Getting It!

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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.

2

“NO!” FRANKIE HISSED QUIETLY, her eyes widened in apparent shock. She jerked her thumb toward the connecting door. “He’s in there? Right now?”

Zora nodded. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she’d given Frankie the abbreviated version of events. She’d left out the fact that, in some cruel twist of fate, she’d been diabolically attracted to the sardonic jerk.

Of all people for her wayward libido to respond to, it had to be him.

It was nauseating.

Granted she’d studied his picture a little too keenly, and the pages of his book were dog-eared from too many reads, but she’d chalked those proclivities up to morbid fascination.

She’d confess to a smidge of attraction—hell, he was gorgeous—but seeing him in the flesh—and she’d seen all of it, Zora thought as the image of his naked body zoomed too swiftly into focus. Smooth tanned skin, supple muscle and the finest dusting of dark hair over his impressive pecs…She let go a shuddering breath. Seeing him in the flesh had taken the barest hint of manageable interest and curiosity, and had compounded it into the mother of all attractions.

Zora would like to blame her intense reaction to him on her neglected hormones, but she knew it wasn’t true.

The sound of his voice had made her belly tip and roll.

One look into those mysterious, compelling eyes had made her scalp tingle.

Then he’d smiled, and the tops of her thighs had burned, heat had brushed her nipples, and then camped in her sex. Nothing in her past or present experience could compare.

At best it was inconvenient, at worse it was humiliating.

Renewed embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she remembered her monologue. I like sex. I’m horny. I want to get laid. Ugh, she mentally whimpered. Keeping her face schooled into the calm mask she usually wore had been monumentally difficult, particularly when she’d desperately wanted to writhe in mortified agony. She would rather have discovered the Pope in that shower—anyone but him.

Fortunately the business side of her brain had kicked in and she’d realized that doing damage control—for her reputation and, ultimately for Chicks-In-Charge—was more important than dwelling on her embarrassment. She could do that later. Right now she needed to focus on a solution, which was why she’d called Frankie and asked her to come up to her room. Zora had raided the minibar and fixed them both drinks. She’d considered holding this meeting out on the balcony, but then decided against it—who knew who might be listening, she thought with a dark glance at the wall.

“Yes, he’s in there, and yes, I wanted to die,” Zora told her, heading that conversation off at the pass. “But instead of moaning about my…unfortunate mistake, we need to think about why he’s here.”

Frankie blinked. “Well, we know why he’s here. That’s obvious. He’s researching his next book.” She frowned and Zora detected a flash of pity in her dark gaze. “So Dex just left? Just packed up and took off without another word?”

Ordinarily Frankie didn’t have this hard a time focusing, Zora thought, summoning patience. Furthermore, she wasn’t accustomed to being pitied. She didn’t care for it. “Yes, that’s exactly what he did. The best I can figure out—” though she hadn’t dwelled on it “—housekeeping did a speedy cleanup and the lock between our rooms is faulty.”

Frankie’s lips formed a silent “oh.” She winced. “Yeah. That’s bad.”

“I know,” Zora replied gravely. “And what’s really bad is that Tate Hatcher knows that I couldn’t get my boyfriend to sleep with me.” God forbid he pitied her, Zora thought suddenly. That would be beyond horrible. “But what does that say about me and Chicks-In-Charge? Doesn’t sound like I’m in charge at all, does it?”

Frankie knocked back the rest of her drink, set her glass aside. “No, it doesn’t, and I hate to drag out the old I-told-you-so, but—I told you so,” she said in a long, exasperated wail. “Honestly, there were so many things wrong with that whole scenario. Not have sex?” She scowled, shook her head. “I don’t trust a guy who doesn’t like sex. It’s…unnatural.”

Zora agreed. Particularly now, when she’d been without for more than a year. But after the Trent fiasco, she hadn’t been ready, then Dex had come along and he’d seemed like the perfect solution to her problem. He’d been…safe. And, in all honesty, though it might be considered a little arrogant, she’d never thought that if she’d decided she wanted to move their relationship onto a more intimate level that he’d refuse. She just naturally assumed that if she came around, he’d follow suit. Her lips twisted.

Clearly, she’d overestimated her appeal.

Zora shrugged. “Well, it’s a moot point now, and frankly, I’ve got other worries.”

“Yeah, like how you’re going to keep him quiet.” Frankie tsk-tsked, shot her a look. “That’s going to be tricky.”

Zora chewed her bottom lip. “Actually, I think I have a solution.”

“Oh? What?”

“I’m going to give him carte blanche at the conference, let him wander around, listen in on every workshop, luncheon, panel and conversation.” Her eyes narrowed with determination. “I’m going to let him soak up every single word.” Hopefully the message would penetrate that thick, arrogant skull of his, Zora thought uncharitably.

Frankie snorted, shifted in her seat. “Sounds to me like you’re arming him.”

“Or converting him,” Zora countered. “Which would be better, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If it worked,” she said skeptically. “But, personally, I think it’s wishful thinking.” She paused, sent her a shrewd glance. “I’m sensing more than an altruistic motive here. What do you get in exchange?”

Zora steepled her fingers and placed them beneath her chin. “The Dex incident remains secret.” She pulled a negligent shrug. “That’s the most damaging thing he’s got, and I can’t imagine anything he’d learn in the course of the conference that would be worse.”

Which was the truth. Everything she’d worked for—everything she’d put into Chicks-In-Charge—would be lost in the media glee and hype of her failed sex life. She’d become a joke, a mockery and the substantial amount of ground that she’d helped gain through and for Chicks-In-Charge would be lost. The message and the good her organization had done would be forgotten, lost to her misfortune. Furthermore, she never claimed to be infallible, but that didn’t make her efforts and that of her sex as a whole any less worthy of respect. But would that be taken into consideration? No. She knew it, which meant undoubtedly Tate Hatcher did, too.

Frankie nodded thoughtfully, seemingly mulling it over. “True,” she conceded. “Still, he’ll need babysitting. You know, just in case. Who’s going to do that?”

She’d already thought of that and the very idea made her tummy tremble. However, this was her fault, so she should bear the majority of the responsibility. “Me, primarily, but I thought we could take turns.” Zora grinned, quickly moved to the less troubling part of her plan. “I also thought I’d let everyone know about our special guest tomorrow during my keynote speech.”

A smile slid across Frankie’s lips and her eyes twinkled with humor. “That’s devious.”

Her language, Zora thought. “That’s smart,” she corrected, her brows arching significantly. “They’ll roast him.” Wear him down with her chicks, then maybe his head would soften enough to absorb a little of their message, she thought. A dual-fold plan.

Frankie grinned. “I like it.”

Zora chuckled. “I thought that part of it would appeal to you.” It did to her as well. He might be getting what he wanted, but he damned sure wasn’t going to like it.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting him for coffee in the morning. I’ll arrange it then.”

Frankie quirked a brow. “And if he says no?”

“He’s here for research, remember? He won’t say no,” she predicted confidently. In that regard they were very much alike, she thought. Were the situation reversed, she definitely wouldn’t be able to refuse, and it was precisely that shared trait—that wolf-like, untouchable arrogance—she was banking on.

AH, THERE SHE WAS, Tate thought, as he watched Zora stroll confidently toward his table. He masked a triumphant smile with a sip of coffee, purposely ignored the rush of excitement that zinged up his spine the moment he’d caught sight of her.

Predictably, she’d tried to beat him downstairs.

Tate grinned. Hell, he knew enough about intimidation tactics to know that the person who arrived last was at a disadvantage, and given the way she and her friend—a sister chick, he assumed—had clucked until the wee hours of the morning—plotting his ruin, no doubt—he felt like he was disadvantaged enough, thank you very much. He’d had to get up an hour earlier than what he would have liked, but by God, he was first, and the pleasure of watching her eyes widen with that recognition made missing those few extra minutes of shut-eye worthwhile.

Actually, Tate amended, just watching her walk made it worthwhile.

Zora Anderson moved with a confident, sinuous sort of grace that was at once mesmerizing and sexy. Shoulders back, head high, a distinctly feminine swing to her hips, one she didn’t try to hide with boxy blazers and mannish suits. Instead, he got the distinct impression that she purposely capitalized on her curvy form. That she reveled in it, enjoyed her femininity.

Today she wore a formfitting pale green suit—the shade of new grass, which coincidentally matched her eyes—that buttoned snugly over her ample breasts and made the most of her small waist. Her rich red hair parted on the side and hung in long, wavy flame-like curls over her shoulders and down her slim back. Unlike most people with her coloring, Zora had only a few freckles and still bore the healthy glow of a decent summer tan. Long lashes framed her curiously exotic eyes, neatly complemented high cheekbones. And her mouth…Tate pulled in a shallow breath.

Her mouth was in a class all its own.

Full, lush, ripe and soft. Particularly her bottom lip. It was plump—suckable—and presently painted with a sheer rosy gloss and curled into the faintest mockery of a smile.

Odd that he found that sexy, that he couldn’t wait to hear her so-called proposition and that, rather than gleefully reveling in her mortification last night, he’d been alternately preoccupied with wondering why such a vibrant woman had hooked up with a man who purposely chose not to have sex—what had happened to make her think that was a good idea? Tate had wondered—and thinking about swiftly remedying the unfortunate situation for her.

Repeatedly.

I’m horny, she’d said. I want to get laid. Powerful words, Tate decided, particularly coming from her, out of that mouth. They trumped any preconceived notions he’d had about her. She might look like she had it all together—slick as a firehouse pole—but there were some serious issues hidden behind that calm facade, that lazy, unconcerned, superior smile.