Getting It!. Rhonda Nelson

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 attend. With a deadline looming ahead and no clue for the topic of the next book, he was sincerely hoping that creative genius would strike while he was here. It had to, otherwise he was screwed. What on earth had possessed him to sign a two-book deal? Tate wondered for the umpteenth time. Still, it looked like Blake had been right. Their leader had practically landed in his naked lap, and he hadn’t even made it out of his room yet.

      Tate felt a disbelieving smile spread over his lips and, though he knew it was awful, he had to forcibly quell a hoot of laughter, a triumphant chortle of joy.

      The balls-to-the-wall, hard-as-nails she-devil—the Chicks-In-Charge president herself—couldn’t get her pansy-ass boyfriend to sleep with her.

      Now that was a fortuitous bit of information if he’d ever found any.

      Evidently, she’d reached the same conclusion. In a nanosecond, the confusion cleared from her pale green eyes and a knowing little smirk drifted over her distractingly lush mouth. If she was embarrassed—and she most certainly had to be—her face didn’t display even the remotest clue to what she was feeling.

      “You can lose the shit-eating grin,” she said. She stood and crossed her arms over her chest, let her gaze drift around the steamy room, purposely looking at anything but him. “I know who you are and evidently you know who I am. My question is this—what are you doing here?”

      Quick, too, Tate thought, reluctantly impressed. She’d bypassed all the oh-my-God, what-a-nightmare drama and moved directly into damage control/stealth mode. “Since you’ve wandered into my bathroom,” he drawled lazily, “I’d say I have dibs on that that question.” Tate smiled. “But we already know the answer to one, eh? I take it Dex was the previous occupant of this room?”

      She bit the inside of her cheek before responding. Summoning patience, he suspected. “Yes, he was.”

      “And he left without saying goodbye?” Tate tutted sympathetically. “That has to hurt.”

      She glared at him. “Actually, it’s a relief,” she said tightly. “Would you mind putting that towel on, please?”

      “Then I must have misunderstood the problem,” Tate replied with a feigned frown, enjoying himself immensely. He did as she requested, loosely draped the towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower. “I thought relief is what you hadn’t been getting.”

      Her lips formed an irritated smile. “Very cute. But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

      Tate shrugged, purposely avoiding the question. “It’s a free country. I can do whatever I want to.” It was the equivalent of na-na na-na boo-boo, but what the hell. He was still in shock.

      She studied him a moment, and Tate got the most uncomfortable feeling that she was somehow peering directly into his brain, prodding his thoughts. He didn’t like it. “I am perfectly aware of the fact that this is a free country and you are certainly at will to do whatever you desire. However, as we both know, that was not my question. I asked what you’re doing here.”

      “I was taking a shower…until you sauntered in here and started harping at me about the sex you need but aren’t getting.”

      Her eyes widened and he watched her lose a notch of that formidable control. “Harping? I wasn’t harping. I was perfectly civil. Completely calm.”

      Tate snorted. Actually, she hadn’t been harping. She’d been remarkably composed, especially for a woman who hadn’t been properly laid in God knows how long. A tragedy, that, Tate thought as his gaze slid over her, confirming what he’d seen on TV—she was gorgeous. He filed the phenomenon away for further consideration. Regardless, he’d managed to get a small rise out of her—a rare feat, he instinctively knew—and wondered just how far he’d have to go to get her to completely lose it. He was perversely interested in finding out.

      “Oh, you were definitely harping,” Tate insisted. “Like fingernails screeching down a blackboard.” He winced, shook his head. “Could be why your boyfriend had a hard time mustering the enthusiasm to—” he gestured meaningfully toward the bedroom “—you know. Most guys don’t respond well to criticism. You probably gave him a complex.”

      Her nostrils flared as she dragged in a harsh breath and she seemed to grow a couple of inches right before his very eyes. She cocked her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so adept at changing the subject and avoiding a simple question. You’re purposely baiting me—for your sheer amusement, I can only conclude—and I don’t appreciate it.” She paused. “Furthermore, you don’t have to tell me why you’re here.” She laughed without humor, rolled her eyes. “That’s easy enough to deduce. I’d say I’ve just given you a very juicy tidbit for your next book—or your next interview, I imagine, given the lamentable state of your character.”

      “My character?” Tate interrupted as her barb found a mark. He felt his eyes widen. “What could you possibly know about my character?”

      “Just what I read in your book.” Her lips formed the ghost of a smile. “It was quite…enlightening.” Her eyes gleamed with humor, punctuating the thought.

      Tate had been fully prepared to defend his character, but the thought was derailed by another more intriguing one. He paused. “You’ve read my book?” What was he talking about? Of course, she’d read his book! How else could she attack every word in it in that incredibly sexy, lazy voice of hers? Tate stifled a groan.

      She smiled one of those superior little grins he’d witnessed in countless interviews. The one that had the curiously disturbing effect of making his blood simmer in his veins and speedily race to his groin. “Of course,” she told him. “In fact, I’m using it in a workshop this weekend. Pity you aren’t a member of the conference. You might have actually learned something.”

      Tate returned her smirk. “Yes, well. Since I’m not a woman, I’m not eligible to attend your conference.” Not a great hook, Tate thought, suddenly inspired, but he might be able to work with it.

      “Ah, but that’s not going to keep you from lurking, I see.”

      Tate chewed the corner of his mouth. “Lurking’s not prohibited.”

      “You’re right. It’s just tacky.”

      He shrugged, unconcerned. “If you say so.”

      “I do. And,” she said, drawing the word out as she made her way toward the door, “while this has been interesting, Mr. Hatcher, I think I’ll return to my room.”

      “Don’t go on my account,” Tate told her, curiously reluctant to see her leave. “I could even get dressed if it’d make you feel better.”

      Her eyes suddenly twinkled with something akin to wistfulness and her gaze inexplicably dropped to where his towel lay anchored around his waist. Tate felt a surge of masculine pleasure at the telling look. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t typically fraternize with the enemy.”

      Tate chuckled. “The enemy, am I?”

      “What else could you be?”

      His gaze tangled with hers and he lowered his voice. “You’d be surprised. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee this weekend. I’d