You Sexy Thing!. Tori Carrington
was no plausible reason she couldn’t have both….
“Has there been a time I haven’t been there for you, Gracie?” Rick said, offering up a non-answer sort of answer that made her smile. “Look, how serious was this incident? Do you want me to contact security and report the guy? Have them change your key card code?”
Her fingers tightened around the receiver. “No, I really don’t want to go through all the hassle. My mind may be telling me I just survived a close call with death, but my gut says the poor jerk just got the wrong room. Anyway, reporting the incident will only distract me from the interview.”
“Speaking of which, I hope this call means you’re ready, because my phone message light is blinking. It’s probably the car the station sent to pick us up.”
Grace yelped and jumped up. She wasn’t anywhere near ready. She eyed the daring, bright pink number she and Rick had settled on for the outrageous radio talk-show host, then lifted a hand to her still wet hair. “See you downstairs in five.”
More like twenty, but he didn’t have to know that.
“YOU’RE LATE.” The junior producer of WDRT’s morning radio show descended on Dylan and Tanja like a swooping crow complete with curved nose and clipboard. Through speakers set up in every corner, a clip of seemingly unending commercials poured over the airwaves. Dylan felt hands on his shoulders. He tensed.
“Sheesh, Doc, I’m just trying to take your coat,” Tanja said.
“Oh.” He allowed her to tug the tan overcoat down the length of his arms, then grasped the new set of notes he’d put together in the cab on the way over.
Tanja leaned closer, one of the spiked, purple tips of her hair nearly taking out an eyeball. She lowered her voice. “Are you okay? You’re wound up tighter than a seventeen-year-old virgin on prom night.”
He grimaced. “Thanks for the comparison, Tanja.”
The instant he’d met the young PR rep his publisher had sent to accompany him on his tour, he was convinced his editor had gone out of his way to make sure he found someone the total opposite of Dylan’s character. Dylan could see Charlie Hasseldorf getting quite a chuckle out of the situation. Then Dylan had landed in New York and discovered that here, nearly every professional Tanja’s age…well, looked like Tanja.
The producer clapped his hands impatiently. “Look, I don’t have time for any prep so you’re just going to have to play it by ear, Doc. The other doc’s already in there.”
“Other doctor?” Dylan choked, looking at Tanja.
She shrugged and smiled, but it was hard for her to look innocent when she appeared to have just stepped out of a tattoo parlor. “I haven’t a clue.”
“Well, isn’t it your job to find out?”
“We don’t have time for this now.” The producer fairly shoved him toward the door. “After you, Dr. Fairbanks.”
Dylan righted himself. What other doctor? And why hadn’t he been told of this beforehand so he could adequately prepare? By now he was used to having his theories challenged by local whackos, but at least he’d been able to do a bit of research before he actually faced the smirking individuals he guessed were chosen more for their disbeliefs than their beliefs.
He was led down a long white hall with various doors leading off it. Dylan straightened his suit jacket and eyed the jeans the other guy was wearing. Perhaps he should have taken Tanja’s advice and dressed down for the occasion. It didn’t matter that it was radio and the listeners couldn’t see him, Tanja had told him. The shock jock could see him. And absolutely nobody wore suits to radio shows.
“Just seat yourself to the right,” the producer said, opening a glass door. “Headphones will be on the counter in front of you.”
The first thing Dylan spotted in the dimly lit room was a camera.
Damn.
Obviously Tanja had also forgotten to tell him they were being filmed.
He grasped the producer’s sleeve before he could vanish along with the PR rep. “Is this being televised?”
“Haven’t you seen the show before, Dr. Fairbanks?”
Dylan frowned. “Seen? I thought this was a radio show.”
“It is. But snippets of celebrity interviews are put together for a nightly half hour show on a cable access channel. Yours will probably air in a week or two, depending on our schedule.”
Dylan stiffened. He didn’t like the way he came across on the small screen. An image of that magazine caricature came to mind. He immediately unclasped his hands where they rested in front of his groin.
For Pete’s sake, it was an entertainment show. Certainly he could handle it. Anyway, it was too late to back out now.
He stepped into the room, bringing into view the radio host, his blond head bent over something an assistant held out to him. Then he spotted the table he was supposed to seat himself at. Eyes focused on the padded headphones, he seated himself then slid them over his head, his gaze constantly flitting back to the camera perched in the corner like an all-seeing, critical beast.
“Hi,” a female voice spoke into his ears. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”
Dylan’s eyebrows popped up as he listened to the low, positively humming voice. He glanced toward a glass enclosure, but the brunette inside—the show’s co-host, he guessed—appeared engrossed in her notes and knocking back coffee.
“I’m Gracie Mattias.”
An odd, swirling sensation began in the pit of his stomach.
“Here. I’m right next to you. The other side.”
Dylan swiveled to his right. Indeed, she was right next to him. And the odd sensation in his stomach pulled into a complicated, inexplicable knot.
The cartoon rendition of her he’d seen in the magazine earlier did absolutely no justice to Dr. Grace Mattias, sex therapist, live and in the flesh. Flesh being the operative word. Generously endowed, alluring flesh. And hair. Fiery, coppery red hair that curled all over the place. He couldn’t fathom why, but he thought of her hair wet. Probably because he had showers on the brain since his unfortunate encounter earlier. Or maybe because when wet the red mass would likely skim down her back to tickle the dimples just above her bottom. And she would indeed have dimples. Decadent, deep indentations that would perfectly complement her perfect body and would beg to be explored by a man’s tongue.
Dylan swallowed…hard.
Then he silently berated himself for such a completely physical reaction to the woman sitting next to him. His adversary. His opposite in every way.
He didn’t know what was with him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen an attractive woman before, much less an attractive female colleague. But attractive didn’t begin to cover Grace Mattias. In fact, nothing much seemed to be covering Grace Mattias. His gaze slid over the hot-pink clingy material of her deep-veed jacket, down, down, to where her skirt barely skimmed the tops of her delicious thighs. Legs that could rival a model’s went on and on until he found himself staring at the highest, strappiest sandals he’d ever seen in his life.
Catching himself, he snapped his gaze back to her face. Her pink, pink lips pursed as she gave him the same thorough once-over. “Actually, I think we have met, Dr. Fairbanks.”
Dylan managed to shake his head, not trusting himself to speak for fear it would come out sounding like a preadolescent squeak.
She tapped a pink-tipped fingernail against her full, luscious mouth. “Uh-huh. In fact, I’m sure of it.” She smiled, revealing nicely ridged teeth that hadn’t fallen prey to a dentist’s sander. “Though I believe I know you as Tom.”
Dylan chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Now I