âFor every hand I win, I get one kiss and one touchâ¦anywhere,â Tate said
Then he leaned back in his chair, deftly dealing the cards. He seemed to have no doubt that sheâd accept his challenge. God, he knew her so well already.
Zora gazed at him shrewdly. âAnd what do I get if I win?â
The corners of his mouth tucked into a sexy smile. âYou can have a kiss and a touch, too.â
Zora chuckled. âThatâs not what I had in mind.â
Tateâs 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. âWhat do you want, then?â
Her brain ceasing to function normally, Zora fought for words, realizing dimly that he was trying to sidetrack her. âInformation.â
âAnything you want.â Tate shrugged, and smirked confidently. âBesides, Iâm not the least bit worried. Ready to lay down?â
She fanned her cards out in front of her. âThree of a kind.â
Tateâs gaze dropped to her mouth and he licked his lips. In that instant, her body tingling, Zora knew that sheâd lost.
The question was, was it just the game sheâd given away, or her heart, too?
Dear Reader,
Getting It! is the debut book in my debut series entitled CHICKS IN CHARGE. Iâm 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 womenâwhere the chicks were literally in chargeâappealed to me, and thus the fictional organization Chicks In Charge was born. (Think Romance Writers of America meets The Sweet Potato Queens.
) This series will cover the founding board membersâ stories, and begins with Zora Anderson, the founding president.
Founder of the phenomenally successful organization Chicks in Charge, Zora Anderson has a secret that would ruin her hard-as-nails reputationâher boyfriend flatly refuses to sleep with her. Sheâs hot and bothered and desperately in need of an orgasmic fix. Author Tate Hatcher doesnât know what to think when a woman he doesnât know enters his hotel roomâwhile heâs in the shower, no lessâthen continues to berate him for not seeing to her sexual needs. But one look at her and heâs ready to admit fault and rectify his supposed negligent behavior.
Be sure to check out Getting It Good!âthe 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
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
973âUNFORGETTABLE
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
75âJUST TOYING AROUNDâ¦
81âSHOW & TELL
115âPICTURE ME SEXY
140âTHE SEX DIET
158â1-900-LOVER
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. Iâm proud to be your âEthel.â
AH, THEREâS 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 sheâd never needed to vent more.
Sheâd had the day from hell, one of the absolute worst in past and recent memory.
âSorry Iâm late.â Looking tired but gorgeous as usual, Carrie Robbins slid onto a bar stool and released a beleaguered breath. âLet the Bitchfest begin.â She signaled a waitress for a drink, then cast a glance around the small, scarred table. âSo, whoâs going first?â
âIt looks like you need to,â 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. âWhat was the holdup tonight?â Frankie asked. She snorted indelicately, pulled a drink from her beer. âWas your hollandaise too runny again?â
April Wilsonâs eyes twinkled and she aimed the mouth of her longneck bottle at Carrie. âMy moneyâs on your noodles. Limp again, right?â
âNot as limp as his dick,â Frankie interjected with a grim smirk.
âAh, but that begs the assumption that he has a dick,â Carrie replied archly. âWhich he doesnât, remember? We decided after the noodle incident that he was a ball-less, dick-less worm.â
Frankie inclined her dark head. âAnd a pompous bastard to boot.â
Zora laughed at the apt description. Carrie was a fabulous chef, one of the best in the area. But being one of the best didnât keep her boss from constantly criticizing her.
Zora cast a glance at each of her friends in turn. As a matter of fact, âpompous bastardâ 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 smileâsheâd lost both when sheâd gotten fired today. Zora hid a shuddering breath behind her beer, checked the burgeoning impulse to alternately scream and cry. But she wouldnât do either because conceding so much as a frustrated tear over that faithless, scheming bottom-feeder punctuate his victory and she simply wouldnât allow it. So long as she didnât cry, he hadnât won and she hadnât been a fool.