My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 by Marita A. Hansen Page A

fool not to,” he
replied. “You have such a stunning body.”
    I knew that, and I wasn’t being arrogant
either. I was in the best shape I’d ever been. Over the past six
months, I’d become addicted to exercise, working out until I was
past exhaustion, to the point that I could barely remember my own
name let alone my husband’s. But Matt’s sweet face always came back
to haunt me, someone I would never see again, no matter how much I
cried for him, and it was all because of one person: Frano D’Angelo
– Jagger’s cousin.
    The silver-haired man smiled wider,
probably because I hadn’t moved, although if he could read faces as
well as I could, he would know not to mess with me, because right
now I wanted to kill.
    “ What is your name?” I asked for
my fellow
agents’ benefit.
    “ Simon Harper.”
    “ I’m sure I will be seeing you
again,” I said, that one line relaying to my co-workers that I
wanted him followed, because he was definitely a sex offender—no
doubt about it.
    Not wanting to waste any more time on him, I
headed for a barstool two seats down from Frano’s cousin. Jagger
turned to look at me. Relieved that he had noticed me, I sat down
on the stool and and waved at the bartender, who instantly came
over. He reminded me of Captain America with his
slicked-to-the-side blond hair, square jaw, and muscles. He just
needed the star-spangled banner suit and he was ready to
go.
    “ What would you like, gorgeous?”
he asked.
    “ My name sake,” I answered, hoping that Jagger
was listening in.
    “ And what’s that?”
    “ A m argarita.”
    The bartender leaned on the bar, his
rolled up shirt exposing muscular forearms. “I bet you taste better
than the drink.”
    I wiggled my ring finger in front of
him.
    “ Damn,” he said, looking
disappointed.
    “ I agree with that, which is why
I intend on spending the night with as many margaritas as I can
handle, or should I say, cannot handle.”
    “ Why?”
    “ I caught my husband in the arms
of a cliché.”
    “ A cliché?”
    “ His
secretary.”
    He shook his head.
“ What kind
of crazy man would cheat on you?”
    “ Someone with a taste for blonde
bimbos.” I shot a pretend glare at the blonde woman for effect,
happy to find that Jagger was now openly staring at me. “So, I’m
here to drown my sorrows.”
    “ I can certainly help you with
that.” The bartender winked, then moved away to get my drink. I
swiveled around on the barstool, pretending to survey the room,
though unsuccessfully, because Jagger’s stare drew me straight to
him. The blonde glanced behind her, giving me the evil eye, then
took a hold of Jagger’s chin, trying to get his attention. He
yanked free, snapping “ Vai via! ” which I knew was ‘Go away’ in Italian, or with
his tone ‘Beat it’. The woman started talking in rapid-fire
Italian, begging him to ignore me, that she would pleasure him
until he came in all her holes. I refrained from screwing up my
face at her vulgarity, because there was no way I wanted him to
know I spoke his mother tongue. I had learned it from my foster
parents, plus my skills at picking up languages was now legendary
in the FBI, one of the reasons why I was put on assignments
relating to foreigners. I could speak French, Russian, Arabic, and
of course Italian, as well as Spanish and German, only the Asian
languages proving more difficult to master.
    Jagger continued to stare, his intensity
telling me he wanted to fuck me ... no, he was going to fuck me. When my boss had asked me
to take the assignment, I had said yes without hesitation, my need
to make Jagger’s cousin pay all-consuming, but when I was told I
was to become a sex slave to my husband’s murderer, for the first
time I was left speechless, blinking like a stupid airhead as my
boss continued to outline my role. After his long spiel, he’d made
me go home to consider every aspect of the assignment, telling me I
had forty-eight hours to decide. Then on D-day,