Getting It Right!. Rhonda Nelson

his father after all, Ben thought as his lips twisted with bitter humor at the unwelcome insight.

      Speaking of which, that raised another question. Did she know that her dad and his had become roommates? He’d wrongly assumed that had been the reason for her visit, and yet other than one awkward moment when she’d asked about his father, nothing else had been said about them. He’d sensed some tension, but if she’d known about their respective sires making the move to cohabit, she would have said something. Odd, then, that she hadn’t.

      He stilled. Surely to God she knew Marcus was gay, Ben thought, struck by the notion. He paused, mulling it over. Yeah, he scoffed. She had to know. How could she not know? Her parents had divorced years ago. He snorted. But considering who Marcus was married to, that argument wouldn’t necessarily hold water.

      April’s unfortunate father could have cited any number of reasons for his belated departure from Morgana’s evil side. Honestly, he didn’t think he’d ever known another woman he disliked more. She was a cold, heartless, manipulative harpy and—

      His mental tirade abruptly stopped and a slow dawning smile slid across his face.

      —and she’d undoubtedly shit when she found out about April, Ben realized, unable to suppress the burst of vindictive glee that expanded in his chest.

      And she’d definitely find out. Unless things had changed vastly over the years—and he highly suspected that they hadn’t—April had never been able to make a move that her mother hadn’t known about first. Ben chuckled again, rocked back in his chair once more and savored the idea of her chilly, furious face. Petty? Yes. But after the hell that selfish, vengeful bitch put him through, he didn’t care.

      What was it she’d said again when she’d warned him away? Oh, yeah. “I’ve already lost a husband to your cracked-up white-trash father. I’ll be damned before I’ll lose my daughter to his filthy son.”

      A regular little ray of sunshine she’d been, Ben thought, his insides churning with old unabsorbed hatred. Let her try to warn him away this time, dammit. He was ready for her.

      “I DID IT.”

      Frankie whooped excitedly, forcing April to momentarily pull the cell away from her ear. “Oh, thank God!” she said. “I’m so proud of you. One giant step for you, one small step for womankind. Way to buck that double standard, babe.”

      April smiled and carefully negotiated traffic. Ah, yes, the sexual double standard. Frankie’s biggest pet peeve—though she had many—which made her a fantastic advocate for Chicks In Charge and a huge success as the movement’s Carnal Contessa. Anything that smacked of a double standard or sexual repression made Frankie’s blood boil. Of her three best friends, Frankie had been the most concerned over April’s inability to reach climax.

      “So how did it go? Did he whisper to you in his office?” she murmured with a wicked, suggestive purr. “Are you cured?”

      April chuckled. “No and no. I’m supposed to meet him at his house at seven.” Goose bumps erupted on her skin at the mere thought. To think that after all this time she was only hours away from a guaranteed orgasm. It almost made her light-headed.

      “Oooh. So he’s taking you to his lair, his den of iniquity, allowing you into the inter sanctum. Very, very interesting,” she said, doing a comical Einstein impression. “I figured a house call would be more in keeping with his style.”

      April would have, too, come to think of it. She couldn’t be certain of course, but from everything she’d heard, Ben customarily guarded his personal space. He’d happily share another woman’s bed, but if one had managed to actually share his, April had never caught wind of it.

      “Or multiple house calls,” Frankie continued. A wicked laugh bubbled up her throat. “What do you wanna bet that he prescribes more than one treatment?”

      Would that she would be so lucky, April thought. After a year and a half with no conclusive action, she was due for more than one treatment, thank you very much.

      “So tell me everything,” her friend finally demanded. “What was he wearing?”

      April laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “You’ll see,” she said. “Indulge me.”

      “Er…Okay. Let’s see.” April paused, easily pulling Ben’s image to the forefront of her mind. He was never very far away anyway. “He was wearing a dark almond handwoven wool sweater and a pair of khaki slacks.” Both of which had looked fantastic on him. Very European. Very hot. The sweater had draped over those broad shoulders and muscled pecs, competently displaying the beautiful manly shape underneath.

      “Any jewelry?”

      “Aside from a designer watch—a TAG Heuer, I think—none that I could see.”

      “Looking that closely at him, eh?” Frankie said knowingly.

      Aha, April thought, letting go a quiet laugh. She had been looking closely, evidently even more closely than she’d realized. But then again, Ben was hard not to look at.

      Aside from being remarkably handsome—flawless bone structure, angular jaw, hollow cheeks, heavy-lidded soulful eyes and a slightly imperfect nose to add character—Ben had that whole mysterious dark thing going on. He could have easily stepped onto any gothic movie set and played the part of a sexy vampire or elusive shape-shifter…and she could just as easily see herself playing the role of his devoted familiar. He was…magnetic, April decided. God knows she’d always been drawn to him. Ben had that “It” quality, that certain charisma that put him leagues above the average guy.

      “Well, now that Operation Orgasm is underway, would you like me to tell you about some good news I heard this morning?” Frankie asked.

      Operation Orgasm? She’d named it? Sheesh. April shook her head. “Sure. What’s up?”

      “Carrie got a call from the producers of Let’s Cook, New Orleans! this morning.”

      April squealed as a bolt of glee shot through her. “Oh, you’re kidding!”

      “I’m not,” Frankie assured her, laughing herself. “She’s meeting them next week. And she’s a nervous wreck.”

      April guessed so. It wasn’t every day that a person interviewed for their own television show. But with Carrie’s looks—she had the face of an angel, the soul of a saint—which had been a plus considering she’d had to have the patience of one to work for that nitpicking bastard Martin, April thought—and a body that put every man who looked at her in the mood for sin. Between her good looks and incredible talent, the network would be foolish not to hire her.

      Furthermore, Carrie needed the break. Chicks In Charge had given her an outlet of sorts, but the perpetual grind of working at a thankless job was beginning to wear on her. She’d worked hard for this, dammit. She deserved it.

      “God, I hope this works out for her,” April told her.

      Frankie sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. I’ve got a call coming in,” she said. “Keep me posted. I want details—the hot, the heaving and the horny. Call me as soon as you get home. Provided you come home,” she added.

      “Duly noted.” With a soft chuckle, April disconnected, then made her way back to her home office. That was one of the benefits of her line of work.

      Aside from the necessary legwork she liked to put into a project, ninety percent of her job was accomplished in the small gatehouse located at the rear of her property. She’d fallen in love with the main house, a stately Victorian in the Garden District, the instant she’d seen it. Between the money she’d managed to save and the trust fund she’d inherited at twenty-one, April had managed to pay cash in order to avoid a mortgage.

      Her father’s accountant had counseled against the move, had cited numerous investments she could have made in order to make the most of her money, but buying the house—owning her own place