Читать книгу Going For It - Jo Leigh - Страница 8

DR. Jamie Talks Sex…and Manhattan Listens!

Darlene Whittaker took a deep drag of her cigarette outside the offices of WXNT Talk Radio and stared at the face on the billboard across the way. Dr. Jamie Hampton was the newest “It” girl in Manhattan, the topic of conversations from the Bowery to the Bronx. Beautiful, brilliant, radical Dr. Jamie.

Darlene hated the no-smoking laws in New York that had forced her outside and cursed the mayor and all the voters at least once a day. She missed her local bar, where she used to drink tequila shooters with beer chasers and go through about a half a pack a night. Damn, those were good times.

She was here on a hunch. The article had been her idea. It was also her idea to interview Dr. Jamie on the air. The good doctor hadn’t wanted to, but her station manager Fred Holt had insisted. Holt was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. The national exposure Dr. Jamie would get with the article was going to help get her syndicated, and that’s where the big bucks were. Dr. Laura, Howard Stern, Delilah—they all made a fortune for four hours on the air, five days a week. Nice work if you could get it.

Unless, of course, Darlene’s hunch was right, in which case the ensuing scandal would get Dr. Jamie a one-way ticket to obscurity, and Darlene about ten grand more per article.

She just wished she could be sure.

She focused on the billboard again. Even fifty feet wide Jamie still looked tiny. Didn’t the woman know the waif look was dead? With that short dark hair and those huge dark eyes, she came across as Little Miss Innocent—which was the hook. Just like the sign said, she talked sex and Manhattan listened. Straight answers, no euphemisms, no giggling. She told women they could have sex like men, and the women were eating it up. She had the number-one show in her market, and she was the number-one topic around watercoolers and in lunchrooms.

Darlene snorted. She’d seen ‘em come and go, and Dr. Jamie wasn’t going to be around very long. She was like a pet rock or a lava lamp. A sparkler on the Fourth of July. The trick for Darlene was to catch the light while it flared and turn the sparkler into a Roman candle. Darlene would be the one to light the match, and Jamie would burn.

Jamie’s eyes, almond shaped, deep brown, with what had to be fake lashes, stared down from the billboard with all the innocence of a lamb before the slaughter. When Darlene was through with her, Jamie would be knocked off that perch of hers and she’d have to face life among the great unwashed. Hell, Darlene was doing her a favor. Toughening her up for real life. Especially life in New York City.

God bless research. If Darlene hadn’t found Jamie’s old roommate in college, if she hadn’t gone all the way to Buffalo to do the interview in person, if Dianna Poplar hadn’t dropped just enough hints about the sex doctor…this article would have been about as interesting as a night at the Laundromat. But a scandal—that changed everything. That sold magazines. And that meant the kind of money Darlene deserved. The kind that would get her out of her hideous apartment and into something decent.

That she was able to dethrone the current queen of New York was an extra bonus. The cherry on top. Jamie was so much like all the girls Darlene had gone to college with—beautiful, bright, successful without any effort. What had Jamie done, really, to deserve this job? Gotten her degree? Big deal. Darlene had a degree, and she wasn’t about to go on the radio and say she was an expert on sex.

Jamie was a fraud. And Darlene was going to prove it.

The roar of a beefed-up motorcycle caught her attention, and she watched a guy on a Harley glide into a brilliantly lit parking space next to the Dumpster. She couldn’t see much of him—just his leather jacket, the worn jeans, the boots and the black helmet. But as she stared, he got off the bike, took off his helmet and shook his hair free. It was longish, below his collar. Then, as if he sensed her watching him, he looked over. She was too far away to see the details of his face, but she knew who he was.

Chase Newman. The race-car driver. Another one of the beautiful people who showed up at all the right parties and were paraded on the pages of magazines like Vanity Fair with other gorgeous rich people. She happened to know that People had tried to dub him Sexiest Man Alive, and he’d told the magazine to go to hell. She had to give him credit.

He turned to lock up his bike, and the short hairs on the back of her neck rose. It was her own personal radar system. There was a story here. What, she didn’t know yet. But the short hairs were never wrong.

She narrowed her gaze as she studied him. The way he moved, the way he stood, shouted confidence, sensuality, raw male energy. The kind of charisma that beguiled the most jaded hearts. Even she hadn’t been immune. She’d met him at a fund-raiser—some kid thing, or maybe pets. She’d wanted to do an article on him then, but she couldn’t find a hook. If she could figure out a way to combine the Dr. Jamie story with a guy…especially a guy like Newman.

She’d seen it before, although not terribly often. Mostly there were wannabes, men who swaggered and flexed and flashed their money around for all to see. But when the real thing came along, everyone knew it. There were some men who commanded attention. Respect. Who made a person want to breathe the same air, or at the very least stand in their shadow. Who owned the room, and all the women in it. The ladies fell in love with a man like that after even the briefest exposure—like it was some kind of virus. She’d seen it a thousand times. Women falling all over themselves to be near a man with that kind of charisma. Believing some of it would rub off on them.

Oh, yeah. Chase Newman would be perfect to put into this piece, if only she could find a way. Something about Chase and this station niggled at the edge of her consciousness. What was it? As she reached for another cigarette, she glanced at her watch and swore. She’d better get inside. Dr. Jamie was waiting. She hurried inside to the smoke-free air of the most popular talk-show radio station in the five boroughs, New Jersey and parts of Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont.

“OKAY, BOYS AND GIRLS,” Dr. Jamie Hampton said into the mike. Her favorite mug was filled with green tea, and her notes were stacked neatly in front of her. “With me now is Darlene Whittaker, from Vanity Fair magazine. She’s going to interview me right here, right now, up close and personal. And a little later, you’ll get your chance to ask me some questions, too.” She turned to her guest, outfitted with fresh coffee and her own set of headphones. “So, Darlene. What can I tell you?”

“You’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be.”

God, she was tired of that comment. “Twenty-seven on my next birthday.”

“Is the title real? Or does your first name happen to be ‘Doctor’?”

Jamie laughed, already hating the woman. It wasn’t Whittaker’s looks. She’d dressed in Manhattan gothic, with horn-rimmed glasses, a head of curly, unkempt black hair, a black tunic over black jeans, and red lipstick so bright she probably stopped traffic. The look was too passé, but that wasn’t it. The way Whittaker looked at her was another story. Something wicked was brewing inside the reporter. Something devious. “The title is real. I got my PhD in human sexuality at NYU.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“At twenty-four?”

“Yep. I started college at sixteen, got my master’s degree at twenty-one.”

“Wow. That’s some accomplishment. So, it was while you were a doctoral candidate that you started the radio show on campus?”

“Right. The Sex Hour. We broadcast from the campus radio station, and the show got pretty popular.”

“Isn’t it true that the reason you were so popular is that you’re a female version of Howard Stern? Outrageous just for the sake of shocking your audience?”

“Well, I suppose that could be true if one considers the truth shocking.”

“The truth?”

“I talk about sex. With all the weirdness that implies. Kinky sex, normal sex—whatever that is—solo sex, monogamous sex, safe sex. Sex on the beach, and in the kitchen.”

“And the Woman’s League of Decency has tried to shut you down because all you do is promote sex to teenagers.”

“I wouldn’t know about the Women’s League of whatever, but I do know our demographics. Most of our listeners are in their twenties and thirties.”

“The attempt to get you off the air has been in all the papers for the past six months. Don’t you read the Times?”

“I skip over the boring articles.”

Whittaker gave her a sarcastic smile. Damn Fred for making her do this. Sure, she wanted to be syndicated, but the show should speak for itself.

“When was the last time you talked about chastity?”

“Two days ago. I encouraged a caller to keep her knees together unless she was walking. Does that count?”

“But then tonight you taught a woman how to masturbate!”

“Someone had to.”

“What are all the religious leaders going to say?”

“Thank you?” Jamie looked through the five-inch plate-glass window in front of the room, and met the gaze of her producer, Marcy Davis. Marcy’s left brow arched as she fought a smile. Then Cujo, whose real name was Walter Weinstein, gave her the signal to go to commercial. “We’ve got Darlene Whittaker here from Vanity Fair, doing a live interview. This is Dr. Jamie, and we’ll be right back.”

She turned to her guest as she took off her headphones. “Having fun?”

Whittaker extracted her headphones from the forest of black hair. “Do I have time to go to the john?”

“Sure do. We’ve got a whole five minutes of commercials.”

Whittaker crossed the room and struggled with the heavy soundproof door. Once she was out, Marcy walked in.

“So far, so good.”

After checking to make sure no microphones were live, Jamie turned to her producer. Marcy was the best, and Jamie thanked the radio gods every day that Marcy had been the one to bring her over to WXNT. At forty-two, she bitched about being the old lady of the station, which was technically true, but no one cared except Marcy.

“You know,” Marcy said, “I really like her sense of color. She’s a summer, don’t you think?”

Jamie put her finger to her lips. “She could be right outside the door.”

“So what?” Marcy fell into the guest’s chair. “This was a stupid idea.”

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

“You’re doing great. But I don’t like that it’s live. It’s not fair.”

“Since when did fair enter the picture? Either she’ll write the truth or not. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Marcy shook her head. “Of course it matters. This is radio, sweetie—where numbers rule the day and the only thing you can count on is change. You need this article to be good, or at least provocative. A good scandal wouldn’t hurt at all.”

“Oh man, you’re serious, aren’t you.”

Marcy nodded, but something in the other room had captured her attention. Jamie knew what it was as soon as she glanced over. Ted Kagan, the DJ who came on after Jamie, was talking to Cujo. Ted was a sweetheart, and it didn’t hurt that he was also deliciously gorgeous. Marcy hadn’t ever said anything, but Jamie knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her producer had the hots for him. And Jamie also knew that Marcy wouldn’t do anything about it because Ted was thirty. As if that mattered. Love was love and, unless one of the participants was under eighteen, age didn’t mean squat. “Marcy?”

She didn’t respond. Not for a few seconds at least. Then she turned to look at Jamie. “What?”

“He’s a doll, isn’t he?”

Marcy’s cheeks got pink. “Who?”

“Okay. Have it your way. But you do realize I’m an expert on relationships.”

Marcy stood up. “Right. And let’s see…your last relationship was when, exactly?”

“A person doesn’t have to die to be a pathologist.”

“Nice analogy, except that it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I’ve known you over a year, missy, and I haven’t seen you go on a date even once.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, my ass. You’re a workaholic, and you know it.”

Jamie relaxed. She could live with that diagnosis. “I know. And I’m trying to ease up. It’s difficult.”

“That’s another load of garbage. Have you made any plans for your vacation?”

She shook her head.

“Well, if you don’t, I will. I’m thinking Tahiti.”

Jamie glanced at her panel. She donned her headphones and pressed her on-air button. “Welcome back to WXNT. I’m Dr. Jamie, and I’m being interviewed by Darlene Whittaker of Vanity Fair magazine. But first, are you tired of waking up with a sore back?”

Marcy sighed as she pulled open the booth door. It seemed to get heavier every day. Just as she got it open wide enough to walk through, Whittaker turned the hall corner and rushed past her without so much as a thanks. Rude, rude, rude. But then, so many people were these days.

She glanced in the production booth. Ted was still there. God, he was so yummy. Tall, slender, blond—he had the words “golden boy” written all over him. He was also one of the nicest men she’d ever met, and if she didn’t stop dreaming about him, she’d have to shoot herself.

It didn’t help that his divorce had come through two months ago, and that he was actually starting to show some interest in dating. She’d never survive watching him parade sweet young things through the office.

She really should ask him out. Just take the bull by the horns. Put it all out on the table. Jamie was always talking about how women let fear stop them from having fun. That they should have the same opportunities as men when it came to recreational sex. And that there was no point in beating around the bush. If she wanted to hop in the sack with Ted, she should simply walk up to him and ask. Go for it, as Jamie was so fond of saying.

Oh, please. She could barely look at the man without blushing like a twelve-year-old.

She sighed as she headed toward the production booth door. The phones would start lighting up any second, and she wanted to get a real good mix on the line.

Ted was looking at a newspaper when she walked in, and he didn’t even glance at her as she took her seat by the phone. The computer to her right was her link to Jamie. Once she got a caller, she’d type the name, age, location, and the gist of what he or she wanted to say. Most nights, the phones never stopped. Tonight was no exception, which was good. She needed to be too busy to think. She slid on her cordless phone receiver and pressed line one.

DARLENE KNEW she was losing ground. Dr. Jamie was a lot more poised than she should have been, especially at her age. Twenty-six, and already the top-rated DJ in New York. Shit. At twenty-six, Darlene had been in college, an English major with no boyfriends, no girlfriends, and an eating disorder.

Of course, Jamie was prettier in person than in her publicity photos. Pouty lips, perky tits and, come on, couldn’t she at least have one pimple to even the score? No. Pimples were for women like Darlene. In the article, she’d probably describe Jamie’s skin as alabaster. Flawless. The bitch.

“If you don’t mind, Darlene, I’m going to take a call.”

Darlene nodded, wishing she’d had a chance to smoke during that last commercial.

“This is Lorraine from Queens.” Jamie hit a button, and Darlene could hear a little static on the headphones.

“Dr. Jamie?”

“That’s me. Do you have a question?”

“Yeah, well. Yeah.”

“Go on. I don’t bite.”

“The other night, you were talking to Kelly from Pt. Washington about how she got seduced by this guy—”

“She let herself be seduced.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the part I wanted to talk about.”

“The idea that no woman can be seduced unless she wants to be?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know. I mean, there’s this guy at work. Steve. He is so gorgeous, and he’s funny and sexy. You know what I’m talking about. He’s one of those men who can have any woman he wants.”

“No man can have any woman he wants.”

“But, like, I’ve got a boyfriend, and I don’t mean to say I did anything with Steve, but I sure thought about it. I don’t like to admit it, but if he’d asked, I’d have said yes.”

“Why? What is it about Steve that makes him so irresistible?”

“I don’t know. He’s really good-looking.”

“So you’d have sex with all really good-looking men if they asked you?”

Lorraine laughed. “No.”

“Then it must be something else.”

“Okay. The way he looks at a person. It’s like, uh, I don’t know. It’s like he sees right inside me.”

“Great. He knows how to focus. Have you slept with every man who focused solely on you?”

“No. But that’s mostly ‘cause no one ever has. Not like Steve.”

“I admit, being paid attention to is flattering, but it’s no reason to drop your drawers. What else?”

“I don’t know. I swear. It’s just a combination of things, I guess. The way he walks and smiles. When he comes into my office, I can hardly breathe. It’s like he’s magic or something.”

“He’s not magic. He’s just self-assured. He knows he can make women swoon, so he does.”

“I’ll say.”

“Here’s the thing, Lorraine. If you wanted to sleep with him, far be it from me to tell you what to do. Go for it. If you don’t want to sleep with him, don’t. But don’t lie to yourself and say you were seduced. There’s no such thing. Seduction is an excuse for behavior you know is inappropriate.”

“It’s a pretty damn good excuse.”

Now it was Jamie who laughed. “Just be strong. Know you have a right to choose. Tell the truth to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

“So, you’ve never been seduced?”

“Nope. I haven’t. Not even once.”

Darlene got a little shiver, and said, “You don’t think chemicals have anything to do with it? Pheromones? That a woman can get swept away?”

“No. Absolutely not. I do think there can be a chemical connection between people, and that attraction exists and can be very strong. But the idea that a woman is helpless to fall into a man’s arms is ludicrous. Relationships, even brief ones, should be about making choices, and about honesty.”

“And you don’t think falling in love could just happen.”

“No, I don’t. I think that’s one of the biggest myths in our culture. Lust can happen in an instant, although it doesn’t have to be acted upon. Love only comes with time and work. It’s a woman’s choice whether she wants to have sex or not, whether she’s married or not. It’s your body. Respect it. Take care of it. Give it a treat now and again. And if you don’t have anyone to help you, do it yourself, with or without help from toys. I’ll bet there are a lot of married women out there right now who wish they’d listened. Who waited to see if the man who seduced them was actually a man they wanted to live with forever. Given the dismal marriage statistics, I’m willing to wager that for at least fifty percent of the women, they didn’t look before they leaped.”

Darlene felt those hairs stand on the back of her neck again. She had it. The perfect article. The perfect hook. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that no man, no matter who he is, can seduce a woman?”

“That’s right. Not if a woman is honest.”

“No amount of charm, charisma, sex appeal could have any effect?”

“Not if a woman doesn’t want to be seduced. Have you ever looked up the word? I have. According to the dictionary, seduce means ‘to induce to have sexual intercourse.’ What I’m suggesting is the idea that no one can be induced. If it’s forced, then it’s rape. If it’s consensual, it’s not seduction. It’s an excuse, nothing more. No woman can be seduced without her permission. Period.”

Darlene closed her eyes for a second, just to calm herself. “How would you like to put your money where your mouth is?”

Jamie’s brows came down. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. You say no woman can be seduced without her permission. I say fine. Prove it.”

Jamie laughed a little. “There’s no way to do that. Every woman has to come to that decision for herself.”

“But there is a way to prove it.” Darlene’s heart hammered in her chest. This was so great. “Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to set you up with a man who’s seduced his fair share of women. More than his share. You two are going to spend time together. He’s going to lay on the charm. And then we’ll see what happens.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what will happen. Nothing.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s ridiculous. There’s no way I can be seduced.”

“You’re on. I think you don’t know what you’re talking about. And we’re going to see who’s right.”

“Hey, yeah, Dr. Jamie,” Lorraine said, reminding Darlene that she was still on the line. “That would be so cool.”

“What would be cool?”

“Well, like, for you to show us. To prove it.”

Darlene held back her whoop of joy. This was even better than she could have hoped for. “Right. Walk the walk instead of just talking the talk.”

“Hold on.” Jamie looked at her with utter exasperation. Darlene didn’t give an inch. Jamie turned back to the mike. “Lorraine, I wish you luck with your guy, and thanks for calling.” She punched line two. “This is Dr. Jamie. Did you have a question?”

“Yeah,” a deep baritone voice said. “I think you should do it. And I volunteer to be the guy. I could seduce you, baby. And it wouldn’t take no two weeks.”

Darlene leaned back. This was great. Just great. The article would write itself.

Jamie shook her head in disbelief as she pressed the next button. “How about line three. Pam from Chelsea?”

“Come on, Dr. Jamie. You could report every night. You know, give us an update. A blow-by-blow. Tell us what it’s like out there in the real world. We could all learn something. You’re always telling us to go for it. Now it’s your turn.”

“Thanks for sharing.” She punched the next button so hard it almost broke. “Debbi from Yonkers. Do you have something else you’d like to talk about?”

“Uh, well, yeah.”

Jamie’s shoulders relaxed. “Great.”

“I think, you know, that you shouldn’t be the one to give the nightly reports. The guy should. Or you should do it together.”

Jamie’s head fell into her hands. But then she sat up again. “This is Dr. Jamie, and we’re talking about sex. We’ll be back after these commercials.” Then she threw her headphones on the desk.

Dr. Jamie wasn’t on such solid footing now. Darlene leaned back as she took off her own headphones. Her gaze went to the production booth and Marcy Davis. The woman wasn’t looking so smug, either. The two of them were Barbie dolls, and Darlene wanted to make them squirm. Marcy turned to look at the door as a man walked into the other booth. Perfect. It was Chase Newman, the inspiration for this adventure.

He spoke to the board operator for a moment, then he turned so she could see his face. Good God, he was stunning. Fabulous jaw, dark brows over smoky, intense eyes. Just the right amount of five-o’-clock shadow. Now, he was an expert on sex. There was no question the man was a maestro in the bedroom. Those lips alone could send any woman over the edge.

She was a freakin’ genius. This was perfect. Dr. Jamie didn’t stand a chance. And wouldn’t it be fun when all of New York watched her fall on her perky little ass. He just had to be willing to play along. Darlene would make sure he was willing.

JAMIE TRIED to smile at Whittaker, but she couldn’t. She wanted the reporter gone, the interview finished, her show over, and this nonsense dismissed. Where was Marcy? She should be riding to the rescue, dammit.

Whittaker did her a favor and left the room. At least Jamie could be grateful for that. But where was Marcy? Jamie’s program was going up in smoke, and Marcy had decided to take a brief vacation. Jamie was going to have to kill her. In the meantime, though, she’d better get ready to sway this conversation another way. This was her show, dammit, not Darlene’s.

Damn! Cujo’s signal to her was desperate. She had no idea how long she’d been stewing. “Welcome back. This is Dr. Jamie Hampton, and we’re here with Darlene Whittaker from Vanity Fair. Let’s talk about your lives. Is there a question about your body you’ve always wanted to ask? How about sex? Come on, guys. Masturbation. Cross-dressing. G-spots. Don’t be embarrassed.”

All the lines were blinking, but according to Jamie’s computer, Gabby Fisher was on line one. God bless her little neurotic heart. Gabby was a regular, and she wasn’t shy about taking air time. She’d fill up a good ten minutes. Just as Jamie was about to press the button, Whittaker struggled through the door and hurried to her seat.

Jamie shoved the button down, terrified by the gleam in Whittaker’s eyes. “Gabby, hi.”

“Hi, Dr. Jamie.”

“What can I do for you tonight?”

“I think it would be great to have you show us, you know, how to be strong with a man.”

Jamie cursed silently. This wasn’t going to go away. “You already know how to be strong. You don’t need me to show you.”

“I might know how,” Gabby said, her voice dejected, “but it never works out that way. I guess I’m just not like you.”

“You can be whatever you want to be, Gabby. You just need to shift your beliefs about yourself. A stunt like this isn’t going to show you anything.”

Whittaker moved her chair closer to the desk. “Are you afraid, Dr. Jamie?”

“No, not at all. But my expertise is in helping others. This isn’t about me.”

“But don’t you think it should be?”

“What, so all surgeons should remove their own gall-bladders, just for the experience?” Gabby laughed.

Whittaker didn’t. “I think you’re hiding behind that title, Jamie. I think you don’t want to put your money where your mouth is.”

“You’re right. In this instance, I don’t.”

Whittaker’s gaze shifted to the window, then back again. “It would make a hell of an interesting experiment. I know your listeners would learn a lot. Show them firsthand what happens when a man is out for seduction. See what happens. Instead of talking about the experiment, go into the lab.”

Jamie forced herself to keep calm—to not reach over and strangle the reporter. “I just don’t believe this is the kind of thing one can demonstrate. It’s not like baking a cake.”

Whittaker smiled at her, then turned to the mike. “Well, audience, are we going to let her off the hook? I’ll tell you something. My magazine wants this information. All the women in New York want this information. This could be the most important radio program ever. Or, Dr. Jamie, were you just blowing so much smoke?”

“I don’t blow smoke. Ever.”

“Then, that leaves only one option.”

Damn her to hell and back. Marcy was going to pay for this. And so was Fred Holt.

Jamie leaned in to her mike. “I’ll tell you all about options…right after these commercials.”

She saw Cujo jump at the unexpected change in the schedule. But he was on top of things, and a second later Big Al’s Furniture Mart announced a super, super, super sale.

She made sure her mute button was on, then turned to Whittaker. “What the hell are you doing?”

The reporter smiled so smugly that it was an invitation for a whack. “My job. Just like you’re doing your job.”

“You know this isn’t the kind of thing one can demonstrate. You’re talking about a publicity stunt.”

“Not necessarily. It could be very educational. If any of it’s true. Is it?”

“Yes, it is. But I don’t intend to be anyone’s guinea pig.”

Whittaker shook her head. “Want to bet? If you don’t do it, I’m going to smear you and your radio show into the dirt. I know that Independence Broadcasting is looking at buying your show for national syndication. And I know that one way or another, they’re going to be influenced by this piece I’m writing. So the choice is yours. Play ball, or find yourself a new job.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Whittaker smiled. “Because I can.”

Jamie caught Cujo’s hand signal out of the corner of her eye. She turned back to the mike, fuming. She wouldn’t be blackmailed. Not by this witch. Marcy would tell Whittaker what she could do with her stupid idea. But right now, Jamie had to keep control of her broadcast. “Welcome back.”

The production booth door opened. Fred Holt and Marcy walked in. Marcy looked panicked. Fred turned to face Jamie, his jaw set and his gaze filled with dollar signs. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to get the gist. Fred wanted this to happen. He wanted his station to be number one and stay number one, and as far as he was concerned, Jamie was his ticket. But surely even Fred Holt could see this was a stupid prank. He wouldn’t be manipulated by this crazy woman, would he?

Cujo flapped his arms at her, then pointed at the phone lines.

Dammit! “Gabby, you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here. And I’m really glad you’re going to do this, uh, thing. But maybe you could explain what it is you’re going to do.”

Whittaker leaned forward. “Here’s what she’s going to do. She’s going to go out on a date. On a whole bunch of dates. Just like she was you or me. Only, she’s gonna show us how it’s supposed to be done. How a woman can’t be seduced.”

“Wait a minute. This has been fun, but come on. I don’t even have a boyfriend right now so—”

Whittaker leaned into the mike. “That’s not a problem.”

Jamie’s stomach turned. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell you what. Write whatever you want to in your magazine. I’m not playing.”

“And disappoint all your loyal fans?”

“My fans are smart enough to realize that there is no such thing as seduction, so I’ve already won.”

Darlene turned smugly toward the production booth. “Oh, really?”

Jamie didn’t want to look, but she had to. Oh man. It was worse than she’d thought. Fred Holt had moved to the window. His face was very, very pink. His gaze nearly singed her eyebrows. This was no joke. Behind him, Marcy threw her hands into the air. So much for her help.

Jamie looked at the door. She could get up and walk out. That’s all. Just walk out. But that would mean giving up her show. She loved her show. Her show was her whole life. The only thing she’d ever done for herself, by herself. And who was she kidding? She wanted syndication every bit as badly as Fred did. A national show would be the kind of achievement no one could deny—the money, the prestige, and proof she’d made the right life choice by turning her back on her parents’ medical practice.

Jamie turned to the Wicked Witch of the West Side. “All right. I’ll do it. But I’ll pick the guy.”

“Sorry. No can do. I pick the guy. You don’t want to be accused of fraud, do you?”

“Whoa. No. No way. I’m not—”

Whittaker stood up and went to the door. This time, she opened it as if it weighed ounces instead of pounds. A man stood on the other side. He walked into the booth, which immediately shrank to half its size. Jamie swallowed, trying to figure out where all the air had gone.

He stepped into the light and everything stopped, including her heart. He was quite simply the most gorgeous guy she’d ever laid eyes on. He was sex on legs, the devil in blue jeans, trouble with a capital T. He was all that and a shot of Tabasco.

“Jamie Hampton,” Whittaker said, leading him to the mike. “This is Chase Newman. The man who can’t seduce you.”

“Holy f—”

Cujo lunged for the button and, for the first time in a year-and-a-half, there was a full twelve seconds when the five boroughs, New Jersey and parts of Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont heard nothing but dead air.