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One month later…
“BLOODY HELL.” Philip Mallory bit out the words. “This cannot be happening again.”
“I realize that on the surface it might seem like a recurring scenario, but things are different this time.”
Philip glared across the table at his agent. “How so?” he asked sarcastically, sprawling against the back of his chair. “Once again after working my ass off on my own show, I’m being paired up with a talentless hack whose only redeeming quality is a pair of perky breasts.”
Hardly an accurate assessment of Carrie Robbins’s skill or breasts, but at the moment he was more interested in being pissed off and petty than fair. As far as talent went, Philip knew she was a damned fine chef. He’d watched her show and had frequented Chez Martin’s enough to know that she didn’t abide mediocre work.
Furthermore, Philip thought broodingly, her breasts were more than perky—they were perfect. Plump, pert and lush. God knows he’d seen enough of them to know over recent months. Between his own acute fascination of her, the skimpy little negligees she wore on set and one smitten cameraman whose zoom lens had a tendency to tighten and stick to her delectable cleavage, he’d been left with little choice. Hardly a hardship, he knew, but Philip was of the opinion that cleavage and nighties were more appropriate clothing for a bedroom than a kitchen. His lips quirked.
Unless, of course, a couple was playing the wicked lord and naughty scullery maid, then her limited attire would be completely fitting. If he didn’t think that she was making a mockery of the art of cooking, was selling herself short and not The Enemy—thanks to the cork-brained producers who’d come up with the jolly idea of special programming—Philip wouldn’t resent fantasizing about bending her beautiful ass over the nearest counter and taking her until his ruddy dick exploded.
As it was, he did resent it.
Factor out his unfortunate over-the-top attraction to her and it was a too-familiar scene which had once before resulted in a miserable outcome.
“They’re not suggesting making it permanent, Philip. They just want a week-long segment to take advantage of sagging summer ratings.”
“I don’t give a damn. I’m not doing it.”
Rupert winced, causing an unpleasant sensation to commence in Philip’s belly. He knew that look. It was the you’re-fucked look. “Well, see, the thing is—”
“I’m not doing it, Rupert,” Philip said threateningly.
“Then you’ll be in breach of contract and they’ll fire you.”
And there it was, Philip thought with a bitter laugh. The bend-over order. “If I’ll be in breach of contract, then you didn’t do your job and you’ll be the one getting fired, my friend.”
Rupert shifted uneasily and a gratifying flicker of fear raced across his face. It was an empty threat, of course. Rupert Newell represented the longest relationship he’d ever had in his life and he wasn’t about to sever it over something as trivial as having to do a week-long segment with The Negligee Gourmet. Still…
“How could you have let this happen again?” Philip demanded pleadingly. “After the Sophie debacle, Rupert? Come on!” It was ridiculous.
“I was assured that it would be a nonissue, and you were harping at me to ‘make something happen.’” He affected a wounded look, one Philip had seen many times over the years. “So I did, and this is the thanks that I get. Just a year ago I was the best agent in the world for negotiating this deal and now I’m on the brink of getting fired all because of a simple one-week special that in no way resembles the hostile takeover of your show that Sophie-the-whore managed to maneuver.”
There was nothing hostile about the way she’d maneuvered him, Philip thought, cheeks burning with renewed humiliation. She’d shagged him literally and physically right out of a show. Thanks to a back-door clause which enabled the network to suspend his contract unless he agreed to do “special segments” and a morals clause which prohibited any sexual relationships between currently contracted persons, Philip had found himself screwed—rather poorly, he thought with a moody scowl—right out of a job.
Sophie had insidiously worked her magic behind the scenes, discrediting him as a host, then had cried sexual harassment as the final coup. Despite excellent ratings, he’d found himself summarily fired and Sophie—a sous chef from the kitchen who’d been angling to host—had gotten his show.
Hell, the bitch had even been given his set.
By the time Rupert had negotiated the Let’s Cook, New Orleans! deal he’d been desperate to get back to work and, while he’d entertained several offers from various schools and restaurants both in the States and the U.K., Philip had ultimately decided against them. He truly enjoyed being in front of the camera—the combination of drama and teaching. Had known that he’d found his niche.
Furthermore, he’d decided a change in scenery had been in order and had found America to his liking. He’d visited often enough before—mostly New York and L.A.—but something about the dark, soulful spirit of New Orleans really appealed to him. Far removed from his rolling English hills, that was for sure.
Since moving here a little over a year ago, Philip had still found a couple of weeks here and there to fly home. He had no family left to speak of—both his parents had passed away years ago, and his only sibling had preceded them in death when she’d been five. A drowning accident, one his parents had never recovered from.
Rather than loving the child they had left, both of them had distanced themselves from him, presumably, Philip thought, to lessen the pain should another unexpected death occur. Philip didn’t blame them—couldn’t because he’d powerlessly witnessed their grief—but it was years into his adulthood before he’d come to terms with their cohabiting abandonment. They might have lived in the same house, but after Penny’s death they hadn’t been there for him. They’d been emotionally unavailable. Philip grimaced.
Unfortunately, that continued to be a running theme in his life.
Were it not for his little seaside villa on the Isle of Wight—his ultimate refuge—Philip wouldn’t have any reason to board another transatlantic flight.
As it was, he could only go a few months before the tug of the small island pulled at him and he found himself gasping for a breath of fresh salty air.
Granted he could get that at any seaside location, but something about the little island had always been home to him. His villa sat on a rocky rise and over looked a gorgeous view of the ocean. Mornings would find him kicked back in a patio chair with a good book—he’d amassed an extensive library there—and a hot cup of coffee. Philip frowned.
Given the present mess he found himself in, he wouldn’t mind being there now.
“I’ve got to let them know something this after noon,” Rupert said. “Since you’ve been the holdout, they’re waiting until they attain your cooperation before discussing it any further with Ms. Robbins.”
Philip snorted. “Until they force my cooperation, you mean.”
“What do you want me to tell them?” Rupert asked. “I can go back to the table and talk some smack—I have for the past six months—but I don’t expect it will do any good.” He signed for the bill and stood. “Let me know what you want me to do.”
“T-talk some smack?” Philip repeated, an unexpected laugh breaking up in his chest.
Rupert fussily straightened his coat. “It’s a new slang term I’ve learned.” He sighed and gave a little whirling motion with his hand. “When in Rome, you know.”
“We’re not in Rome. We’re in New Orleans.”
“I realize that.”
Philip smothered a snort. “And you’re British,” he pointed out.
“I’m quite aware from which country I hail,” Rupert snapped testily. “I just want to have a better grasp of American jargon. Speak to them in terms they’ll understand.”
Philip chewed the inside of his cheek, debated the merit of pointing out that the official language of the United States was English. Ultimately, he decided against it. Listening to Rupert mangle American slang with that British accent would be a fun source of entertainment in the coming weeks.
And he was going to need as much of that as possible.
“Tell them I’ll do it.” Philip finally relented. “One week. Her set, not mine—I don’t want mine tainted with what I’m certain is going to be a bloody disaster—and I want an addendum added to my contract making my cooperation regarding these damned specials null and void.”
Rupert smiled. “Now that’s more like it. Peace out,” he said, then turned neatly on his heel and left.
Ha, Philip thought, quaffing what was left of his drink. For the next week he seriously doubted he’d be having any sort of peace, in, out, or otherwise.
Furthermore, if he was going to be thrust into this unwanted hell, then he was going to be in charge.
And the sooner The Negligee Gourmet knew it, the better.
“UNTIL NEXT TIME, best wishes for your hot dishes,” Carrie said, her sign-off line. The producer called it a wrap, her cue to let her fixed smile fall.
“Dibs!” Jake Templeman, one of the camera guys called before any of the other behind-the-scenes help could lay claim. A bit of good-natured grumbling ensued amid the crew, but ultimately they let it slide.
Jake hustled up with a to-go box and started plating the meal Carrie had just fixed. “I love eggplant parmesan,” he said. He shot her a sly look. “There’s enough here for two,” he said predictably. “Wanna join me?”
He got points for persistence if not originality, Carrie thought, biting the corner of her lip to hide a smile. She’d been hearing the same line for months—and always answered the same way. “Sorry, not tonight.”
Jake cocked his head and grinned, released a quiet dramatic sigh. “You wound me.”
She doubted it. Though gorgeous and charming, Jake had worked his way through every willing woman at the network. From what she’d heard and observed he had the emotional capacity of an amoeba. She smiled at him. “You’ll live.”
“So cold,” he said, affecting a shiver, but accepted another refusal with cavalier grace.
“Beautiful show, Carrie,” Joyce, her producer told her. “Great job.”
Carrie smiled her thanks, released a small breath and resisted the urge to use her apron to start wiping the makeup off her face. She’d done that once before and had ruined what was evidently a pretty pricey accessory. She knew she should be a little repentant, but couldn’t summon the sentiment. If they were stupid enough to tie a silk apron on to her, then they’d have to live with the consequences. She could have just as easily ruined it with marinara as mascara.
Joyce gave her nod of approval to one of her many minions, then snagged Carrie’s attention just as she was about to make her escape. “Before you go scrub off and change, could I have a minute please?”
“Sure,” Carrie said, quelling an impatient frown. She was ready to come out of the French maid costume and get into her jeans.
“I heard from Jerry today,” she said, watching her closely.
Carrie’s stomach knotted. Jerry was Philip’s producer. “Oh?”
“Philip’s come on board. We’ve got everything in place for the Summer Sizzling programming and will kick it off next week. I know it’s last minute, but we’ve pulled together the breakdowns for each show and would like for you and Philip to get together at some point over the weekend and go over them. We’ll leave that up to the two of you. The breakdowns are in your dressing room.”
Carrie didn’t know what was more intimidating—the idea that she’d start this week-long session with Philip or the notion of purposely seeking him out this weekend to make plans for a special she knew he’d been coerced into doing. Her stomach rolled.
Oh, joy.
“You’re both professionals. We don’t anticipate any problems.”
Lucky them, because she sure as hell did. Just because he’d agreed to do the session didn’t mean that he was “on board.” It merely meant that after months of harassing him and threatening him with God knows what, he’d merely stopped resisting.
Joyce scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Here’s Philip’s number. If you don’t hear from him by noon tomorrow, er…go ahead and give him a call, would you?” She did a perky little nod that was in no way encouraging.
Meaning, he’s not going to call you, Carrie thought, feeling the first prickling of irritation along her nerves. “Joyce, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, he obviously doesn’t want to—”
“It’ll be fine,” Joyce assured her, propelling her off set. “Philip’s a good guy. He just likes doing things his own way. Rumor has it he did a similar special with the BBC and it ended badly. This isn’t going to end badly. It’s a one-week segment to jazz summer ratings. There’s no ulterior motive here. Once Philip sees that, he’ll be fine.”
Now, that was an interesting little tidbit, Carrie thought. She hadn’t been privy to that rumor, though she did remember seeing Philip paired up with a busty brunette in some of the reruns she’d run across on one of the British stations which came with her satellite cable package.
Come to think of it, he’d ended his British cable career shortly thereafter and joined the staff here in New Orleans. Had that been why? Carrie wondered now. Did the brunette—the one she’d been envious of—have anything to do with why he’d left London and made the move to New Orleans?
“If you don’t mind, when you’ve nailed things down with him give me a buzz and let me know.”
Carrie nodded. “Sure.”
Joyce let go a little sigh. “Great. You’re a peach.”
And he was the pit, Carrie decided uncharitably.
She and Joyce parted ways in the hall, leaving Carrie free to retreat to her room, wash her face and change. The former took much longer than the latter—it didn’t take much to removed a nightie and slip into shorts and a tank top—but by the time she’d wiped the last of the lipstick from her mouth, she felt inordinately better.
Or as better as she could feel knowing that the waking nightmare she’d feared was about to become a reality.
And to make matters worse, she was going to have to make initial contact because Mr. High and Mighty couldn’t be troubled to be so professional. Which really sucked, Carrie thought, growing more agitated by the minute. She attacked the tangles in her hair. Why were men destined to be the bane of her existence?
Honestly, she’d finally got Martin out of her life—had just begun to enjoy a small amount of peace—and now Philip Mallory was in line to screw it up. What had she ever done to him? Why was the idea of hosting a measly week-long special with her so deplorable?
Granted she hadn’t been in this business as long as him, but she’d jumped right in and learned the ropes quickly enough. To be honest, Carrie had been watching various food networks/cooking shows for years and had always imagined the hosts having a gravy job. It looked simple enough. Stand in front of a camera and do what you do best, toss a joke in once in a while and voilà!—it was done.
Not so.
Learning to read a teleprompter, knowing which camera to look at, being able to improvise when something didn’t work exactly right—that was hard. She’d gone through a grueling month—long training session—in costume, no less—which had involved dealing with broken blenders, lighting problems, garbled teleprompter instructions and missing ingredients. She’d had to learn to be comfortable in front of the camera, because all shows were taped live. Furthermore, a host could never stop a show. Once the cue came from the producer, the game was on and there was no stopping.
But there were perks, as well. For instance, she’d assumed that she’d be responsible for gathering the ingredients, doing her own prep work. The network employed shoppers who took care of finding the best ingredients and the kitchen staff took care of the prep work and mise en place—a fancy French term for “in its place” which essentially meant that everything was prepared and ready up to the actual point of cooking.
Admittedly, that was nice. Other than chopping a few things here and there, the majority of the work was done so that she could make the most of her time by teaching their viewers how to prepare the meals she’d chosen.
Furthermore, Carrie had her own sous chef—Jean-Luc, a handsome French godsend who happened to actually admire her skill—who test ran every recipe for the powers-that-be and time constraints. Once it passed muster, all things were a go.
Though the producers had originally wanted her to focus on spicy dishes, Carrie had objected. She enjoyed preparing all different kinds of meals and didn’t want to be limited to “hot” fare simply to enhance a marketing hook.
Even packaged as a Playboy centerfold, her skill was their hook thank you very much.
Though she’d had serious reservations, she’d agreed to be their Negligee Gourmet, but she’d had no intention of compromising on the food. That was a hill she’d been prepared to die on and, thanks to the agent Tate Hatcher—Zora’s husband—had recommended, she’d ultimately gotten her way.
Carrie briefly entertained the idea of contacting her agent about this and seeing if perhaps she could do anything. Nancy Rutherford was a rottweiler in toy poodle’s clothing. On the surface she was delicate and sweet, but when it came time to negotiate she could tear up a contract with the best of them.
Regardless, it was a little late in the game to object now, particularly when she’d already given her consent. If she bailed now, she’d only make herself look bad and, unlike Philip, she had less experience in the business and therefore more to lose. If she had any prayer of at some point hosting a show in something more than a half-yard of fabric she couldn’t afford to risk a reputation of being difficult to work with.
Carrie braided her hair and secured it with a band. Better to make the best of it and move on. She’d endured four years with Martin. Surely to God she could handle one week with Philip Mallory. She stuffed the breakdowns into her purse and her lips formed a ghost of a smile.
If nothing else, he was easier to look at.
In perfect punctuation of that thought, she pulled open her dressing-room door and drew up short at the sight of Philip’s startled look.
Carrie blinked, stunned. Her entire body tingled from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Her breath disturbingly vanished from her lungs and her heart threatened to gallop right out of her chest. You know, she’d realized he was tall, but she’d never truly appreciated just how tall he really was until he was standing less than two feet from her.
He cocked his head and a tentative smile caught the corner of his sexy mouth. “Er…sorry. I was look ing for Carrie Robbins.”
Oh, now this was fun, Carrie thought, struggling to bring her unruly body back under control. He didn’t recognize her without the makeup. She man aged a grin. “You’ve found her.”
His eyes widened and a gratifying blush stained his cheeks. “I—” He paused, seemingly at a loss, and looked her up and down. “Sorry. I, uh…I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m wearing clothes,” Carrie replied dryly. “It tends to throw people.”
“Quite right,” he said distractedly. “I’m sure I would have recognized your breasts.”
Carrie made a little choking noise, something between a gasp and a chuckle. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
“Bugger,” Philip swore. “Did I say that aloud? I said that aloud, didn’t I? Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I’m Philip Mallory, by the way.”
Trying very hard not to be charmed by the whole distractedly adorable British shtick, Carrie smiled. “I know who you are.”
