Getting It Good!

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.

Like landing the Maxwell account.

The familiar burn of anticipation rushed through him, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside. When word got out that Maxwell Commodities had been looking for a new firm, Tate had made sure that Hatcher Advertising was first in line for a shot at it. He’d then put his top executives on the job and Ross was fortunate enough to be counted among them.

But it wasn’t good enough.

He wanted lead on this account.

And he was the logical choice because when it came to marketing men’s products—no brag, just fact, he was the best in the firm. Maxwell Commodities marketed everything from men’s toiletries to clothing as well as home fitness equipment and tools. The company catered exclusively to the male population and, while Ross admittedly didn’t have any idea how to market women’s products, he knew his stuff when it came to men. He was a guy, after all. His no-frills, no-bullshit style appealed to the man’s man. Facts, statistics, specs. Those were the things men were interested in. Aesthetics, thank God, didn’t enter the picture.

Landing lead on this account would garner national recognition, would put him in the inside lane on the fast track of his advertising career. Ross didn’t think a man was measured by his success or any of that nonsense. He was simply competitive. Had always been that way. Hell, a guy couldn’t play football—and every other sport imaginable—for more than a decade and come out any different. He wanted to be the best. When a knee injury in his senior year of high school had cost him a football career and a full-ride at LSU, Ross had been forced to direct his competitive efforts in another direction—college, then ultimately his career in advertising.

To that end, he had to land this account, because only the best could handle it.

“So who’s the lucky guy?” Ross asked, tuning back into the conversation. “Anybody we know?”

Tate hesitated and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Me?” What did he have to do with it? Ross wondered, suppressing the growing urge to check his e-mail. He’d worked on a couple of new ideas for Maxwell last night and had forwarded them to his office account. Occasionally what seemed like creative genius in the wee hours of the morning turned out to be total shit after a few winks. He was curious to see what this morning’s perspective brought.

“Yes, you.” Tate paused, and for some reason that ominous silence rang like a death knell. “You see, it’s not just any man that Zora has to hire—it’s you.”

Ross stilled. Shock jimmied a disbelieving chuckle loose from his throat. “What?”

Tate smiled grimly. “It’s you. You’re the man she’s hiring.”

Stunned, Ross shook his head, waited for his frozen smile to thaw. “Er…no, she’s not,” he said flatly. Even if he were so inclined—which he most definitely was not—he didn’t have the time. He had a damn job, one that he currently spent twelve-plus hours a day on. Furthermore, what in the hell would he do for Zora? What could he—a man—possibly do for a chick magazine?

Tate considered him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I suppose I could call upon our years of friendship, ask you to do this for me simply because it would give me a small amount of petty satisfaction after listening to my wife repeatedly tell me that she’d never hire a man.” Tate lifted his shoulders in a futile shrug. “But I can tell that it would be a waste of breath, so here’s the deal. Do you want the Maxwell account?”

Ross blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Of course I do.”

“Then it’s simple. If you agree to work for Zora, then it’s yours. If not…” He winced lightly and let the implication hang in the silence.

Beyond stunned, Ross shook his head. Tate had a reputation for being a bit ruthless, but this was the first time he’d ever been on the receiving end of it. Arguing, Ross knew, would be pointless. Trying to make Tate change his mind once it was set was like bear-hunting with a BB gun. Utterly futile. He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. Resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “How long?”

“Only a week,” Tate told him. He blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I know I’m playing dirty on this one, but I won,” he said desperately. With a somewhat manic gleam in his normally clear eyes, he leaned forward as though he were about to impart something very important. “Do you know what a rare occurrence that is with my wife? Do you have any idea?”

“You beat your wife at poker all the time, Tate,” Ross returned flatly.

“Yeah, but this time it’s different. I’m getting something that Zora’s never had to give up—humility. Come on, Ross,” he cajoled. “It’s only a week. What’s one week out of a lifetime? What’s one measly week for the Maxwell account?”

Not much, he had to agree. Nevertheless, he didn’t like being a part of Tate and Zora’s poker games and he damned sure didn’t like being blackmailed into getting an account that should have been his to start with.

Ross normally resisted all attempts to manage and maneuver him, but Tate, the intuitive bastard, had hit upon the one thing that he couldn’t refuse—the Maxwell account. If he would have dangled anything else, Ross would have been able to say no.

But not this.

He wanted it. It was a trophy account—the one that would ultimately prove he’d arrived.

And, though he didn’t appreciate Tate’s method, he’d had the balls to lay it all on the line, so he had to respect him for that, if nothing else. Ross let go a breath and glared at him. “You’re a sneaky bastard, Tate,” he told him, letting him know that he wasn’t completely off the hook.

“I know.”

Resigned, Ross rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to do?”

Seemingly relieved, Tate leaned back in his seat and winced. “That’s the kicker. I don’t know,” he said grimly. “We’re meeting Zora for lunch at Mama MoJo’s at noon.”

Ross shot him a hard look. “But it’s only a week, right?”

Tate nodded. “Right.”

“Fine,” Ross told him wearily. Hell, he could stand anything for a week, especially if it meant the Maxwell account would be his.

2

THREE HOURS LATER Ross’s steps slowed as he entered the eclectic café and the grim realization that he’d been wrong—that there was one thing that he couldn’t take for a week—hit him because that very thing was sitting at their table with Zora—Frankie Salvaterra.

“You didn’t tell me Mouth would be here,” Ross said tightly. Equal parts anticipation, dread and desire coalesced in his gut, pushed his pulse rate up to pre-stroke level. His skin prickled, his stomach parachuted and his loins ignited into an inferno of repressed lust.

Regrettably, Frankie always had that effect on him.

“That’s because I didn’t know,” Tate returned from the side of his mouth as he made his way across the room. He, too, suddenly looked a little uneasy, a fact Ross didn’t find the least bit reassuring.

Having spotted them, Zora smiled and waved them over. Frankie turned then, and that dark-as-sin gaze tangled with his. Her ripe mouth curled into a woefully familiar mockery of a grin, the barest hint of a smile, and that one provoking gesture somehow managed to be simultaneously superior and sexy.

And, as usual, it annoyed the hell out of him. He swallowed a long-suffering sigh.

Furthermore, to make matters worse—and truthfully, he wouldn’t have thought that would have been possible—Frankie had looked entirely too happy to suit his taste…because if Frankie was happy it could only be because she knew that he would soon be supremely unhappy. Clearly Zora had filled her in on the present situation and Ms. Merciless had tagged along to silently chortle over his misfortune.

“You have no idea what she wants me to do?” Ross asked again. His gaze drifted to Frankie once more and he watched as she and Zora shared a conspiratorial smile. Oh, hell, Ross thought as dread formed a tight ball in his belly. This didn’t bode well. Not well at all. His insides clenched and he stifled a groan.

“None,” Tate replied as they neared the table. He bent and brushed a kiss over his wife’s cheek and murmured a warm greeting.

“Zora, Frankie,” Ross said, giving them each a glance in turn, before taking his seat. Though he’d only spared half a second, had barely glanced at her at all, that one meager look had been all Ross needed to catalogue every pertinent detail when it came to Frankie.

Simply put, she was a classic Italian beauty. Long black hair, cut in lengthy layers that framed an elegant yet striking face. Large almond-shaped dark eyes, sleek dramatic brows, creamy olive skin and a mouth that inspired more than a few erotic dreams. Her lips were full, lush and unbelievably provocative. She was petite but very generously curved and she moved with a careless sort of grace that was, quite frankly, fascinating—mesmerizing—to watch.

Ross inwardly snorted. God knows, there had been times when dragging his eyes off of her had been almost impossible. Were that not enough, for reasons which escaped him, the Almighty had further blessed her with a keen mind and a diabolically sharp wit. Ross had found himself verbally flayed many times by that Ginsu tongue of hers and he grimly suspected that it was about to happen again.

It was a cruel joke really, Ross thought, mentally bracing himself, to package such a mind and body with the personality of a waspish hellcat. Crueler still that he actually looked forward to tangling with her, that he wanted her so desperately that it almost frightened him. Thankfully, fear was an emotion he refused to acknowledge, otherwise he’d undoubtedly be in trouble.

A beat later he felt her gaze slide over him, caught the vaguest curve of a smile, and the unease that had settled like a stone in his gut grew increasingly heavier. Annoyed, he looked away. A single hot oath sizzled on his tongue, but miraculously, he held it.