Getting It Good!. Rhonda Nelson

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      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 lifestyle.

      Furthermore, she loved her job. She’d found her niche as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Empowering women through sexuality was a noble goal. Teaching them to voice their needs, to act upon their baser desires, to be confident in their femininity, and more often than not, telling them to advise their blockheaded lovers on how to please them, was rewarding work. In her biweekly column, she leavened her sassy, blunt advice with a healthy lump of humor, and so far, the combination had worked beautifully.

      So well, in fact, that beginning next week she’d start a five-city tour across the U.S. promoting the new glossy format of the magazine. She’d been honored that Zora had asked her to do it, and really looked forward to promoting CHiC and the whole Chicks-In-Charge movement. Both had really changed her life and she desperately wanted to give something back, wanted to share the phenomenon with other women.

      Frankie paused. Since she wouldn’t be in the office, would be on tour, just exactly how was Ross supposed to work with her over the next week? The hair on her nape prickled and a cold knot of dread formed in her suddenly roiling tummy.

      She carefully looked up. “Zora, just exactly—”

      “If he takes the job, he’ll be going with you,” Zora said, anticipating her question.

      Frankie swallowed the urge to scream and puke at once. “With me? As what? My assistant?” She hesitated, a sudden image popping into her head. Ooh, this could work, she thought as the idea gained momentum. She’d love bossing him around, sending him on pointless errands, giving him degrading tasks designed expressly to turn his mind black with rage. A bolt of evil glee shot through her, but withered at the small shake of Zora’s head.

      “Nooo,” she replied, dragging the word out. Then a wicked smile bloomed across her lips and her eyes twinkled with devilish humor. “He’s going to be CHiC’s temporary Duke of Desire.”

      Frankie frowned. Duke of Desire? But—A beat slid into three, then comprehension dawned and a low chuckle vibrated the back of her throat.

      Equally impressed and awed, she returned Zora’s grin. “Oh, he’s going to hate that,” she said with vengeful relish. “He’s really going to hate it.”

      Zora nodded. “Precisely. Think you can suffer through it?”

      Frankie nodded without hesitation. The mere idea of Ross’s impending discomfort was balm enough for her battered ego. “Oh, yeah. I can suffer through it.”

      But she happily suspected he’d be suffering more.

      “YOU’RE KIDDING,” Ross chuckled, stunned. He snagged a cup of coffee from his beleaguered assistant along with the usual stack of morning messages and hurried into his office. “Zora’s going to hire a man? What?” he joked, tossing a smile over his shoulder at Tate. “Did hell freeze over while I wasn’t looking?” He rounded his desk and plopped down into his chair. Idly flipped through his messages, silently swore when he realized more than half of them were from her. His fingers involuntarily curled, crushing the notes in his hand.

      Tate laughed, settled himself into the seat opposite him. “No. An opportune visit from Lady Luck and my superior poker skills are what brought about the phenomenon.” His boss sighed, clearly wallowing in the victory of his coup.

      “Dirty Poker, again, huh?” Ross replied, trying to force his irritated, preoccupied mind on their conversation. He conjured a brittle smile.

      Zora and Tate’s risqué card game was legendary among Tate’s friends. By all accounts Zora was an abysmal poker player, yet that didn’t keep the couple from continuing to play the game. Zora had once confided that even when she lost, she still won. As far as Ross was concerned, that one telling comment pretty much summed up their marriage.

      In a time when more than half of all marriages ended in divorce—his parents’ included—it was refreshing to see a couple who would undoubtedly go the distance. Not that their happily-ever-after engendered any latent desire to rush to the altar himself—not no, but hell no, Ross thought with an internal snort.

      Maintaining a monogamous relationship was work and he already had a job, thank you very much. A job that he loved, where black was black and white was white and effort and loyalty were rewarded accordingly. He avoided anything gray—emotions, feelings, guessing games, the unsure or the vague.

      Furthermore, his parents’ dysfunctional, mistrustful, adulterous hate-fest had been a doozy, and after surviving that, he simply preferred to be single. If those weren’t enough reasons to avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex, then his current situation most definitely was.

      He was being…harassed.

      Actually, stalked worked better but it seemed so dramatic that Ross balked at the term. A little harassment he could handle—stalking implied he needed professional help.

      Besides, at the moment—and pretty much every moment—he had more pressing matters to concern himself with than worrying about a possible significant other, lack thereof, or a thwarted lover who couldn’t move on.

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