Читать книгу Getting It! - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 10

“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.