Getting It Good!

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

  “That depends,” Ross countered. “Are your nipples always so hard?”She glanced at his crotch. “Are you always so hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Enjoy!

  Rhonda Nelson

  Books by Rhonda Nelson

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  75—JUST TOYING AROUND81—SHOW & TELL

  115—PICTURE ME SEXY

  140—THE SEX DIET

  158—1-900-LOVER

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  973—UNFORGETTABLE1007—GETTING IT!

  GETTING IT GOOD!

  Rhonda Nelson

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

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

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

  Sincerely,

  Birgit Davis-Todd

  Executive Editor

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

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

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The Bet

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

  A slow, wicked smile curved Tate Hatcher’s mouth. “Confident, are you?”Zora slid the customized fellatio chip to the center of the table and gave her husband a small enigmatic smile. Horny better described her current state, but let him think what he would.

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

  But she couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

  In other words, she had him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She nodded. “Yep.”

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Define ‘temporary.’”

  “An hour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Zora grinned. “Whatever.”

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

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

  1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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