Getting It Right!

Dear Reader,

I hope that you’re enjoying my CHICKS IN CHARGE series. If you missed the first two books, please be sure to check them out. (
Getting It!
Harlequin Temptation January 2005 and
Getting It Good!
Harlequin Blaze February 2005). I’ve had a ball writing these feisty heroines and finding the perfect guys for them.

Since the debut book I’ve been asked many times where I got the idea for this series. It was funny, really. I was sitting in my office, absently listening to a panel of “experts” talk about why
The Bachelorette
had been more of a success than
The Bachelor.
One of the women shrugged and said, “It’s because a chick’s in charge.” Something about the girl power in that phrase really appealed to me and I started playing the “What if…” game. The result was this series of books with smart, determined women who know their own worth. Pairing them with guys who figure it out as well has been a very fun and fulfilling experience.

Don’t miss the final book in my CHICKS IN CHARGE series—
Getting It Now!
—available next month. I’d love to know what you think. Be sure to swing by my Web site—www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com and let me know how you’re enjoying the ride.

Happy reading!

Rhonda Nelson

Prologue

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

Epilogue

U
NDER ORDINARY
circumstances, April Wilson was just vain enough to appreciate a hot stare from an equally hot guy. What woman didn’t like a lingering appreciative look? One that somehow managed to validate those extra minutes spent in front of the mirror, that additional time rifling through the closet to find
the
perfect outfit, or taking those few seconds to repair a chipped nail?

Usually one flicker of interest from a pair of intrigued masculine eyes was enough to make her inwardly preen with satisfaction because it meant she hadn’t wasted her time, that her somewhat manic attention to detail had paid off.

Unfortunately, in this case, it was the particular
source
of interest that was causing her…discomfort.

Looking equally relaxed and dangerous, Ben Hayes sat sprawled on a chair at the end of the bar.
The Blue Monkey Pub on the edge of New Orleans’ famed French Quarter was technically
her
haunt, but over the past few months Ben had been showing up with disconcerting regularity and had easily made it his preferred hang out, as well. It was unnerving to say the least. Her gaze was inexplicably drawn to him once more, causing a flutter of awareness to skim up her spine.

Mercy.

A navy-blue designer T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest, serving as both a testament to his casual style and the pricey label, a silent affirmation that he’d arrived. April swallowed.

That, she knew, was important to him.

Worn denim clung to his hardened thighs and a pair of ridiculously expensive boots rounded out the ensemble. Dark brown hair just a shade shy of black hung in loose waves around a face that held more character than beauty and, though she couldn’t see them clearly from here—
and
she refused to look—memory painted an accurate picture of his eyes. Pale golden brown, the shade of light arcing off a crystal tumbler of good Kentucky bourbon.

Occasionally he’d hoist the longneck held care
lessly between his fingers to that insanely carnal mouth and, though she seriously doubted he was even aware of it, every move he made exuded an effortless, sexy sort of grace that was essentially mesmerizing to every female—attached and unattached—in the room.

Simply put, Ben Hayes was sex on a stick…and from the time she was old enough to feel the first quickening of awareness in her belly, licking him all over had been a fantasy she’d explored repeatedly in her dreams.

Frankie Salvaterra—soon to be Hartford, April reminded herself—and a fellow Chicks In Charge buddy, leaned over and nudged her shoulder. Her dark brown eyes glittered with perception and just the smallest hint of pity. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”

“What?” April asked, knowing full well what her friend meant. When it came to sexual matters, as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa, Frankie was the go-to girl for advice.

“That stare.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “Ben’s been boring a hole through you for the past fifteen minutes.” Her lips curled. “My guess is that he’s mentally stripped you naked and committed carnal acts upon your person on every
available surface in this room, ones that would undoubtedly end your
suffering,
” she said, needling April significantly, then sipped her drink and sighed. “If only you’d let him.”

April closed her eyes and let go a shuddering breath as Frankie’s graphic description too readily materialized behind her lids. Her friend was right, she knew.

And she
was
suffering.

Without warning and for no apparent discernable reason, her Big O had vanished. Or at the very least headed for higher ground. For the past eighteen months—
eighteen miserable, excruciatingly frustrating months
—and despite multiple attempts, self-inflicted and otherwise, she’d been unable to climax. It was as though whatever tripped her trigger had been unwittingly put on safety.

At first, April had chalked her unhappy malady up to stress. With the creation of Chicks In Charge—a brainchild born in this very pub and an organization designed for the express purpose of empowering women everywhere—as the Webmistress of the movement, she’d been too busy to think about whether or not her hot button was disengaged.

Between building the original site, then pulling the CHiC e-zine together, not to mention maintaining sites for previous customers and working on prior contracted work, she’d been burning her candle at both ends.

Luckily, she was at her best under pressure and, though she was tired, it was the pleasant sort of exhaustion brought about by a job well-done. It was only in the past month when things had slowed to a more comfortable pace that the absence of a sex life and, more importantly, the melting pleasure of a hard, mind-numbing orgasm, had begun to wear on her.

And seeing Ben Hayes on a weekly basis—a six-and-a-half-foot, rock-hard and irreverent reminder of what she was missing—certainly wasn’t helping matters. Hell, he wasn’t dubbed
The Vagina Whisperer
for nothing, April thought with a small smile, wondering if he knew about the nickname.

Ben was a quintessential bad boy, a guy from the so-called wrong side of the tracks who thumbed his nose at the middle class, hated the idle rich and showed his disdain by competently seducing any girl he supposedly couldn’t have, usually one already attached or engaged to a guy
belonging to one of the aforementioned groups. He was a legendary lover, one of those fix-me males, and had left more than one broken heart in his wake…and, April thought as she took another sip of her beer, had her mother not intervened at a timely moment in her midteens, she would have undoubtedly ended up as one of them, as well.

“I know you said that Ben’s father worked for your family while the two of you were growing up,” Frankie said casually as the rest of the little group around their table continued to chat. “But to be honest, April, I’ve always suspected a deeper acquaintance. Something more than just childhood friends.”

As usual, Frankie’s perceptive intuition was dead-on. They
had
been more than friends, at least until her mother had forbidden Ben to come near her. Funny thing, that, April thought now. Ben—her rebel—had been willing to fight for everything. Her lips twisted with bitter humor.

Everything, that is, except her.

Honestly, she’d never expected him to give in so easily. She’d been convinced of his affection, so certain of his love. Teenage fancy, she thought now. They hadn’t been in love. She’d merely suffered from an extreme crush and he’d…Well,
evidently, he’d just been horny. Furthermore, he’d changed after that encounter. Her good-hearted bad boy had become bewilderingly embittered. Angry, even.

“There was nothing more,” April lied, the fib souring on her tongue. “We were friends. Our fathers served in Vietnam together. Ben’s dad was injured while under my father’s command, and couldn’t keep steady work when they came home.” She shrugged. “Dad hired him, gave his family a place to live.”

Frankie quirked a dark brow. “He felt responsible then?”

April nodded. “Yeah. Still does, I think.” He’d never told her why—and given the fact that she’d unwittingly forced him out of the closet a couple of years ago, their once-close relationship had become slightly…strained of late. April resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As if she cared about his sexual preference. She just wanted her father back.

Granted, having a father who was just as adept as she was at spotting a good-looking guy was a little unnerving, but in all honestly, after twenty years with her mother—The Great Emasculator—April was just glad that he’d found someone to
make him happy. She only wished that her father would share that special someone with her.

Despite her attempts to wheedle an introduction, her father maddeningly continued to keep his companion’s identity a secret. Her father was a good man, though, and deserved a bit of belated joy. As for her mother, well…She wouldn’t go into what
she
deserved, April thought ominously.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Frankie said, once again bringing the subject back to Ben, or more accurately, April having sex with Ben.

April hesitated, then gave her head a small shake. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“And I think you’re overthinking it.” She shrugged. “He’s obviously interested.”

Yeah,
now,
April thought, after years of being distantly polite. It didn’t make any sense. She briefly tuned into the conversation currently occupying the residents at their table. Zora and Tate were still arguing over who’d ultimately gotten Frankie and Ross together, and Carrie, the fourth and final member of their Chicks In Charge board, was looking on with an indulgent though tired smile.

Poor Carrie, April thought. She might have lost her orgasm, but Carrie was the only member of
their little group who was still in a miserable job, beholden to a bastard employer. Carrie was a fantastic chef, though, and they were all convinced that good things were bound to be coming her way. In fact, the producers at
Let’s Cook, New Orleans!—
a nationally syndicated program—were supposedly looking at their friend as a possible host and, in April’s opinion, the show couldn’t come soon enough.

Satisfied that she wasn’t missing any new gossip, she summoned a wry smile and shifted against her bar stool. “We’re supposed to be celebrating your impending nuptials, not worrying over my little problem,” she said, hoping to change the subject. She knew Ben was the answer to her problem, she just wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that would have to precede the cure.

Frankie shot a fond look at her husband-to-be. “Believe me, Ross and I have our own special brand of
celebrating
.”

Unable to help herself, April grinned and determinedly ignored the prick of envy in her chest. She could just imagine. It was nice to see two of her best friends find their perfect mate. Zora and Tate had already tied the knot and Frankie and Ross weren’t too far behind.

“And you don’t have a
little
problem,” Frankie continued doggedly. “After a year and a half, it’s a big problem, babe.” She cocked her head. “If Ben can’t cure what ails you, then I think you need to seriously consider seeing a doctor. Something’s not right. It’s…” She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s unnatural. Seriously. For the love of Mike, just go talk to him,” Frankie ordered with an exaggerated huff. “What have you got to lose?”

Logic told her nothing, but intuition begged to differ. That’s why she’d been dragging her heels and refused to seek out Ben’s particular brand of expertise. Honestly, hearing about his sexual forays—and there’d been too many satisfied women singing his praises to avoid it—April grimly suspected even a casual encounter would cost her more than she could pay.

A beat slid into three, then Frankie arched a shrewd brow. “Oh, my,” she said knowingly. “So it’s like that.”

April’s beer stalled halfway to her mouth and she shot Frankie an annoyed look. “No it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”

Frankie snorted. “You’re beyond cautious. It’s time to take the bull by the horns. Hell, even hot, sweaty sex without an orgasm is better than no
sex at all, April.” She chewed the corner of her bottom lip and grinned. “If nothing else, do him for the foreplay. His name has come up quite frequently in my line of work and from what I hear, Ben’s got a master’s in tongue massage.”

And just like that, April cast Ben in the starring role of her own mental porn movie.
Warm hands and warmer skin, a hot greedy mouth…
Her thighs tensed and the slightest buzz of a tingle pinged her sex. And it was that little ray of hope that ultimately pushed her over the edge, conquered reason and thwarted doubt.

She
wanted.

And she’d always wanted
him.

“Go on,” Frankie cajoled, evidently sensing victory. “Go talk to him.”

“Fine,” April finally relented. “But not tonight.”

“But—”

“Not tonight,” she repeated firmly. “What?” she said grimly under her breath. “You want me to walk up to him and tell him that I’m in need of some of his
whispering
skills?” She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I need a plan first. I’ve got to have something to offer in return.” What, she didn’t know. Ben was a top-notch and well-paid photographer whose work had been featured in promi
nent glossies all over the globe. Money wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t need it anymore.

Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You mean sleeping with you isn’t going to be payment enough? He wants you.
You
are what he gets.”

“No,” April said, lost in her own thoughts. “That’s not how I want to handle this.”

Frankie harrumphed and looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, well, you try going without an orgasm for eighteen months and see how rational you are.”

Her friend made a moue of understanding and conceded the point. “There is that.” She paused. “But you are going to ask him for help, right? Promise me,” she insisted.

April nodded and let go a pent-up breath. She sought Ben out once more and the hair on the back of her neck prickled when her gaze unexpectedly tangled with his. That hot, familiar stare and the faint crook of his ultra-sexy lips seemingly pinned her to her seat. Without warning, the air thinned in her lungs, her skin instantly warmed and tightened, and that woeful tingle below her navel issued another faint buzz of desperation.

“I promise,” she said breathlessly.

And she secretly hoped like hell she didn’t live to regret it.