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.

“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.”

Ross cast her a twinkling glance, washed a bite of his burger down with a deep drink of his iced tea. “Yeah…but having sex a lot does.”

Frankie’s fingers tightened around her utensil and she futilely wondered if it were possible to claw out her mind’s eye. “That’s more than I needed to know.” Way more. Hell, she knew he was experienced—from what she’d covertly gleaned from Zora, Ross was never without a date, had to practically beat the women off his sexy hide with a stick. Furthermore, she also instinctively knew he was the expert he claimed to be, but the reminder played havoc with her senses and she’d just as soon not hear it.

“Really?” he said, evidently enjoying this suggestive line of conversation. A droll smile rolled around his lips, and those sexy-as-hell kaleidoscope eyes crinkled at the corners. “I would have thought that I’d need to list my experience. That you might even need to call a few references for this job.” His voice dropped to a sensual purr. “Or, maybe you could interview me personally,” he suggested. “Check my job performance, make sure that I’m competent enough to be your Duke of Desire.”

The innuendo in that low, hazy voice conjured an image of her interviewing him until her eyes rolled back in her head. Cool sheets, hot naked bodies, candlelight and massage oil. Hot, hard and fast, then slow, easy and deliberate. Her feminine muscles clenched, forcing a shuddering breath from her lungs. “No,” she said tightly, blinking the vision from her mind. “That won’t be necessary. Dammit, Ross, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Why should I?” he countered, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d just produced her own mental porn film, featuring them in the starring roles. “We both know I’ve been manipulated into this. I became a pawn in Zora and Tate’s poker game—and you’re deluding yourself if you think you aren’t as well.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “You’re full of it, you know it, Ross?”

He laughed and gave her an odd expression, one that left her with the unhappy sensation that he was privy to something she was not. “Now this is new,” he said consideringly. “You’re usually a lot quicker on the uptake than this.”

Frankie scowled at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Zora lost the bet,” he said with exaggerated patience, “and yet she’s obviously very happy with the way things have turned out. If she lost, just what exactly had it been that she stood to win?”

Frankie paused. She hadn’t thought of it that way. “I don’t know,” Frankie said slowly. And it was an excellent question. In fact, it irritated her that he’d thought of it first.

Ross took up another fry and pointed it at her before popping it into his mouth. “I don’t know for sure, but you can bet your sweet little Italian ass that it had something to do with me and with you, otherwise, we wouldn’t be sitting here, and we damned sure wouldn’t be spending the next week together.” Ross snorted. “Duke of Desire, my ass. That was simply icing on somebody’s cake and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was on your boss’s, not mine.”

Ross stood and tossed a few bills on the table. “If I’m going to be gone for the next week, I’ve got to get organized. Find someone to dog-sit, swing by my house every few days to collect the mail, and all that jazz. Come by my place tonight and we can go over whatever else I need to know then.”

“But—”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. The combined proximity of that sexy gaze, that intimate rasp and his particular woodsy fragrance made her body sing like a tuning fork, her brain melt, ready to believe anything. “And just so you know, Ms. Sexpert, I’ll be one helluva Duke of Desire because I’ve forgotten more about sex than you’ll ever know…unless I develop a death wish and decide to teach you.”

Frankie blinked drunkenly for several seconds and by the time her sluggish brain had manufactured a comeback, Ross had already made it to the door. “Develop a death wish,” she muttered under her breath, silently cursing her roaring pulse. Her eyes narrowed and a low growl vibrated the back of her throat.

As though sleeping with her wouldn’t be the best thing to ever happen to him. Someone needed to teach him a lesson, Frankie thought. A good moral one like “pride goeth before the fall.”

Death wish, her ass. She smiled grimly. By the end of next week, he’d undoubtedly be wishing that he was dead.

3

AFTER COMING HOME to a bouquet of flowers on his front porch, two lengthy I-miss-you, this-can’t-be-over letters in his mail box and half a dozen hang-up calls on his answering machine, the idea of leaving town for a week—even with thorn-in-his-side Frankie—had gained considerable appeal.

Honestly, Ross thought with a disgusted grunt as he tossed the letters aside and systematically erased each of the messages, how much longer could this go on? He’d dodged calls from Amy—the ex who didn’t get the “ex” part—all morning and afternoon, and knew that the only reason she hadn’t “dropped by”—an irritatingly frequent occurrence—was because she was working. She’d shared that little tidbit in one of her many messages.

Ross had been dating since his early teens, knew the ins and outs of proper dating and break-up etiquette. He wasn’t a cheap date, did his best to be respectful and attentive and never tried to push things to an intimate level unless he was completely sure of two things—mutual consent and the understanding that sex wasn’t a precursor to a lasting relationship.

The moment he felt a woman change the rules, sensed that they were trying to move things beyond a purely recreational level, he very politely, very carefully bailed.

Dates one and two with Amy had been great. Date three she’d spent the night. Date four she’d asked for a key. He hadn’t given her one, of course, but that hadn’t stopped her from “surprising” him with dinner—at his house—on date five.

He’d come home to find his living room rearranged, a casserole in the oven, and her toothbrush, toiletries and a good portion of her wardrobe in his closet.

The minor note of alarm he’d heard when she asked for the key had been nothing compared to the deafening sound of mental warning he’d experienced then.

Rather than break things off by natural degrees, Ross had—as diplomatically as he could under the circumstances—ended their relationship. He’d speedily loaded her chicken pot pie, pantyhose and other belongings into her car and sent her on her way.

Then he’d changed the locks.

There’d been something…off about the entire exchange which had made him a little nervous.

For good reason, it now seemed. Though he’d repeatedly made his feelings plain—“This isn’t working for me, we’re finished, it’s over.”—short of shouting “Leave me alone, you psycho freak!”, Ross didn’t know what else to do.

He’d always considered freezing a woman out by avoiding phone calls the cowardly, disrespectful approach, but during the past week he’d had to resort to that tactic. Being tactful but honest—then brutally honest—hadn’t worked. Ross had figured that if he simply quit responding, she’d eventually give up and move on.

Not so.

If anything, she seemed to have redoubled her efforts to make him change his mind. Seemed more determined than ever to win him back. It was annoying, not to mention…creepy. In his opinion—or any right-thinking person’s opinion for that matter—they hadn’t known each other long enough for her to have developed such an attachment.

At any rate, he didn’t have the time to linger over the issue any longer. He had too much to do.

Like getting ready for this pointless week-long jaunt around the country with Frankie.

Her beautiful smug face instantly surfaced in his weary mind, causing a simultaneous rush of irritation and longing. An odd mix, for sure, but one that he’d grown accustomed to since their mutual friends tied the knot. He’d met Frankie—as well as the rest of Zora’s CHiC posse—at a cook-out shortly after Zora and Tate had taken their relationship public. That had been something, Ross remembered. When Tate—the man who’d written What Women Really Want—Reading between the Sighs, who the Times had dubbed “The Last True Bachelor” and Zora, the founding president of Chicks-In-Charge, the poster child for Girl Power—had paired up, the press had had a field day with it. An ordinary couple probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand the scrutiny, but Tate and Zora had been so committed to each other—so in love—that they’d pulled through without a hitch.

Though birthdays eluded him and he’d never managed to commit his social security number to memory, Ross could remember the exact moment he’d seen Frankie, the precise instant he’d felt her presence. He’d been keeping Tate company at the grill, had just lifted a bottle to his lips when he’d caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. The strangest feeling had come over him, one that to this day he still couldn’t name, didn’t even attempt to try.

He’d stilled. Sound had receded, every sense had gone on point, the bottom dropped out of his stomach, and for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a stallion catching the scent of a mare.

It wasn’t just that she was gorgeous—though, he thought with a broken laugh, God knows there was no denying that—or the fact that she was sexy as hell. Frankie had possessed some other indefinable something that made her, in particular, utterly fascinating to him. There was a gut-level, knee-jerk attraction he’d never experienced before and instinctively knew he’d never feel again.

Regrettably, five seconds beyond their introduction—the one he’d taken great pains to casually force—for reasons he’d never understood, she’d taken an instant dislike to him, given him one of those provoking superior looks, opened her mouth, and that keen fascination had become hopelessly tangled with equal parts of annoyance, irritation and, gallingly, lust.

Since then the attraction had worsened right along with their ability to get along. She never missed an opportunity to zing him—went out of her way, as a matter of fact—and rather than ignoring her or giving her the cold shoulder—the mature, not to mention sane approach—he’d upped the ante until they’d turned clever bickering into an Olympic sport.

He’d rather have Olympic sex with her, but knew he had a better chance of being plucked out of his office to play quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys than maneuvering her delectable bod into bed. Was she attracted to him? Yes. Hell, he had enough experience with the opposite sex to deduce when one wanted him. Like him, Ross imagined that Frankie purposely overcompensated with sarcasm to mask the attraction.

But unlike him, she’d never act on it—she was too damn stubborn, a fact he’d noted quite forcibly when they’d tangled over hosting the wedding reception.

He’d jokingly—jokingly, geez didn’t she have a sense of humor?—suggested Hooters and she’d exploded like a hot cola can, spewing her disgust and anger at him. Citing his lamentable lack of taste, she’d promptly taken over and only by sheer force of will was he able to inject a little of his own ideas into the final arrangements.

The minute he’d gotten back to the office after that shanghai lunch, Ross had gone directly to Tate’s office and hounded him until he’d called Zora and gathered further details about the upcoming trip. He’d just as soon not be dependent on Frankie for all the facts, thank you very much and, since his landing the Maxwell account depended on him pulling off this week-long stint, he thought it prudent to make sure that he was aware of everything they would be doing.

He’d gotten the schedule and, though some of the flights and appearances were a little tight, there was still a window of time between each city that would allow him to work on the Maxwell account. He had to keep that in mind, Ross told himself. Undoubtedly the only thing that would keep him sane on this trip was the opportunity to immerse himself in work. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Immersing himself in Frankie was certainly out of the question.

As though the mere thought of her had conjured her out of thin air, Ross heard a knock at his front door. His neck tightened with tension and he let go a short breath.

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