Getting It Good!. Rhonda Nelson

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