shower curtain sang across the rod as it was pulled back to reveal six and a half feet of hard, muscled, gloriously proportioned male anatomy. “Hand me a towel.”
An anatomy that didn’t belong to Dex.
Her gaze traveled from a pair of large, masculine feet up long muscular legs, lingered on the impressive, semi-aroused package located between those legs, then moved upward over six-pack abs and a chest that would make any hetero woman or non-hetero man pant and salivate. Rivulets of water streamed over every perfect part, and though it was completely insane, she was hit with the absurd notion to chase each and every one with her tongue. She wanted to lick him all over.
Until she saw his face—then she inhaled sharply and vainly wished for a hole she could fall into.
For the first time in her life Zora found herself in a situation where she didn’t have any idea how to proceed. She was hit with the simultaneous urge to sob, wail, laugh, scream and, most disturbingly, run. All of which were intolerable, but for the life of her she couldn’t make her brain assimilate any sort of a plan. All she could do was stare, mentally agape, at the naked figure before her. Naked figure, her mind repeated, and with a startled flash of insight, his request registered and she blindly handed him a towel. To her chagrin, he didn’t immediately fasten it around his hips as any decent man would do, but took his time toweling off instead.
Five o’clock shadow shaded an angular jaw and a faint smile curled one of the sexiest mouths she’d ever seen—but it was the eyes that got her. A pair of disturbingly familiar aged-whiskey eyes—eyes she’d recently studied too intently on the back of a book she wouldn’t name—stared back at her. Sweet mother of God, Zora thought faintly…it was Tate Hatcher.
THE LAST THING TATE HATCHER expected when he stepped into the hotel shower this evening was to be walked in on by a woman, then have that woman criticize him for not seeing to her “needs.”
Quite frankly, he’d been criticized for many things over the years—his cynicism, his inability to commit and various other offenses—but that had never been a problem.
He’d never been accused of being a lousy lover, and from the sounds of things, this woman had not only gotten involved with a man who was into abstinence—what kind of a man didn’t want to have sex? Tate wondered incredulously—but had also managed to hook up with one who didn’t…service her at all.
It was utterly mind-boggling.
The moment his startled brain recognized that she’d obviously mistaken him for someone else, Tate knew he should have spoken up and put a halt to her breakup speech, but blatant curiosity had kept him from exercising the courtesy. What sort of woman got involved with a guy who didn’t want to have sex? Tate had wondered, morbidly intrigued.
In his research and experience, most women controlled men by wielding sexual power over a guy. If she hadn’t used the Vagina Vice, just what sort of method had she attempted to employ to keep him in line? It was something to think about, Tate decided—definitely potential book fodder, which would please his agent—but not right now. He calmly toweled the back of his head. He had other things to attend to right now.
Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and thready. “You’re not—”
“Dex,” Tate finished helpfully. He finished drying his face. “I know.” He’d planned to elaborate, but was met with the second major shock of the night. He blinked, certain his eyes had deceived him.
Long, wavy red hair. Light green eyes. Little Dipper freckle pattern over her slim nose. Gorgeous body. And if she opened her mouth, a forked tongue.
Yep, Tate concluded. It was definitely her.
His mystery woman—the failed seductress—was none other than Zora Anderson.
He’d recognize the gorgeous redheaded harpy anywhere, Tate thought, still stunned. God knows he spent enough time listening to her tear his book apart over the past few weeks. The success of his book had coincided with the success of her women’s support organization—which had put them in the national spotlight together, a situation that had resulted in much irritation and entertainment. Irritation for him, entertainment for others.
In fact, she and her infernal Chicks-In-Charge conference was the reason he was here—research for his next book. What better way to discredit his critics than to observe them in their element?
His agent, Blake Whitaker, had suggested that a wealth of new book material could be found at the infamous first annual Chick conference, and had practically insisted that Tate find some way to attend. With a deadline looming ahead and no clue for the topic of the next book, he was sincerely hoping that creative genius would strike while he was here. It had to, otherwise he was screwed. What on earth had possessed him to sign a two-book deal? Tate wondered for the umpteenth time. Still, it looked like Blake had been right. Their leader had practically landed in his naked lap, and he hadn’t even made it out of his room yet.
Tate felt a disbelieving smile spread over his lips and, though he knew it was awful, he had to forcibly quell a hoot of laughter, a triumphant chortle of joy.
The balls-to-the-wall, hard-as-nails she-devil—the Chicks-In-Charge president herself—couldn’t get her pansy-ass boyfriend to sleep with her.
Now that was a fortuitous bit of information if he’d ever found any.
Evidently, she’d reached the same conclusion. In a nanosecond, the confusion cleared from her pale green eyes and a knowing little smirk drifted over her distractingly lush mouth. If she was embarrassed—and she most certainly had to be—her face didn’t display even the remotest clue to what she was feeling.
“You can lose the shit-eating grin,” she said. She stood and crossed her arms over her chest, let her gaze drift around the steamy room, purposely looking at anything but him. “I know who you are and evidently you know who I am. My question is this—what are you doing here?”
Quick, too, Tate thought, reluctantly impressed. She’d bypassed all the oh-my-God, what-a-nightmare drama and moved directly into damage control/stealth mode. “Since you’ve wandered into my bathroom,” he drawled lazily, “I’d say I have dibs on that that question.” Tate smiled. “But we already know the answer to one, eh? I take it Dex was the previous occupant of this room?”
She bit the inside of her cheek before responding. Summoning patience, he suspected. “Yes, he was.”
“And he left without saying goodbye?” Tate tutted sympathetically. “That has to hurt.”
She glared at him. “Actually, it’s a relief,” she said tightly. “Would you mind putting that towel on, please?”
“Then I must have misunderstood the problem,” Tate replied with a feigned frown, enjoying himself immensely. He did as she requested, loosely draped the towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower. “I thought relief is what you hadn’t been getting.”
Her lips formed an irritated smile. “Very cute. But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
Tate shrugged, purposely avoiding the question. “It’s a free country. I can do whatever I want to.” It was the equivalent of na-na na-na boo-boo, but what the hell. He was still in shock.
She studied him a moment, and Tate got the most uncomfortable feeling that she was somehow peering directly into his brain, prodding
