Man Candy

by Lila Monroe

  I grin, yanking up the zip. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Coupled with a pair of sky-high blue stilettos—with cute crisscross straps—the dress strikes just the right “number-cruncher in the streets, sex kitten in the sheets” vibe I’m going for.

  Unfortunately, my blind date doesn’t appreciate the charm.

  “ . . . and that’s why women shouldn’t wear high-heeled shoes. You have no idea how many women submit claims for falls and broken ankles.”

  So much for Don appreciating my shoes. What did he call them? Oh yeah: mitigable risks.

  It doesn’t take long—like, maybe seconds after sitting down—to realize this guy is not for me. He seems nice enough, with a friendly, earnest face, and his bald patch isn’t even that obvious, but from the moment he opens his mouth, it’s all downhill from there.

  Because if I have to choose between a guy and my shoes?

  No-brainer. Let’s just say I’ll keep dating Christian Louboutin and Steve Madden. That’s a ménage I can really get behind.

  “You don’t think the trips and falls are more because of, I don’t know, loose paving in the sidewalk, or cracked streets?” I ask, trying to keep the defensiveness from my voice.

  Don snorts. “I manage to get around the city just fine. Good sturdy Birkenstocks, that’s what you need to wear to keep hazard assessments down.”

  “Hmmm.” I gulp my martini and sneak a glance at the time.

  I’ve been here all of . . . ten minutes?

  Ack.

  Still, it’s a night out. And the Grand Central Oyster Bar is one of the city’s iconic meeting spots; with its vaulted, herringbone-tiled ceilings, and mishmash of patrons—regulars, tourists, weathered commuters—it’s one of my favorite places in Manhattan. Even without counting the good food, it’s a great place to people-watch and daydream about the secret lives everyone’s keeping hidden.

  I’d hoped that Don picking this place was a sign that we’d hit it off.

  “Did you want to order some food?” I ask, my stomach rumbling. “They do amazing seafood here.”

  “Are you crazy?” Don stares at me. “Do you know the risk of raw oysters? They’re a notorious breeding ground for salmonella and parasites. And what’s more . . .”

  He launches into a discussion of bacteria, so I zone out and look at the menu. Suddenly, I’m in the mood for oysters. As many as I can fit on my damn plate. Before I totter off home on my impractical heels.

  “Alice? Alice?”

  Suddenly, I realize he’s stopped talking.

  “Sorry,” I say with a smile. “I was just trying to figure out what to order.”

  “I asked you about your job. What do you do?”

  “I’m a secret agent.”

  “Huh?” Don stares at me blankly. I sigh.

  “Office manager,” I reply instead. I glance around the room, wondering if it would be horribly rude to fake a stomach bug and bail before we even order food. I mean, he does already think this place is teeming with salmonella—

  Wait a minute.

  My eyes lock on a familiar face across the room.

  Nick Cameron.

  He’s sitting at the bar, a platter of oysters and a glass of amber liquid in front of him. He’s not looking my way, but come on, either this is the biggest coincidence since, well, ever, or he’s here for a reason.

  Like me.

  My heart starts beating faster in anticipation. What’s he doing following me here? Is he doing more recon to make sure he wants me for his job? How did he even know I’d be here?

  I glance back at Don, but he’s busy quizzing the waiter about food preparation safety and health ratings.

  “Excuse me,” I murmur, getting to my feet. “I’m just going to the ladies’.”

  Don nods. “Remember to wash your hands!”

  Pretending I don’t see Nick, I duck through the crowd towards the bathroom. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

  What do I do now?

  Do I ditch my date? Should I approach Nick? Or just find a back way out of here and go home to start building my spinster kit of stray cats?

  Get yourself together, Alice.

  If I’m even considering taking Nick’s job (which I really am, because: hello), I need to sharpen my “steady under pressure” skills. Surprise gatecrasher on my date? No problem. I just need to get back out there, play it cool, and blow Nick away with my casual, un-panicked reaction.

  I head back out to the bar, and this time, saunter straight over to Nick. At least, I try to saunter, but it comes out more a shuffling sort of runway walk.

  Damn, he’s gorgeous, sitting there with his shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. His dark hair is just messy enough to be sexy, and his suit jacket is draped over the back of his stool, making me realize that that broad back is 0 percent wardrobe and 100 percent man.

  As I stand there, I watch as he raises a mottled gray shell to his lips and tips his head back, allowing the oyster to slide into his mouth. I couldn’t possibly hear a wet slurp over the noisy crowd in the restaurant, but I hear one nonetheless. Or maybe that’s just all the blood rushing . . . south.

  Like, all the way south.

  Because, I swear to God, it is the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life. I suddenly really get why oysters are aphrodisiacs. Especially when eaten by this man.

  Then, like I’ve hollered his name at the top of my lungs, he turns and sees me. He gives me a casual nod, and that confirms it.

  This is no coincidence.

  I walk over to him. “Mr. Cameron.”

  “Alice. Please, call me Nick. Since we’re going to be working so closely together.”

  “We are?” I manage to arch an eyebrow. “I haven’t decided just yet. And if you keep following me like this, I might have to turn you down.”

  Good, Alice. Cool, casual. Remind him who’s boss.

  But Nick doesn’t seem thrown. He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my feet. “Great shoes,” he says.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I wriggle my toes, pleased. Not just a health hazard, then.

  “Join me?” He nods to the seat beside him.

  I’m tempted, but it would be really shitty to ditch my date. No matter how much I want to. And how shitty my date is.

  “I can’t. I’m here with someone.”

  He looks over my shoulder. “Oh, right. Don. He’s in insurance, isn’t he? How’s your date going?” he asks casually.

  I blink. “Wait . . . how do you even know literally any of that? Are you tracking my phone?” my voice rises. “Logging my keystrokes?”

  Nick chuckles. “Not this time,” he says, immediately making me wonder what the last time was he did that kind of hi-tech tracking. “I heard you on the phone at the office yesterday.”

  Oh. I’m relieved. Because if this dude is hacking my systems, there’s some X-rated Captain America fan fiction I really don’t want him to see. “My sister set it up,” I explain. “It’s a blind date.”

  “I figured.” Nick looks smug. “He’s not your type.”

  “Oh? And how do you know what my type is?” I ask, unsettled.

  “You told me already.” Nick grins. “Pierce Brosnan and Sean Connery. And that guy is more . . . Austin Powers.”

  I laugh, then try to hide it with a cough. Damn, he’s charming—and he knows it.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he adds, amused. “How is the big date?”

  I could lie, but why bother? “Not so great. Still, I should be getting back.”

  “Want me to save you?” Nick asks. “I could be your . . . let’s see . . . long lost brother?”

  If he was my long lost brother, incest would be a real concern.

  “Tempting,” I smile, “but . . . no, thanks. I’ll endure.”

  “Lay back and think of England?” he teases.

  I laugh. “Trust me, there will be no laying of any kind,” I swear. At least, not
with Mr. Salmonella.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Nick says, and I swear his eyes get a shot of heat as he looks at me.

  My mind goes blank. Is he . . . flirting with me?

  “I would prefer my fiancée comes unattached,” he adds.

  Right. The job. “Potential fiancée,” I correct him. “I haven’t even seen the contract yet. Or the compensation package.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” Nick grins. “My package is more than adequate. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.”

  I snort with laughter. “And on that note . . . Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “You too.”

  Some chance. I return to the table to find a fresh drink has arrived. And Don has moved the conversation on from food safety to traffic control.

  “The statistics show you’re five times more likely to die when...”

  I gulp my martini. If I angle my chair just right, it puts Nick directly in my line of sight. I watch him eat another oyster and I have to squeeze my thighs together because Oh. My. God.

  Don speaks, bringing my attention back to him. “So, you were saying, you’re an office manager?”

  Trying not to be distracted by Nick in my peripheral vision, I smile and deliver the same story I give everyone else. “At an accounting firm.”

  “Oh really?” he says in a monotone. My job must be even too boring for him. He shifts gears and drops his eyes to the menu. “So, I’m thinking the fish and chips. They should be fried enough to get rid of any risk. What are you going to have?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Alice.” There’s a voice beside me, and when I look up, Nick has materialized beside the table. He’s put his suit jacket on and is looking wide-eyed with panic. “The car service said you’d be here.”

  Wait, what?

  “I’m so sorry.” He turns to Don and gives him an apologetic look. “Alice is our lead track technician. There’s a problem with the switches. We hope it’s not sabotage. She’s the only one who can help. I’m going to have to steal her away, so we can get this resolved.”

  I’ve got whiplash. Suddenly, Nick has transformed from a smooth charmer into a flustered mess. Talking about . . . switches? Sabotage?

  I don’t have a clue what’s going on, but I recognize a life raft when I see one, so I grab on with both hands.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Giuseppe? Seriously? I’m on a date here. Can’t you call one of the other technicians for once?”

  Nick lifts an eyebrow. “Giuseppe?” he mouths at me, and I try not to laugh.

  Don frowns at me and says, “I thought you worked at an accounting firm.”

  I give a loud sigh and lean closer to him across the table. “My position at the MTA is top secret. I’d be a target for ISIS if they knew I control the entire Manhattan transit system.” I give him a sideways glance. “You don’t have any ties to ISIS, do you?”

  His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No, no, of course not.”

  I give him a long, assessing look before I nod. “Well, anyway, disclosing my job here is more of a third date thing.” I flick my eyes to Nick. “Giuseppe should know better.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Nick says intently. “But, with all due respect, we don’t have much time. If we don’t hurry, there’s going to be a full system shutdown. You’re the only one who can help.”

  He’s so good, even I’m almost fooled. I just try to keep up as I rise to my feet. “There goes my night. You’ll excuse me, Don? This could become a national security issue if I don’t deal with it right away.”

  “Of course,” Don says, nodding his head earnestly. “This is serious.”

  “It’s very serious,” Nick agrees as I grab my purse. “Again, I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “We’ll reschedule,” Don says.

  “Umm, sure,” I say, letting Nick hustle me out of the restaurant. “I’ll call you!”

  I manage to keep it together until we make outside, then I explode in hysterical laughter. “A subway emergency?” I splutter.

  “Giuseppe?” Nick counters, chuckling. “ISIS?”

  “I was improvising!” I wipe the tears streaming from my eyes. “That poor guy, he didn’t know what hit him.”

  “His loss.” Nick grins at me, and my laughter fades.

  Because there’s nothing amusing about the surge of heat that rolls through me.

  Boundaries.

  I hear Olivia’s voice in my head, and I have to admit, she’s right. This is already looking . . . blurry, and we haven’t even gotten started yet.

  “So, where to now?” Nick asks casually, like it’s a foregone conclusion that we’re spending the rest of the evening together now.

  And the night . . . ?

  I cough. “Home,” I blurt. He quirks an eyebrow. “Alone!” I exclaim, flushing. “Thank you for rescuing me, but I’ve had more than enough excitement for the night.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nick says, smirking. “Have it your way. But we do have something important to discuss.”

  My mind is blank. Does he mean the whole “snooping in his briefcase” thing?

  “The job,” Nick clarifies. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow, to discuss the details? I do want you for this assignment, but if you’re going to pass, I’d rather know sooner rather than later.”

  “Of course,” I agree. As much as I like to think I’m irreplaceable, Nick is being sensible here. And I should really find out more before I make my final decision. Even though, let’s face it, my mind—and my body—are already made up. “Tomorrow. Where and when?”

  “How’s one p.m. at the CandyShack in Times Square?”

  My mind zips to the mysterious chocolate bars. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “I’ll be there.”

  And then I head home, alone, for the world’s longest cold shower.

  6

  Nick

  “ . . . No arrests, gaps in her work history, no parking tickets, nothing. Hell, I’d be surprised if she’s ever had an overdue library book,” my buddy Jackson says with something like awe. “Want me to keep trying? I can pull her phone and credit card records. Even her web history, if you want.”

  I pause. I hired Jackson to help with background checks; it’s standard operating procedure in my line of work. I haven’t built a reputation as the best—most discreet—private investigator around by leaving any rocks unturned in search of the truth. But usually, my clients are simple: cheating spouses, blackmailing exes, even some priceless missing art I was able to bring back unharmed. Alice is different: I’m digging up her dirt for myself, not somebody else. And sure, if I said the word, Jackson would probably find a way to track down her childhood diaries. But somehow, it feels wrong to dig too deep into the life of Alice Jones.

  Especially when I kind of like being surprised by her.

  “No,” I decide. “Let’s leave it. If there were any major red flags, you’d have found them already.”

  “You’re the boss,” Jackson says, with a smirk in his voice that tells me he doesn’t believe it for a minute.

  I hang up and look around, impatient. The CandyShack store is right off Times Square, packed with tourists and packs of kids racing around on a major sugar high. But even though the place is seething with people, my eyes snap to every new arrival, waiting for Alice to show.

  If she shows. For a woman who, by all appearances, looks pretty straight-laced on paper, she’s surprised me at every turn. I almost can’t wait for her to throw me another curveball.

  That thought makes me think of her curves, the ones my fingers are itching to trace.

  Which leads me straight back to that kiss. I hadn’t planned it. Hell, I was supposed to be keeping my distance while I scoped her out, but then she was looking up at me with those big brown eyes, her plush lips right there for the taking . . .

  It was like she’d suddenly become a whole different person. Goodbye, trusty secretary Alice Jones, with the librarian glasses and
boring dress that I’m pretty sure came out of a nunswear catalogue from 1964.

  Hello, tempting seductress.

  What can I say? I usually pride myself on self-control, but every man has his weakness. And it turns out mine is beguiling Bond fans with a penchant for sexy shoes . . .

  “What are you smiling about, Giuseppe?” a silky, feminine voice says beside me, and I turn to find the future Mrs. Cameron.

  The future fake Mrs. Cameron.

  She’s dressed casually today in jeans and a striped tank top, her casual outfit complete with a pair of red Converse All-Stars. Her hair is in a high ponytail, setting off her glasses and making her look bookish and cute.

  And dangerously disarming.

  She’s a poster girl for wholesomeness, and if it wasn’t for the whip-smart glint in her eye, I’d write her off as an easy mark.

  I just need to remember there’s steel lurking beneath that apple-pie exterior.

  Steel, and lush, sexy curves.

  I pull myself together. I’m on a mission here, to convince her to take my assignment, so I need to be on my game. “I was thinking about you, actually,” I admit.

  It’s rewarding to see her swallow as a blush rises to her cheeks.

  “Your little performance last night with Dud,” I continue. “That was some good thinking on your feet.”

  “You mean Don,” she corrects me with a grin.

  “Did I?” I shoot back.

  She laughs. “So . . . I take it there’s a reason we’re meeting here?” She looks around the candy store and takes a deep breath. “God, that smells amazing.”

  So does she. She’s wearing some kind of strawberry-scented fragrance or shampoo that makes me think of summertime. Not here in the city, full of traffic fumes and trash, but out somewhere in the country. Wide open fields, and cool ponds, and roadside stands, back when I was a kid.

  “Nick?”

  I snap back. Who am I, Norman Rockwell? I need to get a grip right now.

  “Let’s find somewhere to talk,” I announce, marching towards the stairs. There’s a café on the second floor that should be marginally quieter than down here. I can lay out the terms of the deal, she can agree, and we’ll be all sewn up. Strictly business.