Getting It!

“For every hand I win, I get one kiss and one touch…anywhere,” Tate said

Then he leaned back in his chair, deftly dealing the cards. He seemed to have no doubt that she’d accept his challenge. God, he knew her so well already.

Zora gazed at him shrewdly. “And what do I get if I win?”

The corners of his mouth tucked into a sexy smile. “You can have a kiss and a touch, too.”

Zora chuckled. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

Tate’s gaze slid to her breasts, making her nipples tingle and sending a sluggish heat through her limbs. He reached over the table, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. “What do you want, then?”

Her brain ceasing to function normally, Zora fought for words, realizing dimly that he was trying to sidetrack her. “Information.”

“Anything you want.” Tate shrugged, and smirked confidently. “Besides, I’m not the least bit worried. Ready to lay down?”

She fanned her cards out in front of her. “Three of a kind.”

Tate’s gaze dropped to her mouth and he licked his lips. In that instant, her body tingling, Zora knew that she’d lost.

The question was, was it just the game she’d given away, or her heart, too?

Dear Reader,

Getting It! is the debut book in my debut series entitled CHICKS IN CHARGE. I’m having a ball writing these feisty, headstrong heroines and pairing them up with worthy guys who are able to handle them. (Or so they think.) The idea of a support group created by women for women—where the chicks were literally in charge—appealed to me, and thus the fictional organization Chicks In Charge was born. (Think Romance Writers of America meets The Sweet Potato Queens.

Founder of the phenomenally successful organization Chicks in Charge, Zora Anderson has a secret that would ruin her hard-as-nails reputation—her boyfriend flatly refuses to sleep with her. She’s hot and bothered and desperately in need of an orgasmic fix. Author Tate Hatcher doesn’t know what to think when a woman he doesn’t know enters his hotel room—while he’s in the shower, no less—then continues to berate him for not seeing to her sexual needs. But one look at her and he’s ready to admit fault and rectify his supposed negligent behavior.

Be sure to check out Getting It Good!—the next story in the series coming to Harlequin Blaze in February! And be sure to drop by my Web site at www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com. I love to hear from my readers!

Happy reading,

Rhonda Nelson

Books by Rhonda Nelson

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

973—UNFORGETTABLE

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

75—JUST TOYING AROUND…

81—SHOW & TELL

115—PICTURE ME SEXY

140—THE SEX DIET

158—1-900-LOVER

Getting It!

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the original Chick-in-Charge, my best friend and critique partner, Debra Webb. Thanks for being the best friend I could ever hope to have, for being a cheerleader, for having enough faith for both of us, for being a drill sergeant, a confidante, counselor, partner in crime, sounding board and all-around bud. I’m proud to be your “Ethel.”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Prologue

AH, THERE’S CARRIE, Zora Anderson thought as she watched her friend weave her way to the back of the pub. She kept her face schooled in a calm mask, but on the inside she literally wilted with relief. The Bitchfest could begin, and she’d never needed to vent more.

She’d had the day from hell, one of the absolute worst in past and recent memory.

“Sorry I’m late.” Looking tired but gorgeous as usual, Carrie Robbins slid onto a bar stool and released a beleaguered breath. “Let the Bitchfest begin.” She signaled a waitress for a drink, then cast a glance around the small, scarred table. “So, who’s going first?”

“It looks like you need to,” Frankie Salvaterra said pointedly, and Zora had to agree. Carrie looked particularly harried this evening, as though she needed to share her weekly woes as much as the rest of them did. “What was the holdup tonight?” Frankie asked. She snorted indelicately, pulled a drink from her beer. “Was your hollandaise too runny again?”

April Wilson’s eyes twinkled and she aimed the mouth of her longneck bottle at Carrie. “My money’s on your noodles. Limp again, right?”

“Not as limp as his dick,” Frankie interjected with a grim smirk.

“Ah, but that begs the assumption that he has a dick,” Carrie replied archly. “Which he doesn’t, remember? We decided after the noodle incident that he was a ball-less, dick-less worm.”

Frankie inclined her dark head. “And a pompous bastard to boot.”

Zora laughed at the apt description. Carrie was a fabulous chef, one of the best in the area. But being one of the best didn’t keep her boss from constantly criticizing her.

Zora cast a glance at each of her friends in turn. As a matter of fact, “pompous bastard” pretty much described almost all of their respective bosses. Except for hers. She no longer had a boss. Or a boyfriend, for that matter, she thought with a bitter smile—she’d lost both when she’d gotten fired today. Zora hid a shuddering breath behind her beer, checked the burgeoning impulse to alternately scream and cry. But she wouldn’t do either because conceding so much as a frustrated tear over that faithless, scheming bottom-feeder punctuate his victory and she simply wouldn’t allow it. So long as she didn’t cry, he hadn’t won and she hadn’t been a fool.

From the sounds of things, though, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad day. Zora had polled the others before Carrie had arrived, and both Frankie and April had given their days a D for dreadful.

Quite frankly, their weekly Bitchfest at the Bald Monkey Pub in New Orleans’s French Quarter was typically the high point of her week. Being able to vent her irritation to the tune of low jazz, cold beer, commiserating nods and righteous indignation on her behalf was, in her opinion, better than paying a shrink a couple hundred bucks an hour. The four had met in college, forged instant friendships, and had provided group therapy through every victory and pitfall ever since. Zora had a great family—a couple of older brothers, a mother and father who’d long since retired to sunnier climes—but this group of women had become the sisters she’d longed for, but never had.

Regrettably, there’d been more pitfalls in recent weeks and Zora knew that something simply had to give. Frankie’s cynicism had taken a possibly chronic turn, Carrie’s effervescent laughter had lost its usual fizz and April’s sometimes annoying but always endearing Pollyanna attitude had dimmed considerably. They were on the Bitter Bitch Express traveling at near-sonic speed and, unless something drastically good happened to derail them, Zora feared they were nearing the Point of No Return. They’d become man-hating cat-lovers with too many microwave dinners in the freezer and a handy vibrator in the bedside drawer.

Zora liked men, was allergic to cats and, other than the occasional bag of popcorn, didn’t use her microwave. She preferred takeout. As for the vibrator, she enjoyed every aspect of sex—from the anticipation of a kiss to the final sated sigh of post-orgasm and every minute in between—to be fully satisfied by a battery-operated boyfriend. Her lips curled. She couldn’t imagine any of her friends being satisfied with that lifestyle either.

A weary grin caught the corner of Carrie’s mouth. “No limp noodles or runny hollandaise this time.” She gratefully accepted her beer from the waitress. “Does this mean I’m going first?”

Zora nodded and the others chorused their agreement. Usually the person with the worst news got the honors—getting summarily fired and dumped in the same day undoubtedly qualified—but she didn’t mind waiting. She’d get her turn. “Let’s hear it.”

Carrie leaned back in her chair and gave her head a helpless shake. “What I can say? It’s just the same old shit. Martin isn’t happy unless he’s finding fault and—” her voice developed an edge “—he particularly enjoys finding fault with me.” She let go a sigh. “Tonight I didn’t put enough feta cheese on the bruschetta.” She shrugged. “Tomorrow night it’ll be something else.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Bastard.”

“Asshole.”

Verbally flaying the boss in question always made them feel better. Zora quirked a brow. “Any news from Let’s Cook, New Orleans?”

Carrie flashed a sad smile. “Not a word.”

Carrie had unwittingly served one of the creative executives behind the nationally syndicated program. The show had been such a hit, one of the major networks had asked the producers to pitch some other ideas and, after meeting Carrie, they’d talked to her about possibly coming on board. In what capacity exactly, nobody knew. Until then, Chez Martin—Martin’s restaurant—was the best game in town.

Carrie blew out a breath. “Okay, I’m done. Who’s going next?”

April raised her hand. “I will. Frankie’s hot Italian temper is running in the red zone—” she slid her a wry glance “—so I know she’s got something big to share, and Zora’s been entirely too quiet, which means she’s made the mental move into her ‘calm place.’” April cast a significant look around the table. “And we all know what that means.”

Despite everything, Zora couldn’t help but grin. April had pegged them perfectly. Frankie had a short fuse, literally erupted when she was angry. Zora didn’t. When she felt herself slipping into that kind of irritation, she simply shut it down. While Frankie’s approach might be more therapeutic, Zora’s was much more calculated…and vengeful. She didn’t forgive and forget easily, a personality trait that never failed to annoy the hell out of her well-meaning but meddlesome older brothers. They’d disliked Trent instantly, Zora remembered now. That should have been a clue.

April sighed. “At any rate, mine is very trivial and I don’t want to follow them. Any objections?” When none were made, she continued. “Something truly horrible has happened and, while I get the feeling it’s not as monumental as what everyone else has shared, it’s quite…disturbing.” Her brow folded into a troubled frown.

Intrigued, Zora arched a brow. “Disturbing as in they-quit-stocking-my-favorite-ice-cream-at-the-market or disturbing as in Dad-came-out-of-the-closet?” April’s grievances tended to run the gamut. And, point of fact, her dad hadn’t willingly come out of the closet—she’d accidentally discovered him there. Her Web-design company had been contracted to build a site for one of the local gay bars and, rather than simply letting the manager send her some photos, April had wanted to get “the feel” of the place. She fully anticipated seeing gay couples and men in drag, but she hadn’t anticipated discovering her father was one of them. Needless to say, it had come as a shock.

“Neither.” She drew in a long breath and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’ve lost my orgasm.”

Numb silence, then, “What? How did you lose it? Where did it go?”

Zora bit the inside of her cheek. “You mean you can’t—”

April exhaled mightily. “No.” She rolled her eyes. “And believe me, I’ve tried everything. It’s—” She struggled for words, shook her head. “It’s just…gone.”

“Well, it can’t be gone for good,” Frankie told her, clearly appalled at the very idea. Of the four of them, she was the most vocal about sex, about the male and female roles and the old he’s-a-stud-she’s-a-whore double standard, one of her favorite rants. “You’re just with the wrong guy.”

She sighed heavily. “Not anymore. Rob cut and run after a couple of weeks of being unable to satisfy me. His fragile ego couldn’t take it.”

“You’re better off,” Carrie told her. “I never particularly liked him.” Another unspoken rule—guys were liked until they were history, then instantly became pond scum. Solidarity, the glue that held their unique friendship together, Zora thought with a fond smile. Thank God she had their support.

“Me, either,” Frankie seconded. She peeled the label from her beer. “His feet were ugly.”

April winced reflectively. “Yeah, he did have ugly feet, didn’t he?”

Zora had never noticed Rob’s feet, but felt compelled to add to the conversation. “They were hideous.”

“Well, I’m sure that your, er…condition isn’t permanent,” Carrie told her.

April grimaced, then took a drink. “I sure as hell hope not. Who’s next?”

Frankie and Zora shared a look. “I think Frankie should go next,” Zora said. “I don’t mind being last.”

Frankie pulled a negligent shrug. “Okay. I caught my dad eating a bagel today,” she said lightly.

Carrie and April wore blank looks, but Zora knew the other shoe was about to drop.

“What?” Carrie asked, seemingly baffled. “He cheated on Atkins?”

“No,” Frankie replied tightly. “He cheated on my mother. The bagel was around the bagel girl’s breast.” Her words were surprisingly clipped, considering she’d uttered them venomously from between slightly clenched teeth.

April gasped and Carrie inhaled sharply. “No!”

Frankie smirked, proceeded to shred the label she’d removed from her bottle. “Yes.”

Zora knew that there was some animosity between Frankie and her father—Frankie had worked for her dad for years, but didn’t seem to garner the same recognition a son probably would. Furthermore, her father’s penchant for infidelity wasn’t anything new.

“Oh, Frankie, I’m so sorry,” April told her. “I know he’s your father, but—” She hesitated.

Frankie laughed grimly, gestured wearily. “It’s okay. You can say it. He’s a bastard.”

“He is!” Carrie wailed quietly. “What did you do? What did he do?”

She pulled another lazy shrug. “I said, ‘What? No cream cheese?’ and turned around and walked out.”

Despite the hell of her own day, Zora giggled. Couldn’t help herself. Now that was classic Frankie. She might have a short fuse, but it didn’t prevent her from thinking quick on her feet.

“Honestly,” she continued. “What could I do? Like I said, he’s a bastard.” She smiled grimly. “But that wasn’t the worst part.”

God, there was more, Zora thought. “What happened?”

“Turns out the bagel girl’s a new graduate in need of a better job. So guess which one she got?”

Zora felt her eyes widen. “No,” she breathed, aghast. It couldn’t be. Frankie’s dad couldn’t possibly have done that to her.

Frankie smiled grimly and sadness haunted her dark-brown eyes.

“The VP position?” Zora asked, her voice climbing. “Has he lost his mind?”

Frankie snorted. “I imagine he planted it in the bagel girl this afternoon,” she said bitterly, then released a pent-up breath and looked up. “At any rate, I’m unemployed. I walked out today and I’m not going back.”

“Then that makes two of us,” Zora told her. “We can look for a job together.”

Carrie’s eyes bugged, April’s jaw dropped and Frankie blinked. “What?”

“Unlike you, however,” Zora continued levelly, “I did not quit, but was fired.”

“Fired?” they shrieked in unison. “For what?”

Zora felt her lips form a brittle smile. “Officially? Insubordination. Unofficially? He’s boinking Carla the copy editor.”

April gasped. “He’s not!”

“Oh, but he is,” Zora insisted, comforted by their outrage.

“That scum-sucking bastard,” Frankie hissed vehemently. “After all you’ve done. How could he—but he can’t—” Her face reddened with anger. “You helped make that magazine! He couldn’t have done it without you!”

A balm and the truth, but there was nothing for it. Trent had always been her “boss.” It didn’t matter that as creative director she’d helped triple circulation, that she’d practically single-handedly turned Guy Talk around. The magazine had been struggling on the verge of extinction when she’d come on board and she’d managed to pull it away from the brink and make it thrive. All that mattered was that he had the authority to fire her, and he had.

But he would pay.

Zora didn’t know how or when, but at some point in the not-too-distant future he would pay.

Carrie shook her head. “This is simply outrageous. I just—I just can’t believe it. What are you going to do?”

Zora shrugged, resigned but not defeated. “Look for another job. In the meantime I’ve got enough in savings to get by for a while. I hate to spend it, but c’est la vie. That’s what it’s there for.”

“Zora, I just don’t know what to say.” April shot her a sympathetic look. “It’s…It’s surreal. I thought Trent was the genuine article.”

A painful lump formed in Zora’s throat, but she managed to swallow it before her eyes watered. “So did I.”

“There’s no such thing,” Frankie countered cynically. “See, this is precisely why I’ve begun to think that all men are pigs. They can’t think past their dicks. They’re too busy sticking it to the bagel girl or the copy editor.” She harrumphed under her breath. “This would have never happened to you—or to me, for that matter—if a chick had been in charge.”

Zora readied her mouth to agree, but a strange sort of tingle started in her chest, the kind that preluded creative genius, a brilliant inspired idea.

She stilled and her gaze drifted to Frankie. “Say that again,” Zora said faintly.

In the process of lifting her bottle to her mouth, Frankie paused and frowned. “This would have never happened if a chick had been in charge.”

If a chick had been in charge…

Frankie was right, Zora thought dimly as her mind spun with creative adrenaline. Women were bonders, nurturers, typically faithful and dependable. God knew she depended on her little group for everything from laughter to advice to therapy of sorts. They all needed the same thing—support. If she’d had a female boss—if they all had female bosses—then, with the exception of April, who owned her own business, none of this would have happened. They’d all be better off.

“What?” Frankie asked suspiciously. “I know that look. That’s the I’ve-got-an-idea look.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What are you thinking?”

Zora didn’t purposely ignore her, but couldn’t focus on anything beyond her current train of thought. If a chick had been in charge, she pondered consideringly, liking the way the phrase sounded, the empowering message it implied. A chick in charge…An in-charge chick…No, Zora thought as inspiration struck.

Chicks-in-charge.

“Zora?” Frankie asked again. “What gives?”

Zora smiled. “You just gave me an idea, one that I think is going to change our lives.”

She spent the next three hours outlining her thoughts, brainstorming with the other three, who quickly recognized the potential, and by the time the bartender heralded the last call of the night, the concept of Chicks-In-Charge—an organized group created by women, for women—which promoted personal and professional happiness garnered through self-awareness, self-confidence and independence, was born. They would join forces, help each other. There was strength in numbers. They could change things, Zora decided. Knew it. The board was formed, the president elected and each member held a key role. They were on the cusp of something great, something monumental. Anew beginning, a better future. Zora could feel it. They all could.

Frankie slid her a look, grinned. “This is so going to kick ass.”

Mentally exhausted but curiously energized, Zora smiled and hoisted her beer for a toast. The clink of bottles bumping finalized the deal. “To Chicks-In-Charge,” she murmured softly and they each echoed the sentiment.

1

One year later…

“I JUST WANT TO GET LAID,” Zora muttered angrily as she made her way back to her hotel room. She stabbed the elevator call button and waited impatiently for a car. Honestly, she thought. It wasn’t too much to ask. It had been more than a year. A year, she silently wailed, since she’d felt the hard, thrilling weight of a man between her thighs.

Disgusted, embarrassed, thwarted, irritated, but most of all unsatisfied, Zora shook her head at her own stupidity. What the hell had she been thinking? Why had she thought it would be a good idea to get involved with a guy who was into abstinence? Had she lost her mind? Clearly she had. Otherwise she wouldn’t be prowling the halls of one of New Orleans’s most esteemed hotels—at her first ever Chicks-In-Charge conference, no less, a personal coup—in the middle of the night bemoaning her miserable sex life and her failed attempt at seduction.

That part stung.

On the rare occasions Zora had truly applied herself at seduction, she’d always been successful. In truth, she’d never really had to apply herself. She’d smile an intimate smile, put a little extra swing in her hips, crook her finger and that would be it.

Victory.

But not tonight—and not with Dex.

Annoyingly, Dex not only had principles, but adhered to them. Initially, the idea of being in an “uncluttered” relationship, avoiding the emotional snarls that never ceased to come up between sexual partners, had appealed to her. She’d just come out a bad relationship—one of the worst, in fact—and had needed the perspective.

She’d thought it would be a good thing.

Ha!

She’d thought wrong.

As the days slid into weeks and the weeks crawled into months, sexual tension had eroded her patience and her ever-weakening resolve to abstain. This extended weekend—this conference, in particular—had seemed like the perfect time to celebrate, and she couldn’t think of a better way than a few hours of hot, frantic, sweaty sex. She’d wanted a few melting, toe-curling orgasms and room service.

To that end, she’d booked connecting rooms for her and Dex, spent an ungodly amount of money on a see-through scrap of fabric that any right-thinking male should want to tear off of her and had waxed, exfoliated and perfumed all pertinent parts of her body.

For nothing.

Zora growled low in her throat, stepped into the elevator and jabbed the button for her floor. Dex had firmly—oh-so-embarrassingly—resisted her efforts and, to avoid shrieking at him—Zora didn’t shriek, scream, wail or whine because doing so meant she’d lost control of her person, which was completely intolerable—she’d decided to take a walk to cool off. To shut down, de-stress and refocus.

Unfortunately, the lengthy walk had only given her more time to think and the more she’d thought about it, the madder she’d become. She hadn’t cooled off at all. To the contrary, she was more pissed now than she had been when she left the room. Because, while she hadn’t had any form of sexual relief during their relationship, Dex had. She’d taken care of him, and he’d never once—though he had made a few halfhearted attempts—reciprocated the gesture.

In other words, she’d made him come and he’d made her crazy.

This was supposed to have been a fantastic long weekend. Just as she’d suspected when the idea of Chicks-In-Charge had first come to her, the organization had been a smashing success, even more so than what she’d originally anticipated. The idea had struck a chord with women all across America—women who needed advice and guidance wanted to join and become members, and women who had something to offer wanted to participate and share their expertise. The group offered support to women from all walks of life, had banded them together with the sort of single-minded tenacity that had quickly thrust them into the national scene.