You probably gave him a complex.”
Her nostrils flared as she dragged in a harsh breath and she seemed to grow a couple of inches right before his very eyes. She cocked her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so adept at changing the subject and avoiding a simple question. You’re purposely baiting me—for your sheer amusement, I can only conclude—and I don’t appreciate it.” She paused. “Furthermore, you don’t have to tell me why you’re here.” She laughed without humor, rolled her eyes. “That’s easy enough to deduce. I’d say I’ve just given you a very juicy tidbit for your next book—or your next interview, I imagine, given the lamentable state of your character.”
“My character?” Tate interrupted as her barb found a mark. He felt his eyes widen. “What could you possibly know about my character?”
“Just what I read in your book.” Her lips formed the ghost of a smile. “It was quite…enlightening.” Her eyes gleamed with humor, punctuating the thought.
Tate had been fully prepared to defend his character, but the thought was derailed by another more intriguing one. He paused. “You’ve read my book?” What was he talking about? Of course, she’d read his book! How else could she attack every word in it in that incredibly sexy, lazy voice of hers? Tate stifled a groan.
She smiled one of those superior little grins he’d witnessed in countless interviews. The one that had the curiously disturbing effect of making his blood simmer in his veins and speedily race to his groin. “Of course,” she told him. “In fact, I’m using it in a workshop this weekend. Pity you aren’t a member of the conference. You might have actually learned something.”
Tate returned her smirk. “Yes, well. Since I’m not a woman, I’m not eligible to attend your conference.” Not a great hook, Tate thought, suddenly inspired, but he might be able to work with it.
“Ah, but that’s not going to keep you from lurking, I see.”
Tate chewed the corner of his mouth. “Lurking’s not prohibited.”
“You’re right. It’s just tacky.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “If you say so.”
“I do. And,” she said, drawing the word out as she made her way toward the door, “while this has been interesting, Mr. Hatcher, I think I’ll return to my room.”
“Don’t go on my account,” Tate told her, curiously reluctant to see her leave. “I could even get dressed if it’d make you feel better.”
Her eyes suddenly twinkled with something akin to wistfulness and her gaze inexplicably dropped to where his towel lay anchored around his waist. Tate felt a surge of masculine pleasure at the telling look. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t typically fraternize with the enemy.”
Tate chuckled. “The enemy, am I?”
“What else could you be?”
His gaze tangled with hers and he lowered his voice. “You’d be surprised. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee this weekend. I’d love to pick your brain.” Among other things. God, was she hot. Naturally he’d noticed. Still…
She paused and smiled, a genuine curve of her ripe mouth. No mockery, no irritation, just humor and the effect was positively glowing, made her more than pretty, more than sexy. It made her likable. “I wasn’t aware you thought I had one,” she said drolly. “You know. Being female and all.”
Tate pulled in a shallow breath, let his gaze drift slowly from one end of her body to the other, purposely lingered over the sweet curve of her hip, the gentle swell of her breasts, then finally settled on her face. “Now that’s not a mistake I’m likely to make.”
He had the pleasure of watching her cheeks flush and though it could just be wishful thinking on his part—though he doubted it—he thought he detected a flash of reciprocated interest.
She stilled, seemed to weigh an idea, then reach a conclusion. “How about coffee in the morning? Seven, in the lounge? I may have a proposition for you.”
Tate nodded thoughtfully, instantly intrigued. “I’ll be there.”
Without another word, Zora turned and left.
A proposition, Tate wondered consideringly. He couldn’t imagine what she had up her sleeve—couldn’t imagine it would be anything to his advantage—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn it his way.
He grinned, oddly energized by their little exchange. He had a book to write after all.
2
“NO!” FRANKIE HISSED QUIETLY, her eyes widened in apparent shock. She jerked her thumb toward the connecting door. “He’s in there? Right now?”
Zora nodded. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she’d given Frankie the abbreviated version of events. She’d left out the fact that, in some cruel twist of fate, she’d been diabolically attracted to the sardonic jerk.
Of all people for her wayward libido to respond to, it had to be him.
It was nauseating.
Granted she’d studied his picture a little too keenly, and the pages of his book were dog-eared from too many reads, but she’d chalked those proclivities up to morbid fascination.
She’d confess to a smidge of attraction—hell, he was gorgeous—but seeing him in the flesh—and she’d seen all of it, Zora thought as the image of his naked body zoomed too swiftly into focus. Smooth tanned skin, supple muscle and the finest dusting of dark hair over his impressive pecs…She let go a shuddering breath. Seeing him in the flesh had taken the barest hint of manageable interest and curiosity, and had compounded it into the mother of all attractions.
Zora would like to blame her intense reaction to him on her neglected hormones, but she knew it wasn’t true.
The sound of his voice had made her belly tip and roll.
One look into those mysterious, compelling eyes had made her scalp tingle.
Then he’d smiled, and the tops of her thighs had burned, heat had brushed her nipples, and then camped in her sex. Nothing in her past or present experience could compare.
At best it was inconvenient, at worse it was humiliating.
Renewed embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she remembered her monologue. I like sex. I’m horny. I want to get laid. Ugh, she mentally whimpered. Keeping her face schooled into the calm mask she usually wore had been monumentally difficult, particularly when she’d desperately wanted to writhe in mortified agony. She would rather have discovered the Pope in that shower—anyone but him.
Fortunately the business side of her brain had kicked in and she’d realized that doing damage control—for her reputation and, ultimately for Chicks-In-Charge—was more important than dwelling on her embarrassment. She could do that later. Right now she needed to focus on a solution, which was why she’d called Frankie and asked her to come up to her room. Zora had raided the minibar and fixed them both drinks. She’d considered holding this meeting out on the balcony, but then decided against it—who knew who might be listening,
