Praise for Rhonda Nelson’s
Chicks in Charge…

On Getting It!

“Rhonda Nelson will have readers chuckling and sighing with Getting It! (4.5), a witty, sensual tale featuring a completely unforgettable pair of lovers. Very, very hot!”

—Romantic Times

“Rhonda Nelson takes you on quite an adventure in Getting It! She gives the reader everything—hilarious scenes, passionate and tender love and a serious message as well. The reader is in for quite a ride with this one.”

—Cataromance

“Getting It! demonstrates how much fun falling in love can be when it is between the right two people. Pick it up and enjoy.”

—The Romance Reader

On Getting It Good!

“With exciting, believable characters and hot passion, Rhonda Nelson has created an exciting series. I can’t wait to see who will be getting it next.”

—A Romance Review

“Getting It Good! (4) by Rhonda Nelson has humor and great characters, which make for a fun read.”

—Romantic Times

“The latest Chicks in Charge tale, Getting It Good! is a delightfully amusing contemporary romance starring two likable combatants.”

—The Best Reviews

Dear Reader,

I hope that you’re enjoying my CHICKS IN CHARGE series. If you missed the first two books, please be sure to check them out. (Getting It! Harlequin Temptation January 2005 and Getting It Good! Harlequin Blaze February 2005). I’ve had a ball writing these feisty heroines and finding the perfect guys for them.

Since the debut book I’ve been asked many times where I got the idea for this series. It was funny, really. I was sitting in my office, absently listening to a panel of “experts” talk about why The Bachelorette had been more of a success than The Bachelor. One of the women shrugged and said, “It’s because a chick’s in charge.” Something about the girl power in that phrase really appealed to me and I started playing the “What if…” game. The result was this series of books with smart, determined women who know their own worth. Pairing them with guys who figure it out as well has been a very fun and fulfilling experience.

Don’t miss the final book in my CHICKS IN CHARGE series—Getting It Now!—available next month. I’d love to know what you think. Be sure to swing by my Web site—www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com and let me know how you’re enjoying the ride.

Happy reading!

Rhonda Nelson

Getting It Right!
Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to one of the nicest people

I have ever known, my good friend Pam Farris. PTO,

sons and daughters, Girl Scouts, midnight movies, countless

lunches, hair days and pool days, your unfailing friendship

has been a source of great joy for me

over the years and I look forward to many more.

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

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Prologue

UNDER ORDINARY circumstances, April Wilson was just vain enough to appreciate a hot stare from an equally hot guy. What woman didn’t like a lingering appreciative look? One that somehow managed to validate those extra minutes spent in front of the mirror, that additional time rifling through the closet to find the perfect outfit, or taking those few seconds to repair a chipped nail?

Usually one flicker of interest from a pair of intrigued masculine eyes was enough to make her inwardly preen with satisfaction because it meant she hadn’t wasted her time, that her somewhat manic attention to detail had paid off.

Unfortunately, in this case, it was the particular source of interest that was causing her…discomfort.

Looking equally relaxed and dangerous, Ben Hayes sat sprawled on a chair at the end of the bar. The Blue Monkey Pub on the edge of New Orleans’ famed French Quarter was technically her haunt, but over the past few months Ben had been showing up with disconcerting regularity and had easily made it his preferred hang out, as well. It was unnerving to say the least. Her gaze was inexplicably drawn to him once more, causing a flutter of awareness to skim up her spine.

Mercy.

A navy-blue designer T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest, serving as both a testament to his casual style and the pricey label, a silent affirmation that he’d arrived. April swallowed.

That, she knew, was important to him.

Worn denim clung to his hardened thighs and a pair of ridiculously expensive boots rounded out the ensemble. Dark brown hair just a shade shy of black hung in loose waves around a face that held more character than beauty and, though she couldn’t see them clearly from here—and she refused to look—memory painted an accurate picture of his eyes. Pale golden brown, the shade of light arcing off a crystal tumbler of good Kentucky bourbon.

Occasionally he’d hoist the longneck held carelessly between his fingers to that insanely carnal mouth and, though she seriously doubted he was even aware of it, every move he made exuded an effortless, sexy sort of grace that was essentially mesmerizing to every female—attached and unattached—in the room.

Simply put, Ben Hayes was sex on a stick…and from the time she was old enough to feel the first quickening of awareness in her belly, licking him all over had been a fantasy she’d explored repeatedly in her dreams.

Frankie Salvaterra—soon to be Hartford, April reminded herself—and a fellow Chicks In Charge buddy, leaned over and nudged her shoulder. Her dark brown eyes glittered with perception and just the smallest hint of pity. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”

“What?” April asked, knowing full well what her friend meant. When it came to sexual matters, as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa, Frankie was the go-to girl for advice.

“That stare.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “Ben’s been boring a hole through you for the past fifteen minutes.” Her lips curled. “My guess is that he’s mentally stripped you naked and committed carnal acts upon your person on every available surface in this room, ones that would undoubtedly end your suffering,” she said, needling April significantly, then sipped her drink and sighed. “If only you’d let him.”

April closed her eyes and let go a shuddering breath as Frankie’s graphic description too readily materialized behind her lids. Her friend was right, she knew.

And she was suffering.

Without warning and for no apparent discernable reason, her Big O had vanished. Or at the very least headed for higher ground. For the past eighteen months—eighteen miserable, excruciatingly frustrating months—and despite multiple attempts, self-inflicted and otherwise, she’d been unable to climax. It was as though whatever tripped her trigger had been unwittingly put on safety.

At first, April had chalked her unhappy malady up to stress. With the creation of Chicks In Charge—a brainchild born in this very pub and an organization designed for the express purpose of empowering women everywhere—as the Webmistress of the movement, she’d been too busy to think about whether or not her hot button was disengaged.

Between building the original site, then pulling the CHiC e-zine together, not to mention maintaining sites for previous customers and working on prior contracted work, she’d been burning her candle at both ends.

Luckily, she was at her best under pressure and, though she was tired, it was the pleasant sort of exhaustion brought about by a job well-done. It was only in the past month when things had slowed to a more comfortable pace that the absence of a sex life and, more importantly, the melting pleasure of a hard, mind-numbing orgasm, had begun to wear on her.

And seeing Ben Hayes on a weekly basis—a six-and-a-half-foot, rock-hard and irreverent reminder of what she was missing—certainly wasn’t helping matters. Hell, he wasn’t dubbed The Vagina Whisperer for nothing, April thought with a small smile, wondering if he knew about the nickname.

Ben was a quintessential bad boy, a guy from the so-called wrong side of the tracks who thumbed his nose at the middle class, hated the idle rich and showed his disdain by competently seducing any girl he supposedly couldn’t have, usually one already attached or engaged to a guy belonging to one of the aforementioned groups. He was a legendary lover, one of those fix-me males, and had left more than one broken heart in his wake…and, April thought as she took another sip of her beer, had her mother not intervened at a timely moment in her midteens, she would have undoubtedly ended up as one of them, as well.

“I know you said that Ben’s father worked for your family while the two of you were growing up,” Frankie said casually as the rest of the little group around their table continued to chat. “But to be honest, April, I’ve always suspected a deeper acquaintance. Something more than just childhood friends.”

As usual, Frankie’s perceptive intuition was dead-on. They had been more than friends, at least until her mother had forbidden Ben to come near her. Funny thing, that, April thought now. Ben—her rebel—had been willing to fight for everything. Her lips twisted with bitter humor.

Everything, that is, except her.

Honestly, she’d never expected him to give in so easily. She’d been convinced of his affection, so certain of his love. Teenage fancy, she thought now. They hadn’t been in love. She’d merely suffered from an extreme crush and he’d…Well, evidently, he’d just been horny. Furthermore, he’d changed after that encounter. Her good-hearted bad boy had become bewilderingly embittered. Angry, even.

“There was nothing more,” April lied, the fib souring on her tongue. “We were friends. Our fathers served in Vietnam together. Ben’s dad was injured while under my father’s command, and couldn’t keep steady work when they came home.” She shrugged. “Dad hired him, gave his family a place to live.”

Frankie quirked a dark brow. “He felt responsible then?”

April nodded. “Yeah. Still does, I think.” He’d never told her why—and given the fact that she’d unwittingly forced him out of the closet a couple of years ago, their once-close relationship had become slightly…strained of late. April resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As if she cared about his sexual preference. She just wanted her father back.

Granted, having a father who was just as adept as she was at spotting a good-looking guy was a little unnerving, but in all honestly, after twenty years with her mother—The Great Emasculator—April was just glad that he’d found someone to make him happy. She only wished that her father would share that special someone with her.

Despite her attempts to wheedle an introduction, her father maddeningly continued to keep his companion’s identity a secret. Her father was a good man, though, and deserved a bit of belated joy. As for her mother, well…She wouldn’t go into what she deserved, April thought ominously.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Frankie said, once again bringing the subject back to Ben, or more accurately, April having sex with Ben.

April hesitated, then gave her head a small shake. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“And I think you’re overthinking it.” She shrugged. “He’s obviously interested.”

Yeah, now, April thought, after years of being distantly polite. It didn’t make any sense. She briefly tuned into the conversation currently occupying the residents at their table. Zora and Tate were still arguing over who’d ultimately gotten Frankie and Ross together, and Carrie, the fourth and final member of their Chicks In Charge board, was looking on with an indulgent though tired smile.

Poor Carrie, April thought. She might have lost her orgasm, but Carrie was the only member of their little group who was still in a miserable job, beholden to a bastard employer. Carrie was a fantastic chef, though, and they were all convinced that good things were bound to be coming her way. In fact, the producers at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!—a nationally syndicated program—were supposedly looking at their friend as a possible host and, in April’s opinion, the show couldn’t come soon enough.

Satisfied that she wasn’t missing any new gossip, she summoned a wry smile and shifted against her bar stool. “We’re supposed to be celebrating your impending nuptials, not worrying over my little problem,” she said, hoping to change the subject. She knew Ben was the answer to her problem, she just wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that would have to precede the cure.

Frankie shot a fond look at her husband-to-be. “Believe me, Ross and I have our own special brand of celebrating.”

Unable to help herself, April grinned and determinedly ignored the prick of envy in her chest. She could just imagine. It was nice to see two of her best friends find their perfect mate. Zora and Tate had already tied the knot and Frankie and Ross weren’t too far behind.

“And you don’t have a little problem,” Frankie continued doggedly. “After a year and a half, it’s a big problem, babe.” She cocked her head. “If Ben can’t cure what ails you, then I think you need to seriously consider seeing a doctor. Something’s not right. It’s…” She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s unnatural. Seriously. For the love of Mike, just go talk to him,” Frankie ordered with an exaggerated huff. “What have you got to lose?”

Logic told her nothing, but intuition begged to differ. That’s why she’d been dragging her heels and refused to seek out Ben’s particular brand of expertise. Honestly, hearing about his sexual forays—and there’d been too many satisfied women singing his praises to avoid it—April grimly suspected even a casual encounter would cost her more than she could pay.

A beat slid into three, then Frankie arched a shrewd brow. “Oh, my,” she said knowingly. “So it’s like that.”

April’s beer stalled halfway to her mouth and she shot Frankie an annoyed look. “No it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”

Frankie snorted. “You’re beyond cautious. It’s time to take the bull by the horns. Hell, even hot, sweaty sex without an orgasm is better than no sex at all, April.” She chewed the corner of her bottom lip and grinned. “If nothing else, do him for the foreplay. His name has come up quite frequently in my line of work and from what I hear, Ben’s got a master’s in tongue massage.”

And just like that, April cast Ben in the starring role of her own mental porn movie. Warm hands and warmer skin, a hot greedy mouth… Her thighs tensed and the slightest buzz of a tingle pinged her sex. And it was that little ray of hope that ultimately pushed her over the edge, conquered reason and thwarted doubt.

She wanted.

And she’d always wanted him.

“Go on,” Frankie cajoled, evidently sensing victory. “Go talk to him.”

“Fine,” April finally relented. “But not tonight.”

“But—”

“Not tonight,” she repeated firmly. “What?” she said grimly under her breath. “You want me to walk up to him and tell him that I’m in need of some of his whispering skills?” She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I need a plan first. I’ve got to have something to offer in return.” What, she didn’t know. Ben was a top-notch and well-paid photographer whose work had been featured in prominent glossies all over the globe. Money wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t need it anymore.

Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You mean sleeping with you isn’t going to be payment enough? He wants you. You are what he gets.”

“No,” April said, lost in her own thoughts. “That’s not how I want to handle this.”

Frankie harrumphed and looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, well, you try going without an orgasm for eighteen months and see how rational you are.”

Her friend made a moue of understanding and conceded the point. “There is that.” She paused. “But you are going to ask him for help, right? Promise me,” she insisted.

April nodded and let go a pent-up breath. She sought Ben out once more and the hair on the back of her neck prickled when her gaze unexpectedly tangled with his. That hot, familiar stare and the faint crook of his ultra-sexy lips seemingly pinned her to her seat. Without warning, the air thinned in her lungs, her skin instantly warmed and tightened, and that woeful tingle below her navel issued another faint buzz of desperation.

“I promise,” she said breathlessly.

And she secretly hoped like hell she didn’t live to regret it.

1

“YOU’VE GOT A CALL on line one and a visitor in the parlor.”

Ben Hayes wearily set the loupe aside he’d been using to study yesterday’s negatives and rubbed his eyes. Shit, he thought as he leaned back in his chair. Complete and total shit. None of it even worth developing.

“Who’s on the phone?”

Claudette’s proud Cajun-French chin lifted into a stubborn, I-dare-you angle, one that Ben recognized all too well. It was reserved for one caller, in particular. “Your father.”

Though he’d expected it, Ben felt himself tense, nonetheless, then had to force himself to relax. “Tell him I’m not here.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and in no way hinted at the anger, hopelessness and regret that twisted his insides.

“Too late,” his meddling secretary replied. “I’ve already told him you are.”

“Then tell him I’m in a meeting.”

Her thin nostrils flared as she pulled in a breath. Of patience, no doubt. Apparently running interference between him and his father was beginning to wear on her otherwise steely nerves. “He’s already asked if you were in a meeting and I said no.” The merest hint of a smile caught the corner of her compressed lips. “Looks like he’s onto all of your excuses.”

“Fine. You can tell him the truth.” He shrugged. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.” Another lie. He’d love to talk to his father. Tell him how things were going. Basically shoot the shit and share a beer. Perks he knew other men enjoyed with their dads. But, despite his best attempts to get past the…complexities of his father’s character, he simply couldn’t do it. He’d tried…and he’d failed. And since failure was such an uncommon and unpleasant experience, he’d rather avoid it.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Claudette finally snapped. “I’ll tell him no such thing. He’s your father. You should talk to him.”

He did talk to him. On birthdays and holidays. “Claudette,” he began warningly.

“Oh, fine,” she begrudgingly relented. “I’ll make up another excuse, tell the dear man another lie.” She aimed a hard stare at him, one that seemed particularly intense considering she wore a tiny brooch with a picture of her beloved dog on her collar. “But this is the last time, Ben.” She exhaled mightily. “Now what do you want me to do about the girl in the parlor? Tell her you’re not in, as well?” she asked sarcastically.

Relief melted the tension out of his muscles, causing him to slouch back in his tufted leather chair. He arched a brow. “Depends,” he said. “Who is she and what does she want?”

“Her name is April Wilson and, as for what she wants, you’ll have to ask her yourself. She said it was personal.”

Ben blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “April Wilson?”

“Yes,” Claudette replied cautiously, obviously sensing his surprise. “Do you know her?”

Ben felt a grim smile catch the corner of his mouth. Oh, yeah. He knew her. He could identify every freckle on her face, knew the exact curve of her brow, the varying shades of green that made up those wide expressive eyes of hers. He knew that purple was her favorite color, black-eyed Susans her favorite flower, and that when she was nervous or tense, she had a tendency to chew the corner of her plump bottom lip. He knew that she liked to wear her hair up, that as a teenager she had a huge crush on Rick Springfield and that she was missing a nail on her left pinkie toe. A biking accident, if memory served, and admittedly, his rarely failed where April was concerned.

In fact, he’d probably be a lot happier if it would.

Despite years of separation and countless substitutes, despite time, distance, a complicated family history—Ha! he thought darkly—and more sex than any man had a right to in a lifetime, April Wilson still remained, and he grimly suspected would always remain, the girl for him.

She’d unwittingly set the standard, and was the one woman every other he’d crossed paths with was compared to. For more than a decade he’d been trying to recreate the magic, to find the same sort of chemistry he’d had with her. The mind-numbing, soul-shattering attraction that made a man want to climb out of his own skin and into hers.

He’d never found it.

Hell, he’d never even come close to capturing that same sort of feeling, that awesome, unbelievable high. In fact, he’d all but convinced himself that it hadn’t really existed, that his teenage über-hormones had somehow magnified and distorted the memory until it couldn’t possibly be real.

But one chance meeting at the Blue Monkey Pub eighteen months ago had soon proved otherwise, and over the past year and a half, he’d made a concerted effort to be there on Friday nights just to look at her, share the same air, feel the buzz of her presence.

Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Though he was no longer the green, easily intimidated boy he’d been when her cruel bitch of a mother had banned him from her life, Ben had nevertheless resisted the almost overwhelming urge to seduce her. To see if she could still make the bottom drop out of his stomach with a mere smile.

He’d learned that she could, even when that smile wasn’t directed at him.

Which was why, over the past couple of weeks, he’d been wrestling with the idea of seducing her anyway. Quite frankly, the idea of thumbing his nose at her parents—both of them, but for different reasons—was intensely appealing.

Her mother had robbed him of April, deemed him unworthy of her daughter. Ben smiled bitterly. Oh, but that hadn’t been enough. She’d wanted to really wound him, to really hurt him and, as a result, she’d ultimately stolen his father, as well. Or at the very least, any respect he’d had for his dad. Until Morgana Wilson had spewed her poison, he’d enjoyed the ignorant bliss of thinking his father was perfect. The man had had problems, Ben knew. War had a way of ruining the best soldiers, and Davy Hayes had been no exception. But Ben had never doubted his father’s character…until Morgana had taken that from him.

As for April’s father…His lips twisted. Well, it was hard to pigeonhole his sins.

In the end, her parents had both directly and indirectly hurt him and, though he knew the best way to repay that sentiment would be to hurt their daughter, Ben had been unable to follow through. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, but between the personal issues attached to her family and the taint of revenge attached to having her, he’d been unable to come to terms with the cost.

Both hers and his.

“Do you want me to send her in?” Claudette asked.

Still somewhat distracted, Ben nodded. Unfortunately, there was only one reason why April would come to see him—one he sure as hell wasn’t interested in discussing—but he could hardly turn her away. It was April, after all, and just knowing that she was in the next room made his heart kick into an irregular rhythm.

With an expression of extreme curiosity Claudette gave him an odd look, then turned on her heel and walked out. Less than thirty seconds later she returned with April in tow, ushered her into the room, then with another blatantly interested look, once again made a reluctant exit.

If he’d had any manners at all, Ben would have stood when she came in, but for some reason his legs had turned to lead. Only years of pretending to be indifferent kept his mouth from breaking into a wide grin and fortunately the careless smile he’d mastered slid easily into place. Words momentarily failed him—he had absolutely no idea what to say—but in the end, he settled for a weak, “Er…This is a surprise.”

April’s small hand tightened around her purse strap and she cast an uneasy look around his office. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” He finally found his feet and gestured toward a chair. “Please. Come sit.”

Clad in a brown cable-knit sweater that ably hugged her curves and a pair of tailored cream wool slacks, April traveled the short distance to one of the walnut demi-marquise chairs that flanked his antique desk. Her mink curls were loose and tousled and the sting from the cold wind had colored her cheeks. A pair of diamond studs winked from her delicate lobes and the matching pendant lay nestled between her breasts, suspended from a fine gold chain. He caught the crisp scent of winter and the smallest whiff of jasmine as she settled into her seat.

As always, she looked chic, polished and approachable, a combination one didn’t always see among those who were accustomed to money. Now that he moved within her circle, he could appreciate the difference.

She glanced around his office, her keen gaze inspecting a few of his more accomplished frames. “Beautiful work,” she said softly. She gestured toward a sepia print behind his credenza. “Isn’t that the staircase in the old Belle Fontaine mansion?”

Ben nodded. “It is.”

In fact, it had been featured in Southern Living last month. He started to tell her, but managed to just stop himself. He didn’t have to validate his work, dammit—it spoke for itself.

Regardless, old habits died hard and while she’d never intentionally made him feel like the parasite poaching a living off her family the way her mother had, Ben nevertheless had a hard time shaking the need to showcase his own successes. Successes which had been hard-won, self-motivated and earned without so much as a favor from the Wilson family.

He’d take care of himself, by God. He’d be damned before he’d ever take a handout or become, as Morgana Wilson had so eloquently put it all those years ago, another man’s whore. To this day he couldn’t decide what was worse—learning that his father was gay, or realizing that the quiet gentle man he’d loved and respected had simply been too weak to support his family.

A prick of guilt for the uncharitable assessment surfaced, but Ben determinedly shook it off, squashed the happy memories that arose. As an adult he could appreciate another person’s sexual orientation—he wasn’t ashamed of his father for being gay. Unnerved? Yes. But not ashamed. He even understood that Vietnam had changed him—could process, sort and compartmentalize every rational argument for the reasons his father had returned to American soil a little less stable than when he’d left.

But the one thing that Ben couldn’t rationalize away, the one thing he couldn’t let go of or forgive was the second-class citizenship his father had foisted upon his family by moving onto his lover’s property. It cheapened his father and thereby, as far as he was concerned, lessened Ben’s own value.

Since the moment he moved out of his father’s house, Ben had set the standard for his self-worth and, while he missed his dad, being around him was a painful reminder of a past he could no longer be proud of. It was simply easier to avoid him. He didn’t have to worry about avoiding his mother. She’d cut and run shortly after he’d asked her if Morgana’s accusations were true. He hadn’t heard from her since. God, he hated this, hated thinking about any of it.

“So,” Ben said expectantly, both equally eager and reluctant to get this over with. “What can I do for you?”

IT’S NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO for me, but what you can do to me, April thought, silently agonizing over making the decision to come here.

What the hell had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she let Frankie talk her into this ridiculous plan? Yes, she desperately needed an orgasm, and yes, if there was any man capable of doing it for her on the planet, then it was the one sitting in front of her. Sweet mercy, but he was gorgeous. Every bit as perfect—and then some—as what she remembered. If Ben Hayes was sexy in the smoky low light of a semicrowded pub, it was nothing compared to the hot-factor he emitted in the natural morning luminance of his own element.

Creamy plaster walls, detailed oak molding and hardwood floors, heavy antiques dressed in rich fabrics and silky fringe, and beautiful framed artwork—his own, of course—rounded out a room that bespoke moneyed New Orleans style, mysterious, seductive and alluring. Seated behind a beautiful inlaid mahogany twin-pedestal desk, Ben looked every bit as mysterious, seductive and alluring as the city he called home. Even the sensual curve of his wicked mouth echoed the Big Easy’s dark charm.

His almost-black hair was tousled, pushed carelessly away from his face and guarded golden eyes studied her with a calmness that was as arousing as it was unsettling. April let go of a shaky breath.

Quite honestly, she hadn’t thought past coming here. If she had, she knew she would have never made the journey to his office, would have never found the nerve to cross his threshold. The question was, where the hell was she going to find the nerve to ask for his help? Or should she even ask for that matter? As Frankie had so keenly pointed out last week, he’d been staring a hole through her for months, silently seducing her with those mesmerizing heavy-lidded eyes. She smothered a snort. Short of marking his territory by peeing on her bar stool, he couldn’t have possibly made his interest any more plain. And yet, here he sat, seemingly bemused by her presence.

Irritation surfaced and galvanized her. He wanted her, too, dammit. She needed to remember that. Rather than diving right into the heart of the matter, though, she decided to try a few pleasantries first. “Before we get to what you can do for me, tell me how you’ve been. I’ve seen you at the pub, but we haven’t had a chance to talk.”

A tactful lie. They could have talked at any time, if either one of them had made the move and, given the way they’d parted, she firmly believed he was the one who should have taken that step. It was a courtesy he owed her. After all, he’d broken her heart.

The small rebuke hit home, evidenced by the knowing twinkle in that too-perceptive gaze. Something about that familiar hint of humor made April marginally relax. She recognized this Ben. She’d known him. And she’d loved him with all the innocence held in her tender, teenage heart.

“You’re always with your posse,” he said, shrugging lazily. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

She chuckled. “My posse?”

“Yeah.” He lifted a pen from his desk and tapped it thoughtfully upon the leather surface. “You know. Your Chicks In Charge friends.”

So he’d kept up with her then, April thought, ridiculously heartened by that insightful little tidbit. “They wouldn’t have minded.”

His gaze caught and held hers. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

April nodded and moved on to another topic. “So…how’s your dad doing?”

A shadow moved across his face and for a split second, he became unnaturally still. On guard, she realized, intrigued. He tossed the pen aside. “Fine, I suppose,” he said, watching her closely. “I haven’t spoken with him recently. How’s yours?”

“The same.” She shifted and looked away. “I, uh…I haven’t spoken to my father recently, either.”

But not for lack of trying, she didn’t add. Most of her calls were avoided and rarely returned. A part of her longed to confide in Ben, to tell him about accidentally outing her father, but the time for that had passed. They hadn’t shared a secret in years. Odd that sharing her body with him would come easier, but…c’est la vie.

Ben let go a pent-up breath. “Look, April, is that what you came here for? To talk about our fathers? Because if it is, I can tell you that I don’t—”

Impatient with herself, April squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head. “It’s not. I—”

He blinked, seemingly surprised. “It’s not?”

“No,” she said.

He bit the corner of his lip, looking curiously relieved. “Then why did you come? Why are you here?”

Here it was, she thought. Truth or consequences time. She’d never been one to mince words, yet summoning the wherewithal to have this conversation with Ben was proving exceedingly difficult. She’d known it would be, but…Aw, hell. The fact was, she wasn’t accustomed to asking men to sleep with her. Ordinarily, it was the other way around. They came to her. Furthermore, if she wanted someone, she’d never had to tell them. A loaded glance, a secret smile, an innocent yet promising touch.

Body language. Not the English language.

She hesitated, looked up and saw him waiting expectantly. Her heart began to pound. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this, that she was actually going to ask him to have sex with her.

But she was.

Desperation had prodded other women to do worse, she told herself. And she was desperate.

Eighteen months.

Eighteen miserable, horribly unsatisfied months of unrelenting sexual agony. Frankie was right. If Ben couldn’t pull an orgasm from her apparently comatose libido, then nobody could. She’d simply have to resign herself to a lifetime of sexual dysfunction. The idea was so abhorrent she had to smother a maniacal laugh. Hell, she’d probably go crazy. Turn into a cat-loving, batty old shrew who screamed at little children and collected empty butter tubs and bottle caps. She glanced nervously at him again.

“April?” he prodded. Concern had replaced expectation, pricking her conscience. “Is something wrong?”

She smothered a snort. “You could say that,” she said, determined to go through with this. She pulled in a bracing breath, then let it go with a door-die whoosh. “I’ve got a personal problem…and I think you can help.”

“A personal problem,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she managed to whisper over the litany of Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! screaming in her head.

He hesitated for a moment. “Er, what sort of personal problem?”

“An intimate sort of problem,” she confided with evidently just enough misery for him to make the connection.

A fleeting flash of surprise registered before he masked it with a less-jolted expression. In a nanosecond, though, a predatory gleam flared in his golden gaze and she suddenly felt as if she’d been caught between the crosshairs—his. “Of a sexual nature then?”

“Yes.” She licked her suddenly dry lips and cleared her throat. Tried to look calm though she felt as though her intestines were going through the spin cycle. “For the past year and a half, I’ve been unable to—That is to say, I haven’t—I can’t—”

“Come?”

April nodded again. He could have said “reach orgasm” or “climax”—the more clinical term, she supposed—but “come” would work. “That sums it up nicely, yes,” she replied.

Ben leaned back in his seat and bit his bottom lip, presumably to keep from smiling, the wretch. There was absolutely nothing funny about her condition. He regarded her with droll, brooding humor, his eyes a compelling combination of smoky arousal and intrigue. April lifted her chin and resisted the pressing urge to squirm.

“And you think that I can help you?” he asked in an infuriatingly calm voice. “Is that why you’re here?”

“It is.”

“Because you think that I can make you—”

“I do,” she interrupted before he could finish, then resisted the urge to grin. “Provided your skill is in keeping with your reputation, that is,” she added wryly.

Ben chuckled. “My reputation?”

April poked her tongue in her cheek, felt her lips quiver with a smile. “That’s right. By all accounts—and I’ve heard many—you’re quite a lover. You’ve even got a nickname. Haven’t you heard it?” she asked innocently.

Ben leaned forward, let his elbows rest on his desk and steepled his fingers together. “A nickname?”

“Yep.” She paused, purposely torturing him. “The Vagina Whisperer,” she shared dramatically. “Supposedly, you can make even the most reluctant kitty purr.”

Ben’s eyes widened, then he cracked up. “You have got to be kidding me.”

I wish I were, April thought. Hearing about Ben’s particular abilities, his legendary sexual prowess over the years had been a source of pain for her. To this day the idea of him touching another woman made her belly flip in a nauseated roll.

April had never been the jealous type. She’d always been secure enough in her own ability to attract and keep the opposite sex that she’d honestly never let jealousy get to her. Naturally she’d felt a twinge of it now and again—she’d hardly be human, otherwise—but frankly, she’d never been invested enough in another relationship to warrant jealousy.

And yet the mere thought of Ben with someone else made her heartsick and absolutely wretched.

An unhappy truth lurked in that realization, but April determinedly refused to look for it. She’d mine her feelings later. Right now she had more pressing needs to take care of. Like eliminating the someone elses from Ben’s bed and planting herself there instead.

“I’m not kidding,” April finally told him. “That’s why I’m here. Given the situation, I need someone with your particular brand of expertise to, er…remedy the situation. In exchange, I’ll build you a Web site.”

She felt ridiculous saying it—bartering her body for Web services, of all things—but it made it feel like more of a business proposition than a personal favor. Twisted reasoning, she knew, but it was the best she could do. If he could fix her—if he could give her the joy of a toe-curling, back-clawing, tingling tornadic orgasm—she’d gladly exchange services for services. He was good at sex. She was good at Web design. Different areas of expertise, but she’d work with what she had. It was better than feeling beholden.

Ben studied her, then after a prolonged moment, scrawled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Seven o’clock,” he said.

She frowned, looked at the piece of paper he’d handed her and discovered an address. His address, she realized belatedly. She glanced up with what she expected was an embarrassingly hopeful gaze. “Is this a yes, then? You’ll help me.”

The corner of his sexy mouth quirked up into a sinfully promising smile, one that told her he planned to help her until her eyes rolled back in her head and she sang every note of the Hallelujah chorus. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “It’s definitely a yes.”

2

BEN LACED HIS FINGERS behind his head, leaned back in his chair and let a huge sigh balloon from his lungs as April closed his office door.

Sweet mother of God.

That had to be one of the most bizarre encounters he’d ever experienced in his life. In fact, he was still having trouble believing it. There were so many intriguing elements to their strange conversation that he had a hard time deciding where to start.

Eighteen months without an orgasm? Ironically, her climax had left town about the same time he’d started showing up at the Blue Monkey, Ben noted absently. And The Vagina Whisperer? Another silent chuckle bubbled up his throat. Still stunned, he didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? He was damned flattered. After all, that nickname and what it implied was evidently what had brought April Wilson to his doorstep.

Looking for a sexual cure, no less.

From him.

When he’d been systematically running through every available woman in Louisiana trying to get her out of his head?

Suffering from a severe case of shock, he passed a hand over his face and laughed again. Had anyone told him when he’d rolled out of bed this morning and made his usual trek to the office that April would show up and ask him—ask him— to have sex with her, he would have never believed it. Instead, he would have told them to ditch the hallucinogenic drugs and seek professional help. Things like this just didn’t happen to him. He’d always had to make his own luck.

Given the thin-lipped expression she’d adopted when the irony had all but gotten the better of him and he’d nearly laughed, Ben knew that his initial response—apart from shock—had annoyed the hell out of her. Not that he could blame her really. It couldn’t have been easy to make the decision to seek his help, and frankly, he admired her for being both mature and blunt. That, in and of itself, was wholly refreshing. No games, no guesswork. She could have just as easily made a play for him—which, given his recent behavior at the Blue Monkey, she knew he’d accept—and kept her motives to herself.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, in a ballsy no-bullshit move, she’d leveled with him and suggested a mutually beneficial deal. And a deal was good—it leveled the playing field and encouraged emotional boundaries. Furthermore, he’d put off the effort and minutia involved with pulling together the necessary content for a proper Web page because, in truth, he hadn’t found anyone whose work he admired as much as he did April’s.

Her page was the perfect combination of professionalism and whimsy, gave the visitors and prospective clients an organized, aesthetic glimpse into who she was and what she could accomplish. She was damned good at what she did, Ben thought. She had an uncanny ability to interpret a theme and make that come together in a graphics format for her clients. She, too, was an artist. She merely worked in a different medium.

Ben paused considering. If April hadn’t had an orgasm in eighteen months—eighteen mind-boggling months—then there had to be one helluva reason. Something more than just a string of subpar lovers. Hell, even a premature ejaculator knew how to work his fingers. A grin tugged the edge of his mouth.

Or at the very least, she did.

He couldn’t see her spending eighteen months in the equivalent of sexual purgatory without trying to tend to her own needs. Ben felt a smile tug at his lips. Not little Miss I-can-do-it-myself, he thought. That would be completely out of character. Her mother might have been a bona fide—quite frankly disturbed—bitch, but April could thank her for that my-way-or-the-highway attitude, if nothing else.

Thwarting her control freak of a mother had made April one of the most self-sufficient, stubborn and determined women he’d ever known. That trait, coupled with her inherent goodness—and the goodness she could detect in even the most undeserving people—her wicked sense of humor, a sure sense of herself and an innate sexuality that oozed from every pore, made her one of the most interesting, compelling women he’d ever been around.

Simply put, she charmed him. She always had.

And knowing her the way he did, he was damned certain that she’d only considered asking for his help as a last-ditch effort to put an arc back into her evidently flatlined libido. He’d be willing to bet his left nut that she’d tried everything else, and when those options had failed, she’d decided to come to him.

Call him an opportunistic bastard, but he was glad.

And where others had failed, Ben thought with a slow smile, he would not.

The Vagina Whisperer rumor notwithstanding, he knew how to please a woman. As with anything, the desire to perform combined with the old “practice makes perfect” adage could turn even the most mediocre man or woman into a competent partner, but in Ben’s opinion good lovers were born, not made.

Being a good lover involved more than knowing how to find a G-spot or administer the perfect kiss. A good lover had the inherent ability to seduce the mind, understood that planning a seduction went well beyond the traditional candles, wine and roses. Attention to detail, investing time, learning to listen, essentially picking up on her signals until a man knew her well enough to morph into her fantasy.

Most men had a tendency to rush the attraction, to hit the high spots for a mediocre payoff, when maybe just a few more days of patient consideration—priming, if you will—could result in a coupling so combustible the sheets all but set fire.

That was the kind of sex he specialized in.

He didn’t waste his time with “dumbed down” sex. When he did it, he did it right. Clearly, April had been getting the dumbed-down variety for so long that her poor, confused libido had finally said “screw it” and gone into voluntary hibernation. That, or it had merely rebelled, waiting for the right guy to come along. Whatever the reason, she needed him, and simply knowing that made several organs swell, both north and south of his zipper.

Without warning, her plump, pouty mouth materialized too readily in his mind’s eye and he felt a flame of heat lick his groin. God, he couldn’t wait to kiss her again. Couldn’t wait to push his tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth, taste the addictive combination of hot spice and sweet innocence and something else, something far more wonderful and bittersweet than either of the previously mentioned two—the flavor of being wanted.

Truly wanted.

Ben was accustomed to being desired, to being the object of a woman’s lust. A come-hither smile, a bed-me look. Frankly, he got them all the time. He’d been blessed with decent good looks and a hefty dose of sex appeal. He couldn’t deny it and wasn’t above capitalizing on it when the urge struck. Which was often. He was a man, after all, and there was nothing politically correct about baser needs, the drive to procreate. He liked sex and didn’t intend to apologize for it. But there was a huge difference between being desired and being wanted.

Desired—which was admittedly nice—was commonplace. But wanted was rare.

Wanted implied a familiarity, a longing despite flaws and imperfections. Wanted meant I’ll take you warts and all. Ben swallowed. Wanted was just a hair shy of love, and the only time he’d ever felt that sort of connection—that sort of unconditional yearning—was with April.

She’d wanted him.

To know that she merely desired him now was a bit depressing, but when it came to her, he’d settle for whatever he could get. A bark of dry laughter erupted from his throat.

He’d willingly—gladly—be her whore.

Guess that didn’t make him much different from his father after all, Ben thought as his lips twisted with bitter humor at the unwelcome insight.

Speaking of which, that raised another question. Did she know that her dad and his had become roommates? He’d wrongly assumed that had been the reason for her visit, and yet other than one awkward moment when she’d asked about his father, nothing else had been said about them. He’d sensed some tension, but if she’d known about their respective sires making the move to cohabit, she would have said something. Odd, then, that she hadn’t.

He stilled. Surely to God she knew Marcus was gay, Ben thought, struck by the notion. He paused, mulling it over. Yeah, he scoffed. She had to know. How could she not know? Her parents had divorced years ago. He snorted. But considering who Marcus was married to, that argument wouldn’t necessarily hold water.

April’s unfortunate father could have cited any number of reasons for his belated departure from Morgana’s evil side. Honestly, he didn’t think he’d ever known another woman he disliked more. She was a cold, heartless, manipulative harpy and—

His mental tirade abruptly stopped and a slow dawning smile slid across his face.

—and she’d undoubtedly shit when she found out about April, Ben realized, unable to suppress the burst of vindictive glee that expanded in his chest.

And she’d definitely find out. Unless things had changed vastly over the years—and he highly suspected that they hadn’t—April had never been able to make a move that her mother hadn’t known about first. Ben chuckled again, rocked back in his chair once more and savored the idea of her chilly, furious face. Petty? Yes. But after the hell that selfish, vengeful bitch put him through, he didn’t care.

What was it she’d said again when she’d warned him away? Oh, yeah. “I’ve already lost a husband to your cracked-up white-trash father. I’ll be damned before I’ll lose my daughter to his filthy son.”

A regular little ray of sunshine she’d been, Ben thought, his insides churning with old unabsorbed hatred. Let her try to warn him away this time, dammit. He was ready for her.

“I DID IT.”

Frankie whooped excitedly, forcing April to momentarily pull the cell away from her ear. “Oh, thank God!” she said. “I’m so proud of you. One giant step for you, one small step for womankind. Way to buck that double standard, babe.”

April smiled and carefully negotiated traffic. Ah, yes, the sexual double standard. Frankie’s biggest pet peeve—though she had many—which made her a fantastic advocate for Chicks In Charge and a huge success as the movement’s Carnal Contessa. Anything that smacked of a double standard or sexual repression made Frankie’s blood boil. Of her three best friends, Frankie had been the most concerned over April’s inability to reach climax.

“So how did it go? Did he whisper to you in his office?” she murmured with a wicked, suggestive purr. “Are you cured?”

April chuckled. “No and no. I’m supposed to meet him at his house at seven.” Goose bumps erupted on her skin at the mere thought. To think that after all this time she was only hours away from a guaranteed orgasm. It almost made her light-headed.

“Oooh. So he’s taking you to his lair, his den of iniquity, allowing you into the inter sanctum. Very, very interesting,” she said, doing a comical Einstein impression. “I figured a house call would be more in keeping with his style.”

April would have, too, come to think of it. She couldn’t be certain of course, but from everything she’d heard, Ben customarily guarded his personal space. He’d happily share another woman’s bed, but if one had managed to actually share his, April had never caught wind of it.

“Or multiple house calls,” Frankie continued. A wicked laugh bubbled up her throat. “What do you wanna bet that he prescribes more than one treatment?”

Would that she would be so lucky, April thought. After a year and a half with no conclusive action, she was due for more than one treatment, thank you very much.

“So tell me everything,” her friend finally demanded. “What was he wearing?”

April laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see,” she said. “Indulge me.”

“Er…Okay. Let’s see.” April paused, easily pulling Ben’s image to the forefront of her mind. He was never very far away anyway. “He was wearing a dark almond handwoven wool sweater and a pair of khaki slacks.” Both of which had looked fantastic on him. Very European. Very hot. The sweater had draped over those broad shoulders and muscled pecs, competently displaying the beautiful manly shape underneath.

“Any jewelry?”

“Aside from a designer watch—a TAG Heuer, I think—none that I could see.”

“Looking that closely at him, eh?” Frankie said knowingly.

Aha, April thought, letting go a quiet laugh. She had been looking closely, evidently even more closely than she’d realized. But then again, Ben was hard not to look at.

Aside from being remarkably handsome—flawless bone structure, angular jaw, hollow cheeks, heavy-lidded soulful eyes and a slightly imperfect nose to add character—Ben had that whole mysterious dark thing going on. He could have easily stepped onto any gothic movie set and played the part of a sexy vampire or elusive shape-shifter…and she could just as easily see herself playing the role of his devoted familiar. He was…magnetic, April decided. God knows she’d always been drawn to him. Ben had that “It” quality, that certain charisma that put him leagues above the average guy.

“Well, now that Operation Orgasm is underway, would you like me to tell you about some good news I heard this morning?” Frankie asked.

Operation Orgasm? She’d named it? Sheesh. April shook her head. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Carrie got a call from the producers of Let’s Cook, New Orleans! this morning.”

April squealed as a bolt of glee shot through her. “Oh, you’re kidding!”

“I’m not,” Frankie assured her, laughing herself. “She’s meeting them next week. And she’s a nervous wreck.”

April guessed so. It wasn’t every day that a person interviewed for their own television show. But with Carrie’s looks—she had the face of an angel, the soul of a saint—which had been a plus considering she’d had to have the patience of one to work for that nitpicking bastard Martin, April thought—and a body that put every man who looked at her in the mood for sin. Between her good looks and incredible talent, the network would be foolish not to hire her.

Furthermore, Carrie needed the break. Chicks In Charge had given her an outlet of sorts, but the perpetual grind of working at a thankless job was beginning to wear on her. She’d worked hard for this, dammit. She deserved it.

“God, I hope this works out for her,” April told her.

Frankie sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. I’ve got a call coming in,” she said. “Keep me posted. I want details—the hot, the heaving and the horny. Call me as soon as you get home. Provided you come home,” she added.

“Duly noted.” With a soft chuckle, April disconnected, then made her way back to her home office. That was one of the benefits of her line of work.

Aside from the necessary legwork she liked to put into a project, ninety percent of her job was accomplished in the small gatehouse located at the rear of her property. She’d fallen in love with the main house, a stately Victorian in the Garden District, the instant she’d seen it. Between the money she’d managed to save and the trust fund she’d inherited at twenty-one, April had managed to pay cash in order to avoid a mortgage.

Her father’s accountant had counseled against the move, had cited numerous investments she could have made in order to make the most of her money, but buying the house—owning her own place without fear of ever losing it—had been too important to her. If she never heard, “So long as you’re living in my house…” or “My house, my rules,” again, she’d die a happy woman. Frankly, she’d always hated living with her mother and from the time she was a little girl, she’d wanted her own place. Something that was solely hers.

Thankfully, in recent years her business had done well and thanks to the popularity of Chicks In Charge, she currently had more work that she could handle alone. She’d hired a couple of capable women from her local CHiC chapter to help out part-time. Aside from her estranged relationship with her father and the lengthy absence of an orgasm, her life was going remarkably well.

She was doing all she could do in regards to her father. When he was ready to share this new chapter of his life with her, he would. Did it hurt? Hell yeah. But apart from trying to maintain a presence in his life, what could she do?

Frankie had suggested hiring a private detective. For a few hundred dollars she could identify the significant someone in her father’s life, but April couldn’t bring herself to do it. It smacked too much of what her mother would do, and April purposely avoided any reason for comparison.

Undoubtedly her mother knew who her father was seeing—precious little escaped her ever-observant eye and if it did, her private detective kept her abreast of goings-on—but something about her mother’s smug smile when the subject came up indicated to April that, for whatever reason, Morgana would take entirely too much glee in sharing her father’s secret. And evidently, the only thing she’d enjoy more was her dad telling her himself.

But clearly her father didn’t want her to know, and finding out by any other means seemed entirely too sneaky. She preferred the direct approach.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. As evidenced by this morning’s behavior. Hi, Ben. My orgasm is broken and I need you to fix it for me. Not verbatim, of course, but the meaning couldn’t have been any more clear. Odd how their familiarity had both terrified and liberated her. Ben knew her, which had been both a pro and a con.

On the pro side, he knew what to expect from her. He knew that she didn’t pull any punches, that she abhorred all methods of manipulation. That had given her the freedom to walk into his office and lay everything out on the line.

Then again, he knew her. It was like having your gyno and your ex being one in the same. Talk about awkward. Hell, all that had been missing this morning was the paper dress and pair of stirrups.

At any rate, given the woeful twinge in her sex and the pleasant tingling sensation in her nipples, seeing The Vagina Whisperer had definitely been the right choice. She hadn’t felt that much tension in her hot spots in over a year…and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

April pulled into her driveway, shifted into park, then let her gaze turn inward. All he’d done was sit there and stare at her with those brooding, rock-your-world eyes. He’d calmly assessed her, trailed that compelling gaze over her body like warm honey over a biscuit and something inside her had wriggled to life once more. She was starving and, though it might be unreasonable, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ben was the only person who could feed her. April released a stuttering breath.

And the feast was at seven.

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