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Ian suspected if discomfort were personified, it would feel a lot like this. Every question he asked, each conversation starter he produced, Mercy knocked back in single syllables.
“How’s Atlanta this time of year?”
Nice.
“Any other plans while you’re in town?”
No.
“How ’bout that local sports team, huh?” He left the question intentionally vague.
That caused a twitch of her lips. The corners tugged up, and a smile threatened. Good look on her. Then again, everything about her screamed careless seduction. Her faded jeans hugged her ass the way his hands itched to, and her top stopped a few inches short of her waist, leaving a hint of skin exposed and tempting him. Her hair was still pulled up from the wedding, though chunky tendrils escaped and hung down her long neck, and the smudges of mascara under her eyes made him think freshly fucked. Or maybe it was studying her and his wishful thinking that did that.
He didn’t put any effort into hiding his appraisal of her. Gone was the awkward girl who never left his kid sister’s side except to ask Ian some of the most bizarre, insightful, and wonderful philosophical questions he’d heard at that age. This woman was confident, unintentionally elegant, and making his cock jerk every time she licked her lips or brushed her hair out of her face. If his joke got an almost smile from her, could he coax a few more words out, too? “How’s business?”
“Good.”
There went that idea. He wasn’t willing to let it drop so easily. “Rumor is Graceful Exhibition Advertising is doing something new with analytics, and providing ROI charts no one else can match. Curious how you track that on social media.”
“You know what I do.” She raised her brows.
She was surprised? “I always keep track of what the competition is up to. You’re a growing name.”
“Growing. Right. Because of our tagline.”
“Because you operate on a small budget, maintain a tiny staff who all work remotely, and kick some serious ass in online advertising.”
For the first time that evening, she seemed to relax. She sank back in her seat and tucked her legs under her and to the side. “And we help people buy sex.”
“Everyone’s selling seduction. You’re just more honest about it.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.” He was definitely in the market now, if she was offering. He shook the thought aside. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he didn’t take her seriously. He’d watched her company’s climb, and regardless of what people thought of her clientele, the woman knew what she was doing. “I’m curious though. Why?” he said.
“Why... adult websites? Be more specific.”
“Why advertising? If I knew you were interested, I could have hooked you up.”
“No. You couldn’t have.” Disdain crept into her words. “I didn’t set out to do this.” And like that, her casual tone returned. “I met this guy when I was in Argentina. He was American too, and we shared a hostel room because it was the only one left. While I was bumming around the world, immersing myself in local culture, he was taking naked pictures of women—for art and posterity—and having them sign release forms. We hit up a few more countries together. Somewhere along the way, he built a website, and I helped him spread the word.”
“So, your friend...?”
“Owns Smut Central.”
One of the two biggest names in that industry. “You bummed around South America and Europe with Andrew Newton? And you put him on the map?”
She shrugged, but the glint in her eyes radiated more smugness than dismissal. “I played a part in it. I reinvested my share of the money into hiring a couple employees, and you apparently know the rest. Also”—she leaned forward, to rest her elbows on her legs, and her shirt dipped low enough to give him an incredible view of her cleavage—“just because I pimp the product doesn’t mean I come with my own price tag.”
The conversation kept getting better. This definitely wasn’t the girl who always hung around the house. “I would never assume that. Or want it.”
“No? You’re not exactly looking away.”
“Don’t misunderstand; I want you.” Not what he meant to say, but she was still listening, and he liked the potential.
“Because I help people sell sex?”
“What? No. I’m hoping that means you’ve got an open mind, but if you and I hooked up, it would be because we both wanted it. Nothing to do with money or work.”
She looked intrigued rather than upset. “And I become the girl who’s in town for one day and gets you off for the night?”
“Or I become the guy you don’t have to see again. Works both ways. This would be a mutual agreement.” This wasn’t like him. Negotiating for sex instead of seducing. She wanted to see his hand, and being up front was a relief.
“Your sister’s in the next room.”
“You said she’d be out for a while. This is between you and me—unless you’re looking for excuses. I won’t pressure you if you don’t say yes.”
Her smile turned devilish enough he might as well have seen sexy little horns poking from the top of her head. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “What if I like a little pressure?”
“Are you saying yes?” This game was fun. Fuck, her flavor of teasing had him harder than he ever remembered being. When it came to consent though, he wasn't playing blurred-lines games, with her or anyone.
“I'm not letting you strip me down with Liz in the next room,” she said.
And that was all Ian needed to hear. Not what he wanted, and certainly not what he hoped for, but she’d given him an answer. “In that case, I'll call her in the morning.” He stood, keeping his gaze on Mercy’s face despite the temptation to drift it lower. “It was good to see you again, Mercy. Scratch that—it was incredible. Let’s do it again in twelve years.”
She rose with him and joined him at the door. She offered her hand. A handshake, of all fucking things. He preferred a partner, to taking care of business himself, but damn if he wasn’t beating off when he got home.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.
It wasn’t what he was supposed to say. She made herself clear, and he was looking for excuses to extend the evening? This isn’t about getting laid, his brain argued back. He’d always enjoyed her company without sex, this was his way of not leaving things on a sour note. He regretted how he handled their parting of ways last time. This offer was a way to return things between them to neutral ground. Nothing more.
Why wasn’t she replying?
*
MERCY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT she was doing. Since Ian walked in the door, her brain and her words were scattered and out of sync. Instinct told her to slink away from him when the direct conversation started. Change the subject back to something not about sex.
As a rule, she didn’t cower, flinch, or back down. It kept her in business. The problem with plowing forward when it came to him—with playful banter, then batting his advances aside? His offer was more than just tempting; it was exactly what she wanted, and instead of accepting she turned him down in a flush of pride.
Somehow, she had a second chance. Maybe not at that meaningless fling, but at enjoying his company for another couple of hours. Despite the weight of Liz’s drunken room-service binge in her gut, Mercy wasn’t ready to tell Ian goodnight. “I could nibble on something.” Ian, preferably. “Let me leave Liz a note.”
She scribbled out a quick, I’ll be back soon. Text me or Ian if you need something, on hotel stationary and propped it up by the bed. She took another look at Ian, as she joined him, appreciating again how enticing he looked in that suit. “We’re not dressed to go to the same type of place.” She gestured at herself. “And I don’t know if anywhere is open.”
“You look incredible. Trust me.” He held up his palm. “Ready to go, my lady?”
She settled her hand against his long enough to enjoy the gallant gesture, and tried to be casual about pulling away when they stepped into the hallway. She’d already told him no—or close enough. This was nothing more than dinner. Two people with a common friend, catching up.
That was a lie, and not even a very good one. If she could find a way to turn her no into a yes by the end of the night, without losing face, she was going for it. She was leaving town in the morning or sometime in the next couple of days, so this came with a built-in expiration date.
Ian’s SUV was as high end as his suit. She might have made a comment about him compensating, but with the weather where he lived, four- or all-wheel drive was a necessity. The hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar price tag the Porsche carried was more of a luxury.
Like Mercy, Ian and Liz were born into money, though Mercy surrendered her inheritance when she left home at eighteen and dropped her family name. Ian earned what he had now, by keeping the family agency alive and thriving after his parents passed. It still left the tiniest hint of resentment inside Mercy. A feeling she didn’t like.
The restaurant was tamer than the car, to her relief. A microbrewery with a thinning crowd—given the late hour—but no dress code, and the prices didn’t make her wallet recoil in horror. They were seated quickly, at a table with no one else nearby. After the day she had, the quiet was both deafening and saintly. Small talk flowed easily with Ian, but he kept it neutral. They swapped tidbits about the weather, sales software, and industry rumors. Nothing provocative.
It didn’t stop her from studying him whenever she had the chance, racking her brain for a way to shift the conversation back to something sexier without looking like she was trying too hard.
Damn it, why had she shut him down?
“Are the two of you ready, or do you need a minute?” The waiter, who introduced himself as Steve, startled Mercy from her musings.
Ian looked at her with expectation. She handed Steve the menu. “Cup of the house soup for me.”
Ian raised his brows. “Steak sandwich, no onions, and fries.” He turned back to Mercy, as soon as Steve was out of earshot. “Don’t tell me you’ve become one of them?”
“One of what?”
“Those girls who only picks at her food in front of other people. You know you’re already skinny, right?”
Embarrassment pushed through her veins, white-hot and leaving her skin burning. She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “I do know. Thanks for pointing it out, though.” Okay, so she didn’t have gorgeous curves like Liz, or the kind of voluptuous tits some of Andrew’s starlets had, but it wasn’t her fault. She had a high metabolism. And God damn it, if she didn’t get enough grief for it from pretty much everyone ever, which included countless advice sessions from well-meaning teachers and colleagues, trying to get her to own up to eating disorders she didn’t have.
Liz knew better, and Mercy thought by some stupid extension Ian would remember how much the teasing bothered her when they were younger. That was a mistake on her part.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Was that actually apology in his eyes? “A joke gone wrong. I’m sorry. If you weren’t hungry, you should have said so.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Refused to see any pity in his eyes. “Maybe I liked the excuse to spend some more time with—” She snapped her jaw shut before she could say more. There was no reason to whine about this or toss it back in his face. “Forget it.”
“I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me.” He reached across the table and trailed his finger over her knuckles.
He wasn’t supposed to sound sincere. Why was he being so irritatingly... scripted tonight? “It’s all right,” she said. “Or rather, it’s not, but the apology helps.”
And now the conversation was over. So much for shifting things back toward sexy and playful. The sum total of zero topics for changing the subject flew to mind. She could ask him about Marx. That was what started it back in the day. Or tease him about selling his soul to The Man, to run Thompson advertising—a joke that might fall as flat as his did.
The food arrived, and still they didn’t do more than exchange bland nods and mumbles. She poked at her soup, even less hungry than before but feeling compelled to eat it anyway.
“Most interesting advertising request you’ve ever gotten?” Ian’s tone was neutral, and the question drew Mercy’s attention. “I’m not looking for details or names. I just like a good story.”
This was a conversation she didn’t mind. “Well... Despite the nature of my clients, I’ll be honest of their requests are pretty basic and straightforward. Their ads have to be search-engine friendly, depending on where we place them, so the most creative it gets is finding new ways to say, hot naked people for all your fetishes.”
“For some reason, I pictured a lifestyle of hot-tub parties and ecstasy-laced margaritas.”
“No you didn’t.” She wasn’t sure how she knew he was teasing. His voice didn’t give it away. There was the faintest smile around his eyes, and she only recognized that because Liz got the same look when she thought she was being clever and didn’t want to let on. This was so much better than dancing around Mercy’s insecurities—or stabbing them in the eye with a pointy stick, as the case may be. “I bet, Mr. I-have-expense-accounts-from-here-to-Timbuktu, your stories are way better than mine.” His comment about her weight still stung, but pushing forward made it easier to mute the nagging in her head.
“Not really. Though there is the occasional hot-tub party.” He talked between tiny bites of his food and never mentioned she only picked at hers.
“No? Nothing in all your vast experience has stood out as bizarre?”
“There are always little things.”
An impish impulse snaked through her, and she reached across the table, to steal one of his fries and dip it in her soup. “Like what?”
“We had a guy once, who wanted an infomercial. You know—half-hour spot, late-night TV, to hawk his wares.”
“People still make those?”
“Yes.” Ian laughed. “Some of us still live in the Stone Age and don’t know much about things like crowd funding and YouTube. Anyway, he insisted this product of his was amazing. Socks, gloves, various braces, that would pull the impurities from the body.”
“As in, chemical toxins and such?” It didn’t sound like such a unique idea to her. But there was always a catch.
“As in, the multitude of evil spirits that inhabit each person.”
She almost choked on her bisque. “You’re serious.”
“He certainly was.”
“God.” Possibilities bounded to life in her head. “I can just picture this thing. But wait—there’s more. Act now, and we’ll throw in the vinyl summoning circle, so you can control your own exorcised armies.”
“They’ll clean your dishes,” Ian joined in. “Scrub your bathrooms. They even do windows.”
The commercial practically wrote itself. “And for today’s low introductory price of just nineteen-ninety-nine, we’ll throw in a second set of Exor-socks in beige. That’s right. Two pairs for the price of one. Rent your extra minions to the neighbors.”
They both dissolved into fits of laughter, which died and revived each time one of them tacked another offer onto the end.
When she caught her breath, Mercy asked, “So what happened to him?”
“He insisted no budget was too big, so we mocked up a script and proposal, and sat him down. Nothing this good, mind you, but it wasn’t bad.” Ian shoved his half-finished sandwich aside and leaned in, fingers intertwined. “We gave him a rough estimate on price, and he balked. Said he wasn’t paying more than five-hundred dollars, and we were a bunch of crooks.”
“It takes all kinds.” The restaurant had emptied while they talked, leaving them alone in the back corner. How long before someone started hinting it was time for them to leave? She wasn’t quite ready for that.
Mercy heard Steve’s oh, shit seconds before something light struck her shoulder, and wine spilled down her front, soaking her in red.