Rock My World

Too still. Was he holding his breath? Was he afraid he might accidentally brush against her? She turned on her side toward him. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out his profile. “Do you think the security camera can really see anything in the dark? she asked.

“They can see. They probably have infrared technology. You know, like night scopes.”

“Do you think they can see what we do under the covers?” She slid her hand over until it brushed his thigh. The muscles contracted at her touch.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“Why? You do want me, don’t you?” She scooted closer, her hand moving up his thigh while her other hand rested on his chest.

“Yes.” The word was a hiss, like air escaping an overpressurized balloon.

“And I want you.” She kissed his shoulder and felt his fingers drift toward her. “So what are we waiting for?”

Dear Reader,

When I was a little girl, I read From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg, about a pair of children who run away from home and live in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The idea fascinated me, but being a small-town girl, with no big museums nearby, I decided that if I ran away, I’d hide out at the furniture store. I could sleep in a different bed every night and watch twenty TVs at the same time!

Those childhood imaginings were at work when I came up with the idea for Rock My World. Of course, I and my characters have to return to the real world of jobs and friends and, well, life after our time hiding out at the furniture store. That’s where the real challenge of any relationship lies. I hope you’ll enjoy reading how Adam and Erica face their challenges—and how they fulfill their fantasies.

I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at [email protected], visit me on the Web at www.CindiMyers.com or write to me at P.O. Box 991, Bailey, CO 80461.

Happy reading!

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to John Craft for answering my questions about radio. Any mistakes in this manuscript are my fault, not John’s.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

“I TELL YOU, NICK, this is gonna be great. The whole city will be talking about this one.”

Erica Gibson froze outside the office of the station manager of radio station KROK, her arms full of demo CDs, press packets, contest entries and miscellaneous envelopes that had arrived in the day’s mail. Six months of working as an intern/assistant/general flunky at the station had taught her that these were dangerous words. Station manager Carl Husack was forever hatching wild schemes to promote KROK (pronounced kay-rock, not crock he had warned her, her first day on the job. This despite the cartoon drawing of a dancing crocodile that appeared in almost every advertisement for the station.) Staff didn’t want to get too close to Carl when he was in full gonzo promo mood or they’d find themselves dressed like chickens passing out flyers in the parking lot at a Broncos game or hurtling down a ski slope wearing nothing but flesh-colored bikinis and strategically placed KROK stickers—both stunts to which previous interns had been subjected.

“Tell me again, because I can’t believe I heard you right.” Morning show host “Naughty” Nick Cassidy sprawled on the leather sofa across from Carl’s desk. Erica could just make out the silver-tipped toes of his black alligator boots.

“A bed-in,” Carl said. “You broadcast for seventy-five hours from a king-size bed in the main showroom of Mattress Max’s Furniture Gallery.”

Erica made a face. Mattress Max was the station’s biggest advertiser, known for his in-your-face, used-car-salesman approach to selling furniture. “You can’t beat a Mattress Max deal!” he screamed in commercials that aired on KROK twenty times a day.

“A bed-in.” Nick’s trademark sultry drawl tended to sound more like a croaking frog when he wasn’t “on.” “What’s so fascinating about me sitting in bed cuing up CDs?”

“You don’t just cue up CDs. We’ll make it a fund-raiser. People come by and donate money for the new homeless shelter the Salvation Army is building in Aurora. Get it—a bed-in to raise money for more beds for the homeless?”

The more Carl talked, the more he sounded like Mattress Max, with that same frantic quality.

“I don’t know, Carl. It sounds boring as hell.”

“Not boring. Not boring at all. It wouldn’t just be you in the bed. We’d put one of the female jocks with you. The public will love it.”

Nick leaned forward. Now Erica could see the wave of ink-black hair that dipped over his forehead, and the end of his nose jutting out like the prow of a ship. He had, as Carl himself said, “A face only radio could love,” but that didn’t stop him from making time with every female who crossed his path. In fact, the whole Naughty Nick show was based on the premise that he was the biggest player in Denver. And as of last month, it was the top-rated morning drive-time show among the coveted demographic of twenty-four to fifty-four-year-olds.