Getting It Good!

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.

“Nooo,” she replied, dragging the word out. Then a wicked smile bloomed across her lips and her eyes twinkled with devilish humor. “He’s going to be CHiC’s temporary Duke of Desire.”

Frankie frowned. Duke of Desire? But—A beat slid into three, then comprehension dawned and a low chuckle vibrated the back of her throat.

Equally impressed and awed, she returned Zora’s grin. “Oh, he’s going to hate that,” she said with vengeful relish. “He’s really going to hate it.”

Zora nodded. “Precisely. Think you can suffer through it?”

Frankie nodded without hesitation. The mere idea of Ross’s impending discomfort was balm enough for her battered ego. “Oh, yeah. I can suffer through it.”

But she happily suspected he’d be suffering more.

“YOU’RE KIDDING,” Ross chuckled, stunned. He snagged a cup of coffee from his beleaguered assistant along with the usual stack of morning messages and hurried into his office. “Zora’s going to hire a man? What?” he joked, tossing a smile over his shoulder at Tate. “Did hell freeze over while I wasn’t looking?” He rounded his desk and plopped down into his chair. Idly flipped through his messages, silently swore when he realized more than half of them were from her. His fingers involuntarily curled, crushing the notes in his hand.

Tate laughed, settled himself into the seat opposite him. “No. An opportune visit from Lady Luck and my superior poker skills are what brought about the phenomenon.” His boss sighed, clearly wallowing in the victory of his coup.

“Dirty Poker, again, huh?” Ross replied, trying to force his irritated, preoccupied mind on their conversation. He conjured a brittle smile.

Zora and Tate’s risqué card game was legendary among Tate’s friends. By all accounts Zora was an abysmal poker player, yet that didn’t keep the couple from continuing to play the game. Zora had once confided that even when she lost, she still won. As far as Ross was concerned, that one telling comment pretty much summed up their marriage.

In a time when more than half of all marriages ended in divorce—his parents’ included—it was refreshing to see a couple who would undoubtedly go the distance. Not that their happily-ever-after engendered any latent desire to rush to the altar himself—not no, but hell no, Ross thought with an internal snort.

Maintaining a monogamous relationship was work and he already had a job, thank you very much. A job that he loved, where black was black and white was white and effort and loyalty were rewarded accordingly. He avoided anything gray—emotions, feelings, guessing games, the unsure or the vague.

Furthermore, his parents’ dysfunctional, mistrustful, adulterous hate-fest had been a doozy, and after surviving that, he simply preferred to be single. If those weren’t enough reasons to avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex, then his current situation most definitely was.

He was being…harassed.

Actually, stalked worked better but it seemed so dramatic that Ross balked at the term. A little harassment he could handle—stalking implied he needed professional help.

Besides, at the moment—and pretty much every moment—he had more pressing matters to concern himself with than worrying about a possible significant other, lack thereof, or a thwarted lover who couldn’t move on.

Like landing the Maxwell account.

The familiar burn of anticipation rushed through him, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside. When word got out that Maxwell Commodities had been looking for a new firm, Tate had made sure that Hatcher Advertising was first in line for a shot at it. He’d then put his top executives on the job and Ross was fortunate enough to be counted among them.

But it wasn’t good enough.

He wanted lead on this account.

And he was the logical choice because when it came to marketing men’s products—no brag, just fact, he was the best in the firm. Maxwell Commodities marketed everything from men’s toiletries to clothing as well as home fitness equipment and tools. The company catered exclusively to the male population and, while Ross admittedly didn’t have any idea how to market women’s products, he knew his stuff when it came to men. He was a guy, after all. His no-frills, no-bullshit style appealed to the man’s man. Facts, statistics, specs. Those were the things men were interested in. Aesthetics, thank God, didn’t enter the picture.

Landing lead on this account would garner national recognition, would put him in the inside lane on the fast track of his advertising career. Ross didn’t think a man was measured by his success or any of that nonsense. He was simply competitive. Had always been that way. Hell, a guy couldn’t play football—and every other sport imaginable—for more than a decade and come out any different. He wanted to be the best. When a knee injury in his senior year of high school had cost him a football career and a full-ride at LSU, Ross had been forced to direct his competitive efforts in another direction—college, then ultimately his career in advertising.

To that end, he had to land this account, because only the best could handle it.

“So who’s the lucky guy?” Ross asked, tuning back into the conversation. “Anybody we know?”

Tate hesitated and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Me?” What did he have to do with it? Ross wondered, suppressing the growing urge to check his e-mail. He’d worked on a couple of new ideas for Maxwell last night and had forwarded them to his office account. Occasionally what seemed like creative genius in the wee hours of the morning turned out to be total shit after a few winks. He was curious to see what this morning’s perspective brought.

“Yes, you.” Tate paused, and for some reason that ominous silence rang like a death knell. “You see, it’s not just any man that Zora has to hire—it’s you.”

Ross stilled. Shock jimmied a disbelieving chuckle loose from his throat. “What?”

Tate smiled grimly. “It’s you. You’re the man she’s hiring.”

Stunned, Ross shook his head, waited for his frozen smile to thaw. “Er…no, she’s not,” he said flatly. Even if he were so inclined—which he most definitely was not—he didn’t have the time. He had a damn job, one that he currently spent twelve-plus hours a day on. Furthermore, what in the hell would he do for Zora? What could he—a man—possibly do for a chick magazine?

Tate considered him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I suppose I could call upon our years of friendship, ask you to do this for me simply because it would give me a small amount of petty satisfaction after listening to my wife repeatedly tell me that she’d never hire a man.” Tate lifted his shoulders in a futile shrug. “But I can tell that it would be a waste of breath, so here’s the deal. Do you want the Maxwell account?”

Ross blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Of course I do.”

“Then it’s simple. If you agree to work for Zora, then it’s yours. If not…” He winced lightly and let the implication hang in the silence.

Beyond stunned, Ross shook his head. Tate had a reputation for being a bit ruthless, but this was the first time he’d ever been on the receiving end of it. Arguing, Ross knew, would be pointless. Trying to make Tate change his mind once it was set was like bear-hunting with a BB gun. Utterly futile. He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. Resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “How long?”

“Only a week,” Tate told him. He blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I know I’m playing dirty on this one, but I won,” he said desperately. With a somewhat manic gleam in his normally clear eyes, he leaned forward as though he were about to impart something very important. “Do you know what a rare occurrence that is with my wife? Do you have any idea?”

“You beat your wife at poker all the time, Tate,” Ross returned flatly.

“Yeah, but this time it’s different. I’m getting something that Zora’s never had to give up—humility. Come on, Ross,” he cajoled. “It’s only a week. What’s one week out of a lifetime? What’s one measly week for the Maxwell account?”

Not much, he had to agree. Nevertheless, he didn’t like being a part of Tate and Zora’s poker games and he damned sure didn’t like being blackmailed into getting an account that should have been his to start with.

Ross normally resisted all attempts to manage and maneuver him, but Tate, the intuitive bastard, had hit upon the one thing that he couldn’t refuse—the Maxwell account. If he would have dangled anything else, Ross would have been able to say no.

But not this.

He wanted it. It was a trophy account—the one that would ultimately prove he’d arrived.

And, though he didn’t appreciate Tate’s method, he’d had the balls to lay it all on the line, so he had to respect him for that, if nothing else. Ross let go a breath and glared at him. “You’re a sneaky bastard, Tate,” he told him, letting him know that he wasn’t completely off the hook.

“I know.”

Resigned, Ross rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to do?”

Seemingly relieved, Tate leaned back in his seat and winced. “That’s the kicker. I don’t know,” he said grimly. “We’re meeting Zora for lunch at Mama MoJo’s at noon.”

Ross shot him a hard look. “But it’s only a week, right?”

Tate nodded. “Right.”

“Fine,” Ross told him wearily. Hell, he could stand anything for a week, especially if it meant the Maxwell account would be his.

2

THREE HOURS LATER Ross’s steps slowed as he entered the eclectic café and the grim realization that he’d been wrong—that there was one thing that he couldn’t take for a week—hit him because that very thing was sitting at their table with Zora—Frankie Salvaterra.

“You didn’t tell me Mouth would be here,” Ross said tightly. Equal parts anticipation, dread and desire coalesced in his gut, pushed his pulse rate up to pre-stroke level. His skin prickled, his stomach parachuted and his loins ignited into an inferno of repressed lust.

Regrettably, Frankie always had that effect on him.

“That’s because I didn’t know,” Tate returned from the side of his mouth as he made his way across the room. He, too, suddenly looked a little uneasy, a fact Ross didn’t find the least bit reassuring.

Having spotted them, Zora smiled and waved them over. Frankie turned then, and that dark-as-sin gaze tangled with his. Her ripe mouth curled into a woefully familiar mockery of a grin, the barest hint of a smile, and that one provoking gesture somehow managed to be simultaneously superior and sexy.

And, as usual, it annoyed the hell out of him. He swallowed a long-suffering sigh.

Furthermore, to make matters worse—and truthfully, he wouldn’t have thought that would have been possible—Frankie had looked entirely too happy to suit his taste…because if Frankie was happy it could only be because she knew that he would soon be supremely unhappy. Clearly Zora had filled her in on the present situation and Ms. Merciless had tagged along to silently chortle over his misfortune.

“You have no idea what she wants me to do?” Ross asked again. His gaze drifted to Frankie once more and he watched as she and Zora shared a conspiratorial smile. Oh, hell, Ross thought as dread formed a tight ball in his belly. This didn’t bode well. Not well at all. His insides clenched and he stifled a groan.

“None,” Tate replied as they neared the table. He bent and brushed a kiss over his wife’s cheek and murmured a warm greeting.

“Zora, Frankie,” Ross said, giving them each a glance in turn, before taking his seat. Though he’d only spared half a second, had barely glanced at her at all, that one meager look had been all Ross needed to catalogue every pertinent detail when it came to Frankie.

Simply put, she was a classic Italian beauty. Long black hair, cut in lengthy layers that framed an elegant yet striking face. Large almond-shaped dark eyes, sleek dramatic brows, creamy olive skin and a mouth that inspired more than a few erotic dreams. Her lips were full, lush and unbelievably provocative. She was petite but very generously curved and she moved with a careless sort of grace that was, quite frankly, fascinating—mesmerizing—to watch.

Ross inwardly snorted. God knows, there had been times when dragging his eyes off of her had been almost impossible. Were that not enough, for reasons which escaped him, the Almighty had further blessed her with a keen mind and a diabolically sharp wit. Ross had found himself verbally flayed many times by that Ginsu tongue of hers and he grimly suspected that it was about to happen again.

It was a cruel joke really, Ross thought, mentally bracing himself, to package such a mind and body with the personality of a waspish hellcat. Crueler still that he actually looked forward to tangling with her, that he wanted her so desperately that it almost frightened him. Thankfully, fear was an emotion he refused to acknowledge, otherwise he’d undoubtedly be in trouble.

A beat later he felt her gaze slide over him, caught the vaguest curve of a smile, and the unease that had settled like a stone in his gut grew increasingly heavier. Annoyed, he looked away. A single hot oath sizzled on his tongue, but miraculously, he held it.

“I think I’m going to have the grilled chicken salad,” Zora said, casually perusing the menu. “What about you, honey? Have you decided what you want?”

Tate nodded, set his menu aside and absently scratched his chest. “Yeah. I’m in the mood for jambalaya.”

Ross resisted the pressing urge to roll his eyes. He was in the mood to get this over with, to cease and desist with the idle chitchat when they all knew they were here to plunge him into some unknown hell.

“That sounds good,” Frankie chimed in. “I think I’ll have that as well. Know what you want, Ross?” she asked with a touch of humor.

To leave, and from the knowing twinkle in her eye she’d evidently figured it out. “Er…the usual, I think. A MoJo burger and an order of fries.”

A waitress came, took their order, then soon returned and delivered drinks. Once she left, Ross decided that it was time to put an end to the meaningless chatter and cut to the chase.

He manufactured a smile that fell several degrees shy of pleasant and aimed it at Zora. “Tate has blackmailed me into coming to work for you at CHiC for the next week. Wanna fill me in on exactly what I’ll be doing?”

Zora looked up, smoothly set her drink aside. She seemed to have been waiting for him to broach the subject. “Sure. You’ll be working with Frankie.” She nodded toward her friend. “That’s why she’s here.”

If working for CHiC had been the directive that sent him to hell, then working with Frankie was the equivalent of being ushered to the very gates of Hades. For whatever reason—premonition, bad luck, bad karma—he had the grimmest feeling that the rest of what Zora had to tell him would send him over the threshold straight to the deepest nether regions of the underworld.

Zora smiled, serenely enjoying his discomfort. “As you know, Frankie is CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Our sexpert, if you will.”

He was fully aware of her job, what it entailed, and had read each and every column. One had to know one’s enemy, after all, and Ross had perceived many interesting facets of her personality through her advice, seeds of insight she’d unwittingly sown. Furthermore, there was something incredibly attractive about a woman who could speak freely about sex, the ultimate taboo. Frankie clearly reveled in her sexuality, clearly enjoyed every nuance of male/female ritual.

What he failed to see was how he could possibly work with her.

“As you know, CHiC has just launched the new glossy format. Over the next week Frankie will be touring the country to promote the new look. A five-city tour, to be precise.” She calmly sipped her drink and delivered the coup de grace. “You will accompany her.”

Ross blinked. It took a minute to believe his ears, but only a nanosecond to absorb the implication—and he didn’t like it. A five-city tour? Accompany her? But that meant he’d be gone, unable to work, unable to polish the pitch for the Maxwell account. Hell, he hadn’t had the time to play around with CHiC for a week to begin with, but at least he would have had his evenings to himself. He could have worked from home. This— Ross shook his head and felt his expression blacken. This would not do.

His gaze flew to Tate, who wore a somewhat slack-jawed smirk. “I can’t be gone for a week,” he said, his voice throbbing with the effort not to shout. “I can’t just leave at the drop of a hat. What about work? What about the Maxwell account?” Ross blew out a harsh breath. “This is ridiculous. I can’t do it.” His gaze drifted to Zora. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find something else for me to do.”

Zora shook her head, offered a smile that distinctly lacked sympathy. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. This is what I need you to do.” She looked at her husband. “I thought you said he’d agreed?”

“He’d agreed to work for CHiC,” Tate responded tightly. “However, when I asked him—”

Ross snorted. “Blackmailed, buddy. You didn’t ask,” he interjected.

Tate shot him a glare. “—I had no idea that you’d need him to be away from home for the next week. This sheds a completely different light on things, Zora,” he told her, clearly irritated.

Zora grinned happily. Though she didn’t move, Ross got the impression she wanted to bounce in her seat. “You’re right. It means that you forfeit and I win.”

A muscle worked in Tate’s jaw and a martial light suddenly glinted in his tense gaze, one Ross instinctively knew didn’t bode well for his cause. “I’ll put Brad on everything but the Maxwell account in your absence, Ross. You can still work on it from the road. We’ll arrange a mobile office and I’ll make sure a dedicated team is in place to see to anything you might need on this end.”

Ross dragged in a harsh breath. “Tate—”

Tate continued to glare at his wife. “I will not forfeit. She’s not going to win. Take it or leave it. Those are the terms.”

“You should probably tell him the rest so that he can make an informed decision, right, Zora?” Frankie leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him with something close to pitying amusement.

His gaze bounced from Frankie to Zora and he felt his eyes widen in shocked disbelief. The rest? There was more? As it stood, he’d have to be on the road with Frankie—hell, in and of itself—and yet there was more?

Ross smirked, looked heavenward for patience, for divine intervention before he did something stupid. Like telling his boss and his evil wife to shove it. “Do tell, Zora,” he said sardonically. “I do want to make an ‘informed decision.’”

“Very well,” Zora replied. “You’ll be accompanying Frankie as CHiC’s Duke of Desire. You, too, will dole out sex advice, speak for the male population.”

Ross blinked, certain he couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly. “Come again?”

A familiar feminine chuckle sounded. Frankie’s, no doubt, the vindictive witch. He could think of a million other ways to put that carnal mouth to better use, Ross thought, as his blood began to boil.

“You’ll go as the Duke of Desire,” Zora repeated. Her lips quivered with the urge to smile and an evil twinkle danced in her triumphant gaze. She slid her husband a glance, then met his gaze once more. “You’ll do exactly what Frankie does, only you’ll speak for the male audience.”

It was that triumphant gaze, that laughter at his expense that checked Ross’s immediate impulse to tell them all to go to hell. And it was a strong impulse, almost overwhelming.

But that look simply wasn’t acceptable.

It strummed his let’s-rumble nerve, hit his competitive vein releasing a flood of you’ll-wish-you-were-never-born cutthroat blood that instantly pushed a lazy do-or-die grin up his lips. They wanted to play, did they? Fine. He was up for it.

He passed a hand over his face. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go with Frankie and talk about sex for the next week?” he asked. He let his gaze drift to her, then purposely over her, and had the pleasure of watching that annoying smile she’d been wearing slowly capsize.

Zora nodded, sensing his abrupt change in mood as well. She stilled. “That sums it up nicely, yes.”

He looked at Tate. “And the Maxwell account is mine when I get back?”

“That’s right.”

Ross grinned, and despite the fact he was wound tighter than an eight-day clock, he lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Then it’s a no-brainer. Count me in.”

“Excellent,” Zora replied. She stood and nudged her husband, who belatedly left his chair. “We’ll get ours to go. Frankie, you take a long lunch, fill Ross in on the particulars and I’ll see you back at the office.” She and Tate hurried off before Frankie could voice the protest that had formed silently on her lips.

“Looks like it’s just me and you,” he told her, enjoying his advantage. “Guess we’d better get used to it. A whole week,” he needled significantly. “Together.”

Frankie’s gorgeous face went comically blank. Obviously she’d been so caught up in his future misery that she’d failed to consider her own.

Ross’s mood instantly improved—perhaps he should enlighten her.

THINGS HAD GONE EXACTLY as she’d imagined right up until five minutes ago, Frankie thought as her former glee turned into furious despair. Ross had reacted much as she’d predicted for the initial part of the lunch, then he’d surprised her by capitulating so easily. She hadn’t expected his abrupt change of heart and, quite honestly, the fact that he was taking this so well infuriated the living hell out of her.

He wasn’t supposed to take it well.

He was supposed to stomp and roar like an outraged elephant. He was not supposed to dismiss the next week as the Duke of Desire as mildly amusing, then dig into his lunch as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

It was exceedingly unsporting of him.

“Look, Ross,” Frankie said, coating her patronizing tone with a hard layer of ice. “I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as you think.”

“What?” he asked. He grinned that lazy, sexy grin, the one that never failed to simultaneously turn her on and irritate the hell out of her. “I’m going to give sex advice. How hard can it be?” He winked at her. “I happen to be an expert.”

Frankie snorted, staunchly ignored the flash-fire that quickly spread over her thighs. “That’s a matter of opinion and, just for clarification, not yours.” God, could a man be any more conceited?

“It’s a fact, and can be authenticated if you require proof.”

To her horror, she felt a blush creep up her neck. She swallowed and donned an exasperated expression. “Trust me, that won’t be necessary. My point is, you’ll be representing the magazine. You’ll need to be careful what sort of advice you dole out, otherwise you’ll make CHiC look bad. Which for obvious reasons isn’t the goal.” She snapped her napkin into her lap. “In short, you won’t be able to act like your typical obnoxious know-it-all self.”

Looking irritatingly unconcerned, Ross chuckled low and sprawled back into his seat. “Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black if I’ve ever heard one.”

Annoyed, Frankie picked up her spoon and chased a piece of sausage around the bowl. “Furthermore,” she added, “merely having sex does not make you an expert.”