Читать книгу Getting It Good! - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 11

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.

“I think I’m going to have the grilled chicken salad,” Zora said, casually perusing the menu. “What about you, honey? Have you decided what you want?”

Tate nodded, set his menu aside and absently scratched his chest. “Yeah. I’m in the mood for jambalaya.”

Ross resisted the pressing urge to roll his eyes. He was in the mood to get this over with, to cease and desist with the idle chitchat when they all knew they were here to plunge him into some unknown hell.

“That sounds good,” Frankie chimed in. “I think I’ll have that as well. Know what you want, Ross?” she asked with a touch of humor.

To leave, and from the knowing twinkle in her eye she’d evidently figured it out. “Er…the usual, I think. A MoJo burger and an order of fries.”

A waitress came, took their order, then soon returned and delivered drinks. Once she left, Ross decided that it was time to put an end to the meaningless chatter and cut to the chase.

He manufactured a smile that fell several degrees shy of pleasant and aimed it at Zora. “Tate has blackmailed me into coming to work for you at CHiC for the next week. Wanna fill me in on exactly what I’ll be doing?”

Zora looked up, smoothly set her drink aside. She seemed to have been waiting for him to broach the subject. “Sure. You’ll be working with Frankie.” She nodded toward her friend. “That’s why she’s here.”

If working for CHiC had been the directive that sent him to hell, then working with Frankie was the equivalent of being ushered to the very gates of Hades. For whatever reason—premonition, bad luck, bad karma—he had the grimmest feeling that the rest of what Zora had to tell him would send him over the threshold straight to the deepest nether regions of the underworld.

Zora smiled, serenely enjoying his discomfort. “As you know, Frankie is CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Our sexpert, if you will.”

He was fully aware of her job, what it entailed, and had read each and every column. One had to know one’s enemy, after all, and Ross had perceived many interesting facets of her personality through her advice, seeds of insight she’d unwittingly sown. Furthermore, there was something incredibly attractive about a woman who could speak freely about sex, the ultimate taboo. Frankie clearly reveled in her sexuality, clearly enjoyed every nuance of male/female ritual.

What he failed to see was how he could possibly work with her.

“As you know, CHiC has just launched the new glossy format. Over the next week Frankie will be touring the country to promote the new look. A five-city tour, to be precise.” She calmly sipped her drink and delivered the coup de grace. “You will accompany her.”

Ross blinked. It took a minute to believe his ears, but only a nanosecond to absorb the implication—and he didn’t like it. A five-city tour? Accompany her? But that meant he’d be gone, unable to work, unable to polish the pitch for the Maxwell account. Hell, he hadn’t had the time to play around with CHiC for a week to begin with, but at least he would have had his evenings to himself. He could have worked from home. This— Ross shook his head and felt his expression blacken. This would not do.

His gaze flew to Tate, who wore a somewhat slack-jawed smirk. “I can’t be gone for a week,” he said, his voice throbbing with the effort not to shout. “I can’t just leave at the drop of a hat. What about work? What about the Maxwell account?” Ross blew out a harsh breath. “This is ridiculous. I can’t do it.” His gaze drifted to Zora. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find something else for me to do.”

Zora shook her head, offered a smile that distinctly lacked sympathy. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. This is what I need you to do.” She looked at her husband. “I thought you said he’d agreed?”

“He’d agreed to work for CHiC,” Tate responded tightly. “However, when I asked him—”

Ross snorted. “Blackmailed, buddy. You didn’t ask,” he interjected.

Tate shot him a glare. “—I had no idea that you’d need him to be away from home for the next week. This sheds a completely different light on things, Zora,” he told her, clearly irritated.

Zora grinned happily. Though she didn’t move, Ross got the impression she wanted to bounce in her seat. “You’re right. It means that you forfeit and I win.”

A muscle worked in Tate’s jaw and a martial light suddenly glinted in his tense gaze, one Ross instinctively knew didn’t bode well for his cause. “I’ll put Brad on everything but the Maxwell account in your absence, Ross. You can still work on it from the road. We’ll arrange a mobile office and I’ll make sure a dedicated team is in place to see to anything you might need on this end.”

Ross dragged in a harsh breath. “Tate—”

Tate continued to glare at his wife. “I will not forfeit. She’s not going to win. Take it or leave it. Those are the terms.”

“You should probably tell him the rest so that he can make an informed decision, right, Zora?” Frankie leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him with something close to pitying amusement.

His gaze bounced from Frankie to Zora and he felt his eyes widen in shocked disbelief. The rest? There was more? As it stood, he’d have to be on the road with Frankie—hell, in and of itself—and yet there was more?

Ross smirked, looked heavenward for patience, for divine intervention before he did something stupid. Like telling his boss and his evil wife to shove it. “Do tell, Zora,” he said sardonically. “I do want to make an ‘informed decision.’”

“Very well,” Zora replied. “You’ll be accompanying Frankie as CHiC’s Duke of Desire. You, too, will dole out sex advice, speak for the male population.”

Ross blinked, certain he couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly. “Come again?”

A familiar feminine chuckle sounded. Frankie’s, no doubt, the vindictive witch. He could think of a million other ways to put that carnal mouth to better use, Ross thought, as his blood began to boil.

“You’ll go as the Duke of Desire,” Zora repeated. Her lips quivered with the urge to smile and an evil twinkle danced in her triumphant gaze. She slid her husband a glance, then met his gaze once more. “You’ll do exactly what Frankie does, only you’ll speak for the male audience.”

It was that triumphant gaze, that laughter at his expense that checked Ross’s immediate impulse to tell them all to go to hell. And it was a strong impulse, almost overwhelming.

But that look simply wasn’t acceptable.

It strummed his let’s-rumble nerve, hit his competitive vein releasing a flood of you’ll-wish-you-were-never-born cutthroat blood that instantly pushed a lazy do-or-die grin up his lips. They wanted to play, did they? Fine. He was up for it.

He passed a hand over his face. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go with Frankie and talk about sex for the next week?” he asked. He let his gaze drift to her, then purposely over her, and had the pleasure of watching that annoying smile she’d been wearing slowly capsize.

Zora nodded, sensing his abrupt change in mood as well. She stilled. “That sums it up nicely, yes.”

He looked at Tate. “And the Maxwell account is mine when I get back?”

“That’s right.”

Ross grinned, and despite the fact he was wound tighter than an eight-day clock, he lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Then it’s a no-brainer. Count me in.”

“Excellent,” Zora replied. She stood and nudged her husband, who belatedly left his chair. “We’ll get ours to go. Frankie, you take a long lunch, fill Ross in on the particulars and I’ll see you back at the office.” She and Tate hurried off before Frankie could voice the protest that had formed silently on her lips.

“Looks like it’s just me and you,” he told her, enjoying his advantage. “Guess we’d better get used to it. A whole week,” he needled significantly. “Together.”

Frankie’s gorgeous face went comically blank. Obviously she’d been so caught up in his future misery that she’d failed to consider her own.

Ross’s mood instantly improved—perhaps he should enlighten her.

THINGS HAD GONE EXACTLY as she’d imagined right up until five minutes ago, Frankie thought as her former glee turned into furious despair. Ross had reacted much as she’d predicted for the initial part of the lunch, then he’d surprised her by capitulating so easily. She hadn’t expected his abrupt change of heart and, quite honestly, the fact that he was taking this so well infuriated the living hell out of her.

He wasn’t supposed to take it well.

He was supposed to stomp and roar like an outraged elephant. He was not supposed to dismiss the next week as the Duke of Desire as mildly amusing, then dig into his lunch as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

It was exceedingly unsporting of him.

“Look, Ross,” Frankie said, coating her patronizing tone with a hard layer of ice. “I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as you think.”

“What?” he asked. He grinned that lazy, sexy grin, the one that never failed to simultaneously turn her on and irritate the hell out of her. “I’m going to give sex advice. How hard can it be?” He winked at her. “I happen to be an expert.”

Frankie snorted, staunchly ignored the flash-fire that quickly spread over her thighs. “That’s a matter of opinion and, just for clarification, not yours.” God, could a man be any more conceited?

“It’s a fact, and can be authenticated if you require proof.”

To her horror, she felt a blush creep up her neck. She swallowed and donned an exasperated expression. “Trust me, that won’t be necessary. My point is, you’ll be representing the magazine. You’ll need to be careful what sort of advice you dole out, otherwise you’ll make CHiC look bad. Which for obvious reasons isn’t the goal.” She snapped her napkin into her lap. “In short, you won’t be able to act like your typical obnoxious know-it-all self.”

Looking irritatingly unconcerned, Ross chuckled low and sprawled back into his seat. “Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black if I’ve ever heard one.”

Annoyed, Frankie picked up her spoon and chased a piece of sausage around the bowl. “Furthermore,” she added, “merely having sex does not make you an expert.”

Ross cast her a twinkling glance, washed a bite of his burger down with a deep drink of his iced tea. “Yeah…but having sex a lot does.”

Frankie’s fingers tightened around her utensil and she futilely wondered if it were possible to claw out her mind’s eye. “That’s more than I needed to know.” Way more. Hell, she knew he was experienced—from what she’d covertly gleaned from Zora, Ross was never without a date, had to practically beat the women off his sexy hide with a stick. Furthermore, she also instinctively knew he was the expert he claimed to be, but the reminder played havoc with her senses and she’d just as soon not hear it.

“Really?” he said, evidently enjoying this suggestive line of conversation. A droll smile rolled around his lips, and those sexy-as-hell kaleidoscope eyes crinkled at the corners. “I would have thought that I’d need to list my experience. That you might even need to call a few references for this job.” His voice dropped to a sensual purr. “Or, maybe you could interview me personally,” he suggested. “Check my job performance, make sure that I’m competent enough to be your Duke of Desire.”

The innuendo in that low, hazy voice conjured an image of her interviewing him until her eyes rolled back in her head. Cool sheets, hot naked bodies, candlelight and massage oil. Hot, hard and fast, then slow, easy and deliberate. Her feminine muscles clenched, forcing a shuddering breath from her lungs. “No,” she said tightly, blinking the vision from her mind. “That won’t be necessary. Dammit, Ross, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Why should I?” he countered, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d just produced her own mental porn film, featuring them in the starring roles. “We both know I’ve been manipulated into this. I became a pawn in Zora and Tate’s poker game—and you’re deluding yourself if you think you aren’t as well.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “You’re full of it, you know it, Ross?”

He laughed and gave her an odd expression, one that left her with the unhappy sensation that he was privy to something she was not. “Now this is new,” he said consideringly. “You’re usually a lot quicker on the uptake than this.”

Frankie scowled at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Zora lost the bet,” he said with exaggerated patience, “and yet she’s obviously very happy with the way things have turned out. If she lost, just what exactly had it been that she stood to win?”

Frankie paused. She hadn’t thought of it that way. “I don’t know,” Frankie said slowly. And it was an excellent question. In fact, it irritated her that he’d thought of it first.

Ross took up another fry and pointed it at her before popping it into his mouth. “I don’t know for sure, but you can bet your sweet little Italian ass that it had something to do with me and with you, otherwise, we wouldn’t be sitting here, and we damned sure wouldn’t be spending the next week together.” Ross snorted. “Duke of Desire, my ass. That was simply icing on somebody’s cake and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was on your boss’s, not mine.”

Ross stood and tossed a few bills on the table. “If I’m going to be gone for the next week, I’ve got to get organized. Find someone to dog-sit, swing by my house every few days to collect the mail, and all that jazz. Come by my place tonight and we can go over whatever else I need to know then.”

“But—”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. The combined proximity of that sexy gaze, that intimate rasp and his particular woodsy fragrance made her body sing like a tuning fork, her brain melt, ready to believe anything. “And just so you know, Ms. Sexpert, I’ll be one helluva Duke of Desire because I’ve forgotten more about sex than you’ll ever know…unless I develop a death wish and decide to teach you.”

Frankie blinked drunkenly for several seconds and by the time her sluggish brain had manufactured a comeback, Ross had already made it to the door. “Develop a death wish,” she muttered under her breath, silently cursing her roaring pulse. Her eyes narrowed and a low growl vibrated the back of her throat.

As though sleeping with her wouldn’t be the best thing to ever happen to him. Someone needed to teach him a lesson, Frankie thought. A good moral one like “pride goeth before the fall.”

Death wish, her ass. She smiled grimly. By the end of next week, he’d undoubtedly be wishing that he was dead.