Getting It!. Rhonda Nelson

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