Getting It!. Rhonda Nelson
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the plan?”
“I’m meeting him for coffee in the morning. I’ll arrange it then.”
Frankie quirked a brow. “And if he says no?”
“He’s here for research, remember? He won’t say no,” she predicted confidently. In that regard they were very much alike, she thought. Were the situation reversed, she definitely wouldn’t be able to refuse, and it was precisely that shared trait—that wolf-like, untouchable arrogance—she was banking on.
AH, THERE SHE WAS, Tate thought, as he watched Zora stroll confidently toward his table. He masked a triumphant smile with a sip of coffee, purposely ignored the rush of excitement that zinged up his spine the moment he’d caught sight of her.
Predictably, she’d tried to beat him downstairs.
Tate grinned. Hell, he knew enough about intimidation tactics to know that the person who arrived last was at a disadvantage, and given the way she and her friend—a sister chick, he assumed—had clucked until the wee hours of the morning—plotting his ruin, no doubt—he felt like he was disadvantaged enough, thank you very much. He’d had to get up an hour earlier than what he would have liked, but by God, he was first, and the pleasure of watching her eyes widen with that recognition made missing those few extra minutes of shut-eye worthwhile.
Actually, Tate amended, just watching her walk made it worthwhile.
Zora Anderson moved with a confident, sinuous sort of grace that was at once mesmerizing and sexy. Shoulders back, head high, a distinctly feminine swing to her hips, one she didn’t try to hide with boxy blazers and mannish suits. Instead, he got the distinct impression that she purposely capitalized on her curvy form. That she reveled in it, enjoyed her femininity.
Today she wore a formfitting pale green suit—the shade of new grass, which coincidentally matched her eyes—that buttoned snugly over her ample breasts and made the most of her small waist. Her rich red hair parted on the side and hung in long, wavy flame-like curls over her shoulders and down her slim back. Unlike most people with her coloring, Zora had only a few freckles and still bore the healthy glow of a decent summer tan. Long lashes framed her curiously exotic eyes, neatly complemented high cheekbones. And her mouth…Tate pulled in a shallow breath.
Her mouth was in a class all its own.
Full, lush, ripe and soft. Particularly her bottom lip. It was plump—suckable—and presently painted with a sheer rosy gloss and curled into the faintest mockery of a smile.
Odd that he found that sexy, that he couldn’t wait to hear her so-called proposition and that, rather than gleefully reveling in her mortification last night, he’d been alternately preoccupied with wondering why such a vibrant woman had hooked up with a man who purposely chose not to have sex—what had happened to make her think that was a good idea? Tate had wondered—and thinking about swiftly remedying the unfortunate situation for her.
Repeatedly.
I’m horny, she’d said. I want to get laid. Powerful words, Tate decided, particularly coming from her, out of that mouth. They trumped any preconceived notions he’d had about her. She might look like she had it all together—slick as a firehouse pole—but there were some serious issues hidden behind that calm facade, that lazy, unconcerned, superior smile.
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