By all appearances, Marc seemed glad to have Corinne’s attention al to himself, and if I wasn’t already certain of his disinterest in human women in general, I’d probably have fallen for his performance myself.

After all, enforcers typically dealt with violent, angry strays, not beautiful, willing women.

I’d never seen Marc flirt with anyone else before, but he did it wel .

Very well. Fortunately, I was secure enough in myself and in our relationship to know that he was just doing his job. Marc thought of his appearance—his beautiful face and sculpted physique—the same way he thought of his teeth and claws: as just two more weapons in his personal arsenal. And he would never hesitate to use any weapon at his disposal if he deemed it necessary. Which made me wonder how far he’d be willing to go….

As far as it takes, a soft, treacherous voice spoke up from deep within my heart. He’d do anything for the Pride, and you know it.

Corinne had one hand on his bicep and one foot hooked around his calf beneath the table, and Marc seemed to be eating it up. He looked directly into her eyes, a courtesy I was pretty sure strippers rarely got at work, and leaned close to her, as if to better hear what she was saying over the loud music. That was just for show, of course. He could hear her perfectly well. Hell, I could have heard her if I’d concentrated. But I didn’t, because while I knew he was only acting, doing his job for the good of the Pride, I had no desire to hear another woman tell my boyfriend how hot he was.

If I wanted him to know, I’d damn well tell him myself.

Then, as I tapped my pen on the bar, Marc began questioning Corinne. I knew when that moment came, even without listening for it, because her hand fell from his arm and her eyes dropped to the bright red drink on the table. As she spoke, presumably answering his questions, Corinne picked at the fingernails of one hand, her forearms resting on the table. Her expression had gone from cheerful and flirtatious to sad and worried. Which meant Marc was doing his job.

Inspired by his success, I glanced at the clipboard in front of me, considering my next move. How was it that Marc had gotten information out of his source, while I’d only gotten paperwork?

Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to play the boob card against Jeff.

Surely that would be easier than testing a patch of my skin for an allergy to double-sided tape.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t flash my flesh in exchange for information. For my life, yes. I’d been down that road three months earlier, and vowed never to travel it again. And I wasn’t willing to break my vow for mere information. I didn’t fault Marc for flirting in the name of duty, but neither could I fol ow his example. That would be demeaning myself, and using Jeff, and I just couldn’t do either.

I’d have to find another approach. An approach that left me with my clothes—and my self-respect—intact.

Slowly, an idea began to form. I’d already made up a name, so why not make up a story to go with my new character? What if Julie hadn’t real y come to Forbidden Fruit looking for a job? What if she’d come for something else?

When the rush was over and Jeff came back, I was ready.

“You forget how to spell your name?” he asked, nodding at the blank application as he set a bottle of spring water on the bar in front of me.

“Thanks.” I stared at the bottle as I opened it and took a long drink, intentionally—and hopefully obviously—avoiding his eyes as I recapped the bottle and set it back on the bar.

“Something wrong?” he asked, ducking his head into my line of sight to catch my eyes.

I gave him a hesitant, self-conscious smile. “I, um, I’m not really here for a job.”

Jeff arched one eyebrow and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Leaning into the corner formed where the bar turned at a ninety-degree angle, he popped one of the nuts into his mouth, chewing while he watched me. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What do you want?”

Smiling, I let genuine relief show on my face. I’d been counting on his curiosity, which wasn’t really such a risk. Most guys will take any chance to prolong a conversation with a pretty girl. Jeff wore no wedding ring, and I’d already gathered that he liked women, so the odds of him showing interest were in my favor.

Score one for my approach.

“Information,” I said as I let my smile fade into a serious expression, with just enough anger to lend authenticity.

“Information? That’s a new one.” He paused to chew on a few more nuts, and I kept my eye contact bold to show determination. “What kind of information?” he asked, his mouth stil half-full.

“I want to know who my husband is fucking.”

Jeff choked on his mouthful, coughing to clear his throat. When he could breathe again, he laughed out loud, admiration showing in his eyes, hopeful y for me, and not for my “husband.” He dropped the remaining peanuts back into the bowl and brushed salt from his palms, glancing pointedly at my left hand. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

“Would you, if your wife were screwing someone else?” I spat, maintaining eye contact to reinforce my sincerity.

“Besides, I seriously doubt Robby wore his when he was here.

Turnabout’s fair play, right?” I shrugged, and tilted my water bottle back for another drink.

“So, who’s your husband, and why do you think he’s cheating on you?” he asked, leaning back to work on another handful of peanuts.

“My husband.” I sighed, as if settling in for a long story.