"Why on earth would I need to let you know first?"

"So I can send you a care package, courtesy of Adventurous Accessories and the Brooks family."

"A Pinky of my own?" Marissa asked.

"Yeah, right. You already have one. Candi found it one night when she was looking for the phone book. You really need a better place to stash your supplies. But I'll send you some of our newer items, guaranteed to please."

Marissa didn't say a word. What could she say? She'd thought her personal Pinky was a secret, but she was learning with every pa.s.sing day that there were no more secrets in her life. The world already knew about every guy who ever cheated on her, they knew that she cried during s.e.x (even if they didn't realize it was only once), and they knew that she had an ongoing feud with Trent Jackson.

How long till they knew that merely thinking about him made her quiver with desire? And would she be able to hide the l.u.s.t in her eyes if she was thinking about it?

Petie ran through again, circling wide to keep out of her reach, a silver streak with a white paper tail. She looked at the clock. Merely an hour to catch a dog, de-t.p. her bathroom, and, most important, face Trent Jackson.

Well, she had wanted excitement. Now she had it.

One juicy interview . . . deserves another.

-SPEEDY

Chapter 9.

Can I really do this?" Marissa asked Candi, as the elevator surged upward in the building that housed the Coleman and Speedy Morning Show Coleman and Speedy Morning Show. They might have gone up, but her stomach hovered near the bottom floor. She was going to be sick. Terrific.

Petie issued a bark of encouragement, or Marissa decided to take it that way, from his snug position in Candi's arms. Candi had thought it'd be smart to bring him along, in case Marissa needed an on-air diversion. The suggestion had sounded pretty good at the time, but now Marissa remembered all of the inappropriate dog comments she'd blurted on the phone with Trent this morning, and wasn't certain at all whether this occasion called for a salt-and-pepper schnauzer with a toilet paper fetish. Imagine what Petie could get into in a studio. Or worse, Marissa could ask his opinion; she had been doing that a lot lately. All she needed was to get on the radio, broadcasting live, and let all of Atlanta hear her talking to her dog.

Not in this life.

"Petie is going to sit with you when I do the interview, okay?" she said, and hated that her voice quivered.

"If that's what you want," Candi said, smiling. Well, of course she would smile. She She wasn't about to do a live radio interview about her cheater website . . . or be in a room with a guy who drove her nearly to insanity, on several levels. wasn't about to do a live radio interview about her cheater website . . . or be in a room with a guy who drove her nearly to insanity, on several levels.

Marissa did a once-over of her reflection in the shiny elevator wall. Her hair had evidently felt sa.s.sy this morning, because the stray curl that drove Marissa nuts was, once again, embellishing her left temple. Another Betty Boop day. Yea. Then she examined her choice of clothing. The new white blouse she'd purchased at Macy's was fashionable yet professional, the exact look she wanted. She'd fallen in love with the way one side crossed over the other and then fastened with a black crystal at the hip. Paired with black slacks and black pumps, the shirt gave her the business presence she was after, a woman who would make it in a man's world.

Or did she look like a waiter at Olive Garden?

"It's really cool that they're going to have both of you on together. It's been a while since they've done one of those kind of shows," Candi said, stroking Petie's back while he barked his approval. "Cool, huh, Petie?"

"Those kind of shows?" Marissa asked.

"You know, throwing two opposites together. Don't you remember the two bull riders that were in town for the rodeo a few months back? They brought them on the show and got to talking about how bull riders were sometimes looked at as not the sharpest crayons in the box. Then they talked about the National Spelling Bee taking place that week, and how Speedy had been watching it to try to learn some new words. Next thing those bull riders knew, Coleman and Speedy had convinced them to compete in a live spelling bee, on the air." Candi laughed at the memory. "They had all of these words that had to do with bulls, and nothing remotely easy to spell. It was hilarious. Remember that one guy trying to spell castrated?"

Oh, yeah, Marissa was going to be sick. What was the real reason Coleman and Speedy wanted to interview Trent Jackson and her together? And how long until she found out? The elevator bell dinged and Marissa had her answer. Not very long.

"This is it," Candi said, still smiling, as if she was actually excited. "Thirteenth floor."

"Thirteenth? I thought places skipped the thirteenth floor. Isn't there some kind of unwritten law about that?" Marissa asked, as the elevator doors slid open to reveal the radio station's lobby, empty except for a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man in snazzy business-casual attire who was evidently awaiting their arrival.

Had he heard her comment?

"Thirteen's not so bad," he said, stretching out a hand. "In fact, it's always been my lucky number. Marissa Kincaid, I presume."

Great. She hadn't even entered the recording area and already she sounded like a basket case, a superst.i.tious basket case at that. "Yes."

He placed his palm in hers, then surprised her, covering her outer hand with his other palm with a comforting firmness that somehow made her believe everything would be okay. Would it?

And then he smiled. Marissa's memory was jostled. For some bizarre reason, she remembered the friendly grin from another time, and definitely another place. But where?

"Have we met?" Okay, this would be the precise moment when Coleman, Speedy, and Trent Jackson should magically appear and a.s.sume she was. .h.i.tting on a stranger in the waiting area of the recording studio. Wouldn't surprise Marissa. In fact, providing ammunition to the enemy immediately before a live interview would go along perfectly with the rest of her week.

Fortunately, the guy didn't even flinch at the typical pickup line. "No, we haven't, not officially, that is," he said, "though I know quite a bit about you from Trent, and from both of your sites. I'm Keith Parker, Trent's financial advisor, and even though I haven't met you personally, I do believe I may have seen you a time or two before, at the Gwinnett baseball fields."

Recognition slammed Marissa, which was only right. Healthy thirty-something women didn't typically forget a guy who looked that good in baseball pants. "You're on Landon's team."

"Guilty as charged. And I'll go ahead and admit that I can't field a ball, or hit one, for that matter, anywhere near as well as he can, but they haven't kicked me off the team yet, so I guess I'll do." He turned toward Candi. "I've seen you there, too, haven't I?"

"You're number thirteen. Third base," Candi said breathily.

He raised his brows at Marissa, as though she should've known this as well, but she only remembered the smile. Candi had evidently taken better notice. Much better notice, from the I'm-almost-at-the-drooling-point look on her face.

"This is Candi Moody," Marissa said, snapping the words out to try to bring Candi back into the real world, the one where she wasn't undressing this guy in her mind.

"Right," Candi said, and apparently squeezed Petie when she spoke. His sharp, high-pitched yelp of protest made Marissa jump. "And this is Petie," Candi added, lifting her cradled arms to raise the puppy toward Keith.

At the sound of his name, Petie's ears p.r.i.c.ked forward and he emitted a low growl.

"He's trying to protect me from you," Candi informed him, then tenderly rubbed behind the dog's ears. "It's okay, Petie," she soothed. "He's actually Marissa's dog, but he's protective of all of us. I'm kind of partial to him, too."

"Really," Keith said, holding his palm toward Petie. The dog sniffed it suspiciously, then dashed his tongue out for an exploratory lick. Naturally, after the first lick, he licked some more. Keith laughed, a nice laugh that seemed to roll from his chest with ease. "I think he's decided I won't hurt you," he said. "Do you agree?"

"No," Candi said, then blinked a few times and looked helplessly at Marissa. "I mean yes, I agree."

Candi's brown eyes were glazed over, the same way they were whenever she arrived at Marissa's after a twenty-four-hour shift. But then it was due to a lack of sleep. Now, it was due to a lack of s.e.x. Oh, well, wasn't that fitting? Marissa brought Candi along to keep her mind off Trent, and Candi had already lost her senses over his financial advisor.

"Candi," Marissa said sternly. "Where do you think we need to go?"

Candi shifted her entire body away from Keith, as if she were scared to keep looking at those baby blue eyes. Smart move. Marissa had the impression she'd just watched the equivalent of a snake eyeing a bird, except this bird wanted to be eyed. And more than eyed. The fact that Keith Parker looked good in baseball pants-and that Candi knew it-didn't help. But Marissa needed Candi right now, good-looking guy flirting with her or not.

"I imagine we go through there." Candi pointed toward a brown door on the opposite side of the lobby emblazoned with a Coleman and Speedy Coleman and Speedy logo in its center, and an "On Air" sign illuminated above the frame. The DJs' logo was popular around town, with the caricature of Coleman in a suit and tie, and Speedy in an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt, distinctly depicting the two personalities. Mr. Politically Correct, and Mr. Redneck Tech. Right now, Marissa wasn't sure whom she feared more. logo in its center, and an "On Air" sign illuminated above the frame. The DJs' logo was popular around town, with the caricature of Coleman in a suit and tie, and Speedy in an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt, distinctly depicting the two personalities. Mr. Politically Correct, and Mr. Redneck Tech. Right now, Marissa wasn't sure whom she feared more.

"Actually, she she goes through there," Keith said, indicating Marissa. "They specified only Trent and Marissa Kincaid were to enter the recording booth. Claimed it was because the room was so small, but I'm thinking they want to get you two alone. They're known for surprising their guests, you know." goes through there," Keith said, indicating Marissa. "They specified only Trent and Marissa Kincaid were to enter the recording booth. Claimed it was because the room was so small, but I'm thinking they want to get you two alone. They're known for surprising their guests, you know."

Ah. Well, there's a guy who doesn't pull his punches.

"I was just reminding Marissa of that," Candi said. "Remember the rodeo guys . . ."

Marissa cleared her throat and interrupted Candi. She didn't want to hear about the spelling bee again. "You don't have any idea what they have in mind?" she asked Keith, petting Petie but eyeing Candi.

"No clue," he said, but his sly smile said he did have a clue and chose not to share.

"Right," Marissa said, huffing out a breath in exasperation. "And when will Trent get here? We're supposed to start in"-she looked at her watch-"ten minutes."

"He's already inside. They said he could go ahead and get started, so he asked me to watch for you and send you in when you arrived." He ignored Marissa's complete loss of color-she could feel it draining from her face-and geared his attention toward Candi and Petie. "Come on, Coleman told me where we can go to listen to the broadcast, a room down the hall."

"Okay with you?" Candi excitedly asked Marissa, still standing in semishock.

Trent was already in there? Doing what? Saying what? And did she really want to know?

Marissa nodded numbly, watched them turn to leave, and then headed toward her destiny. Or, should she say, her destruction?

"Coleman said not to knock, so go on in," Keith called, reaching toward Petie as he and Candi walked away. Out of the corner of her eye, Marissa saw Petie shift from Candi's arms to Keith's. Super. Now her dog had switched teams.

She stepped inside the room and immediately realized two important facts. One, the recording area was freezing, as in you-could-hang-meat-in-here cold. And two, her blouse was thin, as in you-could-hang-Christmas-ornaments-on-her-nipples thin.

Not good.

"Ah, here she is now."

Marissa turned toward the booming perfect-for-radio voice. Coleman, she realized, recognizing the tone that she listened to each morning during her drive to work. He was the more eloquent of the two, with Speedy along for a pinch of redneck comic relief.

Plastering on her best smile, Marissa started down a short hall toward the gla.s.s-walled room where Coleman and Speedy sat across from each other at a double desk. Two computer monitors were back to back, with each man viewing his own screen while conversing via a thick microphone hanging from a swing rod in the ceiling. Through the gla.s.s forming the back wall, Marissa saw three people, two men and one woman, apparently monitoring the production controls. They all smiled at her, and the woman waved.

Did the woman's face look tense? As though she knew Marissa was walking into a death trap? And where was Trent Jackson?

Marissa opened the door to the DJ area and stepped inside. Wouldn't you know it? The booth was even colder than the outer area, and her nipples were giving Atlanta's most well-known DJs her own version of a private salute.

Scratch that. She was saluting the DJs, but she was also saluting the man now turning one of two cushy recliners, evidently meant for guests, in her direction. How had she missed those chairs? Right, they were hidden by the door. But she should have known Trent Jackson was in here somewhere. Keith, the guy who took her friend and and her dog, had told her. her dog, had told her.

"h.e.l.lo, Rissi," Trent said, those piercing dark eyes deliberately acknowledging her chest, then the rest of her, before he stood. And stood. And stood. He stepped closer, his rock-solid chest behind a crisp white shirt merely inches from her face. Then the musky scent of rock-solid male joined in for effect.

Marissa's head swam. The vision of snake and bird reemerged. She swallowed, struggled to maintain her wits, and realized she needed to converse. Somehow.

"How tall are you?" she blurted.

Have mercy, she should not not be attracted to c.o.c.ky grins, particularly a c.o.c.ky grin from Trent Jackson. But she was. Attracted. To the grin, and the wavy hair, and the smoky eyes, and the broad shoulders, and the impressive chest, and . . . be attracted to c.o.c.ky grins, particularly a c.o.c.ky grin from Trent Jackson. But she was. Attracted. To the grin, and the wavy hair, and the smoky eyes, and the broad shoulders, and the impressive chest, and . . .

"Six-two," he said, extending a hand. She did the same, then he took her palm and held it. Skin to skin. Male to female. Keith's shake had been nice; this one was, in a word, deadly.

Had she actually been cold a second ago?

Coleman cleared his throat, and Marissa jumped at the unexpected invasion. Then she saw the two DJs exchange a knowing look and a nod.

A nod?

"Are we on the air?" Marissa asked, panic-stricken.

"Commercial break," Speedy said, removing his gray earphones and indicating two additional headsets, one red and one blue, on the coffee table between the guest chairs. "But we've got you all set to jump in during the next segment. That blue one is yours. You'll hear our callers and be able to answer them live." Unlike Coleman's, Speedy's voice didn't sound familiar. It sounded deeper than it did on the radio each morning. Deeper, and more intelligent.

"Callers?" Marissa questioned, holding her breath as Speedy swung a huge, intimidating microphone her way.

"Yeah. Trent already covered the basic information about what your sites do, which went pretty quick, since most folks have already read it on the web. What we're going to do now is let folks call in and ask you guys some questions. Now, go on and have a seat and get comfortable," Speedy said. "This one will pick up both of you." He waited for her to sit in the chair by Trent's, then maneuvered the swing bar so the microphone for guests was directly between them, making it impossible for either of them to speak without looking at the other. Without a doubt, this was the dumbest thing Marissa had ever done.

Trent handed her the blue headset, and she took it, being careful not to let her hand touch his. She'd already learned what that would do and needed no more of it today. Or ever.

"Thanks," she mumbled, pulling the semicircular band apart to snap the cushy round speakers over her ears. Unfortunately, the blocking out of all surrounding sound made her other senses kick it up a notch. For example, her sense of sight started the fun by taking in every magnificent inch of Trent Jackson, talking to Speedy about his headset. Then the sense of smell took control, and Marissa inhaled the full effect of musky male. Her mouth started to water. Fortunately, the senses of touch and taste were not up for grabs.

Speedy moved back to his chair and turned a large k.n.o.b on the desk. "All right," he said, his voice screaming at her through the headphones. "We're on in five."

Marissa winced at the yelling and realized too late that she should have asked about the volume control on these things. Then she watched with horror as Speedy held up one hand and slowly let the fingers roll toward his palm. Five, four, three, two, one.

The snappy jingle for Coleman and Speedy's show began, and the loudness forced Marissa's eyes to close. Her head would explode before this was over if she didn't figure out how to adjust the volume. She lifted a hand to the earpiece on her right side, and felt the warmth of Trent Jackson's palm over hers. Startled, she looked at him, at that rea.s.suring smile and smoldering eyes, and watched him gently move her hand out of the way, then adjust her volume control.

And now we've added the sense of touch. One more to go. Oy! Oy!

Trent pointed to the microphone between them as though reminding her they shouldn't speak aloud. "Better?" he mouthed and lifted his dark brows in question.

Marissa swallowed, nodded, and remembered the friend from middle school. One hand inadvertently moved to her mouth, and she prepared to nibble what was left of her nails. With a slight shake of his head, Trent reached toward her again, took her wrist, and moved her hand back to the armrest on the chair. "It'll be okay," he mouthed again, while Marissa wondered what else she could do that would make him touch her again. And soon. Had she really thought this was the enemy? Because he seemed so friendly. friendly.

"All right, Atlanta, we've got a real treat for you now," Coleman's voice echoed through the headset at a much more desirable tone.

Marissa took a deep breath. Not only was she ill-prepared to answer questions from callers, but she was also ill-prepared to handle Trent Jackson.

"You've had the chance to hear about these unique databases started by Trent Jackson and Marissa Kincaid," Coleman continued. "As Mr. Jackson explained, basically, he designed a place for guys to oust women who lie, and then Marissa echoed that concept with a database for women to identify men who cheat."

Trent nodded in agreement, and Marissa realized she'd just been snowed. She She wasn't the copycat here. wasn't the copycat here.

"Actually, I started the cheater website first," she said, ignoring Trent's smirk and the hey-whatever-she-says shrug he offered the other two males in the room. Why hadn't she considered this? It was a three-to-one ratio, and estrogen was on the losing end. She darted a gaze at the woman in the adjoining room, but the lady was too busy monitoring controls to offer any support whatsoever.

So much for girl power.

"Right, right," Speedy said condescendingly, then gave Coleman another look that Marissa couldn't identify. Obviously there was more going on here than she'd expected, which wasn't a good thing. So this was what Keith had been hinting at when she'd met him in the lobby. These DJs had an agenda. What was it?

And did Trent know?

She jerked her head toward him, eyeing her as if he wanted to throw her on the floor and give her . . . everything she wanted. Oh, man. Yes, she wanted it, but she didn't want it now, and she never wanted it with him. She narrowed her eyes at the smug hunk, raised one corner of her mouth in a snarl, and wished him dead.

He laughed. Laughed! And so did the DJs.

d.a.m.n.