Getting It Good!

3

AFTER COMING HOME to a bouquet of flowers on his front porch, two lengthy I-miss-you, this-can’t-be-over letters in his mail box and half a dozen hang-up calls on his answering machine, the idea of leaving town for a week—even with thorn-in-his-side Frankie—had gained considerable appeal.

Honestly, Ross thought with a disgusted grunt as he tossed the letters aside and systematically erased each of the messages, how much longer could this go on? He’d dodged calls from Amy—the ex who didn’t get the “ex” part—all morning and afternoon, and knew that the only reason she hadn’t “dropped by”—an irritatingly frequent occurrence—was because she was working. She’d shared that little tidbit in one of her many messages.

Ross had been dating since his early teens, knew the ins and outs of proper dating and break-up etiquette. He wasn’t a cheap date, did his best to be respectful and attentive and never tried to push things to an intimate level unless he was completely sure of two things—mutual consent and the understanding that sex wasn’t a precursor to a lasting relationship.

The moment he felt a woman change the rules, sensed that they were trying to move things beyond a purely recreational level, he very politely, very carefully bailed.

Dates one and two with Amy had been great. Date three she’d spent the night. Date four she’d asked for a key. He hadn’t given her one, of course, but that hadn’t stopped her from “surprising” him with dinner—at his house—on date five.

He’d come home to find his living room rearranged, a casserole in the oven, and her toothbrush, toiletries and a good portion of her wardrobe in his closet.

The minor note of alarm he’d heard when she asked for the key had been nothing compared to the deafening sound of mental warning he’d experienced then.

Rather than break things off by natural degrees, Ross had—as diplomatically as he could under the circumstances—ended their relationship. He’d speedily loaded her chicken pot pie, pantyhose and other belongings into her car and sent her on her way.

Then he’d changed the locks.

There’d been something…off about the entire exchange which had made him a little nervous.

For good reason, it now seemed. Though he’d repeatedly made his feelings plain—“This isn’t working for me, we’re finished, it’s over.”—short of shouting “Leave me alone, you psycho freak!”, Ross didn’t know what else to do.

He’d always considered freezing a woman out by avoiding phone calls the cowardly, disrespectful approach, but during the past week he’d had to resort to that tactic. Being tactful but honest—then brutally honest—hadn’t worked. Ross had figured that if he simply quit responding, she’d eventually give up and move on.

Not so.

If anything, she seemed to have redoubled her efforts to make him change his mind. Seemed more determined than ever to win him back. It was annoying, not to mention…creepy. In his opinion—or any right-thinking person’s opinion for that matter—they hadn’t known each other long enough for her to have developed such an attachment.

At any rate, he didn’t have the time to linger over the issue any longer. He had too much to do.

Like getting ready for this pointless week-long jaunt around the country with Frankie.

Her beautiful smug face instantly surfaced in his weary mind, causing a simultaneous rush of irritation and longing. An odd mix, for sure, but one that he’d grown accustomed to since their mutual friends tied the knot. He’d met Frankie—as well as the rest of Zora’s CHiC posse—at a cook-out shortly after Zora and Tate had taken their relationship public. That had been something, Ross remembered. When Tate—the man who’d written What Women Really Want—Reading between the Sighs, who the Times had dubbed “The Last True Bachelor” and Zora, the founding president of Chicks-In-Charge, the poster child for Girl Power—had paired up, the press had had a field day with it. An ordinary couple probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand the scrutiny, but Tate and Zora had been so committed to each other—so in love—that they’d pulled through without a hitch.

Though birthdays eluded him and he’d never managed to commit his social security number to memory, Ross could remember the exact moment he’d seen Frankie, the precise instant he’d felt her presence. He’d been keeping Tate company at the grill, had just lifted a bottle to his lips when he’d caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. The strangest feeling had come over him, one that to this day he still couldn’t name, didn’t even attempt to try.

He’d stilled. Sound had receded, every sense had gone on point, the bottom dropped out of his stomach, and for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a stallion catching the scent of a mare.

It wasn’t just that she was gorgeous—though, he thought with a broken laugh, God knows there was no denying that—or the fact that she was sexy as hell. Frankie had possessed some other indefinable something that made her, in particular, utterly fascinating to him. There was a gut-level, knee-jerk attraction he’d never experienced before and instinctively knew he’d never feel again.

Regrettably, five seconds beyond their introduction—the one he’d taken great pains to casually force—for reasons he’d never understood, she’d taken an instant dislike to him, given him one of those provoking superior looks, opened her mouth, and that keen fascination had become hopelessly tangled with equal parts of annoyance, irritation and, gallingly, lust.

Since then the attraction had worsened right along with their ability to get along. She never missed an opportunity to zing him—went out of her way, as a matter of fact—and rather than ignoring her or giving her the cold shoulder—the mature, not to mention sane approach—he’d upped the ante until they’d turned clever bickering into an Olympic sport.

He’d rather have Olympic sex with her, but knew he had a better chance of being plucked out of his office to play quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys than maneuvering her delectable bod into bed. Was she attracted to him? Yes. Hell, he had enough experience with the opposite sex to deduce when one wanted him. Like him, Ross imagined that Frankie purposely overcompensated with sarcasm to mask the attraction.

But unlike him, she’d never act on it—she was too damn stubborn, a fact he’d noted quite forcibly when they’d tangled over hosting the wedding reception.

He’d jokingly—jokingly, geez didn’t she have a sense of humor?—suggested Hooters and she’d exploded like a hot cola can, spewing her disgust and anger at him. Citing his lamentable lack of taste, she’d promptly taken over and only by sheer force of will was he able to inject a little of his own ideas into the final arrangements.

The minute he’d gotten back to the office after that shanghai lunch, Ross had gone directly to Tate’s office and hounded him until he’d called Zora and gathered further details about the upcoming trip. He’d just as soon not be dependent on Frankie for all the facts, thank you very much and, since his landing the Maxwell account depended on him pulling off this week-long stint, he thought it prudent to make sure that he was aware of everything they would be doing.

He’d gotten the schedule and, though some of the flights and appearances were a little tight, there was still a window of time between each city that would allow him to work on the Maxwell account. He had to keep that in mind, Ross told himself. Undoubtedly the only thing that would keep him sane on this trip was the opportunity to immerse himself in work. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Immersing himself in Frankie was certainly out of the question.

As though the mere thought of her had conjured her out of thin air, Ross heard a knock at his front door. His neck tightened with tension and he let go a short breath.

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