Читать книгу Getting It! - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 10

One year later…

“I JUST WANT TO GET LAID,” Zora muttered angrily as she made her way back to her hotel room. She stabbed the elevator call button and waited impatiently for a car. Honestly, she thought. It wasn’t too much to ask. It had been more than a year. A year, she silently wailed, since she’d felt the hard, thrilling weight of a man between her thighs.

Disgusted, embarrassed, thwarted, irritated, but most of all unsatisfied, Zora shook her head at her own stupidity. What the hell had she been thinking? Why had she thought it would be a good idea to get involved with a guy who was into abstinence? Had she lost her mind? Clearly she had. Otherwise she wouldn’t be prowling the halls of one of New Orleans’s most esteemed hotels—at her first ever Chicks-In-Charge conference, no less, a personal coup—in the middle of the night bemoaning her miserable sex life and her failed attempt at seduction.

That part stung.

On the rare occasions Zora had truly applied herself at seduction, she’d always been successful. In truth, she’d never really had to apply herself. She’d smile an intimate smile, put a little extra swing in her hips, crook her finger and that would be it.

Victory.

But not tonight—and not with Dex.

Annoyingly, Dex not only had principles, but adhered to them. Initially, the idea of being in an “uncluttered” relationship, avoiding the emotional snarls that never ceased to come up between sexual partners, had appealed to her. She’d just come out a bad relationship—one of the worst, in fact—and had needed the perspective.

She’d thought it would be a good thing.

Ha!

She’d thought wrong.

As the days slid into weeks and the weeks crawled into months, sexual tension had eroded her patience and her ever-weakening resolve to abstain. This extended weekend—this conference, in particular—had seemed like the perfect time to celebrate, and she couldn’t think of a better way than a few hours of hot, frantic, sweaty sex. She’d wanted a few melting, toe-curling orgasms and room service.

To that end, she’d booked connecting rooms for her and Dex, spent an ungodly amount of money on a see-through scrap of fabric that any right-thinking male should want to tear off of her and had waxed, exfoliated and perfumed all pertinent parts of her body.

For nothing.

Zora growled low in her throat, stepped into the elevator and jabbed the button for her floor. Dex had firmly—oh-so-embarrassingly—resisted her efforts and, to avoid shrieking at him—Zora didn’t shriek, scream, wail or whine because doing so meant she’d lost control of her person, which was completely intolerable—she’d decided to take a walk to cool off. To shut down, de-stress and refocus.

Unfortunately, the lengthy walk had only given her more time to think and the more she’d thought about it, the madder she’d become. She hadn’t cooled off at all. To the contrary, she was more pissed now than she had been when she left the room. Because, while she hadn’t had any form of sexual relief during their relationship, Dex had. She’d taken care of him, and he’d never once—though he had made a few halfhearted attempts—reciprocated the gesture.

In other words, she’d made him come and he’d made her crazy.

This was supposed to have been a fantastic long weekend. Just as she’d suspected when the idea of Chicks-In-Charge had first come to her, the organization had been a smashing success, even more so than what she’d originally anticipated. The idea had struck a chord with women all across America—women who needed advice and guidance wanted to join and become members, and women who had something to offer wanted to participate and share their expertise. The group offered support to women from all walks of life, had banded them together with the sort of single-minded tenacity that had quickly thrust them into the national scene.

They’d started with a local chapter and a Web site—designed by April, of course—and an e-zine that Zora herself had headed up. The e-zine, aptly entitled CHiC, had been phenomenally successful and plans were already in the works for a glossy format. As the magazine’s resident sex-pert—the Carnal Contessa—Frankie would play a significant role in that endeavor.

As word of the Chicks-In-Charge movement spread, local chapters had swiftly moved across America, and had garnered so much attention that several board members had landed guest spots on late-night TV and early morning shows as well. Zora was currently entertaining several book-deal offers. She’d been interested, of course—she’d be insane not to be—but hadn’t moved on anything because, frankly, she didn’t know when she’d have the time to write. Between the magazine and her Chicks-In-Charge duties, she didn’t have so much as a spare minute, much less the time required to undertake writing a book.

But something had happened recently that had made her come to the conclusion that she’d simply have to make the time. Some medieval-thinking yahoo with a too-handsome face and a witty turn of phrase—a fellow New Orleans resident, of all things—had recently written the most unflattering, provoking, ill-informed tome on the “bizarre workings of the female mind.” The book, entitled What Women Really Want, Reading Between the Sighs, had to be one of the most moronic pieces of so-called literature Zora had ever read.

To add insult to injury, ignorant men, believing they were now going to know how to properly “manage” their women, had abandoned their armchairs, lawn mowers, sporting events and bars and had speedily raced to the bookstores to purchase the damned thing, which had promptly catapulted it onto the bestseller list.

It was precisely this sort of prejudice—this testosterone mentality—that Chicks-In-Charge was fighting, and to have it originate here, in her own backyard, felt like a slap in the face. Zora couldn’t recall how many times she’d had Tate Hatcher’s little pearls of shit—not wisdom because there was nothing wise about his idiotic take on the fairer sex—quoted to her, or how many times she’d had to respond to one of his ignorant ideas. In light of Chicks-In-Charge’s success and Tate’s equally successful book, the media had paired them up as unwitting adversaries. It was provoking, to say the least.

Zora had read the damned book, several times in fact, because one needed to know one’s enemy, and she could see where some people might find it entertaining. The author—dubbed “the last true bachelor”—was unquestionably witty, wrote with a wry sort of humor that under ordinary circumstances would appeal to her. A lot, if truth be told. Unfortunately, being insulted didn’t appeal to her, which negated any positive thought she could form about the book, or even the author for that matter.

The first time she’d read it, she’d kept flipping the book over and staring at his picture on the back of the dust jacket. Marveling at his stupidity, she’d told herself. She’d marveled a lot since then—couldn’t seem to help herself. Despite the fact that she vehemently disagreed with every idiotic point made in his book, there was something in that picture—about him, specifically—that drew her.

Naturally, she’d rather be roasted alive than admit it.

But she saw humor and intelligence, a little too much confidence in his heavy-lidded aged-whiskey eyes, and there was something equally obstinate and sheepish about the angle of his jaw, the somewhat full curve of his sexy mouth. Zora paused, remembering, then jerked out of her stupor as the elevator doors slid open once more.

Good grief, she mentally chided. She had enough man trouble without romanticizing the literal author of recent misery. To retaliate, she’d personally written an article for Chicks-In-Charge to debunk each and every point of his ignorant, outdated opinions and had even used his book to showcase the continued stupidity of his own sex. In fact, she planned to deliver that very workshop at this conference.

A pity that such idiocy was packaged in such a handsome body though, Zora thought, unable to completely banish his gorgeous image from her mind. A true injustice.

Which reminded her of another injustice—her unsatisfied sex life. She wouldn’t be able to rectify that this weekend as she’d hoped, but she knew how to start.

By getting rid of Dex.

She’d essentially told him it was time to fish or cut bait. He hadn’t fished, so she’d cut bait. Though she was heartily annoyed, she couldn’t very well blame him. He’d maintained from the beginning of this ill-gotten relationship that he had no intention of spoiling it with sex. That he wanted a “true” relationship devoid of the drama of copulation. She was the one who’d changed her mind, not him, so if anyone was at fault, technically it was her.

Frankie, who’d thought Zora had lost her mind when she’d shared the parameters of her newest relationship, had correctly predicted this end. She should have listened to her, Zora thought now. Dex had seemed manageable—the only kind of man Zora allowed herself to become involved with. She had to be in control, had to have the dominant role in every aspect of the relationship, most especially the sexual aspect. A holdover mentality developed as the result of a relatively harmless, but nonetheless terrifying incident that had happened in her early teens.

One of the neighborhood boys—one she’d had the audacity to humiliate by being a better baseball player—had cornered her one afternoon behind the dugout and pinned her to the ground. Though being raped hadn’t been a real danger, the sexual menace underlying the act coupled with the horrifying fear of not being able to get him off her had marked her in a way that couldn’t be seen. For that one blinding moment, she’d been powerless and, after her brothers had dragged the brute off and beat the living hell out of him, she’d vowed she’d never feel that way again. Would never need another person to fight her battles. She’d been grateful, of course, but a secret part of her had envied them that strength, and she’d wanted it for herself. She thought she’d arrived, inasmuch as she was able.

Zora fished her key card from her robe pocket, planted it in the lock and let herself into her room. A glance at the bedside clock told her she’d been gone for more than two hours. A long time to stew, she decided, even by her standards. The idea of delaying the conversation until tomorrow held considerable appeal, but smacked of cowardice, so before she could think better of it, Zora gave the connecting door a hard push—it had a tendency to stick, she’d discovered earlier—and entered Dex’s room.

The light from the bedside lamp illuminated the room—the pile of discarded clothes, specifically—and the hum of the shower told her where she’d find him. Zora barely resisted the urge to snort. The bastard had already had a shower this evening, she knew. His hair had still been a little damp when she’d made her move. That he was in there again begged one of two assumptions. He’d either had to wash her unwanted advances from his pure unsullied body…or he was in there whacking off.

Her money was on the latter.

Her irritation renewed, Zora pulled in a deep breath and let it go as she strolled into the bathroom. “Dex, it’s Zora. I hate to interrupt you,” she said, purposely loading her voice with innuendo, “but I have something to say.”

His shadow behind the curtain momentarily stilled, then resumed movement. Ah, the silent treatment. That figured, she thought, the infantile jerk. Oh, well. The sooner she got this over with the better. She’d tell him what she thought, then go take a shower herself. Had to do something to relieve this infernal tension. Had he changed shower gels? Zora wondered absently, as a wholly masculine scent, one she didn’t readily associate with him, reached her nostrils.

Zora dropped the commode lid, sat down and sighed heavily. “Look, Dex. Things, uh…Things aren’t working out. Being abstinent is obviously a choice and a viable one for you, at that. But, as we discovered tonight, it’s not for me. I thought it was, but it’s not. I like sex. A lot,” Zora added meaningfully as her hollow womb echoed the sentiment, “and, frankly, I miss it.”

Zora paused, glared at the shower curtain—his unnaturally still form behind it, specifically—waiting for him to reply. He made a muffled noise, one that sounded ominously like a smothered laugh, but if there were any thoughts clanging around that empty head of his, he was evidently disinclined to share them with her. Still pouting, Zora surmised and expelled a quiet sigh of exasperation.

“I realize things might not have been so difficult for you,” she said, her voice somewhat tight, “because you at least have had a few orgasms. I, on the other hand, have not. I don’t mean to be cruel,” she hastened to add, which wasn’t altogether true. She hated a selfish lover and he hadn’t even been that—he’d been a selfish non-lover. “I’m just being honest with you. Like you were honest with me tonight,” she said pointedly. “You resented being seduced—or my attempt, rather,” she added with a bitter snort. “And I resent being perpetually…unsatisfied. So obviously this isn’t going to work. I’m horny. I want to get laid. And that puts us at cross-purposes because you don’t.”

She glared at the curtain again, waiting for some sort of response. Honestly, Zora thought, growing increasingly annoyed with his continued silence. Hell, she hadn’t expected him to break down and squall, but a tsk of regret, a token apology, would be nice. Hell, anything but this sulky silence.

She let go a perturbed breath, rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

She watched him reach forward and cut off the tap. “Actually, yes.”

Zora frowned and the fine hairs on her nape prickled. The shower gel, that voice…Something didn’t—

The shower curtain sang across the rod as it was pulled back to reveal six and a half feet of hard, muscled, gloriously proportioned male anatomy. “Hand me a towel.”

An anatomy that didn’t belong to Dex.

Her gaze traveled from a pair of large, masculine feet up long muscular legs, lingered on the impressive, semi-aroused package located between those legs, then moved upward over six-pack abs and a chest that would make any hetero woman or non-hetero man pant and salivate. Rivulets of water streamed over every perfect part, and though it was completely insane, she was hit with the absurd notion to chase each and every one with her tongue. She wanted to lick him all over.

Until she saw his face—then she inhaled sharply and vainly wished for a hole she could fall into.

For the first time in her life Zora found herself in a situation where she didn’t have any idea how to proceed. She was hit with the simultaneous urge to sob, wail, laugh, scream and, most disturbingly, run. All of which were intolerable, but for the life of her she couldn’t make her brain assimilate any sort of a plan. All she could do was stare, mentally agape, at the naked figure before her. Naked figure, her mind repeated, and with a startled flash of insight, his request registered and she blindly handed him a towel. To her chagrin, he didn’t immediately fasten it around his hips as any decent man would do, but took his time toweling off instead.

Five o’clock shadow shaded an angular jaw and a faint smile curled one of the sexiest mouths she’d ever seen—but it was the eyes that got her. A pair of disturbingly familiar aged-whiskey eyes—eyes she’d recently studied too intently on the back of a book she wouldn’t name—stared back at her. Sweet mother of God, Zora thought faintly…it was Tate Hatcher.

THE LAST THING TATE HATCHER expected when he stepped into the hotel shower this evening was to be walked in on by a woman, then have that woman criticize him for not seeing to her “needs.”

Quite frankly, he’d been criticized for many things over the years—his cynicism, his inability to commit and various other offenses—but that had never been a problem.

He’d never been accused of being a lousy lover, and from the sounds of things, this woman had not only gotten involved with a man who was into abstinence—what kind of a man didn’t want to have sex? Tate wondered incredulously—but had also managed to hook up with one who didn’t…service her at all.

It was utterly mind-boggling.

The moment his startled brain recognized that she’d obviously mistaken him for someone else, Tate knew he should have spoken up and put a halt to her breakup speech, but blatant curiosity had kept him from exercising the courtesy. What sort of woman got involved with a guy who didn’t want to have sex? Tate had wondered, morbidly intrigued.

In his research and experience, most women controlled men by wielding sexual power over a guy. If she hadn’t used the Vagina Vice, just what sort of method had she attempted to employ to keep him in line? It was something to think about, Tate decided—definitely potential book fodder, which would please his agent—but not right now. He calmly toweled the back of his head. He had other things to attend to right now.

Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and thready. “You’re not—”

“Dex,” Tate finished helpfully. He finished drying his face. “I know.” He’d planned to elaborate, but was met with the second major shock of the night. He blinked, certain his eyes had deceived him.

Long, wavy red hair. Light green eyes. Little Dipper freckle pattern over her slim nose. Gorgeous body. And if she opened her mouth, a forked tongue.

Yep, Tate concluded. It was definitely her.

His mystery woman—the failed seductress—was none other than Zora Anderson.

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.