Simply Sex. Dawn Atkins

more daunting than she’d expected. She wasn’t that sure of herself.

      “Just clear your conflict fast,” Garrett said, “so we can have you all to ourselves.” His words made her heart swell with pride and squeeze with pressure. Her already-knotted stomach turned inside out with all she had to do.

      At least she’d made progress promoting Personal Touch over the past week, including scoring a profile at a trendy rag with the right demographic, but neither she nor Janie had yet gotten the suit-happy client on the phone. Soon she’d have to look at hiring an attorney. Big bucks they didn’t have, dammit.

      She shifted her gaze from the traffic to her dashboard clock. Seven minutes before Sun Print closed and her client, Dagwood Donuts, was out of luck.

      “I’d like your thoughts on a campaign for Home Town Suites,” Garrett continued at the leisurely pace of someone not braving murderous traffic with a cell phone pressed to her ear and a client’s future on her passenger seat. “Maybe you can sketch some ideas when you have time.”

      Time? Time? She had no time. A Crystal Water truck screeched to a stop in front of her. “Damn!” She slammed on her brakes.

      “Excuse me? Is that a problem?” Garrett said.

      “I was swearing at traffic, not you, Mr. McGrath.” A collision with the mountain of water before her seemed welcome at the moment. It was October, but the desert heat hung on like desperate fingertips on a ledge. Her suit was lightweight, but dark blue—chosen to reinforce her authority—and it was baking her alive.

      She let Garrett rattle on about branding and niche marketing, while she wove through traffic like James Bond, praying any passing police would be too awed by her technique to ticket her. Wrapping up the conversation at last, leaving Garrett content and her overloaded, she scored a neighborhood shortcut and roared into a Sun Print parking spot just in time. She grabbed the artwork CD and raced inside.

      Twenty minutes later, she exited, mission accomplished. Shaky with relief, she smiled at the dropping sun and slid behind the wheel, noticing she’d gotten ink on her fingers from admiring some freshly printed flyers—you had to compliment the pressmen. They were where the ink met the paper in her biz.

      Glancing in the mirror, she saw her blouse collar had black fingerprints, too. Ruined. Along with the pricey panty hose she’d snagged along the way. Collateral damage was inevitable when you worked as hard as she did.

      She was on the street headed home when her cell emitted the music she’d assigned Janie’s calls. Unwilling to risk another accident, she zipped into the closest parking lot to call her back. Fleetingly, she noticed the marquee above her head: Totally Nude. All You Can Eat Businessman’s Buffet. She’d parked at a strip club. Yuck. Middle-aged salesmen ogling boob jobs while they inhaled ambrosia salad and bean dip. Strip clubs seemed so desperate.

      Of course, sexual frustration made her do strange things, too—pant over Cosmo’s naked chefs issue, devour erotic romance novels and think wicked thoughts about cucumbers. Masturbation was a pale second to the joys of a warm and willing man. Where was one when she needed him?

      “I need your help ASAP,” Janie said when she answered, her voice thin with tension.

      “Take a slow breath, Janie Marie.”

      “I’m okay,” she said, but she sounded like someone had wrapped a rubber band around her vocal cords.

      “Breathe, Janie. Consider it a personal favor.”

      “Oh, for pity’s sake.” She huffed in a couple of irritated breaths. “There. Are you happy?”

      “Yes, I am. Now what’s up?”

      “I need you to fill in on a date.” Over the past few weeks, as problems mounted, Kylie had stood in for missing matches a number of times. There’d been a mistake on the Web site which had married couples appearing as available and Gail had double-booked a few people. Kylie’s job was to be polite and genial and noncommittal and keep the client around until the right match could be made.

      “What happened this time?”

      “Gail got overly enthusiastic. Turns out the client’s match is in London right now.”

      “I love Gail, but she’s not much of a receptionist. She’s never at her desk, for one thing.”

      “She’s my entire sales force. Everywhere she goes she pitches Personal Touch.”

      “When the money turns around, hire a real receptionist, okay? Let Gail do what she’s good at full-time.”

      “Will you do the date?”

      “Just tell the guy there’s been a mistake.”

      “He’s a lawyer. Unhappy lawyers file lawsuits. This is his first date with us and he’s barely squeezing in the time. I’m afraid he’ll bail. You’re so good at smoothing. The woman in London is his perfect match.”

      Someone honked at her from behind. She looked in her rearview to see the guy motioning her forward. What the…? Then she spotted the low Jack-In-The-Box sign beside his car and realized she wasn’t parked in the strip club lot. She was blocking the fast-food drive-thru lane next door.

      “Just a sec,” she said to Janie, then rolled forward to order a mint-chocolate-chip milkshake. Might as well get something out of the mistake, right? “Tell me about this guy,” she said on a sigh.

      “Thank you, thank you, Kylie! His name’s Cole Sullivan and he’s smart and serious and handsome. You’ll love him.”

      “I’m going to apologize to him, not marry him, Janie,” she said, reaching to take the milkshake from the clerk.

      “You have twenty minutes to get there.”

      “Twenty minutes? It’s tonight. Now?” In her alarm, she squeezed the cup and icy green sludge slid down her jacket and plopped onto her navy blue lap. “Shit, shit, shit.”

      “Don’t swear at me. I won’t ask you again. Jeez.”

      “I’m not swearing at you, Janie. I’m swearing at the mound of ice cream in my lap.”

      “The what?”

      “Never mind.” She dabbed at the mess with a wad of napkins and planned out her best route through rush-hour traffic. The things she did for love. Someone else’s love, that is.

      DEBORAH RAMSDALE was twenty minutes late, Cole realized, glancing at his watch. Not a good sign on a first date. She was an attorney—international law—so she knew the value of a minute. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d seen his desperate video and changed her mind altogether.

      He’d taken Gail’s word that this lawyer was perfect for him, since he’d been unable to check out her video at Personal Touch. Brunette with a breezy cut, medium height, a tad tense, but you’ll fix that, was how Gail had described the woman when she’d called him. Gail was a trip.

      But the tense brunette with the breezy cut was getting later by the minute. Cole swallowed his disappointment. At noon he’d zipped out to buy a new casual shirt. The salesgirl at Neiman Marcus had declared it flattering against his skin, letting her fingers linger on his shoulders longer than was strictly necessary to check the fit.

      He’d had hopes that Deborah would let her fingers linger, too. He’d cut out of the office an hour early to change into the shirt and black jeans and to do a quick pickup at his apartment, even changing his sheets, just in case they ended up at his place and things…progressed.

      If she didn’t show, he’d go home and work, he reasoned. With no date, he’d get more sleep and head into the office early Saturday morning. Larry Langford, the non-golfing partner, was usually there by eight, so he’d score some dedication points. Not so bad, after all.

      Except his neighbor Betsy was bringing her dog Radar over in the morning. So, he’d bring the dog to the office with him. Betsy had assured him that Radar