Selling Seduction (Your Ad Here #1) (2 page)

Ian parked on the street in front of the condo Liz had shared with George. He’d called on a few friends. They’d meet him here, and with any luck, Liz’s belongings would be secured in an hour or so.

He took the elevator to her floor and stepped off. The hallway was empty. He rounded the corner, and halfway down—right in front of Liz’s door—crouched a man with a toolbox. Shit. He was changing the locks.

Ian quickened his pace, until he reached the condo. “Excuse me.” He wasn’t going to get mad at this person. This wasn’t their fault. “What are you doing?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but what do you think?” The guy never looked up from his work.

“I need to get in there, first.” Ian stepped forward.

The locksmith rose and blocked his path, hand on his hip. “There tends to be a reason people want locks changed. I don’t know you from a Liberty Park bum, so unless you’re here with the lady who hired me, you’re not getting in. And she’s got a key.”

“It’s my sister’s place.” Irritation surged inside, mingling with the knowledge he couldn’t do anything but try and talk through this. “Her things are in there.”

“Oh yeah, you mean the poor gal caught in the middle of this mess?”

Ian wasn’t prepared for that. “How do you…?”

“Not the first time the guy’s done it. Not the first time his wife’s come to me.” The locksmith returned to his work. “Which also means, I still can’t let you in. Sorry. The woman pays cash and tips well. I’m not losing her as a client.”

Ian clenched his fist silently cursing the back of the man’s head. If he were more stubborn, maybe he’d sit and argue, or storm the door. “It’s all right. I’ll be back with my lawyer.”

“Your call, pal. Not my problem. Wife’s name’s on the deed.” The locksmith never turned around.

Fuck.
This was one more thing Liz didn’t need right now. Ian tried to keep his calm as he headed back downstairs. He fished out his phone to tell his friends with the van
not yet.
Wow, sometimes being adult and mature sucked.

He needed to let Liz know about the delay. And speaking of lawyers, have her talk to his, and ensure she hadn’t already signed anything over to George.

He’d give her a few hours to deal with what she already knew, and then they’d discuss next steps.

*

“Home sweet home.” Mercy set Liz’s suitcase by hotel room sofa. “Take it easy tonight, and we’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

Liz stepped up behind her. “I can’t believe you’re still in that dress.” She slid down the zipper.

Mercy felt all her bits relax at once, no longer shaped by the rigid fabric. She let out a long exhale of relief. “I didn’t realize I needed that. Thank you. Be right back.” She shed the dress as she stepped into the bedroom—thank God for extended suites with a little extra room and privacy—and then yanked on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Liz held up with a scary kind of grace and elegance through the entire evening, apologizing to guests, thanking people as they left, loading gifts into the car and promising to return them, and dealing with the catering staff and making sure the food didn’t go to waste. It was only a matter of time before something gave and Liz let the hurt pour in. Mercy’d be there when it happened, even if it meant staying in town another day or two. “What do you want to do now?” she called into the other room.

It made her nervous they hadn’t heard from Ian, but if he was retrieving Liz’s stuff, that might take a while.

When Liz didn’t respond, concern itched under Mercy’s skin. “Liz?”

Liz’s loud sob felt like a vise clenching around her chest. Mercy rushed back into the living room and found her on the sofa, face buried in her hands, and body shaking. There was the breaking point.

Mercy knelt next to her, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and pulled her in. “I know. I do, hon.”

Soul-shattering cries eventually faded into sniffles and hiccups, punctuated with fragmented thoughts. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it… All the signs were there… God, this hurts so much… Fucking bastard… Do you think castration is a legal form of punishment? I need a drink. You have booze, right?” She looked up, eyes red and cheeks puffy.

The bill would hurt, but Mercy could suck it up. Especially if she landed this new client. “I have room service.” She stood and pulled Liz to her feet. “Wash your face. I’ll grab the menu, and we’ll see what we can order.”

“I don’t care, as long as it gets me wasted.” Liz’s comment faded into running water.

Several hours later, Mercy set the room-service trays outside the room. Between Liz and Mercy, they plowed through nachos, ribs, and meatball subs, and Liz was on her… Mercy didn’t even know how many drinks her friend had in her.

Mercy was nursing a watery 7 and 7—her first drink—and telling herself the bill didn’t matter. Next month was going to be good for her tiny advertising agency, and this was about Liz’s sanity. It was also about keeping Liz from being sick all over the carpet. Mercy snatched the fresh mini bottle, before Liz could pop it open. “Maybe you should have some water.”

Liz stuck her tongue out, then giggled. “Yes, Mom.” She half-wandered, half-stumbled to the sink and set the glass on the counter with a
thunk
when she was done. “You know what we should do?”

“Put you to bed?”

“Alone? Meh. It’s supposed to be my fucking honeymoon.”

“I love you, hon, but I’m not sleeping with you.”

Liz wrinkled her nose. “You’re not my type. Ian, on the other hand, really likes yo—”

“What should we do?” Mercy didn’t want to hear that. Talk about reopening old wounds. “You’ve got a grand and mighty plan, right?”

“Yes. We should go to Park City.”

Which was where Ian lived, as did a past Mercy wasn’t interested in revisiting. “It’s a little late.” Nothing was open in this state on a Sunday night.

“I mean tomorrow.”

Mercy didn’t know if Liz was babbling and drunk, or if she had a point. “You’re not much of an outlet-mall shopper. Nordstrom is down the street.”

“You’re funny. And I’m not that wasted.” Liz flopped onto the couch next to Mercy. “You’re going with me on my honeymoon. We’re going to hop in my car tomorrow morning, drive into the canyons, enjoy impossible levels of snow, and get laid. Every night. Different fucking guy.”

“You’re sure you’re not wasted?”

Liz stared at the ceiling. “Maybe a little. But I’m sick of this. I’ve been living in a hole for years, trying to get over”—she swallowed—“
them
. And this shit with George… I want to live again and not answer to anyone. Go with me. We’ll be stupid for the next ten days and pretend the real world doesn’t exist.”

That wasn’t completely an option. Mercy could take a few days away from work, but she needed to prep this proposal, and she was wooing the client in less than a week. Not that it mattered. Liz’s impulse would pass by morning, and Mercy would hop on a plane back to Atlanta. “I’ll go with you, but I have to take my laptop.”

“Fine. At least you’ll keep me company.” Liz yawned wide enough, she might dislocate her jaw. “I think I’m sleepy.”

“Come on.” Mercy helped her stand again. “Drink some more water, and you can go to bed.”

Moments later, Liz tumbled onto the mattress in the bedroom. “At least you two love me,” she mumbled.

“Always and forever.” Mercy squeezed her hand and left her alone to sleep. She was too wired to do the same, but she could watch TV in the other room for a while. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was only nine in the evening. The wedding would have started at five, followed by a full dinner for guests and what would have been a roaring reception, cresting its peak right about now.

This was why Mercy didn’t do love. Not the romantic kind, anyway. It always disappointed. From the night Ian left her alone in that stupid mountain town, to every time she or Liz had their hearts torn out, it never redeemed itself.
Fleeting
was fine. A couple days with a guy here, a couple weeks with a girl there… a month with the barista and her husband above the coffee house down the street from The Vatican. Mercy was okay with that, as long as the expiration date was stated or implied.

Maybe Liz was right; a week of debauchery in the mountains was what they both needed. And if they spent most of their time in bars and the hotel, Mercy didn’t risk running into her family.

Mercy settled in front of the living room TV and flipped mindlessly through stations. When the text message tone on her phone shattered the calm, she jumped at the sound for the second time that day. Her hammering heart skipped a beat when she saw the message from Ian. Great. The little girl in her wanted to come out and play.

Screw that.

Everything all right?
he asked.

Better than it was. Any luck?

News best delivered in person. I’m coming over. Send me your hotel info
.

Once upon a time, she would have sold her soul, to get that request from him. Now she forwarded him the address and room number, along with a warning.
She’s already asleep.

Probably for the best. I’m stopping by, anyway
.

Presumptuous ass. Of course he was. She sent back a quick,
Swell. I’ll be here.

She resisted the compulsion to check her makeup before he arrived. There was no reason to find something more flattering to wear, either. She didn’t need to impress him, and caring what he thought was nothing more than the ghost of a memory. When he knocked, she couldn’t help running her fingers through her hair.

Unlike her and Liz, he hadn’t changed his clothes. His tie hung loose around his neck, and the top button of his shirt was undone, but he still wore that tuxedo like it was made for him. Who was she kidding? It probably was. Technically they were both in the same industry, but the firm he inherited and expanded was in a different league in both reach and revenue than hers could ever hope to be. And God fuck it, if he didn’t look gorgeous in his tux. From a completely clinical perspective, of course. She’d say that about any guy who looked the same.

“She’s still sleeping. Probably will be for a while.” Mercy didn’t angle herself to keep him out, but she didn’t invite him in, either.

“Understood. I’m heading back up to Park City tonight. I have to be in the office in the morning. If possible, I’d like to talk to her before then. There were some problems getting her things back. She’s going to need to talk to the lawyer.”

Mercy winced. Of course it couldn’t be easy. What a mess.

Ian nodded behind her. “I’d like to wait, if you don’t mind. At least a little while.”

“Sure. Not a problem.” She stepped aside. She could mention Liz would be heading to the same place he was and he could talk to her then. But Liz might not want her brother knowing she planned on fucking her vacation away—and that was if she still wanted to go once she was sober and hung over. Besides, despite the voice telling Mercy to keep her distance and be cool, the urge to shut Ian out wasn’t there. She understood why he did what he had when they were teenagers, and they’d both grown up. Maybe it was time to start over. “I’d offer you something to drink, but we’ve exhausted most of the good stuff.”

He looked over the bottles lined up on the table. “At least she took it well. She is okay, right?” He sat in the middle of the sofa.

Mercy refused to read anything into the action, and took a seat in the armchair next to him. “As well as can be expected. Probably better, considering the circumstances.”

“She’s lucky you’re here.”

An awkward silence fell between them. It was better than making a fool of herself, like last time they saw each other. Insisting—at the glorious age of fifteen—she wasn’t a child, and that he had to take her with him when he left for college, or she’d go insane, while he gently pushed her aside and told her to go home.

Yup, that was in the past. And sitting in a hotel, trying to look anywhere but at each other, with his sister passed out drunk in the next room, was definitely preferable.

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.