Dawn Atkins - No Stopping Now

Brody grinned. “Not yet, anyway.”

At the expression on his face Jillian’s body responded, warming, as automatic as a reflex.

“The point is that this job kills relationships. We’re on the road, out all night, always in a crowd, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It can get wild.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”

“You got it.” His eyebrows rose as if her joke had surprised him. She was coming off too serious, she realized, no doubt a strike against her.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours or whatever it takes. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”

“And what do you think I need?”

There was heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short. Something that made her think of bodies entwining on twisted sheets.

“Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”

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Dear Reader,

I used to be offended by men. Well, by how sexist they could be, crude and lewd and obsessed with women’s bodies over their minds. I mellowed out—what choice did I have?—and now accept, even occasionally celebrate la différence. Men are visually stimulated and can’t multitask, especially during sex, so we can’t expect to hear how pretty our eyes are during the act, right? It’s a brain thing. Who knew?

It’s also true that we all have an angle on the world. We see it through the eyes of our past, our attitudes, our family roles, our life experiences. That’s how it was for Jillian James in this story. She believed she was open to other viewpoints—crucial for a documentary filmmaker—but she learned through Brody that, well…maybe not so much.

Jillian taught Brody, aka Mr. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em Begging for More, a thing or two as well, such as how to stick around for love. They both saw the world through new eyes.

I hope their story opens your eyes a little, too. Oh, and warms your heart. Always that is my hope.

All my best,

Dawn Atkins

P.S. Please visit me at www.dawnatkins.com.

Dawn Atkins started her writing career in the second grade, crafting stories that included every single spelling word her teacher gave her. Since then, she’s expanded her vocabulary and her publishing credits. This is her twentieth published book. She won the 2005 Golden Quill Award for Best Sexy Romance and has been a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice Award finalist for Best Flipside (2005) and Best Blaze (2006). She lives in Arizona with her husband, teenage son and a butterscotch-and-white cat.

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

93—FRIENDLY PERSUASION

155—VERY TRULY SEXY

176—GOING TO EXTREMES

205—SIMPLY SEX

214—TEASE ME

253—DON’T TEMPT ME

294—WITH HIS TOUCH**

306—AT HER BECK AND CALL**

318—AT HIS FINGERTIPS**

348—SWEPT AWAY†

To David, my second set of eyes

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 15

A million thanks for a million answers to documentary filmmakers Suzanne Johnson and Penelope Price. I’m awestruck by your skill and dedication. Any film-related errors are strictly my own.

ON THE MONITOR, Brody Donegan, aka Doctor Nite, slid a five under the stripper’s G-string and gave the knowing smirk that made his cable show must-see TV for every lounge lizard prowling the meat-market bars.

“I’ve got to get this guy,” Jillian James said to her cousin Nate, in whose video-editing studio they sat. “For the documentary,” she added quickly, hoping Nate hadn’t noticed the edge in her voice. She tapped the Mute button so hard she snapped a nail.

Doctor Nite, Brody Donegan’s show, featured sexy hot spots as the backdrop for advice on how to get laid and stay single. Donegan, who used women like tissues and taught his high-fiving, beer-guzzling fans to do the same, symbolized all that was wrong with a culture that exalted sex over love, external looks over inner beauty and self-involvement over emotional commitment.

Jillian had to get him.

She’d tried for weeks for an interview, but his network had stonewalled her and his agent had e-mailed that he was too busy. “For a no-name filmmaker” was implied, but Jillian got the message loud and clear.

That was where fate, through her cousin, had stepped in. Nate just happened to be good friends with Donegan’s camera guy, who just happened to be out of commission for the upcoming shoot. Nate had recommended Jillian to fill in.

“So, you have the scoop for me?” she asked Nate now.

“Brody wants to meet you tonight.” Nate handed her one of the show’s business cards, which featured the star’s face. Donegan was handsome enough if you liked the bad-boy look—square jaw…dangerous eyes…wicked grin.

Jillian could take or leave it.

“Time and place on the back,” Nate said.

She flipped the card. 11 p.m., Score was written in bold Sharpie. Score was a trendy bar in Santa Monica, she knew. “Eleven is late.”

“Doctor Nite hours,” Nate said. “Get used to it.”

“I will. You bet. Whatever it takes.” She flicked the card against her chin, her heart racing, her skin overheated, sole to scalp. This scrap of paper held the key to her future. Everything depended on this meeting. The job. Her documentary. Her career.

Well, maybe not everything, but this was big. In her pitch to the We Women Cable Network, she’d mentioned exclusive interviews with Doctor Nite, knowing that would pique the acquisitions manager’s interest. Now she had to get the damn interviews.

“So this project you want him for is about dating?” Nate asked, looking doubtful. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“I needed a change of pace after the foster care piece,” she said. She’d devoted two years to the project, living on Top Ramen and dreams, begging favors from film school friends, selling her second camera, her extra computer and every spare piece of equipment to pay postproduction costs.

It had been her first major project since she left TV news. Her San Diego network had sponsored several small projects, all well received, but Childhood Lost took top honors at two prestigious film festivals. She’d floated on air.

Then slammed to the ground when she couldn’t find a buyer. Everyone loved it, but it was “too local” for public television and “too dark” for commercial networks who seemed to be buying only lurid exposés or feel-good pieces. Without big-buck backers, Childhood Lost sank like a stone to the bottom of the sea of lost documentaries.