“For every hand I win, I get one kiss and one touch…anywhere,” Tate said

Then he leaned back in his chair, deftly dealing the cards. He seemed to have no doubt that she’d accept his challenge. God, he knew her so well already.

Zora gazed at him shrewdly. “And what do I get if I win?”

The corners of his mouth tucked into a sexy smile. “You can have a kiss and a touch, too.”

Zora chuckled. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

Tate’s gaze slid to her breasts, making her nipples tingle and sending a sluggish heat through her limbs. He reached over the table, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. “What do you want, then?”

Her brain ceasing to function normally, Zora fought for words, realizing dimly that he was trying to sidetrack her. “Information.”

“Anything you want.” Tate shrugged, and smirked confidently. “Besides, I’m not the least bit worried. Ready to lay down?”

She fanned her cards out in front of her. “Three of a kind.”

Tate’s gaze dropped to her mouth and he licked his lips. In that instant, her body tingling, Zora knew that she’d lost.

The question was, was it just the game she’d given away, or her heart, too?

Dear Reader,

Getting It! is the debut book in my debut series entitled CHICKS IN CHARGE. I’m having a ball writing these feisty, headstrong heroines and pairing them up with worthy guys who are able to handle them. (Or so they think.) The idea of a support group created by women for women—where the chicks were literally in charge—appealed to me, and thus the fictional organization Chicks In Charge was born. (Think Romance Writers of America meets The Sweet Potato Queens.) This series will cover the founding board members’ stories, and begins with Zora Anderson, the founding president.

Founder of the phenomenally successful organization Chicks in Charge, Zora Anderson has a secret that would ruin her hard-as-nails reputation—her boyfriend flatly refuses to sleep with her. She’s hot and bothered and desperately in need of an orgasmic fix. Author Tate Hatcher doesn’t know what to think when a woman he doesn’t know enters his hotel room—while he’s in the shower, no less—then continues to berate him for not seeing to her sexual needs. But one look at her and he’s ready to admit fault and rectify his supposed negligent behavior.

Be sure to check out Getting It Good!—the next story in the series coming to Harlequin Blaze in February! And be sure to drop by my Web site at www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com. I love to hear from my readers!

Happy reading,

Rhonda Nelson

Books by Rhonda Nelson

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

973—UNFORGETTABLE

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

75—JUST TOYING AROUND…

81—SHOW & TELL

115—PICTURE ME SEXY

140—THE SEX DIET

158—1-900-LOVER

Getting It!

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to the original Chick-in-Charge, my best friend and critique partner, Debra Webb. Thanks for being the best friend I could ever hope to have, for being a cheerleader, for having enough faith for both of us, for being a drill sergeant, a confidante, counselor, partner in crime, sounding board and all-around bud. I’m proud to be your “Ethel.”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Prologue

AH, THERE’S CARRIE, Zora Anderson thought as she watched her friend weave her way to the back of the pub. She kept her face schooled in a calm mask, but on the inside she literally wilted with relief. The Bitchfest could begin, and she’d never needed to vent more.

She’d had the day from hell, one of the absolute worst in past and recent memory.

“Sorry I’m late.” Looking tired but gorgeous as usual, Carrie Robbins slid onto a bar stool and released a beleaguered breath. “Let the Bitchfest begin.” She signaled a waitress for a drink, then cast a glance around the small, scarred table. “So, who’s going first?”

“It looks like you need to,” Frankie Salvaterra said pointedly, and Zora had to agree. Carrie looked particularly harried this evening, as though she needed to share her weekly woes as much as the rest of them did. “What was the holdup tonight?” Frankie asked. She snorted indelicately, pulled a drink from her beer. “Was your hollandaise too runny again?”

April Wilson’s eyes twinkled and she aimed the mouth of her longneck bottle at Carrie. “My money’s on your noodles. Limp again, right?”

“Not as limp as his dick,” Frankie interjected with a grim smirk.

“Ah, but that begs the assumption that he has a dick,” Carrie replied archly. “Which he doesn’t, remember? We decided after the noodle incident that he was a ball-less, dick-less worm.”

Frankie inclined her dark head. “And a pompous bastard to boot.”

Zora laughed at the apt description. Carrie was a fabulous chef, one of the best in the area. But being one of the best didn’t keep her boss from constantly criticizing her.

Zora cast a glance at each of her friends in turn. As a matter of fact, “pompous bastard” pretty much described almost all of their respective bosses. Except for hers. She no longer had a boss. Or a boyfriend, for that matter, she thought with a bitter smile—she’d lost both when she’d gotten fired today. Zora hid a shuddering breath behind her beer, checked the burgeoning impulse to alternately scream and cry. But she wouldn’t do either because conceding so much as a frustrated tear over that faithless, scheming bottom-feeder punctuate his victory and she simply wouldn’t allow it. So long as she didn’t cry, he hadn’t won and she hadn’t been a fool.

From the sounds of things, though, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad day. Zora had polled the others before Carrie had arrived, and both Frankie and April had given their days a D for dreadful.

Quite frankly, their weekly Bitchfest at the Bald Monkey Pub in New Orleans’s French Quarter was typically the high point of her week. Being able to vent her irritation to the tune of low jazz, cold beer, commiserating nods and righteous indignation on her behalf was, in her opinion, better than paying a shrink a couple hundred bucks an hour. The four had met in college, forged instant friendships, and had provided group therapy through every victory and pitfall ever since. Zora had a great family—a couple of older brothers, a mother and father who’d long since retired to sunnier climes—but this group of women had become the sisters she’d longed for, but never had.

Regrettably, there’d been more pitfalls in recent weeks and Zora knew that something simply had to give. Frankie’s cynicism had taken a possibly chronic turn, Carrie’s effervescent laughter had lost its usual fizz and April’s sometimes annoying but always endearing Pollyanna attitude had dimmed considerably. They were on the Bitter Bitch Express traveling at near-sonic speed and, unless something drastically good happened to derail them, Zora feared they were nearing the Point of No Return. They’d become man-hating cat-lovers with too many microwave dinners in the freezer and a handy vibrator in the bedside drawer.

Zora liked men, was allergic to cats and, other than the occasional bag of popcorn, didn’t use her microwave. She preferred takeout. As for the vibrator, she enjoyed every aspect of sex—from the anticipation of a kiss to the final sated sigh of post-orgasm and every minute in between—to be fully satisfied by a battery-operated boyfriend. Her lips curled. She couldn’t imagine any of her friends being satisfied with that lifestyle either.

A weary grin caught the corner of Carrie’s mouth. “No limp noodles or runny hollandaise this time.” She gratefully accepted her beer from the waitress. “Does this mean I’m going first?”

Zora nodded and the others chorused their agreement. Usually the person with the worst news got the honors—getting summarily fired and dumped in the same day undoubtedly qualified—but she didn’t mind waiting. She’d get her turn. “Let’s hear it.”

Carrie leaned back in her chair and gave her head a helpless shake. “What I can say? It’s just the same old shit. Martin isn’t happy unless he’s finding fault and—” her voice developed an edge “—he particularly enjoys finding fault with me.” She let go a sigh. “Tonight I didn’t put enough feta cheese on the bruschetta.” She shrugged. “Tomorrow night it’ll be something else.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Bastard.”

“Asshole.”

Verbally flaying the boss in question always made them feel better. Zora quirked a brow. “Any news from Let’s Cook, New Orleans?”

Carrie flashed a sad smile. “Not a word.”

Carrie had unwittingly served one of the creative executives behind the nationally syndicated program. The show had been such a hit, one of the major networks had asked the producers to pitch some other ideas and, after meeting Carrie, they’d talked to her about possibly coming on board. In what capacity exactly, nobody knew. Until then, Chez Martin—Martin’s restaurant—was the best game in town.

Carrie blew out a breath. “Okay, I’m done. Who’s going next?”

April raised her hand. “I will. Frankie’s hot Italian temper is running in the red zone—” she slid her a wry glance “—so I know she’s got something big to share, and Zora’s been entirely too quiet, which means she’s made the mental move into her ‘calm place.’” April cast a significant look around the table. “And we all know what that means.”

Despite everything, Zora couldn’t help but grin. April had pegged them perfectly. Frankie had a short fuse, literally erupted when she was angry. Zora didn’t. When she felt herself slipping into that kind of irritation, she simply shut it down. While Frankie’s approach might be more therapeutic, Zora’s was much more calculated…and vengeful. She didn’t forgive and forget easily, a personality trait that never failed to annoy the hell out of her well-meaning but meddlesome older brothers. They’d disliked Trent instantly, Zora remembered now. That should have been a clue.

April sighed. “At any rate, mine is very trivial and I don’t want to follow them. Any objections?” When none were made, she continued. “Something truly horrible has happened and, while I get the feeling it’s not as monumental as what everyone else has shared, it’s quite…disturbing.” Her brow folded into a troubled frown.

Intrigued, Zora arched a brow. “Disturbing as in they-quit-stocking-my-favorite-ice-cream-at-the-market or disturbing as in Dad-came-out-of-the-closet?” April’s grievances tended to run the gamut. And, point of fact, her dad hadn’t willingly come out of the closet—she’d accidentally discovered him there. Her Web-design company had been contracted to build a site for one of the local gay bars and, rather than simply letting the manager send her some photos, April had wanted to get “the feel” of the place. She fully anticipated seeing gay couples and men in drag, but she hadn’t anticipated discovering her father was one of them. Needless to say, it had come as a shock.

“Neither.” She drew in a long breath and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’ve lost my orgasm.”

Numb silence, then, “What? How did you lose it? Where did it go?”

Zora bit the inside of her cheek. “You mean you can’t—”

April exhaled mightily. “No.” She rolled her eyes. “And believe me, I’ve tried everything. It’s—” She struggled for words, shook her head. “It’s just…gone.”

“Well, it can’t be gone for good,” Frankie told her, clearly appalled at the very idea. Of the four of them, she was the most vocal about sex, about the male and female roles and the old he’s-a-stud-she’s-a-whore double standard, one of her favorite rants. “You’re just with the wrong guy.”

She sighed heavily. “Not anymore. Rob cut and run after a couple of weeks of being unable to satisfy me. His fragile ego couldn’t take it.”

“You’re better off,” Carrie told her. “I never particularly liked him.” Another unspoken rule—guys were liked until they were history, then instantly became pond scum. Solidarity, the glue that held their unique friendship together, Zora thought with a fond smile. Thank God she had their support.

“Me, either,” Frankie seconded. She peeled the label from her beer. “His feet were ugly.”

April winced reflectively. “Yeah, he did have ugly feet, didn’t he?”

Zora had never noticed Rob’s feet, but felt compelled to add to the conversation. “They were hideous.”

“Well, I’m sure that your, er…condition isn’t permanent,” Carrie told her.

April grimaced, then took a drink. “I sure as hell hope not. Who’s next?”

Frankie and Zora shared a look. “I think Frankie should go next,” Zora said. “I don’t mind being last.”

Frankie pulled a negligent shrug. “Okay. I caught my dad eating a bagel today,” she said lightly.

Carrie and April wore blank looks, but Zora knew the other shoe was about to drop.

“What?” Carrie asked, seemingly baffled. “He cheated on Atkins?”

“No,” Frankie replied tightly. “He cheated on my mother. The bagel was around the bagel girl’s breast.” Her words were surprisingly clipped, considering she’d uttered them venomously from between slightly clenched teeth.

April gasped and Carrie inhaled sharply. “No!”

Frankie smirked, proceeded to shred the label she’d removed from her bottle. “Yes.”

Zora knew that there was some animosity between Frankie and her father—Frankie had worked for her dad for years, but didn’t seem to garner the same recognition a son probably would. Furthermore, her father’s penchant for infidelity wasn’t anything new.

“Oh, Frankie, I’m so sorry,” April told her. “I know he’s your father, but—” She hesitated.

Frankie laughed grimly, gestured wearily. “It’s okay. You can say it. He’s a bastard.”

“He is!” Carrie wailed quietly. “What did you do? What did he do?”

She pulled another lazy shrug. “I said, ‘What? No cream cheese?’ and turned around and walked out.”

Despite the hell of her own day, Zora giggled. Couldn’t help herself. Now that was classic Frankie. She might have a short fuse, but it didn’t prevent her from thinking quick on her feet.

“Honestly,” she continued. “What could I do? Like I said, he’s a bastard.” She smiled grimly. “But that wasn’t the worst part.”

God, there was more, Zora thought. “What happened?”

“Turns out the bagel girl’s a new graduate in need of a better job. So guess which one she got?”

Zora felt her eyes widen. “No,” she breathed, aghast. It couldn’t be. Frankie’s dad couldn’t possibly have done that to her.

Frankie smiled grimly and sadness haunted her dark-brown eyes.

“The VP position?” Zora asked, her voice climbing. “Has he lost his mind?”

Frankie snorted. “I imagine he planted it in the bagel girl this afternoon,” she said bitterly, then released a pent-up breath and looked up. “At any rate, I’m unemployed. I walked out today and I’m not going back.”

“Then that makes two of us,” Zora told her. “We can look for a job together.”

Carrie’s eyes bugged, April’s jaw dropped and Frankie blinked. “What?”

“Unlike you, however,” Zora continued levelly, “I did not quit, but was fired.”

“Fired?” they shrieked in unison. “For what?”

Zora felt her lips form a brittle smile. “Officially? Insubordination. Unofficially? He’s boinking Carla the copy editor.”

April gasped. “He’s not!”

“Oh, but he is,” Zora insisted, comforted by their outrage.

“That scum-sucking bastard,” Frankie hissed vehemently. “After all you’ve done. How could he—but he can’t—” Her face reddened with anger. “You helped make that magazine! He couldn’t have done it without you!”

A balm and the truth, but there was nothing for it. Trent had always been her “boss.” It didn’t matter that as creative director she’d helped triple circulation, that she’d practically single-handedly turned Guy Talk around. The magazine had been struggling on the verge of extinction when she’d come on board and she’d managed to pull it away from the brink and make it thrive. All that mattered was that he had the authority to fire her, and he had.

But he would pay.

Zora didn’t know how or when, but at some point in the not-too-distant future he would pay.

Carrie shook her head. “This is simply outrageous. I just—I just can’t believe it. What are you going to do?”

Zora shrugged, resigned but not defeated. “Look for another job. In the meantime I’ve got enough in savings to get by for a while. I hate to spend it, but c’est la vie. That’s what it’s there for.”

“Zora, I just don’t know what to say.” April shot her a sympathetic look. “It’s…It’s surreal. I thought Trent was the genuine article.”

A painful lump formed in Zora’s throat, but she managed to swallow it before her eyes watered. “So did I.”

“There’s no such thing,” Frankie countered cynically. “See, this is precisely why I’ve begun to think that all men are pigs. They can’t think past their dicks. They’re too busy sticking it to the bagel girl or the copy editor.” She harrumphed under her breath. “This would have never happened to you—or to me, for that matter—if a chick had been in charge.”

Zora readied her mouth to agree, but a strange sort of tingle started in her chest, the kind that preluded creative genius, a brilliant inspired idea.

She stilled and her gaze drifted to Frankie. “Say that again,” Zora said faintly.

In the process of lifting her bottle to her mouth, Frankie paused and frowned. “This would have never happened if a chick had been in charge.”

If a chick had been in charge…

Frankie was right, Zora thought dimly as her mind spun with creative adrenaline. Women were bonders, nurturers, typically faithful and dependable. God knew she depended on her little group for everything from laughter to advice to therapy of sorts. They all needed the same thing—support. If she’d had a female boss—if they all had female bosses—then, with the exception of April, who owned her own business, none of this would have happened. They’d all be better off.

“What?” Frankie asked suspiciously. “I know that look. That’s the I’ve-got-an-idea look.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What are you thinking?”

Zora didn’t purposely ignore her, but couldn’t focus on anything beyond her current train of thought. If a chick had been in charge, she pondered consideringly, liking the way the phrase sounded, the empowering message it implied. A chick in charge…An in-charge chick…No, Zora thought as inspiration struck.

Chicks-in-charge.

“Zora?” Frankie asked again. “What gives?”

Zora smiled. “You just gave me an idea, one that I think is going to change our lives.”

She spent the next three hours outlining her thoughts, brainstorming with the other three, who quickly recognized the potential, and by the time the bartender heralded the last call of the night, the concept of Chicks-In-Charge—an organized group created by women, for women—which promoted personal and professional happiness garnered through self-awareness, self-confidence and independence, was born. They would join forces, help each other. There was strength in numbers. They could change things, Zora decided. Knew it. The board was formed, the president elected and each member held a key role. They were on the cusp of something great, something monumental. Anew beginning, a better future. Zora could feel it. They all could.

Frankie slid her a look, grinned. “This is so going to kick ass.”

Mentally exhausted but curiously energized, Zora smiled and hoisted her beer for a toast. The clink of bottles bumping finalized the deal. “To Chicks-In-Charge,” she murmured softly and they each echoed the sentiment.

1

One year later…

“I JUST WANT TO GET LAID,” Zora muttered angrily as she made her way back to her hotel room. She stabbed the elevator call button and waited impatiently for a car. Honestly, she thought. It wasn’t too much to ask. It had been more than a year. A year, she silently wailed, since she’d felt the hard, thrilling weight of a man between her thighs.

Disgusted, embarrassed, thwarted, irritated, but most of all unsatisfied, Zora shook her head at her own stupidity. What the hell had she been thinking? Why had she thought it would be a good idea to get involved with a guy who was into abstinence? Had she lost her mind? Clearly she had. Otherwise she wouldn’t be prowling the halls of one of New Orleans’s most esteemed hotels—at her first ever Chicks-In-Charge conference, no less, a personal coup—in the middle of the night bemoaning her miserable sex life and her failed attempt at seduction.

That part stung.

On the rare occasions Zora had truly applied herself at seduction, she’d always been successful. In truth, she’d never really had to apply herself. She’d smile an intimate smile, put a little extra swing in her hips, crook her finger and that would be it.

Victory.

But not tonight—and not with Dex.

Annoyingly, Dex not only had principles, but adhered to them. Initially, the idea of being in an “uncluttered” relationship, avoiding the emotional snarls that never ceased to come up between sexual partners, had appealed to her. She’d just come out a bad relationship—one of the worst, in fact—and had needed the perspective.

She’d thought it would be a good thing.

Ha!

She’d thought wrong.

As the days slid into weeks and the weeks crawled into months, sexual tension had eroded her patience and her ever-weakening resolve to abstain. This extended weekend—this conference, in particular—had seemed like the perfect time to celebrate, and she couldn’t think of a better way than a few hours of hot, frantic, sweaty sex. She’d wanted a few melting, toe-curling orgasms and room service.

To that end, she’d booked connecting rooms for her and Dex, spent an ungodly amount of money on a see-through scrap of fabric that any right-thinking male should want to tear off of her and had waxed, exfoliated and perfumed all pertinent parts of her body.

For nothing.

Zora growled low in her throat, stepped into the elevator and jabbed the button for her floor. Dex had firmly—oh-so-embarrassingly—resisted her efforts and, to avoid shrieking at him—Zora didn’t shriek, scream, wail or whine because doing so meant she’d lost control of her person, which was completely intolerable—she’d decided to take a walk to cool off. To shut down, de-stress and refocus.

Unfortunately, the lengthy walk had only given her more time to think and the more she’d thought about it, the madder she’d become. She hadn’t cooled off at all. To the contrary, she was more pissed now than she had been when she left the room. Because, while she hadn’t had any form of sexual relief during their relationship, Dex had. She’d taken care of him, and he’d never once—though he had made a few halfhearted attempts—reciprocated the gesture.

In other words, she’d made him come and he’d made her crazy.

This was supposed to have been a fantastic long weekend. Just as she’d suspected when the idea of Chicks-In-Charge had first come to her, the organization had been a smashing success, even more so than what she’d originally anticipated. The idea had struck a chord with women all across America—women who needed advice and guidance wanted to join and become members, and women who had something to offer wanted to participate and share their expertise. The group offered support to women from all walks of life, had banded them together with the sort of single-minded tenacity that had quickly thrust them into the national scene.

They’d started with a local chapter and a Web site—designed by April, of course—and an e-zine that Zora herself had headed up. The e-zine, aptly entitled CHiC, had been phenomenally successful and plans were already in the works for a glossy format. As the magazine’s resident sex-pert—the Carnal Contessa—Frankie would play a significant role in that endeavor.

As word of the Chicks-In-Charge movement spread, local chapters had swiftly moved across America, and had garnered so much attention that several board members had landed guest spots on late-night TV and early morning shows as well. Zora was currently entertaining several book-deal offers. She’d been interested, of course—she’d be insane not to be—but hadn’t moved on anything because, frankly, she didn’t know when she’d have the time to write. Between the magazine and her Chicks-In-Charge duties, she didn’t have so much as a spare minute, much less the time required to undertake writing a book.

But something had happened recently that had made her come to the conclusion that she’d simply have to make the time. Some medieval-thinking yahoo with a too-handsome face and a witty turn of phrase—a fellow New Orleans resident, of all things—had recently written the most unflattering, provoking, ill-informed tome on the “bizarre workings of the female mind.” The book, entitled What Women Really Want, Reading Between the Sighs, had to be one of the most moronic pieces of so-called literature Zora had ever read.

To add insult to injury, ignorant men, believing they were now going to know how to properly “manage” their women, had abandoned their armchairs, lawn mowers, sporting events and bars and had speedily raced to the bookstores to purchase the damned thing, which had promptly catapulted it onto the bestseller list.

It was precisely this sort of prejudice—this testosterone mentality—that Chicks-In-Charge was fighting, and to have it originate here, in her own backyard, felt like a slap in the face. Zora couldn’t recall how many times she’d had Tate Hatcher’s little pearls of shit—not wisdom because there was nothing wise about his idiotic take on the fairer sex—quoted to her, or how many times she’d had to respond to one of his ignorant ideas. In light of Chicks-In-Charge’s success and Tate’s equally successful book, the media had paired them up as unwitting adversaries. It was provoking, to say the least.

Zora had read the damned book, several times in fact, because one needed to know one’s enemy, and she could see where some people might find it entertaining. The author—dubbed “the last true bachelor”—was unquestionably witty, wrote with a wry sort of humor that under ordinary circumstances would appeal to her. A lot, if truth be told. Unfortunately, being insulted didn’t appeal to her, which negated any positive thought she could form about the book, or even the author for that matter.

The first time she’d read it, she’d kept flipping the book over and staring at his picture on the back of the dust jacket. Marveling at his stupidity, she’d told herself. She’d marveled a lot since then—couldn’t seem to help herself. Despite the fact that she vehemently disagreed with every idiotic point made in his book, there was something in that picture—about him, specifically—that drew her.

Naturally, she’d rather be roasted alive than admit it.

But she saw humor and intelligence, a little too much confidence in his heavy-lidded aged-whiskey eyes, and there was something equally obstinate and sheepish about the angle of his jaw, the somewhat full curve of his sexy mouth. Zora paused, remembering, then jerked out of her stupor as the elevator doors slid open once more.

Good grief, she mentally chided. She had enough man trouble without romanticizing the literal author of recent misery. To retaliate, she’d personally written an article for Chicks-In-Charge to debunk each and every point of his ignorant, outdated opinions and had even used his book to showcase the continued stupidity of his own sex. In fact, she planned to deliver that very workshop at this conference.

A pity that such idiocy was packaged in such a handsome body though, Zora thought, unable to completely banish his gorgeous image from her mind. A true injustice.

Which reminded her of another injustice—her unsatisfied sex life. She wouldn’t be able to rectify that this weekend as she’d hoped, but she knew how to start.

By getting rid of Dex.

She’d essentially told him it was time to fish or cut bait. He hadn’t fished, so she’d cut bait. Though she was heartily annoyed, she couldn’t very well blame him. He’d maintained from the beginning of this ill-gotten relationship that he had no intention of spoiling it with sex. That he wanted a “true” relationship devoid of the drama of copulation. She was the one who’d changed her mind, not him, so if anyone was at fault, technically it was her.

Frankie, who’d thought Zora had lost her mind when she’d shared the parameters of her newest relationship, had correctly predicted this end. She should have listened to her, Zora thought now. Dex had seemed manageable—the only kind of man Zora allowed herself to become involved with. She had to be in control, had to have the dominant role in every aspect of the relationship, most especially the sexual aspect. A holdover mentality developed as the result of a relatively harmless, but nonetheless terrifying incident that had happened in her early teens.

One of the neighborhood boys—one she’d had the audacity to humiliate by being a better baseball player—had cornered her one afternoon behind the dugout and pinned her to the ground. Though being raped hadn’t been a real danger, the sexual menace underlying the act coupled with the horrifying fear of not being able to get him off her had marked her in a way that couldn’t be seen. For that one blinding moment, she’d been powerless and, after her brothers had dragged the brute off and beat the living hell out of him, she’d vowed she’d never feel that way again. Would never need another person to fight her battles. She’d been grateful, of course, but a secret part of her had envied them that strength, and she’d wanted it for herself. She thought she’d arrived, inasmuch as she was able.

Zora fished her key card from her robe pocket, planted it in the lock and let herself into her room. A glance at the bedside clock told her she’d been gone for more than two hours. A long time to stew, she decided, even by her standards. The idea of delaying the conversation until tomorrow held considerable appeal, but smacked of cowardice, so before she could think better of it, Zora gave the connecting door a hard push—it had a tendency to stick, she’d discovered earlier—and entered Dex’s room.

The light from the bedside lamp illuminated the room—the pile of discarded clothes, specifically—and the hum of the shower told her where she’d find him. Zora barely resisted the urge to snort. The bastard had already had a shower this evening, she knew. His hair had still been a little damp when she’d made her move. That he was in there again begged one of two assumptions. He’d either had to wash her unwanted advances from his pure unsullied body…or he was in there whacking off.

Her money was on the latter.

Her irritation renewed, Zora pulled in a deep breath and let it go as she strolled into the bathroom. “Dex, it’s Zora. I hate to interrupt you,” she said, purposely loading her voice with innuendo, “but I have something to say.”

His shadow behind the curtain momentarily stilled, then resumed movement. Ah, the silent treatment. That figured, she thought, the infantile jerk. Oh, well. The sooner she got this over with the better. She’d tell him what she thought, then go take a shower herself. Had to do something to relieve this infernal tension. Had he changed shower gels? Zora wondered absently, as a wholly masculine scent, one she didn’t readily associate with him, reached her nostrils.

Zora dropped the commode lid, sat down and sighed heavily. “Look, Dex. Things, uh…Things aren’t working out. Being abstinent is obviously a choice and a viable one for you, at that. But, as we discovered tonight, it’s not for me. I thought it was, but it’s not. I like sex. A lot,” Zora added meaningfully as her hollow womb echoed the sentiment, “and, frankly, I miss it.”

Zora paused, glared at the shower curtain—his unnaturally still form behind it, specifically—waiting for him to reply. He made a muffled noise, one that sounded ominously like a smothered laugh, but if there were any thoughts clanging around that empty head of his, he was evidently disinclined to share them with her. Still pouting, Zora surmised and expelled a quiet sigh of exasperation.

“I realize things might not have been so difficult for you,” she said, her voice somewhat tight, “because you at least have had a few orgasms. I, on the other hand, have not. I don’t mean to be cruel,” she hastened to add, which wasn’t altogether true. She hated a selfish lover and he hadn’t even been that—he’d been a selfish non-lover. “I’m just being honest with you. Like you were honest with me tonight,” she said pointedly. “You resented being seduced—or my attempt, rather,” she added with a bitter snort. “And I resent being perpetually…unsatisfied. So obviously this isn’t going to work. I’m horny. I want to get laid. And that puts us at cross-purposes because you don’t.”

She glared at the curtain again, waiting for some sort of response. Honestly, Zora thought, growing increasingly annoyed with his continued silence. Hell, she hadn’t expected him to break down and squall, but a tsk of regret, a token apology, would be nice. Hell, anything but this sulky silence.

She let go a perturbed breath, rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

She watched him reach forward and cut off the tap. “Actually, yes.”

Zora frowned and the fine hairs on her nape prickled. The shower gel, that voice…Something didn’t—

The shower curtain sang across the rod as it was pulled back to reveal six and a half feet of hard, muscled, gloriously proportioned male anatomy. “Hand me a towel.”

An anatomy that didn’t belong to Dex.

Her gaze traveled from a pair of large, masculine feet up long muscular legs, lingered on the impressive, semi-aroused package located between those legs, then moved upward over six-pack abs and a chest that would make any hetero woman or non-hetero man pant and salivate. Rivulets of water streamed over every perfect part, and though it was completely insane, she was hit with the absurd notion to chase each and every one with her tongue. She wanted to lick him all over.

Until she saw his face—then she inhaled sharply and vainly wished for a hole she could fall into.

For the first time in her life Zora found herself in a situation where she didn’t have any idea how to proceed. She was hit with the simultaneous urge to sob, wail, laugh, scream and, most disturbingly, run. All of which were intolerable, but for the life of her she couldn’t make her brain assimilate any sort of a plan. All she could do was stare, mentally agape, at the naked figure before her. Naked figure, her mind repeated, and with a startled flash of insight, his request registered and she blindly handed him a towel. To her chagrin, he didn’t immediately fasten it around his hips as any decent man would do, but took his time toweling off instead.

Five o’clock shadow shaded an angular jaw and a faint smile curled one of the sexiest mouths she’d ever seen—but it was the eyes that got her. A pair of disturbingly familiar aged-whiskey eyes—eyes she’d recently studied too intently on the back of a book she wouldn’t name—stared back at her. Sweet mother of God, Zora thought faintly…it was Tate Hatcher.

THE LAST THING TATE HATCHER expected when he stepped into the hotel shower this evening was to be walked in on by a woman, then have that woman criticize him for not seeing to her “needs.”

Quite frankly, he’d been criticized for many things over the years—his cynicism, his inability to commit and various other offenses—but that had never been a problem.

He’d never been accused of being a lousy lover, and from the sounds of things, this woman had not only gotten involved with a man who was into abstinence—what kind of a man didn’t want to have sex? Tate wondered incredulously—but had also managed to hook up with one who didn’t…service her at all.

It was utterly mind-boggling.

The moment his startled brain recognized that she’d obviously mistaken him for someone else, Tate knew he should have spoken up and put a halt to her breakup speech, but blatant curiosity had kept him from exercising the courtesy. What sort of woman got involved with a guy who didn’t want to have sex? Tate had wondered, morbidly intrigued.

In his research and experience, most women controlled men by wielding sexual power over a guy. If she hadn’t used the Vagina Vice, just what sort of method had she attempted to employ to keep him in line? It was something to think about, Tate decided—definitely potential book fodder, which would please his agent—but not right now. He calmly toweled the back of his head. He had other things to attend to right now.

Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and thready. “You’re not—”

“Dex,” Tate finished helpfully. He finished drying his face. “I know.” He’d planned to elaborate, but was met with the second major shock of the night. He blinked, certain his eyes had deceived him.

Long, wavy red hair. Light green eyes. Little Dipper freckle pattern over her slim nose. Gorgeous body. And if she opened her mouth, a forked tongue.

Yep, Tate concluded. It was definitely her.

His mystery woman—the failed seductress—was none other than Zora Anderson.

He’d recognize the gorgeous redheaded harpy anywhere, Tate thought, still stunned. God knows he spent enough time listening to her tear his book apart over the past few weeks. The success of his book had coincided with the success of her women’s support organization—which had put them in the national spotlight together, a situation that had resulted in much irritation and entertainment. Irritation for him, entertainment for others.

In fact, she and her infernal Chicks-In-Charge conference was the reason he was here—research for his next book. What better way to discredit his critics than to observe them in their element?

His agent, Blake Whitaker, had suggested that a wealth of new book material could be found at the infamous first annual Chick conference, and had practically insisted that Tate find some way to attend. With a deadline looming ahead and no clue for the topic of the next book, he was sincerely hoping that creative genius would strike while he was here. It had to, otherwise he was screwed. What on earth had possessed him to sign a two-book deal? Tate wondered for the umpteenth time. Still, it looked like Blake had been right. Their leader had practically landed in his naked lap, and he hadn’t even made it out of his room yet.

Tate felt a disbelieving smile spread over his lips and, though he knew it was awful, he had to forcibly quell a hoot of laughter, a triumphant chortle of joy.

The balls-to-the-wall, hard-as-nails she-devil—the Chicks-In-Charge president herself—couldn’t get her pansy-ass boyfriend to sleep with her.

Now that was a fortuitous bit of information if he’d ever found any.

Evidently, she’d reached the same conclusion. In a nanosecond, the confusion cleared from her pale green eyes and a knowing little smirk drifted over her distractingly lush mouth. If she was embarrassed—and she most certainly had to be—her face didn’t display even the remotest clue to what she was feeling.

“You can lose the shit-eating grin,” she said. She stood and crossed her arms over her chest, let her gaze drift around the steamy room, purposely looking at anything but him. “I know who you are and evidently you know who I am. My question is this—what are you doing here?”

Quick, too, Tate thought, reluctantly impressed. She’d bypassed all the oh-my-God, what-a-nightmare drama and moved directly into damage control/stealth mode. “Since you’ve wandered into my bathroom,” he drawled lazily, “I’d say I have dibs on that that question.” Tate smiled. “But we already know the answer to one, eh? I take it Dex was the previous occupant of this room?”

She bit the inside of her cheek before responding. Summoning patience, he suspected. “Yes, he was.”

“And he left without saying goodbye?” Tate tutted sympathetically. “That has to hurt.”

She glared at him. “Actually, it’s a relief,” she said tightly. “Would you mind putting that towel on, please?”

“Then I must have misunderstood the problem,” Tate replied with a feigned frown, enjoying himself immensely. He did as she requested, loosely draped the towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower. “I thought relief is what you hadn’t been getting.”

Her lips formed an irritated smile. “Very cute. But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

Tate shrugged, purposely avoiding the question. “It’s a free country. I can do whatever I want to.” It was the equivalent of na-na na-na boo-boo, but what the hell. He was still in shock.

She studied him a moment, and Tate got the most uncomfortable feeling that she was somehow peering directly into his brain, prodding his thoughts. He didn’t like it. “I am perfectly aware of the fact that this is a free country and you are certainly at will to do whatever you desire. However, as we both know, that was not my question. I asked what you’re doing here.”

“I was taking a shower…until you sauntered in here and started harping at me about the sex you need but aren’t getting.”

Her eyes widened and he watched her lose a notch of that formidable control. “Harping? I wasn’t harping. I was perfectly civil. Completely calm.”

Tate snorted. Actually, she hadn’t been harping. She’d been remarkably composed, especially for a woman who hadn’t been properly laid in God knows how long. A tragedy, that, Tate thought as his gaze slid over her, confirming what he’d seen on TV—she was gorgeous. He filed the phenomenon away for further consideration. Regardless, he’d managed to get a small rise out of her—a rare feat, he instinctively knew—and wondered just how far he’d have to go to get her to completely lose it. He was perversely interested in finding out.

“Oh, you were definitely harping,” Tate insisted. “Like fingernails screeching down a blackboard.” He winced, shook his head. “Could be why your boyfriend had a hard time mustering the enthusiasm to—” he gestured meaningfully toward the bedroom “—you know. Most guys don’t respond well to criticism. You probably gave him a complex.”

Her nostrils flared as she dragged in a harsh breath and she seemed to grow a couple of inches right before his very eyes. She cocked her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so adept at changing the subject and avoiding a simple question. You’re purposely baiting me—for your sheer amusement, I can only conclude—and I don’t appreciate it.” She paused. “Furthermore, you don’t have to tell me why you’re here.” She laughed without humor, rolled her eyes. “That’s easy enough to deduce. I’d say I’ve just given you a very juicy tidbit for your next book—or your next interview, I imagine, given the lamentable state of your character.”

“My character?” Tate interrupted as her barb found a mark. He felt his eyes widen. “What could you possibly know about my character?”

“Just what I read in your book.” Her lips formed the ghost of a smile. “It was quite…enlightening.” Her eyes gleamed with humor, punctuating the thought.

Tate had been fully prepared to defend his character, but the thought was derailed by another more intriguing one. He paused. “You’ve read my book?” What was he talking about? Of course, she’d read his book! How else could she attack every word in it in that incredibly sexy, lazy voice of hers? Tate stifled a groan.

She smiled one of those superior little grins he’d witnessed in countless interviews. The one that had the curiously disturbing effect of making his blood simmer in his veins and speedily race to his groin. “Of course,” she told him. “In fact, I’m using it in a workshop this weekend. Pity you aren’t a member of the conference. You might have actually learned something.”

Tate returned her smirk. “Yes, well. Since I’m not a woman, I’m not eligible to attend your conference.” Not a great hook, Tate thought, suddenly inspired, but he might be able to work with it.

“Ah, but that’s not going to keep you from lurking, I see.”

Tate chewed the corner of his mouth. “Lurking’s not prohibited.”

“You’re right. It’s just tacky.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “If you say so.”

“I do. And,” she said, drawing the word out as she made her way toward the door, “while this has been interesting, Mr. Hatcher, I think I’ll return to my room.”

“Don’t go on my account,” Tate told her, curiously reluctant to see her leave. “I could even get dressed if it’d make you feel better.”

Her eyes suddenly twinkled with something akin to wistfulness and her gaze inexplicably dropped to where his towel lay anchored around his waist. Tate felt a surge of masculine pleasure at the telling look. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t typically fraternize with the enemy.”

Tate chuckled. “The enemy, am I?”

“What else could you be?”

His gaze tangled with hers and he lowered his voice. “You’d be surprised. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee this weekend. I’d love to pick your brain.” Among other things. God, was she hot. Naturally he’d noticed. Still…

She paused and smiled, a genuine curve of her ripe mouth. No mockery, no irritation, just humor and the effect was positively glowing, made her more than pretty, more than sexy. It made her likable. “I wasn’t aware you thought I had one,” she said drolly. “You know. Being female and all.”

Tate pulled in a shallow breath, let his gaze drift slowly from one end of her body to the other, purposely lingered over the sweet curve of her hip, the gentle swell of her breasts, then finally settled on her face. “Now that’s not a mistake I’m likely to make.”

He had the pleasure of watching her cheeks flush and though it could just be wishful thinking on his part—though he doubted it—he thought he detected a flash of reciprocated interest.

She stilled, seemed to weigh an idea, then reach a conclusion. “How about coffee in the morning? Seven, in the lounge? I may have a proposition for you.”

Tate nodded thoughtfully, instantly intrigued. “I’ll be there.”

Without another word, Zora turned and left.

A proposition, Tate wondered consideringly. He couldn’t imagine what she had up her sleeve—couldn’t imagine it would be anything to his advantage—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn it his way.

He grinned, oddly energized by their little exchange. He had a book to write after all.

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