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“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 acknowledge 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?”
Her boss flushed guiltily and looked away.
“Zora,” Frankie all but wailed, outraged. “You’re a terrible poker player! You rarely win. How could you bet something like this?” Irritation and disgust propelled her back into her chair. She shook her head, shoved a handful of hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you did this! What on earth were you thinking?”
Zora huffed a despondent sigh, rolled her eyes. “I was thinking that I’d win, that’s what I was thinking. I had a straight flush.”
Intrigued, Frankie glanced up. “A straight flush? Then how did you—”
She smirked. “Tate had a royal flush.”
“Oh.” Well, that sucked. Nevertheless… “So what did you bet? That you’d hire a man, or that you’d hire Ross?” Frankie grimly suspected that she knew the answer, but hope prompted her to ask the question anyway.
Zora winced. “Ross. But it’s only for a week, and like I said, he may not take the job.”
Frankie scowled. This still didn’t make any sense. “Fine,” she conceded with an impatient wave of her hand. “You have to hire him for a week. That still doesn’t explain why he has to work with me.”
Zora hesitated, then steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Don’t take this the wrong way…but to be totally frank, I’m making him work with you because I know he’ll hate it.” Eyes narrowed, her lips slid into a determinedly grim smile. “If he has to work here, he’s not going to like it.”
Frankie found herself conflicted. Since she couldn’t stand Ross, anything that he found unpleasant or made him unhappy appealed to her, and being the author of his misery would ordinarily tickle her to death, but for reasons she didn’t understand, something about Zora casting her in the role was somewhat…depressing. Her shoulders sagged marginally.
Everyone was supposed to notice that she couldn’t stand him, not the other way around, dammit. He should be grateful to share the same air as her.
An arrogant, exaggerated opinion, but she couldn’t help herself. Every emotion she had pertaining to Ross Hartford felt…exaggerated. Magnified. There were lots of men who got on her nerves, but she didn’t look forward to verbally eviscerating them. Lots of men she found attractive, but she didn’t constantly—graphically—dream and fantasize about them.
In fact, as a species in general, Frankie didn’t have any use for men at all. In her experience they were all untrustworthy, thoughtless, scheming, dick-driven bastards—and her father had been the worst of the lot.
Frankie had worked her ass off for the cheating SOB for eight years—had started with the company when she’d only been sixteen—and rather than give her the VP promotion she’d not only earned, but would have been handed to a male heir, he’d given her job to the Bagel Girl. Frankie’s lips twisted with bitter humor.
Turned out that she’d been giving him more than a little extra cream cheese every morning when she’d made her way around the office—she’d been giving him a nooner before noon.
That or the whore simply couldn’t tell time.
Frankie let go a frustrated, disgusted breath. How her mother could justify staying with him absolutely mind-boggled her. She’d never understand it. Never.
Between her rotten excuse for a father and one serious-but-soured relationship, Frankie had adopted only one attitude from her male counterparts that she found useful—indifference.
When she desired companionship, she hung out with female friends. When she wanted sex, she took an occasional lover. Things were less complicated that way. The idea of a man being both a friend and a lover was completely foreign to her. In order to call a person a friend, you had to trust them. Since she didn’t trust any man, the whole boyfriend concept was simply a misnomer to her.
Granted Zora and Tate seemed to have made things work, but they seemed to be the exception to the rule. Her gaze inexplicably slid to their wedding photo proudly displayed on the credenza and she felt a rebellious twinge of envy prick her heart. Zora and Tate were clearly head-over-heels for each other, and Tate was obviously Zora’s best friend.
Regardless, Frankie would rather rock along on her own than put a toe out of her comfort zone and she’d be damned before she’d ever let a man make a fool of her. She’d never allow herself to love someone so much that she’d give up her self-respect. The image of her mother’s rigid but weary form posted by the window waiting on her lousy father to come home flashed through her mind, punctuating the thought.
Besides, she liked her life. There was a lot to be said for peace of mind, for ultimate remote-control power, for hogging the whole bed, for doing what she wanted when she wanted without having to consider anyone else’s feelings. It was a very liberated if sometimes lonely lifestyle.
Furthermore, she loved her job. She’d found her niche as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Empowering women through sexuality was a noble goal. Teaching them to voice their needs, to act upon their baser desires, to be confident in their femininity, and more often than not, telling them to advise their blockheaded lovers on how to please them, was rewarding work. In her biweekly column, she leavened her sassy, blunt advice with a healthy lump of humor, and so far, the combination had worked beautifully.
So well, in fact, that beginning next week she’d start a five-city tour across the U.S. promoting the new glossy format of the magazine. She’d been honored that Zora had asked her to do it, and really looked forward to promoting CHiC and the whole Chicks-In-Charge movement. Both had really changed her life and she desperately wanted to give something back, wanted to share the phenomenon with other women.
Frankie paused. Since she wouldn’t be in the office, would be on tour, just exactly how was Ross supposed to work with her over the next week? The hair on her nape prickled and a cold knot of dread formed in her suddenly roiling tummy.
She carefully looked up. “Zora, just exactly—”
“If he takes the job, he’ll be going with you,” Zora said, anticipating her question.
Frankie swallowed the urge to scream and puke at once. “With me? As what? My assistant?” She hesitated, a sudden image popping into her head. Ooh, this could work, she thought as the idea gained momentum. She’d love bossing him around, sending him on pointless errands, giving him degrading tasks designed expressly to turn his mind black with rage. A bolt of evil glee shot through her, but withered at the small shake of Zora’s head.
“Nooo,” she replied, dragging the word out. Then a wicked smile bloomed across her lips and her eyes twinkled with devilish humor. “He’s going to be CHiC’s temporary Duke of Desire.”
Frankie frowned. Duke of Desire? But—A beat slid into three, then comprehension dawned and a low chuckle vibrated the back of her throat.
Equally impressed and awed, she returned Zora’s grin. “Oh, he’s going to hate that,” she said with vengeful relish. “He’s really going to hate it.”
Zora nodded. “Precisely. Think you can suffer through it?”
Frankie nodded without hesitation. The mere idea of Ross’s impending discomfort was balm enough for her battered ego. “Oh, yeah. I can suffer through it.”
But she happily suspected he’d be suffering more.
“YOU’RE KIDDING,” Ross chuckled, stunned. He snagged a cup of coffee from his beleaguered assistant along with the usual stack of morning messages and hurried into his office. “Zora’s going to hire a man? What?” he joked, tossing a smile over his shoulder at Tate. “Did hell freeze over while I wasn’t looking?” He rounded his desk and plopped down into his chair. Idly flipped through his messages, silently swore when he realized more than half of them were from her. His fingers involuntarily curled, crushing the notes in his hand.
Tate laughed, settled himself into the seat opposite him. “No. An opportune visit from Lady Luck and my superior poker skills are what brought about the phenomenon.” His boss sighed, clearly wallowing in the victory of his coup.
“Dirty Poker, again, huh?” Ross replied, trying to force his irritated, preoccupied mind on their conversation. He conjured a brittle smile.
Zora and Tate’s risqué card game was legendary among Tate’s friends. By all accounts Zora was an abysmal poker player, yet that didn’t keep the couple from continuing to play the game. Zora had once confided that even when she lost, she still won. As far as Ross was concerned, that one telling comment pretty much summed up their marriage.
In a time when more than half of all marriages ended in divorce—his parents’ included—it was refreshing to see a couple who would undoubtedly go the distance. Not that their happily-ever-after engendered any latent desire to rush to the altar himself—not no, but hell no, Ross thought with an internal snort.
Maintaining a monogamous relationship was work and he already had a job, thank you very much. A job that he loved, where black was black and white was white and effort and loyalty were rewarded accordingly. He avoided anything gray—emotions, feelings, guessing games, the unsure or the vague.
Furthermore, his parents’ dysfunctional, mistrustful, adulterous hate-fest had been a doozy, and after surviving that, he simply preferred to be single. If those weren’t enough reasons to avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex, then his current situation most definitely was.
He was being…harassed.
Actually, stalked worked better but it seemed so dramatic that Ross balked at the term. A little harassment he could handle—stalking implied he needed professional help.
Besides, at the moment—and pretty much every moment—he had more pressing matters to concern himself with than worrying about a possible significant other, lack thereof, or a thwarted lover who couldn’t move on.
Like landing the Maxwell account.
The familiar burn of anticipation rushed through him, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside. When word got out that Maxwell Commodities had been looking for a new firm, Tate had made sure that Hatcher Advertising was first in line for a shot at it. He’d then put his top executives on the job and Ross was fortunate enough to be counted among them.
But it wasn’t good enough.
He wanted lead on this account.
And he was the logical choice because when it came to marketing men’s products—no brag, just fact, he was the best in the firm. Maxwell Commodities marketed everything from men’s toiletries to clothing as well as home fitness equipment and tools. The company catered exclusively to the male population and, while Ross admittedly didn’t have any idea how to market women’s products, he knew his stuff when it came to men. He was a guy, after all. His no-frills, no-bullshit style appealed to the man’s man. Facts, statistics, specs. Those were the things men were interested in. Aesthetics, thank God, didn’t enter the picture.
Landing lead on this account would garner national recognition, would put him in the inside lane on the fast track of his advertising career. Ross didn’t think a man was measured by his success or any of that nonsense. He was simply competitive. Had always been that way. Hell, a guy couldn’t play football—and every other sport imaginable—for more than a decade and come out any different. He wanted to be the best. When a knee injury in his senior year of high school had cost him a football career and a full-ride at LSU, Ross had been forced to direct his competitive efforts in another direction—college, then ultimately his career in advertising.
To that end, he had to land this account, because only the best could handle it.
“So who’s the lucky guy?” Ross asked, tuning back into the conversation. “Anybody we know?”
Tate hesitated and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“Me?” What did he have to do with it? Ross wondered, suppressing the growing urge to check his e-mail. He’d worked on a couple of new ideas for Maxwell last night and had forwarded them to his office account. Occasionally what seemed like creative genius in the wee hours of the morning turned out to be total shit after a few winks. He was curious to see what this morning’s perspective brought.
“Yes, you.” Tate paused, and for some reason that ominous silence rang like a death knell. “You see, it’s not just any man that Zora has to hire—it’s you.”
Ross stilled. Shock jimmied a disbelieving chuckle loose from his throat. “What?”
Tate smiled grimly. “It’s you. You’re the man she’s hiring.”
Stunned, Ross shook his head, waited for his frozen smile to thaw. “Er…no, she’s not,” he said flatly. Even if he were so inclined—which he most definitely was not—he didn’t have the time. He had a damn job, one that he currently spent twelve-plus hours a day on. Furthermore, what in the hell would he do for Zora? What could he—a man—possibly do for a chick magazine?
Tate considered him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I suppose I could call upon our years of friendship, ask you to do this for me simply because it would give me a small amount of petty satisfaction after listening to my wife repeatedly tell me that she’d never hire a man.” Tate lifted his shoulders in a futile shrug. “But I can tell that it would be a waste of breath, so here’s the deal. Do you want the Maxwell account?”
Ross blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Of course I do.”
“Then it’s simple. If you agree to work for Zora, then it’s yours. If not…” He winced lightly and let the implication hang in the silence.
Beyond stunned, Ross shook his head. Tate had a reputation for being a bit ruthless, but this was the first time he’d ever been on the receiving end of it. Arguing, Ross knew, would be pointless. Trying to make Tate change his mind once it was set was like bear-hunting with a BB gun. Utterly futile. He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. Resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “How long?”
“Only a week,” Tate told him. He blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I know I’m playing dirty on this one, but I won,” he said desperately. With a somewhat manic gleam in his normally clear eyes, he leaned forward as though he were about to impart something very important. “Do you know what a rare occurrence that is with my wife? Do you have any idea?”
“You beat your wife at poker all the time, Tate,” Ross returned flatly.
“Yeah, but this time it’s different. I’m getting something that Zora’s never had to give up—humility. Come on, Ross,” he cajoled. “It’s only a week. What’s one week out of a lifetime? What’s one measly week for the Maxwell account?”
Not much, he had to agree. Nevertheless, he didn’t like being a part of Tate and Zora’s poker games and he damned sure didn’t like being blackmailed into getting an account that should have been his to start with.
Ross normally resisted all attempts to manage and maneuver him, but Tate, the intuitive bastard, had hit upon the one thing that he couldn’t refuse—the Maxwell account. If he would have dangled anything else, Ross would have been able to say no.
But not this.
He wanted it. It was a trophy account—the one that would ultimately prove he’d arrived.
And, though he didn’t appreciate Tate’s method, he’d had the balls to lay it all on the line, so he had to respect him for that, if nothing else. Ross let go a breath and glared at him. “You’re a sneaky bastard, Tate,” he told him, letting him know that he wasn’t completely off the hook.
“I know.”
Resigned, Ross rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to do?”
Seemingly relieved, Tate leaned back in his seat and winced. “That’s the kicker. I don’t know,” he said grimly. “We’re meeting Zora for lunch at Mama MoJo’s at noon.”
Ross shot him a hard look. “But it’s only a week, right?”
Tate nodded. “Right.”
“Fine,” Ross told him wearily. Hell, he could stand anything for a week, especially if it meant the Maxwell account would be his.
2
THREE HOURS LATER Ross’s steps slowed as he entered the eclectic café and the grim realization that he’d been wrong—that there was one thing that he couldn’t take for a week—hit him because that very thing was sitting at their table with Zora—Frankie Salvaterra.
“You didn’t tell me Mouth would be here,” Ross said tightly. Equal parts anticipation, dread and desire coalesced in his gut, pushed his pulse rate up to pre-stroke level. His skin prickled, his stomach parachuted and his loins ignited into an inferno of repressed lust.
Regrettably, Frankie always had that effect on him.
“That’s because I didn’t know,” Tate returned from the side of his mouth as he made his way across the room. He, too, suddenly looked a little uneasy, a fact Ross didn’t find the least bit reassuring.
Having spotted them, Zora smiled and waved them over. Frankie turned then, and that dark-as-sin gaze tangled with his. Her ripe mouth curled into a woefully familiar mockery of a grin, the barest hint of a smile, and that one provoking gesture somehow managed to be simultaneously superior and sexy.
And, as usual, it annoyed the hell out of him. He swallowed a long-suffering sigh.
Furthermore, to make matters worse—and truthfully, he wouldn’t have thought that would have been possible—Frankie had looked entirely too happy to suit his taste…because if Frankie was happy it could only be because she knew that he would soon be supremely unhappy. Clearly Zora had filled her in on the present situation and Ms. Merciless had tagged along to silently chortle over his misfortune.
“You have no idea what she wants me to do?” Ross asked again. His gaze drifted to Frankie once more and he watched as she and Zora shared a conspiratorial smile. Oh, hell, Ross thought as dread formed a tight ball in his belly. This didn’t bode well. Not well at all. His insides clenched and he stifled a groan.
“None,” Tate replied as they neared the table. He bent and brushed a kiss over his wife’s cheek and murmured a warm greeting.
“Zora, Frankie,” Ross said, giving them each a glance in turn, before taking his seat. Though he’d only spared half a second, had barely glanced at her at all, that one meager look had been all Ross needed to catalogue every pertinent detail when it came to Frankie.
Simply put, she was a classic Italian beauty. Long black hair, cut in lengthy layers that framed an elegant yet striking face. Large almond-shaped dark eyes, sleek dramatic brows, creamy olive skin and a mouth that inspired more than a few erotic dreams. Her lips were full, lush and unbelievably provocative. She was petite but very generously curved and she moved with a careless sort of grace that was, quite frankly, fascinating—mesmerizing—to watch.
Ross inwardly snorted. God knows, there had been times when dragging his eyes off of her had been almost impossible. Were that not enough, for reasons which escaped him, the Almighty had further blessed her with a keen mind and a diabolically sharp wit. Ross had found himself verbally flayed many times by that Ginsu tongue of hers and he grimly suspected that it was about to happen again.
It was a cruel joke really, Ross thought, mentally bracing himself, to package such a mind and body with the personality of a waspish hellcat. Crueler still that he actually looked forward to tangling with her, that he wanted her so desperately that it almost frightened him. Thankfully, fear was an emotion he refused to acknowledge, otherwise he’d undoubtedly be in trouble.
A beat later he felt her gaze slide over him, caught the vaguest curve of a smile, and the unease that had settled like a stone in his gut grew increasingly heavier. Annoyed, he looked away. A single hot oath sizzled on his tongue, but miraculously, he held it.
