No Stopping Now. Dawn Atkins

LET her room door close, tucked the key card into her wallet and checked her watch. Two minutes to noon. Just enough time to get to Brody’s suite, where she was to meet with him and his producer, Eve Gallen, to go over the trip and plan the night’s shoot.

      She was on the twenty-fifth floor of the Xanadu, a big, bustling hotel with endless, poorly marked corridors she’d gotten lost in more than once already. Refurbished repeatedly, it was an odd mix of luxury and convenience—elegant deco furnishings with modern minioffices in spacious rooms.

      She took a deep breath of the gardenia scent misting the hallways and headed for the elevator across the thick, silver-and-black, deco-style carpet, the only sound her slides slapping her bare soles.

      Inside the elevator, she checked herself out in the mirrored walls. She looked decent in a red jersey top with spaghetti straps and khaki capris with plenty of stretch—she might not have time to change before they set off on the shoot and she needed to be able to bend and kneel with ease.

      She couldn’t believe how late they were starting. She usually put in five hours by noon, but she was on Doctor Nite time now. She would adapt to late hours and wild nights.

      She still felt queasy about how she’d gotten the job. She’d practically stalked the man, then groveled. Begged. Hell, she’d offered to hire the man a hooker. On the other hand, too much was at stake to accept no. Doggedness and total focus had earned every success so far. Those traits would help her now.

      She was nervous, she had to admit. She’d doubled her usual run to calm herself, but so many butterflies packed her stomach they could barely flutter a wing.

      She’d called the We Women Network and left a voice mail with May Lee, the head of acquisitions, telling her she’d gotten the job and would score the “inside scoop, the real nitty-gritty” on Doctor Nite.

      The real nitty-gritty? She couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth, but that was how the game was played. She had to tantalize the network, get them hot for the project, then the caliber and substance of her work would make the final sale.

      Outside Brody’s door, she took a couple of settling breaths, determined to be cool and calm.

      She’d have to contend with that snap-crackle of attraction, but Jillian knew how to manage that. She kept sex in its place, like everything else in her life. Weeks of twelve-hour workdays limited her free time. When she did connect with a man, she kept it friendly, not making any promises or expecting any back, and she had a serviceable vibrator for the in-between times.

      Any flare-ups with Brody she would douse, no problem. She would be the consummate professional and hope he’d forget about the hooker request and her groveling. Oh, and the sexual sparks.

      Composed and determined, she tapped at Brody’s room. After a long pause, the door flew open to reveal Brody…in his boxers.

      She took in rounded pecs, a flat belly, a thin, teasing trail of dark hair, black underwear. Silk, maybe? The fabric was shiny and slippery. Thick, almost like satin—

      Whoops. She jerked her eyes up where they belonged.

      “You’re early,” he said, his voice scratchy, his eyes at half-mast, leaning on the jamb, muscular arm extended upward.

      “You said noon.”

      “I said around noon.”

      “Sorry. I just thought—”

      “’Sokay. You’re eager.” He managed a slow spider-to-the-fly grin and waved her inside.

      She entered the room, dim and intimate, with its unmade bed, tangled sheets, the bolsters tossed carelessly to the floor. So he was a wild sleeper. Or maybe he’d had company. Was there a woman? No, the bed was empty. Besides, that was none of her business. Again, she pulled her gaze to him.

      Brody gave her his once-over, though the sleep crease in his cheeks softened the effect to sweet instead of predatory. “So you’re perky in the morning,” he said, scratching his hair with his knuckles, tousling it nicely.

      “I like mornings. Is that bad?”

      “And a health nut on top of it.”

      “Beg your pardon?”

      “You’ve exercised. Your cheeks are flushed.” He rubbed his knuckles against his own cheek, then ran his eyes down her length and around her body. “A runner, right? With those calves…absolutely.”

      “I do run, yes, but that doesn’t make me a nut.” He was as observant as a detective, and it made her uncomfortable. She decided to turn the tables. “You obviously exercise, too. Good pecs, flat abs, developed quads.” She swallowed over a dry throat. “So you must lift weights. But with those shoulders and that tan, you swim, too.” She stopped talking, not sure the hard-body inventory was helping her problem.

      “It’s all in my contract,” he said, evidently not bothered by her exam. “If they can pinch an inch, I’m out.” He grabbed a bit of skin beneath his rib cage. There was no fat to grab.

      “You’re joking.”

      “Not completely, no. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Let’s order breakfast, huh? What would you like?”

      “I already ate, thank you.”

      “But hours ago, right?” He put his finger to his chin. “Let me guess. Fruit, granola and yogurt.”

      “A smoothie,” she said, annoyed at how close he was. “Aren’t you going to guess the flavor?”

      He moved in, startling her, and sniffed. “Too long ago. I’m just getting you.” She felt a zing of unwanted electricity. “You smell great, by the way.”

      “Thank you.” He seemed so aware, so there. She picked up his smell, too—warm skin, a trace of last night’s cologne. His grin was lazy and knowing, and she found she was holding her breath.

      “How about if I order a few things? Maybe you’ll nibble, like the other night.”

      “Whatever you want,” she said, deciding to be as cooperative as she could.

      “And to drink? I’m having coffee, but I bet you’re more of a hot-tea girl. Say, chai spice?”

      Her favorite, dammit. “No one likes to feel predictable.”

      “How about noticed? Don’t you like to be noticed?”

      “Who wouldn’t?” That was his secret, of course. Or one of them. All that attention was tough to resist in a world where it was all about me, me, me. Especially with men. A man who paid attention, really listened and remembered…was golden.

      Brody moved to the phone and placed a lengthy order, turning to smile at her as if she were his room service conspirator.

      It was unnerving to stand this close to a nearly naked Brody, looking at him over his bed, while he guessed her pleasures, his voice lazy with sex—er, sleep. Jeez. “Don’t you want to put some clothes on?” she said, sounding more exasperated than she’d intended.

      “Am I making you uncomfortable?” This seemed to delight him.

      “Of course not. Get naked if you want. I’m ready to work.”

      “Mm-mm-mm. With lines like that, you’re going to be a hell of a lot more fun than Kirk, that’s for sure.”

      “He’s not your type?” She was pleased to tease back, to reverse his impression of her as too serious.

      He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Too much body hair.”

      “That makes sense. However, I doubt I’m your type, either.” She was trying to joke, but it came out sounding defensive.

      “What does that mean?” Brody moved to stand toe-to-toe with her. She didn’t back up, despite how big and male he seemed, his bare chest gleaming in the shard of sunlight that