“You beat your wife at poker all the time, Tate,” Ross returned flatly.
“Yeah, but this time it’s different. I’m getting something that Zora’s never had to give up—humility. Come on, Ross,” he cajoled. “It’s only a week. What’s one week out of a lifetime? What’s one measly week for the Maxwell account?”
Not much, he had to agree. Nevertheless, he didn’t like being a part of Tate and Zora’s poker games and he damned sure didn’t like being blackmailed into getting an account that should have been his to start with.
Ross normally resisted all attempts to manage and maneuver him, but Tate, the intuitive bastard, had hit upon the one thing that he couldn’t refuse—the Maxwell account. If he would have dangled anything else, Ross would have been able to say no.
But not this.
He wanted it. It was a trophy account—the one that would ultimately prove he’d arrived.
And, though he didn’t appreciate Tate’s method, he’d had the balls to lay it all on the line, so he had to respect him for that, if nothing else. Ross let go a breath and glared at him. “You’re a sneaky bastard, Tate,” he told him, letting him know that he wasn’t completely off the hook.
“I know.”
Resigned, Ross rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to do?”
Seemingly relieved, Tate leaned back in his seat and winced. “That’s the kicker. I don’t know,” he said grimly. “We’re meeting Zora for lunch at Mama MoJo’s at noon.”
Ross shot him a hard look. “But it’s only a week, right?”
Tate nodded. “Right.”
“Fine,” Ross told him wearily. Hell, he could stand anything for a week, especially if it meant the Maxwell account would be his.
2
THREE HOURS LATER Ross’s steps slowed as he entered the eclectic café and the grim realization that he’d been wrong—that there was one thing that he couldn’t take for a week—hit him because that very thing was sitting at their table with Zora—Frankie Salvaterra.
“You didn’t tell me Mouth would be here,” Ross said tightly. Equal parts anticipation, dread and desire coalesced in his gut, pushed his pulse rate up to pre-stroke level. His skin prickled, his stomach parachuted and his loins ignited into an inferno of repressed lust.
Regrettably, Frankie always had that effect on him.
“That’s because I didn’t know,” Tate returned from the side of his mouth as he made his way across the room. He, too, suddenly looked a little uneasy, a fact Ross didn’t find the least bit reassuring.
Having spotted them, Zora smiled and waved them over. Frankie turned then, and that dark-as-sin gaze tangled with his. Her ripe mouth curled into a woefully familiar mockery of a grin, the barest hint of a smile, and that one provoking gesture somehow managed to be simultaneously superior and sexy.
And, as usual, it annoyed the hell out of him. He swallowed a long-suffering sigh.
Furthermore, to make matters worse—and truthfully, he wouldn’t have thought that would have been possible—Frankie had looked entirely too happy to suit his taste…because if Frankie was happy it could only be because she knew that he would soon be supremely unhappy. Clearly Zora had filled her in on the present situation and Ms. Merciless had tagged along to silently chortle over his misfortune.
“You have no idea what she wants me to do?” Ross asked again. His gaze drifted to Frankie once more and he watched as she and Zora shared a conspiratorial smile. Oh, hell, Ross thought as dread formed a tight ball in his belly. This didn’t bode well. Not well at all. His insides clenched and he stifled a groan.
“None,” Tate replied as they neared the table. He bent and brushed a kiss over his wife’s cheek and murmured a warm greeting.
“Zora, Frankie,” Ross said, giving them each a glance in turn, before taking his seat. Though he’d only spared half a second, had barely glanced at her at all, that one meager look had been all Ross needed to catalogue every pertinent detail when it came to Frankie.
Simply put, she was a classic Italian beauty. Long black hair, cut in lengthy layers that framed an elegant yet striking face. Large almond-shaped dark eyes, sleek dramatic brows, creamy olive skin and a mouth that inspired more than a few erotic dreams. Her lips were full, lush and unbelievably provocative. She was petite but very generously curved and she moved with a careless sort of grace that was, quite frankly, fascinating—mesmerizing—to watch.
Ross inwardly snorted. God knows, there had been times when dragging his eyes off of her had been almost impossible. Were that not enough, for reasons which escaped him, the Almighty had further blessed her with a keen mind and a diabolically sharp wit. Ross had found himself verbally flayed many times by that Ginsu tongue of hers and he grimly suspected that it was about to happen again.
It was a cruel joke really, Ross thought, mentally bracing himself, to package such a mind and body with the personality of a waspish hellcat. Crueler still that he actually looked forward to tangling with her, that he wanted her so desperately that it almost frightened him. Thankfully, fear was an emotion he refused to acknowledge, otherwise he’d undoubtedly be in trouble.
A beat later he felt her gaze slide over him, caught the vaguest curve of a smile, and the unease that had settled like a stone in his gut grew increasingly heavier. Annoyed, he looked away. A single hot oath sizzled on his tongue, but miraculously, he held it.
“I think I’m going to have the grilled chicken salad,” Zora said, casually perusing the menu. “What about you, honey? Have you decided what you want?”
Tate nodded, set his menu aside and absently scratched his chest. “Yeah. I’m in the mood for jambalaya.”
Ross resisted the pressing urge to roll his eyes. He was in the mood to get this over with, to cease and desist with the idle chitchat when they all knew they were here to plunge him into some unknown hell.
“That sounds good,” Frankie chimed in. “I think I’ll have that as well. Know what you want, Ross?” she asked with a touch of humor.
To leave, and from the knowing twinkle in her eye she’d evidently figured it out. “Er…the usual, I think. A MoJo burger and an order of fries.”
A waitress came, took their order, then soon returned and delivered drinks. Once she left, Ross decided that it was time to put an end to the meaningless chatter and cut to the chase.
He manufactured a smile that fell several degrees shy of pleasant and aimed it at Zora. “Tate has blackmailed me into coming to work for you at CHiC for the next week. Wanna fill me in on exactly what I’ll be doing?”
Zora looked up, smoothly set her drink aside. She seemed to have been waiting for him to broach the subject. “Sure. You’ll be working with Frankie.” She nodded toward her friend. “That’s why she’s here.”
If working for CHiC had been the directive that sent him to hell, then working with Frankie was the equivalent of being ushered to the very gates of Hades. For whatever reason—premonition, bad luck, bad karma—he had the grimmest feeling that the rest of what Zora had to tell him would send him over the threshold straight to the deepest nether regions of the underworld.
Zora smiled, serenely enjoying his discomfort. “As you know, Frankie is CHiC’s Carnal Contessa. Our sexpert, if you will.”
He was fully aware of her job, what it entailed,