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Getting It!
Rhonda Nelson
Zora Anderson, the confident, hard-as-nails founder of Chicks in Charge, has a secret that could ruin her–her boyfriend refuses to sleep with her! At first she thought it was kind of sweet…but that got old fast. Desperate for a little action, Zora decides to spice up an upcoming conference and sets a seductive trap, one her boyfriend won't be able to refuse. Only, it's not her boyfriend's bed she ends up in….Tate Hatcher, author of What Women Really Want, can't believe it when a strange woman surprises him in the shower and starts to berate him for not seeing to her sexual needs. Especially when he realizes who she is– Zora Anderson, the bane of his existence. Tate is torn. It would be so easy to "out" her, ruining her reputation for good. But the more he's around her, the more Tate's inclined to give the sassy woman a taste of what she's been missing….
“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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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 (#ubbc12ca0-9c0f-5698-ab3e-f59b210c66ad)
Chapter 1 (#u17fdd027-ec0b-55d2-bce1-c2d9fd9edcc1)
Chapter 2 (#u520a3254-c83a-5d09-805f-11af98d4cecd)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
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.
