Getting It Good!. Rhonda Nelson

      She carefully looked up. “Zora, just exactly—”

      “If he takes the job, he’ll be going with you,” Zora said, anticipating her question.

      Frankie swallowed the urge to scream and puke at once. “With me? As what? My assistant?” She hesitated, a sudden image popping into her head. Ooh, this could work, she thought as the idea gained momentum. She’d love bossing him around, sending him on pointless errands, giving him degrading tasks designed expressly to turn his mind black with rage. A bolt of evil glee shot through her, but withered at the small shake of Zora’s head.

      “Nooo,” she replied, dragging the word out. Then a wicked smile bloomed across her lips and her eyes twinkled with devilish humor. “He’s going to be CHiC’s temporary Duke of Desire.”

      Frankie frowned. Duke of Desire? But—A beat slid into three, then comprehension dawned and a low chuckle vibrated the back of her throat.

      Equally impressed and awed, she returned Zora’s grin. “Oh, he’s going to hate that,” she said with vengeful relish. “He’s really going to hate it.”

      Zora nodded. “Precisely. Think you can suffer through it?”

      Frankie nodded without hesitation. The mere idea of Ross’s impending discomfort was balm enough for her battered ego. “Oh, yeah. I can suffer through it.”

      But she happily suspected he’d be suffering more.

      “YOU’RE KIDDING,” Ross chuckled, stunned. He snagged a cup of coffee from his beleaguered assistant along with the usual stack of morning messages and hurried into his office. “Zora’s going to hire a man? What?” he joked, tossing a smile over his shoulder at Tate. “Did hell freeze over while I wasn’t looking?” He rounded his desk and plopped down into his chair. Idly flipped through his messages, silently swore when he realized more than half of them were from her. His fingers involuntarily curled, crushing the notes in his hand.

      Tate laughed, settled himself into the seat opposite him. “No. An opportune visit from Lady Luck and my superior poker skills are what brought about the phenomenon.” His boss sighed, clearly wallowing in the victory of his coup.

      “Dirty Poker, again, huh?” Ross replied, trying to force his irritated, preoccupied mind on their conversation. He conjured a brittle smile.

      Zora and Tate’s risqué card game was legendary among Tate’s friends. By all accounts Zora was an abysmal poker player, yet that didn’t keep the couple from continuing to play the game. Zora had once confided that even when she lost, she still won. As far as Ross was concerned, that one telling comment pretty much summed up their marriage.

      In a time when more than half of all marriages ended in divorce—his parents’ included—it was refreshing to see a couple who would undoubtedly go the distance. Not that their happily-ever-after engendered any latent desire to rush to the altar himself—not no, but hell no, Ross thought with an internal snort.

      Maintaining a monogamous relationship was work and he already had a job, thank you very much. A job that he loved, where black was black and white was white and effort and loyalty were rewarded accordingly. He avoided anything gray—emotions, feelings, guessing games, the unsure or the vague.

      Furthermore, his parents’ dysfunctional, mistrustful, adulterous hate-fest had been a doozy, and after surviving that, he simply preferred to be single. If those weren’t enough reasons to avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex, then his current situation most definitely was.

      He was being…harassed.

      Actually, stalked worked better but it seemed so dramatic that Ross balked at the term. A little harassment he could handle—stalking implied he needed professional help.

      Besides, at the moment—and pretty much every moment—he had more pressing matters to concern himself with than worrying about a possible significant other, lack thereof, or a thwarted lover who couldn’t move on.

      Like landing the Maxwell account.

      The familiar burn of anticipation rushed through him, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside. When word got out that Maxwell Commodities had been looking for a new firm, Tate had made sure that Hatcher Advertising was first in line for a shot at it. He’d then put his top executives on the job and Ross was fortunate enough to be counted among them.

      But it wasn’t good enough.

      He wanted lead on this account.

      And he was the logical choice because when it came to marketing men’s products—no brag, just fact, he was the best in the firm. Maxwell Commodities marketed everything from men’s toiletries to clothing as well as home fitness equipment and tools. The company catered exclusively to the male population and, while Ross admittedly didn’t have any idea how to market women’s products, he knew his stuff when it came to men. He was a guy, after all. His no-frills, no-bullshit style appealed to the man’s man. Facts, statistics, specs. Those were the things men were interested in. Aesthetics, thank God, didn’t enter the picture.

      Landing lead on this account would garner national recognition, would put him in the inside lane on the fast track of his advertising career. Ross didn’t think a man was measured by his success or any of that nonsense. He was simply competitive. Had always been that way. Hell, a guy couldn’t play football—and every other sport imaginable—for more than a decade and come out any different. He wanted to be the best. When a knee injury in his senior year of high school had cost him a football career and a full-ride at LSU, Ross had been forced to direct his competitive efforts in another direction—college, then ultimately his career in advertising.

      To that end, he had to land this account, because only the best could handle it.

      “So who’s the lucky guy?” Ross asked, tuning back into the conversation. “Anybody we know?”

      Tate hesitated and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

      “Me?” What did he have to do with it? Ross wondered, suppressing the growing urge to check his e-mail. He’d worked on a couple of new ideas for Maxwell last night and had forwarded them to his office account. Occasionally what seemed like creative genius in the wee hours of the morning turned out to be total shit after a few winks. He was curious to see what this morning’s perspective brought.

      “Yes, you.” Tate paused, and for some reason that ominous silence rang like a death knell. “You see, it’s not just any man that Zora has to hire—it’s you.”

      Ross stilled. Shock jimmied a disbelieving chuckle loose from his throat. “What?”

      Tate smiled grimly. “It’s you. You’re the man she’s hiring.”

      Stunned, Ross shook his head, waited for his frozen smile to thaw. “Er…no, she’s not,” he said flatly. Even if he were so inclined—which he most definitely was not—he didn’t have the time. He had a damn job, one that he currently spent twelve-plus hours a day on. Furthermore, what in the hell would he do for Zora? What could he—a man—possibly do for a chick magazine?

      Tate considered him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I suppose I could call upon our years of friendship, ask you to do this for me simply because it would give me a small amount of petty satisfaction after listening to my wife repeatedly tell me that she’d never hire a man.” Tate lifted his shoulders in a futile shrug. “But I can tell that it would be a waste of breath, so here’s the deal. Do you want the Maxwell account?”

      Ross blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Of course I do.”

      “Then it’s simple. If you agree to work for Zora, then it’s yours. If not…” He winced lightly and let the implication hang in the silence.

      Beyond stunned, Ross shook his head. Tate had a reputation for being a bit ruthless, but this was the first time he’d ever been on the receiving end of it. Arguing, Ross knew, would be pointless.