewhere.

  It won’t, of course.

  With a smile, Charmaine takes a seat. The highlights Janet did are top notch, blending the woman’s gray and blond so that it looks natural. She would be a great extra in a movie that called for a hip, eccentric aunt type. “I get that question a lot. I realize my methods are a little unconventional, but you’re not looking for a conventional match. Are you?”

  No. I’m really not. But all at once, I’m not sure what I’m looking for and that’s not fair to anyone. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

  I should get back to work anyway. Clem and Janet might need me for something. I stand to leave and Charmaine motions for me to sit back down. “Hold up, honey. Give me a minute to lay out what I’m proposing and then if you’re not on board, you can go, no questions asked. I tagged you in the salon because I think you’re perfect for the program I run. It’s not a normal dating service.”

  That much I gathered and in spite of myself, I’m intrigued. “What is it then?”

  “I help displaced aliens find a new life.” She pauses to let me absorb that for a minute and I connect the dots pretty fast.

  “That’s why you asked about cultural differences.” Okay. I’m not sure how I feel about the current state of immigration issues, but I’m definitely not in a place where I can afford to break the law. Clementine and Janet and the other stylists depend on me for a job. “What are we talking, refugees from Mexico?”

  “Not quite.” The pause stretches and Charmaine jerks her chin skyward. “When I say alien, I mean that literally. From the planet Torvis.”

  I swallow and laugh at the same time which makes me cough. Tears leak from my eyes and I stand again because obviously I’ve wandered into a practical joke. If it’s not, then Charmaine is clinically insane and I should get while the getting is good. “We’re done here then.”

  “Maybe you should meet your match before you go.”

  My legs start to tremble midstride and I stop. The creature from outer space is here? In the house? Wildly, I scout around as if I had a shot at identifying something otherworldly that had been heretofore undetected.

  And then common sense kicks in. I scoff. “The match who’s also an alien? Is this the part where I get an alien implanted in my stomach and it tears its way out like a fatal jack in the box?”

  She doesn’t move from the couch, just watches me calmly as she shakes her head. “This isn’t a movie with special effects. It’s a placement service for refugees. This alien needs someone to help him assimilate, to learn our culture. He was banished from his own planet and came here seeking a new life. You have a good heart, or so your friend says, and John Smith needs your help. Won’t you at least consider the idea that there is more to the universe than what you believed before you walked through my front door?”

  “I…” Have no idea what to say next. This has got to be some elaborate scheme and I don’t need a fake boyfriend this badly. I should leave.

  But when I whirl toward the door, it’s too late. The atmosphere shifts and the most beautiful man I have ever seen in real life materializes in the foyer between me and the front door. Naturally. Of course I’m frozen in my tracks, so it’s not like I could have made a break for it anyway.

  He’s motionless too. Our gazes lock and I can’t look away. I don’t want to. It’s like staring into the face of the sun, complete with graying vision and a sense that I’m damaging something the longer I stare, but it’s so warm and inviting. I can’t stop.

  The inability to control myself is only the first of many red flags but I can’t remember why that’s a problem all at once.

  My brain has just enough working cells left to connect some more dots. He didn’t actually materialize, as in beam me to the surface of the planet, Spock. He came from the back of the house. But there is literally no doubt in my mind that this is not a regular human, at least not the variety I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across. For one, he has to be at least six and a half feet tall and built like a tank. But that’s not even the striking part. His face is angelic, the kind of perfect that modeling agencies and film producers fight over.

  And every molecule of my body recognizes him. Somehow. It’s like I’ve been dreaming my whole life and suddenly woke up to the sense of being. Finally. I’m whole and alive and this man is at the center of all of it. He’s mine and I’m his.

  “This is John,” Charmaine says quietly. “He doesn’t speak English but he has a translator chip implanted behind his ear that will allow you to communicate. It’s not perfect and it helps if you don’t use slang.”

  Ohmygod. My brain kicks in again and I blink away the fated mate nonsense, which is impossible as well as improbable as I take his measure again. This guy is supposed to be an alien? Like an alien alien from another planet?

  “I don’t understand. He looks human.”

  Human and effing hot. He’s drool-worthy in fact, and I’m already imagining the looks on my sister’s faces as I stroll into Sunday brunch with this guy on my arm. No. I cannot imagine that
because that would mean that I’m considering this insane idea that John Smith is my match and thus my fake boyfriend. Who’s an alien. And so beautiful that I can’t stop looking at him or wishing I could touch him. Just to see if he feels like I imagine he does.

  I sit down. A necessity. Otherwise my legs are in danger of giving out.

  “Their DNA is masked, I’m told,” Charmaine explains as if she has this conversation twice a week. “So they can appear human. A blood test would reveal that he is of Swiss origin, though of course he is not.”

  “Um, no. Of course not,” I repeat and yes, I sound as dazed to myself as I feel on the inside. Then what she said registers. “Their DNA? There’s more than one?”

  I’m buying into this nonsense. I can hear myself talking, but I can’t quite believe I’m saying these things as if it’s real. Honestly, I have never really had an opinion either way about whether aliens exist, but I have the strangest feeling I’m being presented the evidence.

  “Oh, yes. Quite a few more. Torvians have been here since the nineteen forties. They helped build the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, which is the portal between their world and ours. Their spacecrafts are too easily spotted, and thus deemed a risk, so now they arrive with much less fanfare. Matchmaking is new though. I run an offshoot of the Intergalactic Dating Agency.”

  Oh, well that explains exactly nothing.

  “I…does he talk?” Like that’s the most important thing. But the world slides away from me at an alarming pace as he strides into the room and kneels at my feet, gathering up my hand in his with surprising gentleness given that he’s almost twice my size. He could crush the bones in my fingers if he chose to, I have no doubt.

  But that’s not what he does.

  “Hello.”

  The word rumbles from his throat and dear God, he has an accent like nothing I’ve ever heard. Which does not stop it from being sexy as sin. No, he could not pass for Swiss unless the person doing the assessing got caught up in his dark brown eyes and gorgeous lips, then started imagining what she could do with a man built like this one. At that point, he could say he was from Mars and no one would care.

  “Um, hi.” He’s still holding my hand, his thumb working a little pattern across my skin that feels like a combination of sandpaper and electricity. I don’t hate it, but neither is it comfortable. It’s invigorating and beleaguering and I have no idea what is happening to me. “Nice to meet you.”

  He nods and strange, garbled words fall from his tongue.

  Charmaine smiles. “That’s his native language. He hasn’t been here that long, but he’ll learn. With your help. In exchange for that, he’ll do pretty much whatever you want.”

  My imagination catches on fire and I can’t reel back the erotic suggestions it seems entirely too quick to spit out. I have never been so instantly attracted to a man before and neither have I stripped one down in my head so fast either. Er, not a man. “They’re, um, human-like, you know…all the way around?”

  Easily the most awkward question I have ever asked in my life and I might be blushing, but Charmain nods.

  “Completely compatible with humans in all ways, including anatomically. That’s how they live here among us without detection. They tend to be above average intelligence, but still struggle with culture. Many of the women who take them as matches pass them off as foreign, which leads to fewer questions.”

  There are other women out there who have done this. It boggles the mind. Yet, if all the aliens look like this one, the concept isn’t so farfetched. He’s still crouched in a subservient, will-you-marry-me position that starts to make me a little giddy.

  “You don’t have to kneel at my feet,” I say to him.

  The translator must have given him some idea of what I meant because he shakes his head, clearly happy exactly where he is.

  “Adoration. For you,” he rumbles and his fingers explore the bones in my wrist as if he’s fascinated by the shape of me.

  His touch is nothing short of electrifying, and my body reacts almost violently. I could easily imagine the thrill of touching him back, of running my fingers through his dark hair. He’d be a willing student. I could teach him exactly how to please me and me alone, and he’d bring no bad habits from a previous relationship. In my experience, men who looked like John Smith get away with all sorts of selfishness in bed.

  Alien. I say it in my head ten times and it’s not so far-fetched all at once.

  And of course, I’m nothing if not practical, so it doesn’t escape me that aliens come with built in birth-control. Right? My eggs would stay blissfully unfertilized and instantly, I have renewed interest in this plan.

  What better fake boyfriend could there possibly be than one genetically incapable of getting me pregnant and who picks adoration as one of his first English words? I help him learn Earth ways, get him settled, my family no longer worries about me, and once he’s acclimated, we can have an amicable breakup. This scenario is a little too perfect, but what’s wrong with having your cake and eating it too? It’s about time something worked out for me in the man department.

  “There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned yet,” Charmaine says. “With the state of immigration in this country, the only safe way to handle this is for you to marry him.”

  My gaze cuts away from the alien at my feet. “What did you just say?”

  “He has forged papers that identify him as an immigrant from Switzerland. You marry him so he can apply for a green card and he stays in the country legally. Otherwise he has go back to Switzerland and live in the secret underground facility they’ve built there. He doesn’t want to do that.”

  Well no, I wouldn’t either. “Why can’t he live in Switzerland? Marry someone there?”

  “Because he was matched to you, honey,” Charmaine reminds me and I do not care for her logic.

  “I filled out that questionnaire under the premise I was getting a fake boyfriend, not a husband,” I counter desperately. Marriage? At no point did I consider that as an option. It’s not an option.

  Marriage is the opposite of staying in control of this situation. It means I’m bound to this alien in ways I can scarcely contemplate. But then as I stare at him, I fall into his brown eyes again, mesmerized and irrevocably caught by the bone deep knowledge that this beautiful creature is already mine whether I like it or not.

  “It’s really not so different, is it?” she asks. “It’s still not real. We pay for everything, including a prenuptial agreement. You have the best sort of scenario to present to your family so they understand you’re taken, and John gets a shot at a normal, safe life with no threat of deportation.”

  Tit for tat. This is what he gets out of the deal since it’s not going to be mind-blowing sex. The situation makes a sort of sense, as baffling as it is to be contemplating marrying an alien from a world I didn’t know existed ten minutes ago.

  He squeezes my hand. “Take care of you.”

  All at once, there’s a whole lot more heat in his expression than I can process. Which tells me he understands the conversation better than Charmaine made it seem, and also he’s not a stranger to innuendo.

  “I can take care of myself.” Have been for a long time. And there’s no shame in that. Neither do I have any need for a hot alien to take over that responsibility. I don’t. And maybe I should shut up and stop arguing with myself. “How long do we have to be married?”

  Oh, God. I’m considering it. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But I am.

  “As long as you want,” Charmaine says. “The state of immigration in this country is in flux, so the agencies are overloaded. They don’t examine green card applications too carefully these days, which works in our favor. The Intergalactic Dating Agency has no enforcement policies when it comes to the human side of the equation. You decide you’re out, call me. I come pick him up. No questions asked.”

  “What happens to him?”

  She shrugs. “He goes back to Switzerland. He was banished from Torvis
so he has nowhere else to go. His hope is to find a permanent home, though.”

  Banished. She’d mentioned that once before. “Is he a criminal?”

  “Useless,” he cuts in with a frown that mars his beautiful features. “No need.”

  “They kicked you out because they didn’t need you anymore?”

  He nods as vulnerability flashes through his gaze and my heart crushes flat. So he has innuendo and puppy dog eyes down pat. Fantastic. What the hell am I supposed to do with a useless alien?

  Whatever I want, apparently. I gauge the muscle tone in his arms, which is considerable and mouthwatering besides. I can take him home and order him to rearrange my furniture. Or sweet talk him into putting his tongue between my legs—if I’m reading all these signals right, he’d be totally on board. After he gives me as many orgasms as I can handle, I can dress him up in a Tom Ford suit and trot him to brunch with my family.

  That’s the deal, right? In exchange for giving him a safe place to live, he pretends to be my lover. And if doesn’t work out, I don’t have to keep him. Control is my crack and I’m being told I have all of it.

  Maybe I should call a psychologist because this is not sounding terrible. There are so many things that could go wrong here.

  “What if he decides he likes it better to tell me what to do?” I ask Charmaine. “It’s not like I could stop him from beating me up if he chose to.”

  “No!” he counters fiercely. “Protect. No hurt you.”

  Then he brings the back of my hand to his mouth in a reverent kiss. My insides explode as his lips expertly caress my skin and I’m pretty much a quivering mess of lady parts. So yeah. I might not have to teach him a whole lot of anything. Except abstinence. I am not a fan of that kind of loss of control and I’m definitely not okay with him being so good at making me misplace it.

  “Okay, that’s enough of that.” I snatch my hand away from his mouth before I lose my mind. My skin cools much too fast and I sense his disappointment that I’m not letting him touch me any longer. That makes two of us and that’s suddenly not okay. The touching needs to stay at a minimum.