Going For It

“Hi, Dr. Jamie.”

“What can I do for you tonight?”

“I think it would be great to have you show us, you know, how to be strong with a man.”

Jamie cursed silently. This wasn’t going to go away. “You already know how to be strong. You don’t need me to show you.”

“I might know how,” Gabby said, her voice dejected, “but it never works out that way. I guess I’m just not like you.”

“You can be whatever you want to be, Gabby. You just need to shift your beliefs about yourself. A stunt like this isn’t going to show you anything.”

Whittaker moved her chair closer to the desk. “Are you afraid, Dr. Jamie?”

“No, not at all. But my expertise is in helping others. This isn’t about me.”

“But don’t you think it should be?”

“What, so all surgeons should remove their own gall-bladders, just for the experience?” Gabby laughed.

Whittaker didn’t. “I think you’re hiding behind that title, Jamie. I think you don’t want to put your money where your mouth is.”

“You’re right. In this instance, I don’t.”

Whittaker’s gaze shifted to the window, then back again. “It would make a hell of an interesting experiment. I know your listeners would learn a lot. Show them firsthand what happens when a man is out for seduction. See what happens. Instead of talking about the experiment, go into the lab.”

Jamie forced herself to keep calm—to not reach over and strangle the reporter. “I just don’t believe this is the kind of thing one can demonstrate. It’s not like baking a cake.”

Whittaker smiled at her, then turned to the mike. “Well, audience, are we going to let her off the hook? I’ll tell you something. My magazine wants this information. All the women in New York want this information. This could be the most important radio program ever. Or, Dr. Jamie, were you just blowing so much smoke?”

“I don’t blow smoke. Ever.”

“Then, that leaves only one option.”

Damn her to hell and back. Marcy was going to pay for this. And so was Fred Holt.

Jamie leaned in to her mike. “I’ll tell you all about options…right after these commercials.”

She saw Cujo jump at the unexpected change in the schedule. But he was on top of things, and a second later Big Al’s Furniture Mart announced a super, super, super sale.

She made sure her mute button was on, then turned to Whittaker. “What the hell are you doing?”

The reporter smiled so smugly that it was an invitation for a whack. “My job. Just like you’re doing your job.”

“You know this isn’t the kind of thing one can demonstrate. You’re talking about a publicity stunt.”

“Not necessarily. It could be very educational. If any of it’s true. Is it?”

“Yes, it is. But I don’t intend to be anyone’s guinea pig.”

Whittaker shook her head. “Want to bet? If you don’t do it, I’m going to smear you and your radio show into the dirt. I know that Independence Broadcasting is looking at buying your show for national syndication. And I know that one way or another, they’re going to be influenced by this piece I’m writing. So the choice is yours. Play ball, or find yourself a new job.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Whittaker smiled. “Because I can.”

Jamie caught Cujo’s hand signal out of the corner of her eye. She turned back to the mike, fuming. She wouldn’t be blackmailed. Not by this witch. Marcy would tell Whittaker what she could do with her stupid idea. But right now, Jamie had to keep control of her broadcast. “Welcome back.”

The production booth door opened. Fred Holt and Marcy walked in. Marcy looked panicked. Fred turned to face Jamie, his jaw set and his gaze filled with dollar signs. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to get the gist. Fred wanted this to happen. He wanted his station to be number one and stay number one, and as far as he was concerned, Jamie was his ticket. But surely even Fred Holt could see this was a stupid prank. He wouldn’t be manipulated by this crazy woman, would he?

Cujo flapped his arms at her, then pointed at the phone lines.

Dammit! “Gabby, you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here. And I’m really glad you’re going to do this, uh, thing. But maybe you could explain what it is you’re going to do.”

Whittaker leaned forward. “Here’s what she’s going to do. She’s going to go out on a date. On a whole bunch of dates. Just like she was you or me. Only, she’s gonna show us how it’s supposed to be done. How a woman can’t be seduced.”

“Wait a minute. This has been fun, but come on. I don’t even have a boyfriend right now so—”

Whittaker leaned into the mike. “That’s not a problem.”

Jamie’s stomach turned. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell you what. Write whatever you want to in your magazine. I’m not playing.”

“And disappoint all your loyal fans?”

“My fans are smart enough to realize that there is no such thing as seduction, so I’ve already won.”

Darlene turned smugly toward the production booth. “Oh, really?”

Jamie didn’t want to look, but she had to. Oh man. It was worse than she’d thought. Fred Holt had moved to the window. His face was very, very pink. His gaze nearly singed her eyebrows. This was no joke. Behind him, Marcy threw her hands into the air. So much for her help.

Jamie looked at the door. She could get up and walk out. That’s all. Just walk out. But that would mean giving up her show. She loved her show. Her show was her whole life. The only thing she’d ever done for herself, by herself. And who was she kidding? She wanted syndication every bit as badly as Fred did. A national show would be the kind of achievement no one could deny—the money, the prestige, and proof she’d made the right life choice by turning her back on her parents’ medical practice.

Jamie turned to the Wicked Witch of the West Side. “All right. I’ll do it. But I’ll pick the guy.”

“Sorry. No can do. I pick the guy. You don’t want to be accused of fraud, do you?”

“Whoa. No. No way. I’m not—”

Whittaker stood up and went to the door. This time, she opened it as if it weighed ounces instead of pounds. A man stood on the other side. He walked into the booth, which immediately shrank to half its size. Jamie swallowed, trying to figure out where all the air had gone.

He stepped into the light and everything stopped, including her heart. He was quite simply the most gorgeous guy she’d ever laid eyes on. He was sex on legs, the devil in blue jeans, trouble with a capital T. He was all that and a shot of Tabasco.

“Jamie Hampton,” Whittaker said, leading him to the mike. “This is Chase Newman. The man who can’t seduce you.”