Getting It Good!

Frankie heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Are you always so arrogant?”

“That depends,” Ross countered. “Are your nipples always so hard?”

She glanced at his crotch. “Are you always so hard?”

Ross chuckled. He wasn’t the least surprised by her candor, but he wasn’t going to let her get off easily. In fact, he wasn’t planning on letting her get off for a while…. He hauled her against him, rocked his pelvis forward and swiftly lowered his head, catching her surprised gasp with his mouth. “I am around you, Frankie,” he admitted with a resigned laugh. “Always around you.”

Then he nudged her forward, ending the moment. “But right now, Carnal Contessa, our fans are waiting for our advice. So move your ass, dearest.”

Their public wanted heat, Ross thought. Fine, he’d give them some heat. And by the time this session was finished, he’d make sure that nothing but ashes remained of the doubts Frankie pretended to have about the authenticity of their attraction.

Playtime was over. It was time for truth or consequences.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to my CHICKS IN CHARGE series! (If you missed Getting It! last month in Harlequin Temptation, be sure to check out eHarlequin for a new copy. You won’t want to miss it.) To say that I’m enjoying this group of feisty women-—and finding their perfect heroes—would be a huge understatement.

Card-carrying member of CHICKS IN CHARGE Frankie Salvaterra is the Carnal Contessa of the up-and-coming magazine—CHiCs. She’s the resident sexpert, and her plain speaking and outrageous suggestions for spicing up a flavorless sex life have quickly propelled her to semistardom. But when a meddling matchmaking friend steps in, Frankie finds herself sharing a room with CHiC’s newest employee—The Duke of Desire, Ross Hartford. Too-sexy Ross is every bit as outrageous as she is, every bit as confident when it comes to bed play—a lethal combination, to be sure. When Ross and Frankie are thrust into a royal “He Said, She Said” promotional tour for the magazine, Frankie finds it harder and harder to hang on to her righteous indignation…particularly since she’d rather hold on to him.

Be sure to look for my first single title release, The Future Widows’ Club, coming to Harlequin Signature Spotlight in April. Also, I love to hear from my readers, so swing by my Web site—www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com—and sign my guest book.

Enjoy!

Rhonda Nelson

Getting It Good!

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

An Evening To Remember… Those words evoke all kinds of emotions and memories. How do you plan a romantic evening with your guy that will help you get in touch with each other on every level?

Start with a great dinner that you cook together. Be sure to light several candles and put fresh flowers on the table. Enjoy a few glasses of wine and pick out your favorite music to set the mood. After dinner take the time to really talk to each other. Hold hands and snuggle on the sofa in front of the fireplace. And maybe take a few minutes to read aloud selected sexy scenes from your favorite Harlequin Blaze novel. After that, anything can happen….

That’s just one way to have an evening to remember. There are so many more. Write and tell us how you keep the spark in your relationship. And don’t forget to check out our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

Sincerely,

Birgit Davis-Todd

Executive Editor

Though the dedication is the only part of this book she can read until she’s much older, this book is lovingly dedicated to my darling daughter, Allie.

You’re the best, ma petite amie. I’m growing my very own best friend. How cool is that?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Prologue

The Bet

“I’LL SEE YOUR MASSAGE and raise you a blow job.”

A slow, wicked smile curved Tate Hatcher’s mouth. “Confident, are you?”

Zora slid the customized fellatio chip to the center of the table and gave her husband a small enigmatic smile. Horny better described her current state, but let him think what he would.

She wasn’t a great poker player and, to make matters worse, when she and Tate played Dirty Poker she always seemed to be the first player to lose focus. Her gaze skimmed over him. But who wouldn’t, with a husband as sexy as hers? Her nerve endings tingled with needy anticipation and a slow steady throb commenced between her thighs. Hell, she was tempted to fold simply to get the game over with.

But she couldn’t.

At least, not yet. She’d been waiting for months for a hand like this and, though he didn’t know it, she intended to up the ante in an unexpected way very soon.

Tate blew out a breath and those aged-whiskey eyes shrewdly considered her. “I think you’re bluffing… But on the off chance that you’re not, I’m going to see your blow job—” he dropped another fellatio chip into the growing pile and lowered his voice “—and raise you a secret fantasy.”

Zora arched a brow and thoughtfully tapped her cards. A secret fantasy, eh? Tate was a conservative player, didn’t raise the stakes unless he was confident of the outcome, therefore one could reasonably assume that he had one helluva hand.

With effort, she suppressed a small smile. Even a helluva hand wasn’t going to beat the one she currently held. The odds that he had the only hand that would beat it were too slim. Out of the realm of true possibility.

In other words, she had him.

Though every nerve tingled with excited energy, Zora pretended to consider her cards once more, then let her gaze tangle with his. She cocked her head. “Why don’t we make this a little more interesting?”

Tate’s eyes instantly sparkled with smoky arousal. “Oh? How so?”

She leaned forward. “Let’s forget Dirty Poker for the moment and talk about matchmaking between a couple of mutual friends.”

The abrupt change in subject matter cleared the heat from his gaze. Tate heaved a long-suffering sigh and simultaneously slouched back in his seat. “Zora, do we honestly have to have this conversation again? We shouldn’t meddle. It’s rude.”

“It’s only rude if we’re wrong. And we’re not. You know they’re perfect for each other.” An argument she’d presented for months, yet Tate still firmly refused to “meddle.”

“No, I don’t. I suspect that they would suit. However, I don’t know and, more to the point, neither do you.” He paused. “Jesus. They can’t be in a room together without verbal bloodshed.”

That was true, Zora had to concur. Frankie Salvaterra and Ross Hartford seemed to dislike each other simply for the pure sport of it. Though they both claimed to detest the other, they nevertheless never missed an opportunity to argue or disagree. One would think that where so much animosity existed, they would both go out of their way to avoid the other—and yet, curiously, they didn’t. In fact, Zora suspected they secretly enjoyed their little battles and she further suspected that there was an underlying reason for their exaggerated aversion—intense sexual attraction. The very air around them seemed to vibrate with it, shimmery and warm. Hell, she could feel it.

Tate gave his head an uncertain shake and winced. “It would never work, Zora. They’re like oil and water.”

“Or oil and gasoline,” she countered, more convinced than ever that she was right. After all, that’s what everyone had thought about them, too. Tate had been the bane of her existence, a thorn in her side, had crashed her first Chicks-In-Charge conference, intent on gathering unflattering book fodder for his next release…and she’d ended up marrying him. What had been the odds of that? That they’d ever suit? And yet she loved him more with each passing day. Zora let go a sigh. “I think you’re wrong, and if I win this hand, then you have to help me set them up.”

He groaned. “That’s what you meant by ‘let’s make it interesting’?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

Tate glanced idly at his cards and something about that careless regard made her inexplicably nervous. “And what do I get if I win?”

Since there was no way she could possibly lose this hand, Zora hadn’t considered what she’d offer in return. But she’d indulge him. She smiled, lowered her voice, and let her gaze purposefully drop to his mouth. “What do you want?”

Tate was silent for the better part of a minute, then a slow calculating grin that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end spread across his too handsome face. “I want you to hire Ross, let him come to work at Chicks-In-Charge.”

“What?”

Tate nodded, clearly pleased with his choice. And no wonder. As founder of Chicks-In-Charge—a national organization designed expressly for the purpose of empowering women—Zora was adamantly opposed to hiring men for any of her ventures. Sexist? Yes. But she’d been burned very badly by a former boyfriend/boss—which was how Chicks-In-Charge had gotten its start in the first place—and so far the concept had worked very well for her. She provided a completely testosterone-free workplace and all of her employees loved it.

Zora frowned thoughtfully. Particularly Frankie, who’d been scorched pretty badly by her father. “You know I can’t do that,” Zora finally said, mildly irritated. Hell, she’d compromised her principles enough by getting married. Hire a man? No way. “Besides, he has a job. He wouldn’t take it.”

“Oh, I can guarantee that he would take it.” An evil sort of glee clung to his smile. “If he wants the Maxwell account he’ll take it.” Tate’s advertising firm held the prestigious honor of catering to many of the larger men’s market accounts, and the Maxwell account was an especially juicy plum.

Zora gasped. “Tate, that’s horrible.” And, yet so diabolical she found it sexy. “Hadn’t you planned on giving him that account anyway?”

Smiling, he nodded. “Yeah…but he doesn’t know that. Besides, it would be worth it to see you add a man to your payroll.” He shifted in his seat, looked heavenward and heaved a dramatic sigh. “God, would it ever be worth it.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Zora replied tightly. “Pick something else. Anything else.”

“Nope. That’s what I want,” he insisted, to Zora’s supreme irritation. He thoughtfully considered her once more and one side of his mouth kicked up in a faintly smug smile. “Guess you’re not as confident as I thought you were. That, or you just don’t want this bad enough.”

Though she knew better than to react, the somewhat mocking taunt overrode her initial hesitation. “Oh, I’m confident, and I most definitely want this.” Frankie needed someone. Desperately. And Zora simply knew—knew—that Ross was the man for her. Besides, there was simply no way Tate could beat her hand. The odds were too great against it. Still, if hell froze over and she did lose this hand, then it would be better to have set a few conditions and parameters. “Temporary employment?”

“Define ‘temporary.’”

“An hour.”

Tate laughed. “Not long enough. Try a month.”

“In your dreams. A week tops,” Zora countered.

He nodded succinctly. “Done. What have you got?”

Now, for the moment of truth. Zora grinned and carefully spread her hand down on the table. “I’ve got a straight flush, baby. Read ’em and weep.” She threw her head back and a giddy burst of triumphant laughter bubbled up her throat.

Tate hummed under his breath and his head bobbed a single nod of agreement. “That is a good hand,” he conceded lightly. “But mine’s better—”

Zora’s gleeful chortling came to an abrupt halt and the smile slid from her face. “What?”

“—because I’ve got a royal flush.” Tate laid his cards down on the table.

Stunned, Zora shook her head. Dread curdled in her stomach. “No,” she said faintly. “But you can’t—I—It’s not possible.”

He smiled. “Oh, but it is.” He cheerfully slid the pot from the middle of the table. “So, what do I want first?” Tate pondered aloud with the exaggerated air of a child who’d just been told Christmas had come early this year. “Do I want a massage? A blow job? A secret fantasy?” His eyes twinkled with evil humor. “Or do I want you to call Ross right now and offer him a job at the magazine?” He pretended to think about it for a couple of seconds, then nodded dramatically. “Yeah. That’s what I want. I want you to call Ross. Right now.” Then to Zora’s immense irritation, he howled with laughter.

“If you’re going to have to blackmail him into taking the position shouldn’t I wait until we can both talk to him?”

Still laughing, Tate shook his head. “No.”

A frustrated growl vibrated the back of Zora’s throat. “Dammit, Tate, I don’t even know what I’m going to hire him to do, for pity’s sake.”

God, what was she going to hire him to do? Zora wondered with mounting alarm. There were no current openings, she was fully staffed at CHiC, her web-based e-zine, which had just made its debut into a glossy format. Furthermore, since it looked like she would definitely have to add Ross to the payroll—albeit only for a week—she should definitely make the most of it by putting Ross and Frankie in close proximity. Which would be next to impossible because Frankie—CHiC’s resident sexpert, the Carnal Contessa—would be on tour promoting the new glossy format the magazine had recently adopted.

Zora paused as a flush of inspiration suddenly lessened the panic crowding her brain. Wait a minute. This could actually work to her advantage. What if… A slow smile worked its way across her lips. Oh, God. That was perfect. Tate had not specified in what capacity she had to hire Ross, just simply that she must.

Tate’s laughter trailed off and ended with a deep satisfied sigh. He glanced at her, then frowned. “Why are you smiling?” he asked warily. “I won. I’m the one who’s smiling. Not you. You’re not supposed to smile. You’re supposed to worry and fret and eat humble pie. This is supposed to be a character lesson, a crash course in the benefit of humility.”

Zora grinned. “Whatever.”

“Whatever? What do you mean whatever?” His eyes narrowed. “Just what exactly have you got up your sleeve?”

“You’ll see,” Zora replied mysteriously. “Right now, however, I believe I have a few plans to make.”

1

FRANKIE SALVATERRA inhaled sharply. “You’ve hired the Antichrist?”

Zora’s lips curled into a droll smile. “A wee bit dramatic, don’t you think? God, it’s stifling in here.” She threw open the French doors behind her desk, allowing the crisp New Orleans autumn air to drift inside. “And I haven’t hired him yet—but I did offer him a job.”

“A job?” Frankie repeated incredulously. “Here? At CHiC?”

Her current boss and former best friend sat, then leaned back in her padded executive chair. She nodded once. “Yes, here. With you, specifically. But,” she sighed, “it’s only temporary and, though I’ve been assured that he’ll take it, there is still the chance that he won’t.”

With her? Frankie thought ominously. No, Zora couldn’t be serious, had to be joking. She couldn’t work with Ross. He was a stubborn, arrogant ass with an exalted opinion of his wit. He breathed to annoy her. She abhorred him, detested him. And yet, despite all of that, there was a small part of her which she refused to consciously acknowledge that was utterly captivated by him.

Ross Hartford was one of those fix-me males, the sexy-as-hell, rough-around-the-edges, you’re-the-only-woman-who-can-tame-me kind of guys that Frankie was inherently—stupidly—attracted to. His face was a masterpiece of masculine planes and angles—sinfully high cheekbones, dramatically hollow cheeks, a strong angular jaw and a sexy dimpled cleft that she’d fantasized about tasting one too many times. He had light brown tousled locks, eyes that were neither green nor blue nor hazel, but a compelling combination of all three, a voice that was low and smooth and a mouth that made her wet even when it curled into a mocking grin.

Which was beyond intolerable and only increased her desire to hate him.

Muttering a string of obscenities, Frankie vaulted from her seat and paced the plush office. She simply couldn’t believe this. Could not believe it. She’d known Zora Anderson-Hatcher since college, had been right there with her when the concept for Chicks-In-Charge had been born and had heard her say on countless occasions that she’d never hire a man. It was no small part of the reason Frankie loved working for CHiC, why she’d been drawn to and ultimately proud of being a part of the Chicks-In-Charge organization.

And despite that vehement credo, Zora’d not only abandoned it altogether, but hired the worst possible man on the damned planet and had the further effrontery to pair her with him?

She frowned, then irritably rubbed the line from between her brows. It just didn’t make any sense. Was completely out of character. Totally rash. What on earth had possessed her to—

Frankie gasped and whirled to face her. “You’ve been playing Dirty Poker again, haven’t you?”

Her boss flushed guiltily and looked away.

“Zora,” Frankie all but wailed, outraged. “You’re a terrible poker player! You rarely win. How could you bet something like this?” Irritation and disgust propelled her back into her chair. She shook her head, shoved a handful of hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you did this! What on earth were you thinking?”

Zora huffed a despondent sigh, rolled her eyes. “I was thinking that I’d win, that’s what I was thinking. I had a straight flush.”

Intrigued, Frankie glanced up. “A straight flush? Then how did you—”

She smirked. “Tate had a royal flush.”

“Oh.” Well, that sucked. Nevertheless… “So what did you bet? That you’d hire a man, or that you’d hire Ross?” Frankie grimly suspected that she knew the answer, but hope prompted her to ask the question anyway.

Zora winced. “Ross. But it’s only for a week, and like I said, he may not take the job.”

Frankie scowled. This still didn’t make any sense. “Fine,” she conceded with an impatient wave of her hand. “You have to hire him for a week. That still doesn’t explain why he has to work with me.”

Zora hesitated, then steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Don’t take this the wrong way…but to be totally frank, I’m making him work with you because I know he’ll hate it.” Eyes narrowed, her lips slid into a determinedly grim smile. “If he has to work here, he’s not going to like it.”

Frankie found herself conflicted. Since she couldn’t stand Ross, anything that he found unpleasant or made him unhappy appealed to her, and being the author of his misery would ordinarily tickle her to death, but for reasons she didn’t understand, something about Zora casting her in the role was somewhat…depressing. Her shoulders sagged marginally.

Everyone was supposed to notice that she couldn’t stand him, not the other way around, dammit. He should be grateful to share the same air as her.

An arrogant, exaggerated opinion, but she couldn’t help herself. Every emotion she had pertaining to Ross Hartford felt…exaggerated. Magnified. There were lots of men who got on her nerves, but she didn’t look forward to verbally eviscerating them. Lots of men she found attractive, but she didn’t constantly—graphically—dream and fantasize about them.

In fact, as a species in general, Frankie didn’t have any use for men at all. In her experience they were all untrustworthy, thoughtless, scheming, dick-driven bastards—and her father had been the worst of the lot.

Frankie had worked her ass off for the cheating SOB for eight years—had started with the company when she’d only been sixteen—and rather than give her the VP promotion she’d not only earned, but would have been handed to a male heir, he’d given her job to the Bagel Girl. Frankie’s lips twisted with bitter humor.

Turned out that she’d been giving him more than a little extra cream cheese every morning when she’d made her way around the office—she’d been giving him a nooner before noon.

That or the whore simply couldn’t tell time.

Frankie let go a frustrated, disgusted breath. How her mother could justify staying with him absolutely mind-boggled her. She’d never understand it. Never.

Between her rotten excuse for a father and one serious-but-soured relationship, Frankie had adopted only one attitude from her male counterparts that she found useful—indifference.

When she desired companionship, she hung out with female friends. When she wanted sex, she took an occasional lover. Things were less complicated that way. The idea of a man being both a friend and a lover was completely foreign to her. In order to call a person a friend, you had to trust them. Since she didn’t trust any man, the whole boyfriend concept was simply a misnomer to her.

Granted Zora and Tate seemed to have made things work, but they seemed to be the exception to the rule. Her gaze inexplicably slid to their wedding photo proudly displayed on the credenza and she felt a rebellious twinge of envy prick her heart. Zora and Tate were clearly head-over-heels for each other, and Tate was obviously Zora’s best friend.

Regardless, Frankie would rather rock along on her own than put a toe out of her comfort zone and she’d be damned before she’d ever let a man make a fool of her. She’d never allow herself to love someone so much that she’d give up her self-respect. The image of her mother’s rigid but weary form posted by the window waiting on her lousy father to come home flashed through her mind, punctuating the thought.

Besides, she liked her life. There was a lot to be said for peace of mind, for ultimate remote-control power, for hogging the whole bed, for doing what she wanted when she wanted without having to consider anyone else’s feelings. It was a very liberated if sometimes lonely lifestyle.

Furthermore, she loved her job. She’d found her niche as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Empowering women through sexuality was a noble goal. Teaching them to voice their needs, to act upon their baser desires, to be confident in their femininity, and more often than not, telling them to advise their blockheaded lovers on how to please them, was rewarding work. In her biweekly column, she leavened her sassy, blunt advice with a healthy lump of humor, and so far, the combination had worked beautifully.

So well, in fact, that beginning next week she’d start a five-city tour across the U.S. promoting the new glossy format of the magazine. She’d been honored that Zora had asked her to do it, and really looked forward to promoting CHiC and the whole Chicks-In-Charge movement. Both had really changed her life and she desperately wanted to give something back, wanted to share the phenomenon with other women.

Frankie paused. Since she wouldn’t be in the office, would be on tour, just exactly how was Ross supposed to work with her over the next week? The hair on her nape prickled and a cold knot of dread formed in her suddenly roiling tummy.

She carefully looked up. “Zora, just exactly—”

“If he takes the job, he’ll be going with you,” Zora said, anticipating her question.

Frankie swallowed the urge to scream and puke at once. “With me? As what? My assistant?” She hesitated, a sudden image popping into her head. Ooh, this could work, she thought as the idea gained momentum. She’d love bossing him around, sending him on pointless errands, giving him degrading tasks designed expressly to turn his mind black with rage. A bolt of evil glee shot through her, but withered at the small shake of Zora’s head.