On-Air Passion. Lindsay Evans

      Laughter burst from Ahmed’s throat, and Elle hated how charming it actually sounded. “Now, that’s something I’ve never heard before, Atlanta,” he said. “Do you believe a word of what this delicate princess says?”

      The pet name grated on Elle’s nerves with all the power of the insult it no doubt was intended to be. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. Elle clasped her hands in her lap and sat back in her own chair, waiting for the moment when she could leave.

      They hadn’t taken a commercial break to allow the calls to build up. In fact, it was hard to miss the station manager making the “keep going” gesture. He’d apparently changed his mind about cutting Ahmed off. The phones were blinking nonstop. Were both these men for real?

      Before they’d gotten on the air, she could have sworn Ahmed Clark actually liked her. In the moments between her walking into the sound booth and starting to talk about the business, he’d looked at her with a familiar spark of attraction in his long-lashed eyes.

      But now, he was practically going verbal gladiator on her, intent on hacking her to pieces with the sharp edge of his tongue. This wasn’t what she’d come here for, but she’d be damned if she backed out before Romance Perfected could get its money’s worth out of the radio spot they had paid for.

      The phone in front of Ahmed beeped. He answered with the click of a button.

      “Congrats on being the fifteenth caller. Talk to me.”

      A laughing voice came on the air. “I don’t know the answer, but I wanted to say you two should go on a date together. I bet the fireworks would be off the chain.”

      “Never,” Elle said before she could stop herself. She refused to cheapen something that was supposed to be romantic and turn it into a farce.

      But outside the glass cage that kept her trapped with Ahmed, the general manager, Clive Ramirez, grinned with an alarming show of teeth, the look on his face clearly saying this was the best idea he’d heard all day.

      “Thanks for the suggestion,” Ahmed said to the caller. “But I think the princess would prick the air out of all my balls if I even thought of asking her out.” Ahmed’s grin was infuriating, his tone meant to irritate her.

      Elle barely stopped herself from giving him the finger. After all, it was radio not TV. But she had a business to promote. She’d show him a damn princess. She’d be the very picture of poise and graciousness until she got the chance to escape and never see his stupid face in person again.

      “Very astute of you,” she said past clenched teeth. “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.” So much for being gracious.

      Clive Ramirez made another motion from his side of the glass. Beside him, his assistant frantically answered call after call.

      “All right, thanks for calling with your input. I’ll keep it in mind in case I don’t plan on having children in the future.” He hung up on the caller. “All right, since that number fifteen wasn’t it, let’s hear some Bruno Mars before we get to that next fifteenth call. Ring me up and tell me something good. I’m ready.”

      As soon as the song started playing, Elle yanked off her headphones and stood up. She very gently put them on the chair, grabbed her purse and walked out, quietly closing the door behind her. She didn’t get two feet before Clive Ramirez was on her, grabbing her hand to shake with an enthusiasm she found more than a little unsettling.

      “That was great, Elle!” When had they gotten on a first-name basis? “That spot was awesome. The phones were blazing even before we told listeners to call in. Nice work!”

      Nice work? It had taken everything inside her not to cuss out Ahmed. Was that all it took to get a pat on the head from another random man these days? Elle pulled her hand back from Clive and shifted her feet to conceal her single step back from the man. “Um, thank you. I’m glad you think it went well enough.” She made a show of looking at the slender silver watch on her wrist. “I have to get to another meeting. Thank you again for inviting me on the air.” And for humiliating me six ways to Sunday in front of all of Atlanta. Or at least the half that listened to the Ahmed Clark morning show.

      “It was my absolute pleasure. We’ll call you with the name of the contest winner so you can make arrangements for them with the prize.”

      She tried to make it look like she wasn’t gritting her teeth. “Great. Looking forward to it.”

      He tried to shake her hand again, but she shifted her purse to hold it in both hands. “Have a great day,” she said with her best fake smile.

      Elle waited for Clive’s nod, a semblance of politeness remaining despite her immediate desire to walk very quickly away from the station and never return, then she turned on her heel and practically ran out the door.

      * * *

      By the time Elle got back to her office, she was ready to spit nails. Or kill Ahmed Clark with her bare hands. On the drive from the radio station, she’d tried to calm down, but it didn’t work. Every time she remembered the things the man had said to her on the air, for all of Atlanta to hear, she wanted to scream.

      With a clenched jaw, she pushed open the door that led to a row of small ground-floor offices in a plain beige brick building in Kirkwood, not far from her house. The white door rattled as it settled in its frame, and she stood with her back against it, breathing evenly and trying to get her thoughts, anger and embarrassment to settle.

      Despite their office building’s plain exterior, or maybe because of it, she and her business partner had decided to make their offices anything but. The hardwood floors were gleaming oak, while the walls shimmered from the sumptuous jade green silk wallpaper she and Shaye had picked out together. The wallpaper was as detailed as a painting. On it, a thick and leafless tree spread across all four walls. One branch held a brilliantly colored peacock hovering protectively over his peahen. A graceful and soft peach-colored sofa sat against the back wall of their reception area, and a coffee table with a few artfully scattered magazines waited for idle hands. It was meant to be a very welcoming and subtly sensual space.

      Elle inhaled deeply and exhaled, her eyes tracing the plain brushstrokes on the wallpaper that made up the gray of the peahen and the contentment in her eyes while she lay beneath the wing of her beautiful mate. The sight of it, of love as Elle imagined it, usually calmed her. But not today.

      “Shaye!”

      She shouted her business partner’s name and pushed herself off the door, starting toward her own office then nearly colliding with Shaye when she came barreling around the corner. Thick curls spilled over her shoulders and surrounded a face that easily belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. As usual, Shaye was gorgeous in her club-girl chic. Today’s outfit was a flesh-colored and skintight dress that showed off every voluptuous curve. She wore the royal blue Jimmy Choo heels—a lucky thrift-store find—Elle had given her for thirtieth birthday two years before.

      “No need to yell,” Shaye said with a roll of her eyes. “I heard you from all the way in my office. The sound of your voice could shatter our champagne glasses. Chill, mama. That stuff was expensive.”

      Shaye was the only one who could talk to Elle like that. Growing up mostly together in the foster care system with no one to care for but each other made the two of them even closer than siblings.

      “Better the glasses than that damn man...” Elle made a sound of frustration. “Did you listen to the radio spot?”

      Shaye snickered. “As if I’d miss it.”

      When Elle kept going toward her own office, Shaye fell in step, her longer legs easily keeping up with Elle’s furious pace.

      “The whole thing was pretty hilarious,” Shaye continued. “Even though you were obviously pissed.”

      “He made me come off like some idiotic child, like I don’t know anything about the real world and the crappy things in it.”

      Elle