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.”
“Holy f—”
Cujo lunged for the button and, for the first time in a year-and-a-half, there was a full twelve seconds when the five boroughs, New Jersey and parts of Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont heard nothing but dead air.
2
CHASE FOUGHT A SMILE. He was actually enjoying
Jamie’s reaction, the way her big brown eyes widened, the pink flush on her cheeks, how she nervously licked her lush upper lip. He’d seen her before when he’d come to the station, but they’d never spoken. In fact, she’d been frightened of him, moving to the far side of the hallway when he’d passed, sneaking looks at him, blushing, like now. The last time, about six months ago, he’d almost asked her why, but she’d ducked into the ladies’ room.
He liked her show, even though her message was a bunch of garbage. It was a smart move on Fred’s part to have hired her. The station hadn’t had a major ratings winner in a long time. Not that he cared. This wasn’t his thing anymore. His father had owned the station, and Chase had inherited it after the old man died. But he wasn’t a part of it now. The only reason he came here was because they gave him a small office where he collected his business mail, and let him use Fred’s secretary for some clerical work now and then. Not having a permanent residence, it was convenient.
He saw Cujo signal that the commercials were about to end. Jamie didn’t look ready. Damn, she was a pretty thing. Innocent. At least she looked innocent, which all of New York knew wasn’t true. But she sure seemed flustered as hell. She was known for her no-nonsense approach to matters of the body, for her unflinching answers to the most kinky questions. No one would mistake her for a silly female. Yet right now, she looked like a twelve-year-old with her underpants showing.
Darlene grabbed hold of him and pulled him toward one of the guest chairs. “Chase, why don’t you sit down.” The booth had been recarpeted since the last time he’d been in it. That had been years ago. Now, it seemed smaller, but like every other booth he’d seen—the thick carpet to mask sound, an oversize desk for the DJ and several mikes for group discussions. The console was computerized, a far cry from the equipment in place when his father had first started the station.
Darlene sat in the chair next to him. She gave him a set of headphones and found one for herself. Jamie just kept staring at him, and he wondered how long it would be before she blinked.
His attention went back to the other side of the glass where Cujo was waving wildly, trying to get Jamie’s attention. Dead air was trouble. Chase decided to give her a break. He pressed the button to turn the guest mikes live.
Darlene caught on. “This is Darlene Whittaker from Vanity Fair. In case you’ve just tuned in, I’m interviewing Dr. Jamie for a feature article…”
Chase tuned her out as she explained the situation to the audience. He probably should have listened, given his role, but he was preoccupied. Jamie hadn’t spoken yet. She’d run a hand through her short hair, making it a little messier than she’d probably intended, but he wasn’t complaining. He liked seeing a preview of what she’d look like in his bed, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, trying to catch her breath.
There were two things that mattered to Chase. Racing and women. Not necessarily in that order. The pursuit of his two hobbies took equal amounts of time and energy. They were very similar, in fact. Both cars and women needed careful attention to make them purr. Truth be known, cars were the easier of the two. They never got emotionally involved.
“Chase, why don’t you tell the listeners something about yourself.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off Jamie. “I drive cars. Sometimes, I live in New York.”
“Yes, well, uh, you drive race cars, isn’t that right? And didn’t you win at Le Mans last year?”
“Yeah.”
“And weren’t you also dating Charlize Theron at that time?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted a relationship.”
“And what about you?”
“I was good in bed.”
Darlene laughed, and Jamie’s blush deepened.
He leaned over and took Jamie’s right hand. It was fisted, and she tried to pull it away, but he didn’t let her. “Jamie,” he whispered, “what are you afraid of?”
She jerked her hand away, and in that act of defiance she seemed to gather her wits about her. She cleared her throat, moved her chair forward, adjusted her headphones. “Tell me, Mr. Newman. You seem to be a busy man with
