"Mom?" Marissa coaxed.

"If you're sure that's what you want," Mona said. "And if I can get my boss to approve it, but if he doesn't see them as competing, like you said, then there shouldn't be a problem. Dear, is that really what you want?"

"Yes, it is," Marissa said, reading Trent's email, short and sweet.

Okay. I looked at my page on your site. Now maybe you'd like to look at yours. Ball's in your court, m'dear.

"Gotta go, Mom. Talk to ya later."

"I'll call you when I get to work. I'll need your credit card info for the ad, okay?"

"Yeah, fine." She disconnected and accessed the DieHardAtlanta site, while Petie, now done with his breakfast, whined at her chair. She scooted back to allow room for him between her and the computer, then put him in her lap. "Let's see what he's done now," she said to the puppy, as she moved the mouse to select the hand-over-mouth icon for TheGirlLies site.

The home page had a new line across the top of the screen.

Help Trent Create the Perfect Quote for Marissa Kincaid.

"Oh, boy," she said, with equal parts trepidation and excitement. What had he done now? She clicked on the bright-red link and was directed to her personal page on his site. Blessedly, there weren't any additional comments in the comment section-she noticed that right off-but there was was a new addition, nonetheless. Trent had added a cartoon talk bubble to the right of her mouth. So far, the bubble was blank. However, a small box beneath it gave directions on how to enter the "Perfect Quote" for Marissa. The directions also said that Trent Jackson himself would review all submissions and decide the winner, whose winning entry would be posted in the bubble and who would win a month of free sidebar advertising on DieHardAtlanta.com. a new addition, nonetheless. Trent had added a cartoon talk bubble to the right of her mouth. So far, the bubble was blank. However, a small box beneath it gave directions on how to enter the "Perfect Quote" for Marissa. The directions also said that Trent Jackson himself would review all submissions and decide the winner, whose winning entry would be posted in the bubble and who would win a month of free sidebar advertising on DieHardAtlanta.com.

"Well, how about that? He's managed to slam me and advertise his webzine at the same time. Not a bad move, Trent. And you're right. The ball is in my court. But I've already slammed it back in your direction. Of course, you won't learn that until you get tomorrow's paper." She lifted Petie, then laughed while she nuzzled his fur and he licked her chin.

This shouldn't be so much fun.

Trent was still in sleep pants and shirtless when the buzzer on his townhouse intercom announced a visitor Thursday morning. A very early visitor. He'd been up late going through the submissions for DieHardAtlanta, as well as submissions for his "Quote for Marissa" contest, and then had been too pumped up to sleep after seeing the staggering leap his site stats had taken in the past week, especially after Sunday's article in the paper. He'd more than quadrupled his subscriptions to DieHardAtlanta, and the increase didn't show any sign of slowing yet. Keith would be pleased . . . and would finally give the go-ahead for the print version of the magazine. In other words, Trent would achieve his goal. Not bad for a week's work.

Yawning, he ambled toward the annoying sound and punched the b.u.t.ton. "Jackson."

"Let me in," Keith said, not one to mince words.

Speak of the devil. Trent buzzed him in, unlocked the door, and headed toward the kitchen to produce caffeine. The digital clock on his coffee maker announced that he'd slept two hours later than usual. Was it really nine o'clock? Thank goodness he hadn't scheduled any meetings this morning.

"h.e.l.l, you aren't dressed yet?" Keith asked, entering Trent's place wearing his traditional business attire, starched white shirt, navy pants, red power tie, and a rolled Atlanta Journal Atlanta Journal fisted in one hand. fisted in one hand.

"Yeah, I'm dressed, decided to go casual," Trent remarked sarcastically. "I do own the company, you know. I can go in late every now and then."

Keith's grin overpowered his face. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. So, you stayed up late working on the DieHardAtlanta site?"

"Both sites. Spent a good deal of time reviewing those articles from the prospective journalists, one for sports in general, and the other specifically for NASCAR." Trent had also spent a good deal of time examining Rissi Kincaid's photo, not that Keith needed to know.

"And?"

Trent swallowed, switched his train of thought from the s.e.xy photo of the sa.s.sy lady to the articles. "Both of the reporters are young, mid-twenties, but they've got a way of telling a story that makes you pay attention. h.e.l.l, I felt like I was at at Daytona, the way that kid described it. And the Braves game coverage was equally compelling." Daytona, the way that kid described it. And the Braves game coverage was equally compelling."

"So you're hiring them."

"Sent them the offers last night."

"I guess that means you checked out your stats? Saw that your subscribers have increased well past that quadruple goal we discussed?" Keith climbed on one of the stools at the bar that separated Trent's kitchen and living room.

"I did. And I'm spending some of the cash to better the product." Trent poured two cups of coffee and slid one Keith's way.

"Don't recall you asking my opinion," Keith said, accepting the steaming mug and taking a big swallow.

"The goal was to quadruple my numbers, and I have, thanks to the attention for TheGirlLies, but I'm going for more," Trent said honestly.

"Which is exactly what I would've recommended." Keith slapped the paper on the counter in front of him. "And as I recall, I recommended the AJ-C AJ-C advertising, too, but I didn't realize the two of you were teaming up." advertising, too, but I didn't realize the two of you were teaming up."

"Who?" Trent asked, while Keith flipped through the pages in the paper, stopped at one, and turned it toward Trent.

"You're telling me you didn't know about this?"

Two advertis.e.m.e.nts, the exact same size, four columns by three inches, were stacked on top of each other in the upper right corner of the page. Both had black backgrounds with white letters, and both stood out prominently with the limited text that had been recommended by the advertising rep, aka Mona Kincaid. "Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. She got one over on me."

"Actually, it's a joint benefit, so she's essentially helping your site, too, whether she meant to or not. I mean, look at it. It's as though the two of you are waving red flags and daring the other to charge first."

Trent examined the bold text, four lines in each ad. His . . .

Think Your Girl Is Lying?

Find Out at TheGirlLies.com Know Your Girl Is Lying?

Turn Her in at TheGirlLies.com

Then, directly beneath his, hers . . .

Think Your Guy Is Cheating?

Find Out at TheGuyCheats.com Know Your Guy Is Cheating?

Turn Him in at TheGuyCheats.com

"If she bought the same advertising special that I did, both of these will run through Sat.u.r.day."

"And interest in DieHardAtlanta will continue to escalate," Keith said, shaking his head in obvious disbelief. "I swear, I couldn't have planned this any better myself. You're sitting on a gold mine with this business feud. How long do you think you two can keep it up?"

"As long as she wants," Trent said, and hoped that Marissa Kincaid "wanted" for a very long time. In fact, he had tried all night long to think of a way for them to bring this feud up close and personal. No, it didn't feel right to simply call and ask her out; they were something of enemies now, after all. But he did want to see Rissi and find out if there was as much spirit and spark in the in-person version as there was in those photos. He wanted to turn this little battle into an intimate confrontation; somehow, he had to make that happen. And soon. Trent couldn't deny the woman was under his skin, and being a man who was used to getting what he wanted, Trent didn't want her merely under it; he wanted her against it, too.

"I spent some time on her site," Keith admitted. "You ever checked out her webzine, AtlantaTellAll? It's really well done. And last night I realized that one of the site's co-owners is married to a guy on my baseball team."

"The nurse, or the s.e.x toy designer?" Trent asked, curiosity getting the best of him. He'd spent time on Marissa's site last night, too.

"Her name is Amy Brooks, and she's a former former s.e.x toy designer," Keith said. "She's a stay-at-home mom now. I've even seen her at the games, just didn't realize that she was one of Marissa Kincaid's coconspirators. She always brings their son along-cute kid-but occasionally, she has a couple of friends with her on the bleachers. I'm betting Marissa Kincaid has probably been there, though I can't say for sure." s.e.x toy designer," Keith said. "She's a stay-at-home mom now. I've even seen her at the games, just didn't realize that she was one of Marissa Kincaid's coconspirators. She always brings their son along-cute kid-but occasionally, she has a couple of friends with her on the bleachers. I'm betting Marissa Kincaid has probably been there, though I can't say for sure."

If Trent had known that Rissi Kincaid had grown up to be so sa.s.sy and s.e.xy and could potentially be perched in the stands, he'd have rethought his decision to refrain from baseball fun in favor of more time at work.

"You know, they didn't mention it in the article, but her husband also works for that s.e.x toy company."

"Doing what?" Trent asked, trying to imagine exactly how a guy studied to be a s.e.x toy designer. Surely there wasn't a degree for that, even at the online colleges.

"He's actually pretty high up in the company, over the ma.s.sage oil division. I know because a lot of our teammates rag him about it, but the cowboy could care less. Plus, he plays a mean shortstop and gets a hit d.a.m.n near every time, so they're not about to say too much. Besides, he's got a bombsh.e.l.l for a wife, and the two of them can hardly keep their hands off each other."

"Ma.s.sage oil," Trent repeated, not quite knowing what else to say.

"Has a degree in chemistry," Keith enlightened, "and evidently he's got a talent for scents."

Trent drew in a too-big sip of coffee, let the hot liquid sizzle in his mouth, then winced through the swallow. So, one of Marissa's buddies was married to a chemistry whiz who had a nose for ma.s.sage oil scents and played a mean shortstop. Why did his role as CEO of Jackson Enterprises, specializing in properties and investments, suddenly seem rather . . . boring?

But DieHardAtlanta wasn't boring. It was exciting, invigorating, and as masculine a webzine as they came. Well, if you weren't talking the ones along the line of Playboy Playboy, Penthouse Penthouse, and Hustler Hustler.

And come to think of it, TheGirlLies.com wasn't boring either. In fact, it was gaining him the exposure he needed to achieve his goal, a lucrative publication with his name, Trent Jackson-not Jackson Enterprises-behind its success. But the more Trent thought about it, the more he realized . . .

Until TheGirlLies, his life hadn't been all that interesting or exciting. h.e.l.l, his name barely came up on Google, in spite of all the dollar signs on the books at Jackson Enterprises. He'd started DieHardAtlanta, but it really hadn't taken off, and though Jackson Enterprises was flourishing, it'd been prosperous since his grandfather started it in the late 1920s. And without Trent's help. Yes, Trent's true jump in the notable category happened when he started the liar site to taunt Marissa Kincaid. She'd She'd put that excitement, that sizzle, back in his veins. Did she even realize it? And did she see Trent Jackson as the kind of guy who could keep her attention, or did she see him as the all-about-business guy he'd been merely a week ago? put that excitement, that sizzle, back in his veins. Did she even realize it? And did she see Trent Jackson as the kind of guy who could keep her attention, or did she see him as the all-about-business guy he'd been merely a week ago?

If she could get him this energized via a website and some strategic newspaper advertising, what could she do if they spent time together one on one? And what could Trent do to make it happen?

"What?" Keith asked. "I know that look, and you're planning something."

"I want Marissa Kincaid," he said without hesitation.

Keith nodded knowingly. "Yeah, I figured you did, wondered how long it'd take you to realize it." He lifted his mug in mock salute, then downed another swallow of the steaming liquid. "Can't wait to see how you're going to pull this one off."

Trent's mind had already started pondering possibilities. He had a feeling he knew exactly how he'd pull it off. She wouldn't be able to resist. He could make it happen, and he would.

Liars never quit, but they sure have talented tongues.

-WINNING S SUBMISSION, MARISSA K KINCAID Q QUOTE C CONTEST-THEGIRLLIES.COM

Chapter 8.

At some unG.o.dly predawn hour, Mona Kincaid boarded a tour bus headed to Branson for a two-week vacation with forty other folks from the Gwinnett Senior Citizens Center, which was why Marissa managed to sleep until seven, when Petie licked her chin and announced that he had needs, and that she should tend to them p.r.o.nto.

"You know, you're nearly as bad as my mother," she huffed, climbing out of bed and changing into a T-shirt and shorts. Then the phone started to ring. "Ah, she remembered her cell phone." Marissa had expected as much. Vacation or not, Mona Kincaid always called-maybe not as early, but she called just the same. Ever since the two of them had started life "on their own," after her parents divorced, Mona had started her days with a mother-daughter chat, whether they were under the same roof or not. Marissa reached for the cordless phone and started toward the door with Petie, who paused only long enough to let her hook his leash to his collar. On the third ring, Marissa hit the Talk Talk b.u.t.ton. "Morning, Mom," she said sleepily, opening the door and letting Petie lead the way. She hadn't even checked the caller ID. She'd known it was Mona. b.u.t.ton. "Morning, Mom," she said sleepily, opening the door and letting Petie lead the way. She hadn't even checked the caller ID. She'd known it was Mona.

But she was wrong.

"You know, of all the things I've been called, I don't believe 'Mom' has ever entered the picture."

At the sound of that masculine, confident tone, Marissa's hands involuntarily tightened, along with a few other parts of her anatomy, and Petie yelped when the reaction caused a tiny jerk on his leash. "Sorry, Petie," she mumbled apologetically.

"Petie?" s.e.xy voice asked, while Marissa dashed a peek at the caller ID. Sure enough, there was the proof.

Jackson, Trenton J.

"My dog," she said, kneeling to rub Petie's soft coat in an effort to formally apologize . . . and because her knees had turned to jelly.

"Ah, so you're expecting phone calls from your mother at the crack of dawn, and you're hanging out with your dog at the same time. Exciting life you live, Rissi."

Marissa's jaw tensed, eyes narrowed. "Obviously, yours is equally exciting, since you spend your time running stupid contests about comic strip quotes-for my picture-and spend your mornings calling women who don't want to talk to you."

"The first part may be true," he said, and she could actually hear the smile in his words, "but the last part, well, I wouldn't be so sure. You do want to talk to me, don't you, Rissi?" he asked, then added huskily, "As much as I want to talk to you."

Okay. That stopped her cold. How was she supposed to argue with a guy who looked like Trent Jackson, intrigued the h.e.l.l out of her, and admitted he wanted to talk to her? She tried to formulate a sa.s.sy response, but he didn't give her time before forging on.

"Saw the winning quote, did you?" he asked.

"I did," she admitted, having viewed the winning entry last night before going to bed. It was amazing she slept, given how mad she'd been. A tinge of that fury for his crazy antics rippled down her spine as she recalled the words in that cartoon bubble.

"I imagine you won't have any trouble getting dates, with all of the males in Atlanta wanting to know if it's true."

"If what's true?" she asked, before really thinking through her question. Obviously, he was talking about the quote, so obviously, he was talking about . . .

"Whether liars really have talented tongues," he said, with no hint of a smile filtering through any of the words.

"I can't believe you put that on your site," she said. "My mother read it! And you know good and well that you have no idea about anything having to do with me, or my tongue."

"Did Mona also read about my inadequate anatomy on your site? Because as far as I know, unless I ran into you at some point in life where I'd really had a good time with the bottle, there's no way you have any idea about anything having to do with me, Ms. Kincaid, and that includes my anatomy. Of course, if you'd like to investigate for yourself, and allow me to investigate your tongue talents-" He let the word hang.

Her throat went dry, and Petie barked. She fought to swallow, and licked her lips. d.a.m.n, this was so so not what she needed to be thinking while talking to Trent Jackson. She tugged gently on Petie's leash to get him to go back inside, but he tugged back, ready to play. not what she needed to be thinking while talking to Trent Jackson. She tugged gently on Petie's leash to get him to go back inside, but he tugged back, ready to play.

Marissa wasn't in the mood. "Come on," she urged Petie.

"h.e.l.l," Trent said, his voice even deeper and sounding genuinely surprised. Then he added, "When and where?"