Fran Lee: Jillian’s Job

She was going to kill him…and then maybe attack him and strip him and-

Jocular comments fueled by large quantities of expensive champagne were bandied back and forth, and when his amazing erection had eased enough to not make a spectacle of himself, he allowed her to move slightly away, but kept her firmly wrapped in one arm, pinned to his side. A flute of champagne was thrust into her hand, and she drank for want of anything better to do as he used her for the inevitable prop and made the most of the stir her presence had caused.

And the stand-in QB throws a touchdown pass…

Numbly she smiled and shook hands as she was introduced as “My fiancée, Jill,” without her actual last name ever being given. Plausible deniability. She downed the flute of delicious champagne, and accepted another. She had begun to feel a lot like a blonde kewpie doll permanently attached to his hip.

After what seemed like hours of listening to inane talk, and male jokes being bandied back and forth, everything began to blend into everything else. Except that during those hours, she had very possibly swallowed about a gallon of champagne, and champagne was not her drink of choice.

Damn! Faces were swimming. Voices were fading in and out. Tinny laughter was making her dizzy. She felt something hard under her cheek, and realized that she was leaning into Furie’s chest, and they were dancing. Or at least, he was dancing, and half-carrying her around the floor with her feet half an inch off the floor. For the first time since she’d arrived, no one was babbling at them, and she drew a shaky breath and said, “I need…t’talk…to you.”

“We have plenty of time to talk later.” His breath was warm against her ear, and she shivered.

“No! Need to talk-now.” She shook her head. The motion made her dizzy as hell, and she hiccupped. “Ooops. I’m drunk as hell-” She giggled drunkenly.

“That you are. Am I the one who bought that ring for you?” His voice was a rumbling purr against her temple.

“Serves you right, you selfish prick,” she murmured. “Missing my…birthday…’cuz of…you.”

She expected him to be angry, so his soft laughter startled her. She twisted her head up from his chest where it lay, and frowned at him. He was definitely blurry. “Came here…to tell you…to fuck off.”

Dark blue eyes gazed back at her. Why’d the bastard have three eyes? Nope, four eyes-the son of a bitch had more of everything…as usual.

“You mad at me for some reason, Turner?” he breathed against her temple, sending chills through her.

“’Course…I’m mad-” She frowned, trying hard to figure out which eyes belonged where. The one on his nose was definitely in the wrong place. “Chauvinistic bastard. My name’s Jill…you never use my name-”

“Want to tell me how you really feel?” He gave her a crookedly sexy smile.

“I just did…didn’t I?”

“You don’t drink, do you, Jill?” He was grinning. The jerk.

“’Course I drink…’cuz I’m fucking drunk-”

“Calling you Turner makes me a bastard?” His mouth moved slowly against her skin as he whispered.

“‘Course not. You’re a…bastard…because you don’t even…know…I exist…you bastard-”

She thought he laughed, but she couldn’t be exactly sure, because that was the moment she passed out.

Her head must have fallen off. No. It was still there, because it hurt like hell. Her tongue tasted like old green felt that had been stripped off an old pool table. Her hair hurt. She reached up to check to see if it was on fire. Her hand found nothing but tangled curls and a pillow that was pulled over her head. A groan escaped her lips. Ow! Even that made her head hurt. What was it? Champagne? Dom Pérignon? Or was it Cristal? Ooohhh, God. If she ever saw another bottle of champagne, she’d puke.

She groaned into the mattress, and decided not to bother opening her eyes. She wondered if even that tiny movement would make her sicker than she already felt. Probably. Best to just remain still. She drew deep, slow breaths. She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose to stop an itch, and nearly sliced her nose off.

What the hell? She blinked blearily at her hand under the pillow, illuminated by the faint light that came from around the edges. The cold glitter of a huge diamond nearly blinded her.

Huh? Oh yeah, the rock. Her eyes dropped closed again, and then flew open. Was that…an arm clamped around her? She drew a deep breath, and verified that the heavy weight of a human arm was clamped possessively around her body. Her. Naked. Body?

It was a bad dream. It had to be. An alcohol-induced hallucination. Yeah. But then the hallucination’s arm tightened slowly, pulling her back against another naked body. One that had hard, solid muscles. And one particular muscle was prodding into the small of her back like a frigging fence pole. Her eyes closed tight again.

What. The. Hell?

What the hell was she doing in bed with a naked man? And just what naked man was she in bed with? Sudden visions of Jerrod Lane jarred through her thoughts-the way he had latched onto her and had offered to be big daddy made her swallow hard. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

Oh God. Had she gotten blotto and let that jerk take her to bed? Visions of little Jerrods racing around at her feet were swept away by the blessed recollection of the implant she had decided to get last summer after the rape scare that had gone through her apartment complex. Thank God for paranoia.

Oh, her head throbbed. But no way was she going to just lie there in bed with Jerrod Lane. Famous, handsome, promiscuous, totally hot Jerrod Lane. She pulled the pillow off her head and winced at the brilliant morning light that spilled in through the windows of the unfamiliar room. She forced her bleary gaze to check out the room that was visible, and she saw her sapphire and gold job tossed over the back of an antique chair. On top of a black tux. Shit. Now what?

He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken. Maybe he was still asleep. Lots of men got morning hard-ons. Right? She shifted carefully and tried to slip quietly out from under that arm, only to have it wind even tighter around her body, dragging her back against hot, solid muscle. The naked man behind her drew a deep breath, and stretched slowly. Aw, hell. He was wide awake.

Trying hard to move her ass away from that marauding cock, she tugged at the arm, and said in a cool, calm squeak, “Look, just let me get up and out of here, okay? I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.”

Lips brushed over the back of her bare shoulder, sending chills along every nerve she possessed, and she gave a startled yelp. “Stop that! This was all a great big mistake. Just let go and I won’t start screaming-okay?”

A lean hand slid under her from behind to cup her breast, while the one on top slid slowly down over the curve of her hip to rest between her thighs. The naked man behind her whispered huskily against her ear, “You weren’t nearly so pissed off last night, Turner.”

Nope. Not Jerrod Lane. The naked man was the bastard himself. With a whimper of pain from jerking her throbbing head around like Linda Blair to stare into Michael Furie’s whiskery face, Jill gave a yelp of terror and struggled like a salmon hooked by a grizzly, but he merely allowed her to turn over in the bed to face him, and she was in an even worse spot than she had been with her back to him. His hard-on now prodded wetly against her mons.

“What the hell have you done, damn you?” she yelped hysterically. “You took advantage while I was drunk out of my frigging mind? Oh, I always knew you were a bastard, but I never dreamed…” she grated furiously, her head pounding and her stomach lurching.