Going For It. Jo Leigh

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.

      2

      CHASE FOUGHT A SMILE. He was actually enjoying

      Jamie’s reaction, the way her big brown eyes widened, the pink flush on her cheeks, how she nervously licked her lush upper lip. He’d seen her before when he’d come to the station, but they’d never spoken. In fact, she’d been frightened of him, moving to the far side of the hallway when he’d passed, sneaking looks at him, blushing, like now. The last time, about six months ago, he’d almost asked her why, but she’d ducked into the ladies’ room.

      He liked her show, even though her message was a bunch of garbage. It was a smart move on Fred’s part to have hired her. The station hadn’t had a major ratings winner in a long time. Not that he cared. This wasn’t his thing anymore. His father had owned the station, and Chase had inherited it after the old man died. But he wasn’t a part of it now. The only reason he came here was because they gave him a small office where he collected his business mail, and let him use Fred’s secretary for some clerical work now and then. Not having a permanent residence, it was convenient.

      He saw Cujo signal that the commercials were about to end. Jamie didn’t look ready. Damn, she was a pretty thing. Innocent. At least she looked innocent, which all of New York knew wasn’t true. But she sure seemed flustered as hell. She was known for her no-nonsense approach to matters of the body, for her unflinching answers to the most kinky questions. No one would mistake her for a silly female. Yet right now, she looked like a twelve-year-old with her underpants showing.

      Darlene grabbed hold of him and pulled him toward one of the guest chairs. “Chase, why don’t you sit down.” The booth had been recarpeted since the last time