Man Candy Page 2

  You’re drunk, Alice. Time to go home.

  I head over to the bar to get my check. And, of course, it’s coincidence that there’s a free space beside Bond where I can wait for the bartender to free up. I carefully perch on the stool, my pulse still racing, and slide a totally casual glance over at the man himself.

  Who is staring right at me.

  I gulp, my cheeks flushing, but he just gives me a lopsided grin that jets him from being simply attractive into panty-melting territory.

  Especially paired with that aftershave.

  Also, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes, crinkled at the corners as he smiles at me, are stunningly blue.

  This man is Hot with a capital H.

  And also up to something.

  Which, if I’m being honest, just makes him hotter. “So,” he says casually, his voice low and smooth. “Why are you alone in a bar on a Thursday night?”

  “Is that your best pickup line?” I blurt, even as I hope to God that it is a pickup line. I suddenly very badly want to be picked up by this man.

  He looks amused. “Actually, no. But it got you talking to me, so it’s my favorite right now.”

  Wow. I blink, wondering which is smoother—this guy or his scotch. “I was out with my sister,” I explain, wishing I had something more glamorous to share. “We saw the Bond double feature down the street.”

  “A Bond fan.” He arches an eyebrow. Then his eyes slide down my body in a way that makes me feel very warm. “Who’s your favorite?”

  “It’s a tie,” I admit. “Between Connery and Brosnan. I know, nobody takes Pierce seriously, but he was the first one I saw, so he’s got a special place in my heart. Plus, he’s so . . . dashing.”

  Shut up, I order myself, but luckily, the man doesn’t seem to mind my rambling. He smiles. “I like Brosnan too, but just between us . . . ?” He leans in slightly. I sway closer, breathless.

  “My favorite is George Lazenby.”

  The heady scent of his aftershave is almost enough to make me forgive his taste in Bonds.

  Almost.

  “Lazenby?” I repeat, incredulous. “Seriously?”

  “What can I say?” The man smiles again, but this time, it’s not smooth or charming, it’s a boyish, ruffled grin. “I like the underdog.” His eyes go to my cheek, just inches from him. “Hold still, you’ve got . . .” He reaches up and gently touches my skin.

  Heat surges through me and I gulp for air.

  “Eyelash,” he says, holding up his fingertip. “Now make a wish and blow.”

  Blow?

  I make a garbled noise. The wish I would make right now definitely involves blowing. And sucking. And licking . . .

  “Would you excuse me a moment?” The man stands. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Uhmgh,” I manage to murmur, then watch as he walks casually to the back of the bar where the restrooms are.

  Pull yourself together!

  I flag down the bartender and ask for a glass of water, then gulp the cold liquid, my heart rate returning to normal.

  Never mind mysterious, this guy was downright dangerous. 007, licensed to turn grown women into melty pools of lust.

  Which reminds me . . .

  I glance down, at the mystery briefcase resting casually against his stool. The one that schlubby guy left there in exchange for whatever was in Bond’s case.

  Just sitting there. Inconspicuously. Holding who knows what important information.

  Blackmail material. Murder supplies. Nuclear codes.

  I wouldn’t be a good citizen if I didn’t check that everything was above board. I mean, I know they say that if you see something, say something, but what could I tell the police? “Please, officer, I’m pretty sure these two guys traded bags, but it was dark in the bar and I’d finished three drinks.”

  It’s my duty to look, if you really think about it.

  Just a peek. You know, for the sake of the country.

  I look to the back of the bar to check for Bond. But I know the restrooms are downstairs, in the basement. Which means he’ll be a while . . .

  My heart pounding, I slowly lean down and pick up the briefcase. It’s fairly heavy but I doubt it’s going to be holding gold bullion like in Goldfinger. I shake it, but there isn’t much movement—no metallic clanging. No evidence of knives or other murder supplies.

  Probably.

  It might be locked. I’ll never know for sure.

  Oops! Somehow one of the latches opened.

  Oh, dear, and now the other has popped free. I should definitely close those, I tell myself, even as I crack the case open a little. I brace myself, hoping not to find a roll of duct tape, rope, or a gun. What I expect to see is boring stock reports and prospectuses.

  Instead, a sweet and familiar aroma hits me, making my mouth water as I try to register what I’m looking at. It is bars.

  But not of gold. Chocolate.

  I check the room again, but it’s still all clear, so I open the case wider, revealing the briefcase is filled with chocolate bars. They’re wrapped in the distinctive pink and gold wrappers from CandyShack, the hottest candy store in the city. But still, my mystery man and his contact just executed a secret bag swap for . . . chocolate bars.

  I remember that I’m against the clock, so I quickly slam the lid down and click the catches back into place, before dropping it back on the floor in position again. I take another gulp of water, my mind racing.

  WTF?

  I’m coming up with exactly zero explanation, but before I can dwell on it, Bond himself returns. He takes his seat and gestures for another drink.

  “Now,” he says. “Tell me about you. What is it about James Bond that you like so much? He’s not exactly a modern guy.”

  “No. But it’s a fantasy, right? He’s comfortable in his own skin. He takes risks, but he has confidence in his abilities,” I say wistfully. “There is no problem that he doesn’t think—no, that he doesn’t know—he can solve.”

  “So where do all his romantic conquests fit into this metaphor?” Bond asks, smirking. “Or are they just more fantasy?”

  The way he says “fantasy” makes me wonder if he knows he’s the stuff of fantasy. Probably. He’s flirting effortlessly and he’s not cocky in an arrogant way. He’s confident. Just cocky enough.

  I clear my throat, blushing again. “The fantasy is part of it,” I admit. “Bond takes risks, he has confidence. That’s attractive. Like, if he wants to kiss a woman, he does it. In real life, you wouldn’t want some guy lunging at you. But in fantasy-land, a woman wants to be kissed. And well.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I even know it. Normally I would never say these kinds of things to a man, let alone a stranger in a bar. I blame the booze. I drop my eyes from his and am about to announce that it’s time to go, when a finger touches my chin, turning my head toward him.

  I have no time to wonder what is happening before his lips are on mine. I startle a little in surprise but—oh God—then I am all in. His scent fills my nose, and my eyes flutter closed because my body knows exactly what is happening.

  His firm lips tease at mine, the tip of his tongue tasting me, giving me a taste of the scotch he’d been sipping. Noise fades into the background, making me forget we’re in a crowded bar.

  More, my body screams.

  But before I can melt into a puddle on the floor, he’s pulling away. His bedroom eyes move down to my mouth as I lick my lips.

  “You looked like you wanted to be kissed,” he says with a grin. “And well.”

  Before I can respond, he pulls a wad of bills from his wallet, peels off several, and pushes them across the bar. “Let me take care of your check, too.”

  Right. Because I never did get my bill. As I will my brain to come back online, he grabs the briefcase. “It was very nice meeting you, Alice,” he says.

  And then he’s gone.

  I swallow as I think of the things I should have said. Things like Please stay, or Let’s ex
change numbers. Or, even: Can I climb you like a tree and make you eggs for breakfast in the morning?

  But no, he scrambled my brains with that kiss, so I’d said none of those things. I didn’t even get his number. I guess he’ll just have to be a very, very good memory for the next time I wind up on a crappy online date, wondering why I even bother at all.

  I’m halfway to the subway when I realize he called me Alice.

  But I never told him my name.

  3

  Alice

  The next morning, I wake with a headache—and delicious memories of Bond guy’s mouth against mine. I stretch, reveling in the memory: the heat of his body, the strong, sure touch of his hands . . .

  There’s a thud on my door. “Alice! You said you’d wake me! I’m going to be late!”

  I check my alarm—which I forgot to set last night. Damn. I bolt out of bed and fight Gemma for the shower, before racing for the subway to make it to the office on time.

  The Agency is located on the Upper East Side, in a stately brownstone building that reassures all our wealthy clients that we know exactly what we’re doing. I’m usually first through the doors, but when I arrive—late, sweaty, and out of breath—I find it’s already unlocked. Which can only mean one thing: my boss, Olivia, is already here. And, since she’s currently loved up with her hunky new boyfriend and wouldn’t drag herself out of bed without a very good reason, it must mean she’s expecting a client.

  I’m sure there was nothing on her schedule for this morning, but we’re always getting last-minute SOS calls. A crown prince in the tabloids for all the wrong reasons in need of a stable relationship, an heiress whose trust just changed who needs to get hitched ASAP. Think of the Agency as the best fake dating service in town: we provide hand-picked partners for any occasion—for a very hefty price, of course.

  As I start up the stairs, I brighten in anticipation of the morning ahead. One of the best things about this job is the clients—especially the unpredictable ones that keep us on our toes.

  Who will it be today? I wonder. A media mogul? A senator? Foreign royalty? I’m always excited to see who walks in the door. And while my official job title is plain old Office Manager, it’s never boring. Just yesterday, I ran criminal background checks on two prospective clients (one failed, shame on you, Mr. Misspent Youth), and did a deep dive into a so-called billionaire’s social media. Turns out, he’s just a wannabe crypto-trader living in his mom’s basement in Hoboken. Please. I put him down as a “hell nope.”

  “Good morning,” I call as I kick off my sneakers and trade them for today’s look: a pair of fuchsia stacked sandals with little pom-poms over the toes.

  “Be right out!”

  I do a quick tour of the space, straightening up and trading the wilting flowers for the fresh bouquet of gorgeous peonies I picked up on my way. The office is set up more like an apartment than an office, with a main salon area decorated with antique furniture and plush couches, and Olivia’s elegant drawing room in the back. It sure beats the boxy cubicle I worked in at my last job, processing insurance claims five feet away from the communal kitchen.

  There’s a meow, and I find our resident office cat, Thor, purring against my ankles. “Don’t think I’m fooled,” I laugh, going to top up his bowl of food in the little galley kitchen. “You only love me for my kibble.”

  “How was the Bond festival?” Olivia asks as she comes out of her office. She’s looking sophisticated as always in navy wide-legged pants and a cream silk blouse, and the same smile she’s had on her face since she fell in love with her guy, Ryan Callahan. Yes, that Ryan Callahan, ex-NFL star. Who’s also a former client and all-around awesome guy.

  I might be envious of their relationship, but honestly, they are so nauseatingly perfect for each other that I can’t be anything less than 100 percent happy for her.

  “It was good,” I say. “A couple of classics. Chasing spies through France and Italy.”

  She perches on the side of my desk. “Sounds blissful. I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Itching to travel?” I ask, plumping the pillows.

  “Ryan and I have been talking about getting away, but we just can’t seem to find the time. I know I shouldn’t complain about the Agency doing so well, but it’s been non-stop all summer.”

  “Who knew so many people would need fake relationships?” I grin.

  “Anyway, I’m in early to meet a new prospective client,” Olivia sighs, “when what I’d really love to be doing is lying on an Italian beach . . .”

  “You and me both.”

  I have a long bucket list of places I’d love to visit. Hell, I’d settle for some trips right here in the USA. I haven’t even left the tristate area in a couple of years, unless you count a rainy week at a creepy vacation cabin up in Maine.

  Which I don’t.

  “Anyway, we have another client in this morning,” Olivia continues. “I emailed you his details. He’s an investigator.”

  “Like a PI?” I brighten, imagining Sam Spade and Hitchcockian mystery.

  “Like corporate forensics,” Olivia corrects me, and my fantasy fades to a dorky guy with a pocket protector. “He needs a fiancée for one of his cases, to act as cover while he investigates. Something about trade secrets and copyright violations.”

  It doesn’t sound thrilling, but still, maybe it’s the chance I’ve been waiting for.

  “I’ll do it,” I blurt.

  Olivia blinks.

  “The assignment,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll be this guy’s trophy wife.”

  Because as much as I enjoy the top-secret shenanigans here at the office, a small part of me has been wanting more: being the one to go off on the undercover missions charming strangers and flirting with hot guys instead of processing everyone’s payroll.

  I even mentioned it to Olivia a few months ago, but I don’t think she took me seriously. Why would she? I don’t exactly walk around exuding confidence. Sexy shoes aside, I don’t fit the role of “eye-candy temptress.”

  Even now, Olivia just gives me an indulgent smile. “Let’s just wait and find out the specifics,” she says. “His name is Nicholas Cameron, he’s due at ten.”

  “Want me to pull some background before he arrives?”

  Olivia nods. “He was referred through a friend, but still, better safe than sorry.”

  She heads back into her office, just as a new email pops up on my screen from Gemma.

  Congratulations, you have a blind date tomorrow!

  I reach for my cellphone . . . And find it’s not in my bag. I quickly call her from the office landline, instead.

  “Hey, big sister!” she singsongs as she answers.

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. You got a bunch of guys interested in your Perfect Match profile. So . . . you responded to one who seems promising. You’re going on a date with him tomorrow night. You’re welcome!”

  “Gemma,” I groan, because leave it to her to come to town and play matchmaker. “Did you steal my phone just to set me up with some random guy?”

  “He’s not a random guy.” There’s a pause, and I hear shuffling before she recites: “He’s Don from Chelsea. He’s in insurance and he can’t wait to meet you. He’s pretty cute,” she adds. “About thirty, I’m guessing.”

  My sister must hear my reluctance loud and clear even through my silence. “Al, it can’t hurt to go on one date with this guy. Seriously, I worry about you. If nothing else, you’ll have an evening out.”

  “Okay,” I say, because she’s right. “So where am I meeting Don who’s in insurance?”

  I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “The Grand Central Oyster Bar. You’re meeting him at the clock on the main concourse. Seven o’clock.”

  “If I go, will you promise to never bug me again?”

  “No, but do it anyway. And don’t even think about wearing one of your boring suits,” she adds. “I want you wearing something sexy. Ooh, I can ra
id the sample closet at our meeting today and find you something amazing.”

  “But—” I’m about to respond when I catch a whiff of aftershave. A very familiar aftershave. I shake my head. Apparently, I want so badly to go back to last night and my mysterious stranger that I can actually smell him.

  I inhale deeply because my sense memory feels so real. God that man smelled good.

  “Fine,” I agree, just to get Gemma off the phone. “See you later.”

  I hang up and check the rest of my emails. Then, someone clears their throat.

  Startled, I nearly leap out of my chair. “Hello?” I whirl around—and see the impossible standing right there in front of me.

  Six-foot-two of dark-haired, broad-shouldered, mischievously-smiled impossible.

  It’s him. The man from last night.

  Oh my God!

  “I’m sorry,” I croak, my mind racing. “I didn’t hear you buzz.”

  A glance toward the back of the building tells me Olivia is still behind the closed door of her office. Thankfully.

  “No problem. The door was open. Plus, I can be very stealthy,” he adds with a wink.

  Then it hits me. He knows I looked in his briefcase and is here to make me pay. Or arrest me. Or whatever it is mysterious candy-swapping strangers do to the women who get in their way.

  I open my mouth, ready to grovel my apologies, when Olivia’s door opens. “There you are, Mr. Cameron. Welcome to The Agency.”

  Mr. Cameron.

  I look at the file I’ve just pulled up on screen. This is our new prospective client?

  I stare at him, trying to unravel the last twelve hours. Not including all the fantasies of him I created in my head after I’d returned home. But the real stuff. Like back at the bar. That kiss. which was really real.

  Also, the fact that I snooped in his briefcase—that was super real, too.

  And how he mysteriously knew my name.

  “Alice?” Olivia says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Did you offer Mr. Cameron a drink?”

  “I only just got here,” Bond, aka Mr. Cameron says, turning that smile back to me. “And it’s Nick, please. But I’m good. Another espresso, and I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”