Getting It Good!. Rhonda Nelson
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grinned. “Whatever.”
“Whatever? What do you mean whatever?” His eyes narrowed. “Just what exactly have you got up your sleeve?”
“You’ll see,” Zora replied mysteriously. “Right now, however, I believe I have a few plans to make.”
1
FRANKIE SALVATERRA inhaled sharply. “You’ve hired the Antichrist?”
Zora’s lips curled into a droll smile. “A wee bit dramatic, don’t you think? God, it’s stifling in here.” She threw open the French doors behind her desk, allowing the crisp New Orleans autumn air to drift inside. “And I haven’t hired him yet—but I did offer him a job.”
“A job?” Frankie repeated incredulously. “Here? At CHiC?”
Her current boss and former best friend sat, then leaned back in her padded executive chair. She nodded once. “Yes, here. With you, specifically. But,” she sighed, “it’s only temporary and, though I’ve been assured that he’ll take it, there is still the chance that he won’t.”
With her? Frankie thought ominously. No, Zora couldn’t be serious, had to be joking. She couldn’t work with Ross. He was a stubborn, arrogant ass with an exalted opinion of his wit. He breathed to annoy her. She abhorred him, detested him. And yet, despite all of that, there was a small part of her which she refused to consciously acknowledge that was utterly captivated by him.
Ross Hartford was one of those fix-me males, the sexy-as-hell, rough-around-the-edges, you’re-the-only-woman-who-can-tame-me kind of guys that Frankie was inherently—stupidly—attracted to. His face was a masterpiece of masculine planes and angles—sinfully high cheekbones, dramatically hollow cheeks, a strong angular jaw and a sexy dimpled cleft that she’d fantasized about tasting one too many times. He had light brown tousled locks, eyes that were neither green nor blue nor hazel, but a compelling combination of all three, a voice that was low and smooth and a mouth that made her wet even when it curled into a mocking grin.
Which was beyond intolerable and only increased her desire to hate him.
Muttering a string of obscenities, Frankie vaulted from her seat and paced the plush office. She simply couldn’t believe this. Could not believe it. She’d known Zora Anderson-Hatcher since college, had been right there with her when the concept for Chicks-In-Charge had been born and had heard her say on countless occasions that she’d never hire a man. It was no small part of the reason Frankie loved working for CHiC, why she’d been drawn to and ultimately proud of being a part of the Chicks-In-Charge organization.
And despite that vehement credo, Zora’d not only abandoned it altogether, but hired the worst possible man on the damned planet and had the further effrontery to pair her with him?
She frowned, then irritably rubbed the line from between her brows. It just didn’t make any sense. Was completely out of character. Totally rash. What on earth had possessed her to—
Frankie gasped and whirled to face her. “You’ve been playing Dirty Poker again, haven’t you?”
Her boss flushed guiltily and looked away.
“Zora,” Frankie all but wailed, outraged. “You’re a terrible poker player! You rarely win. How could you bet something like this?” Irritation and disgust propelled her back into her chair. She shook her head, shoved a handful of hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you did this! What on earth were you thinking?”
Zora huffed a despondent sigh, rolled her eyes. “I was thinking that I’d win, that’s what I was thinking. I had a straight flush.”
Intrigued, Frankie glanced up. “A straight flush? Then how did you—”
She smirked. “Tate had a royal flush.”
“Oh.” Well, that sucked. Nevertheless… “So what did you bet? That you’d hire a man, or that you’d hire Ross?” Frankie grimly suspected that she knew the answer, but hope prompted her to ask the question anyway.
Zora winced. “Ross. But it’s only for a week, and like I said, he may not take the job.”
Frankie scowled. This still didn’t make any sense. “Fine,” she conceded with an impatient wave of her hand. “You have to hire him for a week. That still doesn’t explain why he has to work with me.”
Zora hesitated, then steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Don’t take this the wrong way…but to be totally frank, I’m making him work with you because I know he’ll hate it.” Eyes narrowed, her lips slid into a determinedly grim smile. “If he has to work here, he’s not going to like it.”
Frankie found herself conflicted. Since she couldn’t stand Ross, anything that he found unpleasant or made him unhappy appealed to her, and being the author of his misery would ordinarily tickle her to death, but for reasons she didn’t understand, something about Zora casting her in the role was somewhat…depressing. Her shoulders sagged marginally.
Everyone was supposed to notice that she couldn’t stand him, not the other way around, dammit. He should be grateful to share the same air as her.
An arrogant, exaggerated opinion, but she couldn’t help herself. Every emotion she had pertaining to Ross Hartford felt…exaggerated. Magnified. There were lots of men who got on her nerves, but she didn’t look forward to verbally eviscerating them. Lots of men she found attractive, but she didn’t constantly—graphically—dream and fantasize about them.
In fact, as a species in general, Frankie didn’t have any use for men at all. In her experience they were all untrustworthy, thoughtless, scheming, dick-driven bastards—and her father had been the worst of the lot.
Frankie had worked her ass off for the cheating SOB for eight years—had started with the company when she’d only been sixteen—and rather than give her the VP promotion she’d not only earned, but would have been handed to a male heir, he’d given her job to the Bagel Girl. Frankie’s lips twisted with bitter humor.
Turned out that she’d been giving him more than a little extra cream cheese every morning when she’d made her way around the office—she’d been giving him a nooner before noon.
That or the whore simply couldn’t tell time.
Frankie let go a frustrated, disgusted breath. How her mother could justify staying with him absolutely mind-boggled her. She’d never understand it. Never.
Between her rotten excuse for a father and one serious-but-soured relationship, Frankie had adopted only one attitude from her male counterparts that she found useful—indifference.
When she desired companionship, she hung out with female friends. When she wanted sex, she took an occasional lover. Things were less complicated that way. The idea of a man being both a friend and a lover was completely foreign to her. In order to call a person a friend, you had to trust them. Since she didn’t trust any man, the whole boyfriend concept was simply a misnomer to her.
Granted Zora and Tate seemed to have made things work, but they seemed to be the exception to the rule. Her gaze inexplicably slid to their wedding photo proudly displayed on the credenza and she felt a rebellious twinge of envy prick her heart. Zora and Tate were clearly head-over-heels for each other, and Tate was obviously Zora’s best friend.
Regardless, Frankie would rather rock along on her own than put a toe out of her comfort zone and she’d be damned before she’d ever let a man make a fool of her. She’d never allow herself to love someone so much that she’d give up her self-respect. The image of her mother’s rigid but weary form posted by the window waiting on her lousy father to come home flashed through her mind, punctuating the thought.
Besides, she liked her life. There was a lot to be said for peace of mind, for ultimate remote-control power, for hogging the whole bed, for doing what she wanted when she wanted without having to consider anyone else’s feelings. It was a very liberated if sometimes lonely