Going For It
Jo Leigh
Dr. Jamie Hampton talked sex - and all of Manhattan listened.She had the hottest nighttime radio show. Her racy topics and sizzling innuendo made Jamie the number one topic around water coolers all over the city. Her motto? "Go for it!" She was the expert on relationships and sex - in theory. In practice it was another matter….Bad boy Chase Newman loved talking to Jamie. On the airwaves, her voice aroused him. In person, he planned to seduce her. To teach her everything he instinctively knew she craved. So why wasn't she taking her own advice and going for it?
“I’m going to have you…sooner or later,” Chase murmured.
With a grin he tugged Jamie’s lower lip between his front teeth. A second later he stole her breath with a kiss, his tongue teasing her mouth open. With gentle pressure he rubbed his chest against hers, drawing her nipples into hard peaks. She shifted, a soft gasp letting Chase know she’d felt his erection straining for release. Soon, very soon…
Jamie whimpered as heat pooled in her lower body. He did something terribly wicked with his tongue then, thrusting inside her, then pulling back as if showing her exactly what he wanted to do to her. Goose bumps covered her flesh as vivid pictures came to mind. Chase naked—oh, lordy—thrusting into her over and over, making her scream.
His lips moved to her ear. “I’m going to taste every inch of you,” he warned, his hot breath making her shiver. “And I’m going to give you pleasure you’ve never even dreamed of.”
Sooner, Jamie thought, please make it sooner…
Dear Reader,
This month marks the launch of a supersexy new series— Harlequin Blaze. If you like love stories with a strong sexual edge, then this is the line for you! The books are fun and flirtatious, the heroes are hot and outrageous. Blaze is a series for the woman who wants more in her reading pleasure….
Leading off the launch is bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson, who brings us a heroine to remember in the aptly titled #1 Notorious. Then popular Jo Leigh delivers a blazing story in #2 Going for It, about a sex therapist who ought to take her own advice. One of today’s hottest writers, Stephanie Bond, spins a humorous tale of sexual adventure in #3 Two Sexy! Rounding out the month is talented Julie Elizabeth Leto with the romp #4 Exposed, which exposes the sexy side of San Francisco and is the first of the SEXY CITY NIGHTS miniseries.
Look for four Blaze books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at eHarlequin.com and tryblaze.com.
Enjoy!
Birgit Davis-Todd
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Blaze
Going for It
Jo Leigh
To Birgit Davis-Todd for her faith, insight and friendship.
This is just so cool.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…
Everyone says you shouldn’t do it. The sane thing would be to drop it. Why risk it? Why take a chance you might get creamed?
Oh, what the hell…GO FOR IT.
Sound familiar? I hope so. I don’t know about you, but most of the truly remarkable moments in my life have started out with that nervous tickle deep inside, with the challenge to step out of my comfort zone.
I had an incredible time writing my first Blaze novel. Creating two characters like Jamie and Chase was a definite challenge. They’re both gutsy, strong, successful…and completely confused about love.
But, and here’s the important part, they both threw caution to the wind. They went for it. They took the biggest, scariest risk of all—they dared to love.
My wish for you is that you, too, GO FOR IT. Take that risk. Put your heart on the line. You’ll never know unless you try.
Jo Leigh
Contents
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
Epilogue
1
DR. Jamie Talks Sex…and Manhattan Listens!
Darlene Whittaker took a deep drag of her cigarette outside the offices of WXNT Talk Radio and stared at the face on the billboard across the way. Dr. Jamie Hampton was the newest “It” girl in Manhattan, the topic of conversations from the Bowery to the Bronx. Beautiful, brilliant, radical Dr. Jamie.
Darlene hated the no-smoking laws in New York that had forced her outside and cursed the mayor and all the voters at least once a day. She missed her local bar, where she used to drink tequila shooters with beer chasers and go through about a half a pack a night. Damn, those were good times.
She was here on a hunch. The article had been her idea. It was also her idea to interview Dr. Jamie on the air. The good doctor hadn’t wanted to, but her station manager Fred Holt had insisted. Holt was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. The national exposure Dr. Jamie would get with the article was going to help get her syndicated, and that’s where the big bucks were. Dr. Laura, Howard Stern, Delilah—they all made a fortune for four hours on the air, five days a week. Nice work if you could get it.
Unless, of course, Darlene’s hunch was right, in which case the ensuing scandal would get Dr. Jamie a one-way ticket to obscurity, and Darlene about ten grand more per article.
She just wished she could be sure.
She focused on the billboard again. Even fifty feet wide Jamie still looked tiny. Didn’t the woman know the waif look was dead? With that short dark hair and those huge dark eyes, she came across as Little Miss Innocent—which was the hook. Just like the sign said, she talked sex and Manhattan listened. Straight answers, no euphemisms, no giggling. She told women they could have sex like men, and the women were eating it up. She had the number-one show in her market, and she was the number-one topic around watercoolers and in lunchrooms.
Darlene snorted. She’d seen ‘em come and go, and Dr. Jamie wasn’t going to be around very long. She was like a pet rock or a lava lamp. A sparkler on the Fourth of July. The trick for Darlene was to catch the light while it flared and turn the sparkler into a Roman candle. Darlene would be the one to light the match, and Jamie would burn.
Jamie’s eyes, almond shaped, deep brown, with what had to be fake lashes, stared down from the billboard with all the innocence of a lamb before the slaughter. When Darlene was through with her, Jamie would be knocked off that perch of hers and she’d have to face life among the great unwashed. Hell, Darlene was doing her a favor. Toughening her up for real life. Especially life in New York City.
God bless research. If Darlene hadn’t found Jamie’s old roommate in college, if she hadn’t gone all the way to Buffalo to do the interview in person, if Dianna Poplar hadn’t dropped just enough hints about the sex doctor…this article would have been about as interesting as a night at the Laundromat. But a scandal—that changed everything. That sold magazines. And that meant the kind of money Darlene deserved. The kind that would get her out of her hideous apartment and into something decent.
That she was able to dethrone the current queen of New York was an extra bonus. The cherry on top. Jamie was so much like all the girls Darlene had gone to college with—beautiful, bright, successful without any effort. What had Jamie done, really, to deserve this job? Gotten her degree? Big deal. Darlene had a degree, and she wasn’t about to go on the radio and say she was an expert on sex.
Jamie was a fraud. And Darlene was going to prove it.
The roar of a beefed-up motorcycle caught her attention, and she watched a guy on a Harley glide into a brilliantly lit parking space next to the Dumpster. She couldn’t see much of him—just his leather jacket, the worn jeans, the boots and the black helmet. But as she stared, he got off the bike, took off his helmet and shook his hair free. It was longish, below his collar. Then, as if he sensed her watching him, he looked over. She was too far away to see the details of his face, but she knew who he was.
Chase Newman. The race-car driver. Another one of the beautiful people who showed up at all the right parties and were paraded on the pages of magazines like Vanity Fair with other gorgeous rich people. She happened to know that People had tried to dub him Sexiest Man Alive, and he’d told the magazine to go to hell. She had to give him credit.
He turned to lock up his bike, and the short hairs on the back of her neck rose. It was her own personal radar system. There was a story here. What, she didn’t know yet. But the short hairs were never wrong.
She narrowed her gaze as she studied him. The way he moved, the way he stood, shouted confidence, sensuality, raw male energy. The kind of charisma that beguiled the most jaded hearts. Even she hadn’t been immune. She’d met him at a fund-raiser—some kid thing, or maybe pets. She’d wanted to do an article on him then, but she couldn’t find a hook. If she could figure out a way to combine the Dr. Jamie story with a guy…especially a guy like Newman.
She’d seen it before, although not terribly often. Mostly there were wannabes, men who swaggered and flexed and flashed their money around for all to see. But when the real thing came along, everyone knew it. There were some men who commanded attention. Respect. Who made a person want to breathe the same air, or at the very least stand in their shadow. Who owned the room, and all the women in it. The ladies fell in love with a man like that after even the briefest exposure—like it was some kind of virus. She’d seen it a thousand times. Women falling all over themselves to be near a man with that kind of charisma. Believing some of it would rub off on them.
Oh, yeah. Chase Newman would be perfect to put into this piece, if only she could find a way. Something about Chase and this station niggled at the edge of her consciousness. What was it? As she reached for another cigarette, she glanced at her watch and swore. She’d better get inside. Dr. Jamie was waiting. She hurried inside to the smoke-free air of the most popular talk-show radio station in the five boroughs, New Jersey and parts of Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont.
“OKAY, BOYS AND GIRLS,” Dr. Jamie Hampton said into the mike. Her favorite mug was filled with green tea, and her notes were stacked neatly in front of her. “With me now is Darlene Whittaker, from Vanity Fair magazine. She’s going to interview me right here, right now, up close and personal. And a little later, you’ll get your chance to ask me some questions, too.” She turned to her guest, outfitted with fresh coffee and her own set of headphones. “So, Darlene. What can I tell you?”
“You’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be.”
God, she was tired of that comment. “Twenty-seven on my next birthday.”
“Is the title real? Or does your first name happen to be ‘Doctor’?”
Jamie laughed, already hating the woman. It wasn’t Whittaker’s looks. She’d dressed in Manhattan gothic, with horn-rimmed glasses, a head of curly, unkempt black hair, a black tunic over black jeans, and red lipstick so bright she probably stopped traffic. The look was too passé, but that wasn’t it. The way Whittaker looked at her was another story. Something wicked was brewing inside the reporter. Something devious. “The title is real. I got my PhD in human sexuality at NYU.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“At twenty-four?”
“Yep. I started college at sixteen, got my master’s degree at twenty-one.”
“Wow. That’s some accomplishment. So, it was while you were a doctoral candidate that you started the radio show on campus?”
“Right. The Sex Hour. We broadcast from the campus radio station, and the show got pretty popular.”
“Isn’t it true that the reason you were so popular is that you’re a female version of Howard Stern? Outrageous just for the sake of shocking your audience?”
“Well, I suppose that could be true if one considers the truth shocking.”
“The truth?”
“I talk about sex. With all the weirdness that implies. Kinky sex, normal sex—whatever that is—solo sex, monogamous sex, safe sex. Sex on the beach, and in the kitchen.”
“And the Woman’s League of Decency has tried to shut you down because all you do is promote sex to teenagers.”
“I wouldn’t know about the Women’s League of whatever, but I do know our demographics. Most of our listeners are in their twenties and thirties.”
“The attempt to get you off the air has been in all the papers for the past six months. Don’t you read the Times?”
“I skip over the boring articles.”
Whittaker gave her a sarcastic smile. Damn Fred for making her do this. Sure, she wanted to be syndicated, but the show should speak for itself.
“When was the last time you talked about chastity?”
“Two days ago. I encouraged a caller to keep her knees together unless she was walking. Does that count?”
“But then tonight you taught a woman how to masturbate!”
“Someone had to.”
“What are all the religious leaders going to say?”
“Thank you?” Jamie looked through the five-inch plate-glass window in front of the room, and met the gaze of her producer, Marcy Davis. Marcy’s left brow arched as she fought a smile. Then Cujo, whose real name was Walter Weinstein, gave her the signal to go to commercial. “We’ve got Darlene Whittaker here from Vanity Fair, doing a live interview. This is Dr. Jamie, and we’ll be right back.”
She turned to her guest as she took off her headphones. “Having fun?”
Whittaker extracted her headphones from the forest of black hair. “Do I have time to go to the john?”
“Sure do. We’ve got a whole five minutes of commercials.”
Whittaker crossed the room and struggled with the heavy soundproof door. Once she was out, Marcy walked in.
“So far, so good.”
After checking to make sure no microphones were live, Jamie turned to her producer. Marcy was the best, and Jamie thanked the radio gods every day that Marcy had been the one to bring her over to WXNT. At forty-two, she bitched about being the old lady of the station, which was technically true, but no one cared except Marcy.
“You know,” Marcy said, “I really like her sense of color. She’s a summer, don’t you think?”
Jamie put her finger to her lips. “She could be right outside the door.”
“So what?” Marcy fell into the guest’s chair. “This was a stupid idea.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.”
“You’re doing great. But I don’t like that it’s live. It’s not fair.”
“Since when did fair enter the picture? Either she’ll write the truth or not. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Marcy shook her head. “Of course it matters. This is radio, sweetie—where numbers rule the day and the only thing you can count on is change. You need this article to be good, or at least provocative. A good scandal wouldn’t hurt at all.”
“Oh man, you’re serious, aren’t you.”
Marcy nodded, but something in the other room had captured her attention. Jamie knew what it was as soon as she glanced over. Ted Kagan, the DJ who came on after Jamie, was talking to Cujo. Ted was a sweetheart, and it didn’t hurt that he was also deliciously gorgeous. Marcy hadn’t ever said anything, but Jamie knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her producer had the hots for him. And Jamie also knew that Marcy wouldn’t do anything about it because Ted was thirty. As if that mattered. Love was love and, unless one of the participants was under eighteen, age didn’t mean squat. “Marcy?”
She didn’t respond. Not for a few seconds at least. Then she turned to look at Jamie. “What?”
“He’s a doll, isn’t he?”
Marcy’s cheeks got pink. “Who?”
“Okay. Have it your way. But you do realize I’m an expert on relationships.”
Marcy stood up. “Right. And let’s see…your last relationship was when, exactly?”
“A person doesn’t have to die to be a pathologist.”
“Nice analogy, except that it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I’ve known you over a year, missy, and I haven’t seen you go on a date even once.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy, my ass. You’re a workaholic, and you know it.”
Jamie relaxed. She could live with that diagnosis. “I know. And I’m trying to ease up. It’s difficult.”
“That’s another load of garbage. Have you made any plans for your vacation?”
She shook her head.
“Well, if you don’t, I will. I’m thinking Tahiti.”
Jamie glanced at her panel. She donned her headphones and pressed her on-air button. “Welcome back to WXNT. I’m Dr. Jamie, and I’m being interviewed by Darlene Whittaker of Vanity Fair magazine. But first, are you tired of waking up with a sore back?”
Marcy sighed as she pulled open the booth door. It seemed to get heavier every day. Just as she got it open wide enough to walk through, Whittaker turned the hall corner and rushed past her without so much as a thanks. Rude, rude, rude. But then, so many people were these days.
She glanced in the production booth. Ted was still there. God, he was so yummy. Tall, slender, blond—he had the words “golden boy” written all over him. He was also one of the nicest men she’d ever met, and if she didn’t stop dreaming about him, she’d have to shoot herself.
It didn’t help that his divorce had come through two months ago, and that he was actually starting to show some interest in dating. She’d never survive watching him parade sweet young things through the office.
She really should ask him out. Just take the bull by the horns. Put it all out on the table. Jamie was always talking about how women let fear stop them from having fun. That they should have the same opportunities as men when it came to recreational sex. And that there was no point in beating around the bush. If she wanted to hop in the sack with Ted, she should simply walk up to him and ask. Go for it, as Jamie was so fond of saying.
Oh, please. She could barely look at the man without blushing like a twelve-year-old.
She sighed as she headed toward the production booth door. The phones would start lighting up any second, and she wanted to get a real good mix on the line.
Ted was looking at a newspaper when she walked in, and he didn’t even glance at her as she took her seat by the phone. The computer to her right was her link to Jamie. Once she got a caller, she’d type the name, age, location, and the gist of what he or she wanted to say. Most nights, the phones never stopped. Tonight was no exception, which was good. She needed to be too busy to think. She slid on her cordless phone receiver and pressed line one.
DARLENE KNEW she was losing ground. Dr. Jamie was a lot more poised than she should have been, especially at her age. Twenty-six, and already the top-rated DJ in New York. Shit. At twenty-six, Darlene had been in college, an English major with no boyfriends, no girlfriends, and an eating disorder.
Of course, Jamie was prettier in person than in her publicity photos. Pouty lips, perky tits and, come on, couldn’t she at least have one pimple to even the score? No. Pimples were for women like Darlene. In the article, she’d probably describe Jamie’s skin as alabaster. Flawless. The bitch.
“If you don’t mind, Darlene, I’m going to take a call.”
Darlene nodded, wishing she’d had a chance to smoke during that last commercial.
“This is Lorraine from Queens.” Jamie hit a button, and Darlene could hear a little static on the headphones.
“Dr. Jamie?”
“That’s me. Do you have a question?”
“Yeah, well. Yeah.”
“Go on. I don’t bite.”
“The other night, you were talking to Kelly from Pt. Washington about how she got seduced by this guy—”
“She let herself be seduced.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the part I wanted to talk about.”
“The idea that no woman can be seduced unless she wants to be?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know. I mean, there’s this guy at work. Steve. He is so gorgeous, and he’s funny and sexy. You know what I’m talking about. He’s one of those men who can have any woman he wants.”
“No man can have any woman he wants.”
“But, like, I’ve got a boyfriend, and I don’t mean to say I did anything with Steve, but I sure thought about it. I don’t like to admit it, but if he’d asked, I’d have said yes.”
“Why? What is it about Steve that makes him so irresistible?”
“I don’t know. He’s really good-looking.”
“So you’d have sex with all really good-looking men if they asked you?”
Lorraine laughed. “No.”
“Then it must be something else.”
“Okay. The way he looks at a person. It’s like, uh, I don’t know. It’s like he sees right inside me.”
“Great. He knows how to focus. Have you slept with every man who focused solely on you?”
“No. But that’s mostly ‘cause no one ever has. Not like Steve.”
“I admit, being paid attention to is flattering, but it’s no reason to drop your drawers. What else?”
“I don’t know. I swear. It’s just a combination of things, I guess. The way he walks and smiles. When he comes into my office, I can hardly breathe. It’s like he’s magic or something.”
“He’s not magic. He’s just self-assured. He knows he can make women swoon, so he does.”
“I’ll say.”
“Here’s the thing, Lorraine. If you wanted to sleep with him, far be it from me to tell you what to do. Go for it. If you don’t want to sleep with him, don’t. But don’t lie to yourself and say you were seduced. There’s no such thing. Seduction is an excuse for behavior you know is inappropriate.”
“It’s a pretty damn good excuse.”
Now it was Jamie who laughed. “Just be strong. Know you have a right to choose. Tell the truth to yourself and you’ll be fine.”
“So, you’ve never been seduced?”
“Nope. I haven’t. Not even once.”
Darlene got a little shiver, and said, “You don’t think chemicals have anything to do with it? Pheromones? That a woman can get swept away?”
“No. Absolutely not. I do think there can be a chemical connection between people, and that attraction exists and can be very strong. But the idea that a woman is helpless to fall into a man’s arms is ludicrous. Relationships, even brief ones, should be about making choices, and about honesty.”
“And you don’t think falling in love could just happen.”
“No, I don’t. I think that’s one of the biggest myths in our culture. Lust can happen in an instant, although it doesn’t have to be acted upon. Love only comes with time and work. It’s a woman’s choice whether she wants to have sex or not, whether she’s married or not. It’s your body. Respect it. Take care of it. Give it a treat now and again. And if you don’t have anyone to help you, do it yourself, with or without help from toys. I’ll bet there are a lot of married women out there right now who wish they’d listened. Who waited to see if the man who seduced them was actually a man they wanted to live with forever. Given the dismal marriage statistics, I’m willing to wager that for at least fifty percent of the women, they didn’t look before they leaped.”
Darlene felt those hairs stand on the back of her neck again. She had it. The perfect article. The perfect hook. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that no man, no matter who he is, can seduce a woman?”
“That’s right. Not if a woman is honest.”
“No amount of charm, charisma, sex appeal could have any effect?”
“Not if a woman doesn’t want to be seduced. Have you ever looked up the word? I have. According to the dictionary, seduce means ‘to induce to have sexual intercourse.’ What I’m suggesting is the idea that no one can be induced. If it’s forced, then it’s rape. If it’s consensual, it’s not seduction. It’s an excuse, nothing more. No woman can be seduced without her permission. Period.”
Darlene closed her eyes for a second, just to calm herself. “How would you like to put your money where your mouth is?”
Jamie’s brows came down. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. You say no woman can be seduced without her permission. I say fine. Prove it.”
Jamie laughed a little. “There’s no way to do that. Every woman has to come to that decision for herself.”
“But there is a way to prove it.” Darlene’s heart hammered in her chest. This was so great. “Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to set you up with a man who’s seduced his fair share of women. More than his share. You two are going to spend time together. He’s going to lay on the charm. And then we’ll see what happens.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what will happen. Nothing.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s ridiculous. There’s no way I can be seduced.”
“You’re on. I think you don’t know what you’re talking about. And we’re going to see who’s right.”
“Hey, yeah, Dr. Jamie,” Lorraine said, reminding Darlene that she was still on the line. “That would be so cool.”
“What would be cool?”
“Well, like, for you to show us. To prove it.”
Darlene held back her whoop of joy. This was even better than she could have hoped for. “Right. Walk the walk instead of just talking the talk.”
“Hold on.” Jamie looked at her with utter exasperation. Darlene didn’t give an inch. Jamie turned back to the mike. “Lorraine, I wish you luck with your guy, and thanks for calling.” She punched line two. “This is Dr. Jamie. Did you have a question?”
“Yeah,” a deep baritone voice said. “I think you should do it. And I volunteer to be the guy. I could seduce you, baby. And it wouldn’t take no two weeks.”
Darlene leaned back. This was great. Just great. The article would write itself.
Jamie shook her head in disbelief as she pressed the next button. “How about line three. Pam from Chelsea?”
“Come on, Dr. Jamie. You could report every night. You know, give us an update. A blow-by-blow. Tell us what it’s like out there in the real world. We could all learn something. You’re always telling us to go for it. Now it’s your turn.”
“Thanks for sharing.” She punched the next button so hard it almost broke. “Debbi from Yonkers. Do you have something else you’d like to talk about?”
“Uh, well, yeah.”
Jamie’s shoulders relaxed. “Great.”
“I think, you know, that you shouldn’t be the one to give the nightly reports. The guy should. Or you should do it together.”
Jamie’s head fell into her hands. But then she sat up again. “This is Dr. Jamie, and we’re talking about sex. We’ll be back after these commercials.” Then she threw her headphones on the desk.
Dr. Jamie wasn’t on such solid footing now. Darlene leaned back as she took off her own headphones. Her gaze went to the production booth and Marcy Davis. The woman wasn’t looking so smug, either. The two of them were Barbie dolls, and Darlene wanted to make them squirm. Marcy turned to look at the door as a man walked into the other booth. Perfect. It was Chase Newman, the inspiration for this adventure.
He spoke to the board operator for a moment, then he turned so she could see his face. Good God, he was stunning. Fabulous jaw, dark brows over smoky, intense eyes. Just the right amount of five-o’-clock shadow. Now, he was an expert on sex. There was no question the man was a maestro in the bedroom. Those lips alone could send any woman over the edge.
She was a freakin’ genius. This was perfect. Dr. Jamie didn’t stand a chance. And wouldn’t it be fun when all of New York watched her fall on her perky little ass. He just had to be willing to play along. Darlene would make sure he was willing.
JAMIE TRIED to smile at Whittaker, but she couldn’t. She wanted the reporter gone, the interview finished, her show over, and this nonsense dismissed. Where was Marcy? She should be riding to the rescue, dammit.
Whittaker did her a favor and left the room. At least Jamie could be grateful for that. But where was Marcy? Jamie’s program was going up in smoke, and Marcy had decided to take a brief vacation. Jamie was going to have to kill her. In the meantime, though, she’d better get ready to sway this conversation another way. This was her show, dammit, not Darlene’s.
Damn! Cujo’s signal to her was desperate. She had no idea how long she’d been stewing. “Welcome back. This is Dr. Jamie Hampton, and we’re here with Darlene Whittaker from Vanity Fair. Let’s talk about your lives. Is there a question about your body you’ve always wanted to ask? How about sex? Come on, guys. Masturbation. Cross-dressing. G-spots. Don’t be embarrassed.”
All the lines were blinking, but according to Jamie’s computer, Gabby Fisher was on line one. God bless her little neurotic heart. Gabby was a regular, and she wasn’t shy about taking air time. She’d fill up a good ten minutes. Just as Jamie was about to press the button, Whittaker struggled through the door and hurried to her seat.
Jamie shoved the button down, terrified by the gleam in Whittaker’s eyes. “Gabby, hi.”
“Hi, Dr. Jamie.”
“What can I do for you tonight?”
“I think it would be great to have you show us, you know, how to be strong with a man.”
Jamie cursed silently. This wasn’t going to go away. “You already know how to be strong. You don’t need me to show you.”
“I might know how,” Gabby said, her voice dejected, “but it never works out that way. I guess I’m just not like you.”
“You can be whatever you want to be, Gabby. You just need to shift your beliefs about yourself. A stunt like this isn’t going to show you anything.”
Whittaker moved her chair closer to the desk. “Are you afraid, Dr. Jamie?”
“No, not at all. But my expertise is in helping others. This isn’t about me.”
“But don’t you think it should be?”
“What, so all surgeons should remove their own gall-bladders, just for the experience?” Gabby laughed.
Whittaker didn’t. “I think you’re hiding behind that title, Jamie. I think you don’t want to put your money where your mouth is.”
“You’re right. In this instance, I don’t.”
Whittaker’s gaze shifted to the window, then back again. “It would make a hell of an interesting experiment. I know your listeners would learn a lot. Show them firsthand what happens when a man is out for seduction. See what happens. Instead of talking about the experiment, go into the lab.”
Jamie forced herself to keep calm—to not reach over and strangle the reporter. “I just don’t believe this is the kind of thing one can demonstrate. It’s not like baking a cake.”
Whittaker smiled at her, then turned to the mike. “Well, audience, are we going to let her off the hook? I’ll tell you something. My magazine wants this information. All the women in New York want this information. This could be the most important radio program ever. Or, Dr. Jamie, were you just blowing so much smoke?”
“I don’t blow smoke. Ever.”
“Then, that leaves only one option.”
Damn her to hell and back. Marcy was going to pay for this. And so was Fred Holt.
Jamie leaned in to her mike. “I’ll tell you all about options…right after these commercials.”
She saw Cujo jump at the unexpected change in the schedule. But he was on top of things, and a second later Big Al’s Furniture Mart announced a super, super, super sale.
She made sure her mute button was on, then turned to Whittaker. “What the hell are you doing?”
The reporter smiled so smugly that it was an invitation for a whack. “My job. Just like you’re doing your job.”
“You know this isn’t the kind of thing one can demonstrate. You’re talking about a publicity stunt.”
“Not necessarily. It could be very educational. If any of it’s true. Is it?”
“Yes, it is. But I don’t intend to be anyone’s guinea pig.”
Whittaker shook her head. “Want to bet? If you don’t do it, I’m going to smear you and your radio show into the dirt. I know that Independence Broadcasting is looking at buying your show for national syndication. And I know that one way or another, they’re going to be influenced by this piece I’m writing. So the choice is yours. Play ball, or find yourself a new job.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Whittaker smiled. “Because I can.”
Jamie caught Cujo’s hand signal out of the corner of her eye. She turned back to the mike, fuming. She wouldn’t be blackmailed. Not by this witch. Marcy would tell Whittaker what she could do with her stupid idea. But right now, Jamie had to keep control of her broadcast. “Welcome back.”
The production booth door opened. Fred Holt and Marcy walked in. Marcy looked panicked. Fred turned to face Jamie, his jaw set and his gaze filled with dollar signs. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to get the gist. Fred wanted this to happen. He wanted his station to be number one and stay number one, and as far as he was concerned, Jamie was his ticket. But surely even Fred Holt could see this was a stupid prank. He wouldn’t be manipulated by this crazy woman, would he?
Cujo flapped his arms at her, then pointed at the phone lines.
Dammit! “Gabby, you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here. And I’m really glad you’re going to do this, uh, thing. But maybe you could explain what it is you’re going to do.”
Whittaker leaned forward. “Here’s what she’s going to do. She’s going to go out on a date. On a whole bunch of dates. Just like she was you or me. Only, she’s gonna show us how it’s supposed to be done. How a woman can’t be seduced.”
“Wait 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 a full life. Why on earth would you want to do this?”
Good. She was back to her feisty self. “I don’t have any plans for the next couple of weeks.”
“You don’t have any plans,” she repeated. “Did you hear what Ms. Whittaker said? If we go through with this nonsense, we’ll have to see each other every day. You’ll have to come in to the studio and give progress reports.” She shook her head. “You don’t think this is completely nuts?”
“It’s weird as hell, but I’m game,” he said.
“There has to be more of a reason than your lack of a busy schedule.”
“Why?”
“Because this is… It’s absurd!”
“Is it?” Darlene asked. “Is it absurd when you tell Noelle from Brooklyn that she’s not really in love with her boyfriend? Is it absurd when you teach Cindy from Queens that she’s weak and spineless because she couldn’t say no?”
“I never said she was spineless. Besides, that’s different.”
“Why? Because it’s not your life on the line? Because your heart isn’t at risk?”
Jamie turned her gaze to Darlene, and Chase was surprised the writer’s hair didn’t catch fire. This was not a mutual admiration society. These women were out for blood.
Maybe he’d been too hasty. What sounded like a laugh a few minutes ago was becoming complicated. He didn’t do complicated. On the other hand, Jamie had that luscious mouth.
Darlene touched his shoulder. “Chase, have you ever seduced a woman?”
“Yep.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
Darlene grinned. “So you think you can seduce Dr. Jamie?”
“Yep.”
Jamie’s eyes looked like they were ready to pop. “Are you serious? Every woman just falls into bed at the crook of your finger? Obviously that statement is a gross exaggeration.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What, you’re so fabulous, no woman can resist you?”
“No woman I’m paying attention to. I don’t know all that much about the world, and I am, after all, only a guy who drives cars, but I do know what women want, and how to give it to them.”
“Oh, please. That’s the most arrogant crock of—”
“How long do you think it’ll take Jamie to succumb?” Darlene asked, barely masking Jamie’s curse.
He chuckled. “I don’t know. It depends on how willing she is to play her part honestly.”
“Explain that, please.”
He turned from Darlene to Jamie. “She needs to walk into this with no prejudice. It has to be real—as if I asked her out and she said yes of her own free will.”
“Jamie, how do you feel about that?”
“I think this joke has gone far enough.” She lifted her cup with shaky fingers, then put it down again without taking a sip. “Why don’t we hear from some listeners. Mr. Newman, thanks for being such a good sport, but you can go now.”
“Not on your life,” Darlene said, her tone as sharp as a knife blade. “There are only two ways this is going to end. Either you’re going to come in here in two weeks, in front of Chase and all your listeners, and tell us you stayed strong, that he didn’t seduce you, or you’re going to admit you’re a fraud.”
“Ms. Whittaker, I invited you here as a courtesy. I agreed to be interviewed. I didn’t sign up to be made a laughing stock.”
“Oh, I’m not laughing. I’m dead-on serious. Because, Dr. Jamie, I don’t believe you’ve ever been with a man like Chase. I don’t think you’ve been with a real man. Because if you had, you would know that sometimes the mind takes a back seat to the body. You’re just like the rest of us poor slobs, babe, and you know it. You’re playing with your listeners’ hearts, and their lives.”
“I take what I say seriously. I’ve got a PhD in human sexuality. I’ve dedicated my life to this work.”
“But you don’t even date! You can’t tell us you understand what we go through if you’re safe inside your radio station. It’s time to put up or shut up, Dr. Jamie.”
Chase watched Jamie look through the window as she abruptly gave the station identification, not even trying to respond to Darlene’s diatribe. Fred Holt stood with his nose practically pressed against the glass. He didn’t look happy. The woman—what was her name?—the producer, was freaking out. She was yanking on Fred’s coat sleeve. Chase’s old buddy Cujo was grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Chase knew why, of course. Ratings. This little experiment would be a ratings monster. The Arbitrons would go through the roof.
He hadn’t been involved with radio since he was a teenager, despite his father’s wishes—but he knew the game. He knew what it took to be successful. His father had never understood that he found it all boring. He would never be at the mercy of numbers. Chase needed physical challenges. Excitement. The unexpected.
He turned to the lovely doctor. She still looked flushed, but the pink in her cheeks was fueled by anger now. She was trapped, and she didn’t like it. It would be a challenge to get through her defenses—to weaken her resolve. Of course, he could do it. There was no doubt. Not because he was Don Juan, but because women wanted to be seduced.
He understood the game, and he was an excellent player—probably because he knew he had nothing to lose. It was never going to develop into anything more than some hot sex and some laughs.
This was a dumb stunt, and he shouldn’t have agreed to be part of it. He still wasn’t certain he shouldn’t back out. But going for it would accomplish several things. He’d have something to do while he waited for his next race. He’d help the station, sort of a tip of his hat to his dad. And he’d get Jamie into his bed.
Okay, so he didn’t give a damn about the station, and he’d never been bored a day in his life. The reason he’d said yes was that he wanted to sleep with the sex doctor. His motive wasn’t so different from Darlene’s—he wanted to show Jamie her theory was all wet.
He didn’t listen to the radio often, but he did tune in to Jamie’s show whenever he had the chance. He liked the sound of her voice, the way she laughed. In fact, after he’d seen her the first time, the talk show had taken on a whole new level of meaning. He’d never failed to get turned on by Dr. Jamie. Something about her stirred him up, made him hard. She was a fantasy, and soon she’d be a reality.
Jamie threw her headphones on the desk as the second commercial began. She didn’t say a word as she yanked open the heavy door. A moment later Chase saw her approach Fred. Man, she was one angry lady. Of course, he couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could read the expressions and the gestures. Jamie didn’t want to play.
“I’ve got her,” Darlene said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Chase wondered if she realized she’d spoken aloud. “What do you want her for?”
She jerked around to stare at him. “What?”
“You’ve got her. But what for? What’s the point?”
“Come on. You see her. Love guru? She’s barely out of her teens and she’s become the expert on love in New York? I’m sorry, but that’s bull. If she’s an expert, then I’m the Queen of England.”
“Maybe she’s gifted. People are, you know.”
“Gifted? I’ll tell you how she’s gifted. She doesn’t get embarrassed about body parts. She has this sweet little voice, and this angelic little face, and she talks like a biology teacher on steroids. That doesn’t mean she knows a thing about love or relationships. She’s a fraud, and I’m going to prove it.”
He nodded. “Nothing personal, though, right? Just doing the noble thing to protect the innocent ears of Manhattan youth?”
“Laugh if you want, but you know what? I am doing the noble thing. A fraud is a fraud is a fraud. She may look great on billboards, but she’s a menace on the airwaves.”
“And you’re going to stop her?”
“Damn straight.”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if she doesn’t fall for my charms?”
Darlene’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t let that happen. I know some things about you, Chase. You didn’t say yes for me. You want to prove her wrong just as much as I do.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Which means I probably shouldn’t do it. I don’t have anything against Jamie.”
“Come on, Chase. This kid is a flash in the pan. She’s a marketing trick. She’ll only be around until the next fad comes along.”
The door behind them opened. Jamie walked in, her whole demeanor spelling out her defeat. This stunt could take her to the top, could make her a household name. And he held all the cards.
Chase wasn’t crazy about that. She seemed like a nice kid. And damn, she was pretty. But what the hell? It was only radio. Just a stunt, like all the other stunts he’d pulled. In the long run, it didn’t matter.
Despite what he’d said to Darlene, he would play fair. Of course, he’d use all the weapons in his arsenal. But if Jamie said no, it would stay no.
He knew he sounded like an arrogant bastard. But he didn’t care about that. The truth was the truth. Women wanted to be appreciated; to be admired for who they were, not just what they looked like—although he didn’t ignore that, either. Women wanted to be swept away. They wanted a man to run the show. They wanted to get well and truly laid.
What the hell. It was all just a game, right?
JAMIE HELD IT TOGETHER just long enough to finish the show. The moment she was off the air, she shot out of the booth and found Marcy and Fred in Fred’s office.
She walked in and planted a fist on her hip. “I’m not doing this.”
Marcy got to her feet, moving between her and Fred, a human blockade. “I’ll handle this, Jamie.”
“There’s nothing to handle. I refuse.”
“Ladies, take a seat.”
Marcy sat, and once Jamie caught a glimpse of the expression on Fred’s face, she sat down, too. It didn’t mean she was going to budge.
“Do you have any idea how many people have called the station in the past hour? More than a thousand, and that’s just the number we logged. Most people couldn’t get through. I’ve gotten calls from the Post and the CBS affiliate, both of whom want to do stories on this.”
“That doesn’t make it right, Fred.” Jamie leaned forward, putting her hands on his desk. “I won’t subject myself to this kind of humiliation. No job is worth that.”
“Really? That’s surprising coming from you. Didn’t you tell me last week you’d do anything to get national syndication?”
“I didn’t mean it literally, for God’s sake. Fred, the witch wants me to go out with that…that…man.”
“That man is going to save your butt,” Fred said. “You do know that his father built this station—that Chase himself could have owned the station, if he’d wanted to.”
“So?”
“So you think he’s going to let you fall on your fanny? The man is his father’s son. He’s going to do what’s right.”
Jamie slid back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Great. So not only am I going to be publicly humiliated, I’m going to do exactly what I’ve been accused of. It’s called fraud, Fred, and they have laws about that.”
“All you have to do is not sleep with him. You said yourself, that was no problem.”
“That’s exactly my point. Nothing can possibly happen. You know that, and I know that. Don’t you see? It’s not a contest. It’s not even clever. It’s just that woman’s idea of clever.”
Behind her, a man cleared his throat, and she spun around to see Chase at the door.
“Sorry to butt in, but I figure I have a stake in this, so I might as well hear what’s going on.”
“Come in, Chase.” Fred waved him over to a straight-backed chair by his file cabinet, but Chase chose to sit in the leather wing chair by the bookcase. He sank down and opened the front of his jacket, revealing a plain, white T-shirt. His knees spread wide in that totally masculine, completely arrogant manner of men who think they’re God’s gift.
“I was just telling Jamie about your ties to the station.”
Chase nodded. Jamie didn’t want to stare at him, but tearing her gaze away was proving a difficult task. Finally, she managed to turn in her seat so her back was to him.
“Hey, I don’t care one way or another,” Chase said. “If she doesn’t want to do this…”
“Jamie can’t do this.” Marcy stood up and walked to the file cabinet. Jamie noted that from there she could see all three of the players. “It doesn’t matter what that woman said. Jamie isn’t a fraud. She has nothing to prove. Whittaker is just looking for cheap publicity.”
“And you’re not?” Chase asked. “Isn’t that the whole point?”
Fred nodded. “I can’t force you to do this. But I’ll tell you this—we have a chance at syndication without it. A chance. But if you do this thing—if you go out with Chase and keep your legs crossed—we’ll be syndicated before the end of the year. Guaranteed.”
“I don’t want it that badly.”
“Is that so?” Fred asked. “You’re young and you have a brilliant career ahead of you. Why blow it over something like this? You play along for a couple of weeks, Chase says whatever he has to, and that’s it. Except that we have a hell of a lot of new listeners. Believe me, it’ll be worth it once we’re national. The rest of your life depends on your decision here. You can make the best of it, or you can walk. Wasn’t it you who told me you don’t believe in half measures? That you were going to get syndicated before you were thirty if it killed you?”
“Wait a minute.” Marcy shook her head as if she could hardly believe what was happening. “This is nuts. Why don’t we all just think it through? Who says we have to decide right now? By tomorrow, things will be much clearer and—”
Jamie stopped listening. She had a decision to make. She could walk out now and not look back. She’d find another radio gig. She was number one in her market, for God’s sake. On the other hand, what if Darlene was right? That she had no business telling New York, let alone the nation, a thing about life or love. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t wondered—as if her own doubts hadn’t made her contemplate quitting. Did she have any right to help all those callers? Wasn’t it only appropriate that she should be tested by her own fire?
She wouldn’t sleep with him. No amount of charisma was going to change that. So why not go along with it? She loved this job. She wanted to be syndicated. She wanted to prove to herself and her family that she’d made the right choice. And lord, she didn’t want Darlene to win.
She put up her hand, stopping Marcy mid-sentence. “All right.”
“What?” Marcy headed back to her chair. “Jamie—”
“I said all right. I’ll do it. But I’ll only do it on the up-and-up.” She turned her head so she could see Chase.
He looked at her with a curious smile. “You’re sure about this?”
She nodded.
He stood. Walked slowly over to her. She almost bolted. With each step he took, her heart beat faster and her thoughts grew fuzzier. He was so big. So imposing. So unbelievably handsome. The truth was, he scared the hell out of her.
He stopped, but only when he was very, very close. He took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet. His fingers went to the bottom of her chin, and he lifted her face, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, even though she wasn’t sure at all—especially now that she could see his eyes. They were dark, mysterious, and they saw too much. That was it, of course. Why he frightened her. It was the way he looked at her, as if he could see all her secrets.
Still holding her chin, he leaned forward, and she understood what his intention was seconds before his lips touched hers. She didn’t jerk away. She didn’t push him back. She just closed her eyes.
Soft at first, teasing. His breath, coffee with a hint of peppermint. His size, imposing, almost threatening. But his lips were tender, even as the kiss deepened.
Somewhere out there, she heard Marcy’s voice. Then the sound of her own heart beating drowned out even that.
Her lips parted, and he slipped inside her. Still soft. Achingly soft. He found her tongue and touched it, letting her taste him, igniting a tingle that spread through her like molten lava. Before the heat dissipated, he was gone. His tongue, his lips, his fingers. All gone.
She heard him chuckle, then she opened her eyes. He hadn’t moved away.
“I’ll give you tonight,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “But tomorrow, you’re mine.”
“We, uh, need to discuss this,” she said, surprised at how slurred her words sounded. As if she were drunk.
“We will. Tomorrow.” His gaze roamed over her from face to breasts, then back again. “And put on your good underwear.” He winked, then he was out Fred’s door.
“Jamie?”
As she came out of her daze, the sounds of the room became clear again and she turned to Marcy. “Yes?”
“Honey, you don’t need to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
Marcy shook her head. “It’s a mistake.”
“Probably. But don’t worry. I’m not helpless here. I can take care of myself. You know, it’s not all just talk. I do believe what I say on the air.”
“I know.”
Jamie smiled, although Marcy’s doubt sat heavy in her chest. Who was she kidding? She knew books, not men. Definitely not men like Chase Newman.
She wasn’t one to cuss. She’d always believed that if people tried, they could come up with better words, more exact words. But for the second time that night, all she could say was, “Holy f—”
3
CHASE SETTLED more comfortably into the black leather armchair and cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder. Rupert Davidson, his business manager, did like to talk. And talk. If Rupert wasn’t so good with money, Chase would have fired him years ago. No, that wasn’t true. Rupert had been part of his life for too long. He had been his father’s closest friend, and he’d taken care of Chase and his mother after Jack had died. What everyone except Rupert knew was that he’d fallen in love with Chase’s mother. Nothing would be done about it until after a proper mourning period, of course. Rupert would never disgrace Jack’s memory.
Chase almost thought of Rupert as his stepfather, which he could have been if he’d only asked. But his mother couldn’t or wouldn’t urge him on, preferring the romanticism of an unrequited lover to anything real. It was an odd drama, played out over the years, one which he’d learned to accept.
“…I want to roll the CDs over. I’ve done some investigation about GF Labs, and it’s risky, but I think it might be worth it—at least for a few hundred thousand.”
“Do it.” Chase looked at his coffee. It was on the ebony-and-teak coffee table, out of his reach. He’d have to move to get it, and he’d just gotten comfortable. So what was more important? The way the chair molded perfectly to his back and shoulders? Or caffeine?
“Have you read the prospectus?”
“I don’t need to. I have you.”
“Dammit, son, don’t you think it’s time you accepted some of your responsibilities? Even one? You’re thirty-one. You can’t keep living like this forever.”
Chase disagreed, but he didn’t say so. He grabbed hold of the phone and leaned forward, bringing his coffee back with him. He tried to find the same position as before, but it was gone. He sipped the Kona blend, disappointed to find it was lukewarm. “Rupert, do we have to talk about this now? It’s not even nine o’clock. I promise I’ll call this afternoon, and we can fight all you want.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“Right. You just want me to do things your way.”
“Not my way. The sensible way.”
“Rupert, you’re the most goddamn sensible man in New York.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He liked Rupert, in his old-fashioned suits, with his antiquated sense of honor and obligation. He was refreshing, in an odd sort of way.
“How long are you here for this time?”
“A couple of weeks. Just till the racing season starts in Europe.”
“You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And not just for an hour. She was hurt by that, Chase.”
He closed his eyes, remembering the last visit with his mother. He loved her, but sometimes it wasn’t easy to like her. To say she wasn’t thrilled with his lifestyle was an understatement. She wanted him to be like her, like his father. To get married, have some kids. She’d told him he embarrassed her. That he was disgracing his father’s name.
“I’ll try, Rupert.”
“Don’t try. Do it. She’s the only mother you’ll ever have.”
“Okay, Yoda. I promise.”
“Yoda?”
“Never mind. You go ahead and put my money where you think best. I trust you, Rupert. You’ve never steered me wrong.”
“Thank you, Chase. But I’m not crazy about doing so much without your input.”
“I know about fast cars and women, old man. You have a question about either one, I’m the guy you come to.”
“Amusing. Very amusing.”
“You take care, Rupert. And, for God’s sake, propose to my mother already, would you?” Chase smiled as he heard the sputtering on the other end of the line. He decided to do Rupert a favor and hung up.
Cars and women. He’d said that last night, hadn’t he? It was true. He’d put restrictions on his life just like his mother had put restrictions on hers. No wonder they clashed. They were too much alike.
He got up and went to the window. He liked to watch Manhattan wake up. His suite was on the top floor of the Four Seasons hotel, and he stayed here every time he came to New York. They knew him here, and they made sure he was comfortable. It was easier this way. Maids, room service, desk clerks. That’s what he was used to. He had a place just like it at the George V in Paris, and another at the Chateau Marmont in L.A.
His gaze moved to the park. He loved it there, with all the kids on roller blades and the pigeons and the women with their strollers. Central Park always made him feel better, regardless of the season. Some of his favorite walks had been in the snow among the naked branches.
As he stared at the blanket of trees, ripe green at the height of summer, he thought about Jamie. He’d decided last night to call off the ridiculous stunt. He didn’t need the aggravation, or the publicity. Sure Jamie was hot, but there were a million hot women in the city. He would call her today and tell her. She’d be relieved. He would be, too. Although, there was one thing he’d regret. He wanted to understand why he scared her so. Animals and children liked him. So what was she afraid of?
Such a paradox. The way she spoke was at complete odds with the way she looked. In fact, she was full of contradictions, and that certainly had its appeal. He enjoyed peeling back the layers. Not his own, mind you. But an interesting woman—that was something to be grateful for.
Those eyes of hers. One minute, radiating confidence enough to take on the world. The next, as frightened as those of a little mouse. Which was it? It occurred to him that he wanted to find out.
So okay, maybe he wouldn’t call her. Maybe he’d go in person. She’d probably be up by now, right?
JAMIE STRUGGLED OUT of her dream and realized the banging she heard wasn’t a demented jailor pounding on her cage, but someone knocking on her door. She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. Eleven-fifteen. Odd, she never slept in. Her routine was to finish up her show at eleven, be home just after midnight, in bed by one, and then up at nine the next morning.
Another round of knocking spurred her out of bed. She padded across her wooden floor from the bedroom to the living room, then to the door with its five locks. Up on tiptoes, she looked through the peephole.
No one was there. That was weird. She undid each of the locks, poked her head outside the door. Nope. The hallway was empty. Had it been her nightmare? Her dream about being locked into something from which she couldn’t escape had obvious connections to real life. She’d think about that later. Right now, her mind was on other urgent business. She closed the door and locked the dead bolt, then scurried to the bathroom.
Just as she was lifting her mouthwash to gargle, she heard the knocking again. She wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, then returned to the front door. This time when she looked through the peephole, the hallway wasn’t empty.
Her heart thudded as she recognized the man standing at her door. Oh, God. What in heaven’s name… He wasn’t supposed to be here. She rocked back on her heels and ran her hand through her hair, which, thank you, made her look more like a porcupine than a person when she first got out of bed. To say nothing of her caked eye makeup, or the nightshirt that may have been snazzy back in 1994 but had gone straight downhill after that Laundromat incident in college.
She wouldn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He should have called. Because there was no time to shower, let alone buy a new outfit.
He knocked again. Then just as she thought he was leaving, she heard voices and she cringed. What if he knew she was here? That she was completely undone by his presence?
She lifted herself to peephole level again. Mr. Wojewodka, the super, stood next to Chase. He had out his master key chain. The thing was monstrous, and when hooked, it pulled his belt and his pants down a good inch. Why was he searching through them now? Mr. Wojewodka was always harping on her to lock her doors, to carry pepper spray, to call him if she was ever in trouble. And now—
With a familiar squeal, the key entered the door. He was letting Chase into her apartment!
She’d never make it to the bedroom. Was the living room clean? No. Not important. Hiding was more important. Oh, God, the closest hiding place was the closet, and she made it there in two seconds flat. After a few more spent flailing about the knob, she pulled the door closed behind her. She forced herself to stand perfectly still, even though she was shaking with adrenaline, and listen as the two men entered her living room.
“She’s a good kid,” Wojewodka said in his thick Polish accent. “Gives me no trouble.”
“Not even with her men friends?”
“What men friends? The girl is like a monk. She doesn’t see anyone, except her crazy brother.”
“Really?”
Jamie rested her forehead on the cool wood of the door as she plotted ways to kill her superintendent and Chase Newman. If she couldn’t kill them, she’d sue their tails off. Talk about invasion of privacy! Or breaking and entering. Yeah. That was worse. But she didn’t think they did any breaking. Just entering. Was entering against the law? Had to be.
“I really appreciate this, Max,” Chase said. “I didn’t like the idea of leaving this outside.”
“I just hope she doesn’t get mad at me.”
“She won’t.”
Like hell. Jamie hadn’t noticed Chase carrying anything. What was he leaving? She tried to see through the crack between the door and the frame, but that was useless. Maybe if she could get higher. She reached for the doorknob to get some balance, but even on tiptoes she couldn’t see squat.
She gripped the knob with her hand as she flattened her feet, noticing something as she did so. A big, scary lump formed in her chest. The knob hadn’t budged. She closed her eyes and said a short prayer, then she wiggled it. The knob didn’t wiggle. It didn’t do a damn thing.
Locked. How? Why? No, no, no. This wasn’t funny. Wait. There had to be a way to unlock it, right? She ran her hand under the knob, over the wood, her movements growing faster as the repercussions hit her. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. She’d be trapped. Better trapped than caught by Newman, though. The thought of how she’d look set her cheeks on fire.
Wait a minute. Maybe she should let him set her free. Then he’d have to explain what he was doing entering her apartment. But first, she’d have to explain what she was doing in her closet. Or would she? A person had a right to be in her own closet.
She lifted her hand to knock, then let it drop again.
“That’s a big box,” the super said.
“Yep.”
“You gonna tell me what’s in it?”
“Nope.”
So Chase hadn’t been putting on an act last night. He really did talk like Gary Cooper.
“I get it,” Mr. Wojewodka said. “It’s a surprise.”
“Right.”
Footsteps, followed by a creak of the front door. They were leaving. If she didn’t do something now, she’d be locked in here for who knows how long—which would have been okay if only she hadn’t decided to brush her teeth before taking care of her…other business in the bathroom this morning. Clenching her teeth and vowing revenge, she knocked on the closet door.
“Did you hear something?”
She didn’t hear a response. Mr. Wojewodka must have shaken his head.
She knocked again, louder this time, cursing Chase, Darlene Whittaker, Fred Holt and everyone else connected to this malarky.
“Wait a minute.” That was Chase’s voice. “It’s coming from the closet.”
“Nah, couldn’t be.”
“Just hold on.”
His boots sounded terribly loud on her floor. It was like listening to the firing squad take their positions. She wished like crazy that she’d at least had time to brush her hair.
He pulled on the door, unlocked it, pulled again—and this time the door swung open. She crossed her arms over her chest.
Chase looked at her with a completely calm face, as if finding her in the closet was the most normal thing in the world. But after a few seconds his head tilted slightly to the right. “Are you trying to tell me you’re gay?”
“No, I’m not.” She stepped around him, making sure they didn’t touch. Wondering if anyone had ever died of embarrassment. Perhaps she would be the first.
“I mean, if you are gay, that’s all right.”
“I’m not gay,” she said, not daring to look at him.
“Ah. So actually being in the closet wasn’t symbolic or anything.”
“No. I was…” She cast about for an explanation, any explanation. “I was looking for my cat.”
“You got a cat?” Mr. Wojewodka asked.
She whirled around to find the building superintendent at the front door. Great. A witness to her humiliation. It would be all over the building by rush hour.
“Did I say cat? I meant hat. I was looking for my hat.”
Mr. Wojewodka looked at Chase. Chase looked back.
“Which,” she said, raising her voice, “is completely beside the point. Care to tell me why you broke into my apartment?”
“I didn’t.” Chase nodded at Max. “He was nice enough to let me in.”
She frowned. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Because I didn’t want to leave that outside.”
She turned to where he pointed—to a long, gold box perched on her couch. Flowers. It had to be. Because what else would be in a flower box?
Quelling her urge to race over and rip off the top of the box, she faced Chase again. “Sometimes when a person doesn’t answer the door, there’s a reason.”
“Right. I should have figured you were locked in the closet.”
“I wasn’t.”
His right brow rose.
“It doesn’t matter where I was, or what I was doing. My home should be private.” She marched over to the door and Max, her bare feet slapping on the hard wood. “Mr. Wojewodka, I’m surprised at you.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed as he leaned toward her. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I do. Do you?”
“Yeah, sure. He’s the top-seeded race-car driver in America. In the world.”
“And this makes him able to enter any apartment he wishes?”
“He was your friend. I did him a favor.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Right,” Chase agreed. “I’m just supposed to seduce her. That’s all.”
Jamie winced. “About that…”
Chase moved over to the couch. It was a normal couch, but when he sat down it looked very small. She’d gotten it at an estate sale four years ago, along with the matching wing chair. She’d had them reupholstered in a cheery floral print, which Chase’s presence also changed. She’d never realized the material was so feminine.
“About last night—” she continued.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“What? I wasn’t going to.”
“Oh, okay.” He smiled at her, and his teeth were slightly crooked, which for some reason made him even sexier. His eyes were perfect and so was his hair and his chest. The fact that his nose was a little crooked didn’t detract from his face. On the contrary, like the small flaw of his teeth, it made him look more ruggedly handsome than if it had been straight.
“What do you mean, apologize?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I just figured, with you being in that bind and with me volunteering to help you out…”
“I wasn’t the one who asked you to play this game. That was Whittaker, remember?”
He nodded. “She would have done it, you know.”
“Done what?”
“She would have smeared your reputation, made sure there was plenty of bad press about you. She doesn’t much care for you.”
Jamie’s hands fell to her sides. “Why? I never did anything to her.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t get it. You’re too smart to play dumb.”
“Oh, you think she hates me because I’m successful? Because people listen to me?”
“That. And the other.”
She wasn’t about to ask what he meant. This whole conversation was going poorly, and the smart thing to do would be to stop right here, right now, and get Chase and his number-one fan the hell out of here.
She put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to tell him to leave, but before the words came out, his gaze moved from her face to her chest. As he blatantly stared, his face changed. He smiled. Devilish, wicked, hungry. She felt her nipples harden and poke at her flimsy T-shirt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low and seductive.
She turned away, crossing her arms once more. “Please leave. And take the box with you.”
Max stepped outside the door, leaving her with Chase. She wanted him gone, too, even as his compliment swirled inside her head. He thought she was beautiful. It wasn’t that she saw herself as ugly…but beautiful? That wasn’t what mattered about her. She was smart, and she was ambitious, and she was able to talk to people. She’d never gone after beauty. Oh, she’d had compliments before, but as her mother was so fond of saying, beauty was the shallow refuge of incompetence.
He came up behind her, and her heart beat so hard she thought it might burst. When his hand touched her shoulder, her knees weakened and she forgot how to breathe.
It was nuts. Crazy. Why was she feeling like this? Chase was just a man. No big deal.
He turned her around until she faced him. Her arms were still covering her breasts, but from the way he looked at her, it was too little, too late. He’d seen her reaction. She closed her eyes.
“Jamie.”
She shook her head. “Please, go.”
“Jamie, look at me.”
She didn’t want to. But she couldn’t help it. Her eyes opened to find him closer still, close enough for her to see the gold in his dark brown eyes.
“I was going to call it off,” he whispered. “Then I started thinking about you. By the time I got here, I’d changed my mind.”
“Why?”
He smiled, and her tummy got tight with a wave of desire. “There’s something about you.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I find out.”
“You don’t have to. The hell with Whittaker and her magazine. I don’t care what she says about me.”
“Neither do I. But I do want to spend the next two weeks getting to know you, magazine or no magazine.”
“I don’t see why. You’re a big-shot racing guy. You date movie stars. You live a different kind of life than me. Frankly, I’d bore you silly.”
“You let me be the judge of that.”
“What if I don’t want to see you?”
He leaned forward until their lips almost touched, pausing for an instant, and then he captured her lower lip between his front teeth. A second later, he let her go, only to steal her breath with a kiss, his soft lips on hers, his tongue teasing her mouth open. Her eyes fluttered closed and her arms moved from her chest to his back. With gentle pressure, he rubbed his chest against hers, sweeping against her nipples. Pleasure and heat flowed from her breasts down to her stomach, and then lower still. She squeezed her thigh muscles, but the feeling didn’t go away.
He did something terribly wicked with his tongue, thrusting it inside her, then pulling back, as if showing her what he wanted to do to her body. Goose bumps covered her flesh as vivid pictures came to mind. Him, naked—oh lordy—thrusting into her, making her scream.
She whimpered. He moved his lips from her mouth to her ear. “I’m going to explore every inch of you, Jamie,” he whispered, his hot breath making her shiver. “I’m going to know you better than you know yourself. And I’m going to give you pleasure you’ve never even dreamed of.”
Then he stepped away, and, before she could catch her breath, she heard the front door close.
When she got it together enough to walk, she went to the couch and took off the top of the gold box. Two dozen red roses were flared beautifully, the long stems stripped of any thorns. She picked up the small card lying to the side of the flowers: “Dear Jamie, I dreamed about us. You had roses. See you tonight, Chase.”
She picked up the box and brought it to her face so she could smell the flowers. His scent lingered, despite the sweet aroma of the gift. She could still feel his hard chest, his big hands, his soft, talented mouth.
Oh boy. She was in trouble. Bad trouble. She headed for the kitchen and a vase. Her first flowers, ever. And they were from a man who was from a completely foreign world, a man with enough experience to host his own radio sex show.
She put the box on the counter and stared out her window. The view from here sucked. It was just another building. And when she looked down, all she saw was a walkway where no one ever walked.
She couldn’t let him into her life, not even for a moment. He was dangerous. He did scary things to her body. To her mind. Given even the slightest opportunity, he’d find out. Even if he never touched her down there, he’d know. He’d see it in her eyes, feel it when she trembled in his arms. And if he found out—the rest of the world would find out, and where would she be then?
No one had ever given her roses before. Because no one had ever been close enough before. She’d been busy with school, with the radio show. She’d never dreamed things would happen so quickly for her, or so publicly. But they had, and here she was.
Whittaker was right. She was a fraud. The honorable thing to do would be to quit. But that would kill her. She’d never loved anything the way she loved her show, loved its callers. And she knew she was helping. Honestly.
There was just the one problem, the one that could ruin everything if it ever got out. The fact that she was, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, a virgin.
4
JAMIE GOT to the station a little after five-thirty. Determined not to dig herself in deeper, she had spent the day trying to figure out a way to extricate herself from this mess without ending up fired. Unfortunately, all the ideas she’d come up with so far required either some form of magic or breaking several major laws.
She stopped at the reception desk, where the night guy, Geoffrey, smiled broadly as he gathered her mail. Over six foot five and thin as a rail, the twenty-year-old had neon-orange hair and more piercings than her aunt Emma’s pin cushion. The pierced body parts were offset, of course, by tattoos ranging from the sublime (a perfect, tiny red heart at the base of his neck) to the ridiculous (Bart Simpson, bent over, pants down, eyes drawn on the buttocks).
She shifted her briefcase to her left hand as she took the unusually large stack of mail. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
His tone made her pause. So did his grin, which had widened dangerously, exposing the braces on his molars.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He arched his right brow. “Except that the switchboard has been lit up all day. I swear, girlfriend, Mr. Holt has a major woody over this little stunt of yours. Brilliant.” He crossed his arms over his Amazon. com T-shirt and idly fingered his nipple ring through the material. “And excuse the hell out of me, but could Chase Newman be more divine? I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you go out with him?”
He sighed. “If only.”
She shook her head as she headed toward her office. File cabinets on both walls made the hallway narrow, and if someone had to find a file, all traffic came to a halt. Oddly enough, in her time here she’d only seen a file drawer open once or twice. She imagined they were filled with old ad logs and personnel files.
It wasn’t until she neared her door that she heard her name from across the way. Elliot Wolf, the program manager, waved at her while he talked on the phone. Jamie sighed. Like the Energizer bunny, this nightmare kept on going and going and going….
“Sit,” Elliot said, then to whomever was on the phone he added, “Tonight at the Palm II. Ciao.”
She didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to talk. She was cranky and getting crankier by the minute.
“So,” he said, running a hand through his Brad Pitt hair, complete with dark roots. However, the likeness ended there. From the forehead down, Elliot looked eerily like a young Vincent Price, mustache and all. On the gaunt side, with a voice a little too high, he devoured scary movies like Raisinets, and his hobby, like Vincent’s, was gourmet cooking.
“Elliot, I have work to do.”
“I know. This’ll just take a minute. Sit.”
She obeyed, giving him a pained sigh in protest. She hated the chairs in his office. Leather and chrome, they tilted back, making it hard to get out of them again. But they looked chic, and Elliot loved chic. He’d decorated modern, with a very expensive, very ugly Chuck Close print dominating the room. He never had anything on his desk but his notebook computer, as clutter was one of his pet peeves. He had no such qualms about his secretary’s desk.
“Here’s the scoop.” Elliot perched on the edge of the credenza. “We’re running highlights of your shows for the next two weeks. Sound bites the other DJs will play before commercials. I’m working with Cujo on the reels. We’ve set up a separate phone line for people to call in their comments and suggestions. Holt is planning a major ad campaign, which means we need you and Newman for photos. Greg Gorman is going to do the shoot, but he only has two hours on Tuesday available, so if you have something scheduled at eleven, cancel it.”
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