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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.”
“Oh, good. Then we’re both on the same page.”
His gaze lingered over her face once more, still seemingly shocked to discover that she looked nor mal beneath the paint. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “I assume your producer has mentioned the Summer Sizzling special to you?”
“She has. Just a few minutes ago, in fact.”
“Excellent. And you got the breakdowns?”
She nodded. “I did.”
“Jerry mentioned that we should get together over the weekend. Is there any particular time that would work best for you?”
So he’d had the balls to seek her out and was deferring to her schedule as well? For someone who’d been dead set against the idea, he was certainly com ing around swiftly enough. Almost too swiftly, Carrie thought suspiciously.
“I’m free tomorrow night if that’ll work for you,” she said, pettily hoping to ruin any dating plans he might have had.
Philip nodded without hesitation. “That’s fine. Perhaps a working dinner, then?”
“Sure. Mama Mojo’s, sixish?”
“That suits me.” He paused, pushed a hand through his hair, shot her another curious look. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll, er…See you tomorrow night.”
“Right,” Carrie said, totally unnerved by the unexpected, bizarre encounter as she watched him walk away. Her gaze lingered over those loose dark auburn curls at the nape of his neck, the broad scope of shoulders, followed his spine, then settled predictably on his ass.
Encased in a pair of worn denim jeans which were loose enough for comfort, but tight enough to give her imagination a break, he looked sexy as hell. She mentally removed the jeans and entertained the truffle oil fantasy again. Warmth burned the tops of her thighs and a thin breath seeped past her curiously dry lips.
Oh, hell, she thought with a resigned sigh. Time to buy those combat boots. Or, judging by her exaggerated reaction to him, maybe full body armor was more in order.
2
I WOULD HAVE RECOGNIZED your breasts? Philip thought, cheeks burning with uncustomary heat as he made his way to his car. In other words, he’d spent so much time looking at her breasts that he didn’t recognize her face?
What a freaking nightmare.
She had to think he was a lecherous idiot.
Things had definitely not gone according to plan, that was for damned sure, he thought with a grunt of disgust. Within minutes of Rupert making the call to let the execs know he was on board, he’d gotten a relieved call from Jerry. Things would be fine. Just a special to boost summer ratings. There was no plan to hijack his show or permanently pair him up with Carrie. No worries. Seriously. Thanks for being a team player.
Mostly the same spiel they’d given Rupert, but something about it coming from Jerry made him feel marginally better about the whole thing. He’d certainly never gotten any such assurance from his previous producer, that was for damned sure. But that didn’t mean he planned to let his guard down, though. It just meant that, for the time being, everything appeared kosher.
Furthermore, though he’d come on board, it was obvious that they didn’t expect his complete cooperation. Jerry had offered to courier the breakdowns in order to save Philip a trip back down to the studio—save him all of thirty minutes—then had gone on to say that he and Carrie would need to get together over the weekend to familiarize themselves with the new format, but that she’d contact him. Not to put himself out.
The rumor of his unwillingness to commit to the special had been buzzing around the network for months—she had to know that he didn’t want to do it. Most likely she’d heard why, too, so he had no intention of apologizing for it. He’d watched her often enough to know that she was smart—she could put the pieces together. But what she didn’t know was that if this had to happen, he was going to be in charge.
Meaning he intended to run the show.
So there’d been none of this she’ll-get-in-touch-with-you crap. He’d planned to make the first move, set the tone for the next of week. He would lead, she would follow, and either she could fall in line and do things the way he wanted to, or she’d be miserable. It was as simple as that. A hard-assed approach, but it was better than losing his show.
Again.
Unfortunately, he’d lost the upper hand the instant she’d opened her dressing-room door and everything had gone depressingly downhill from there. He’d been struck dumb and mesmerized and, as bizarre as it seemed, he’d gotten the strangest inkling that he’d met her before, a sense of knowing her that didn’t—couldn’t—exist. No doubt a result of watching her show, Philip thought absently.
Furthermore, as unbelievable as it was, he’d never seen her out of her Negligee costume. In keeping with her show’s concept, she was always tramped up like a centerfold. Big hair, little outfits, lots of makeup. A wet dream come to life. Every man’s fantasy.
Unequivocally hot.
So who would have ever thought that she’d be even more beautiful out of costume? That those indigo eyes which sparkled amid false lashes and mascara would be all the more clear and gorgeous without them? Like sugared violets, Philip thought, then drew up short and snorted.
Christ, he was turning into a bloody poet.
The long and short of it was, she was the most spectacularly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Delicate bone structure, a flawless cameo complexion, plump kissable lips and long straight hair the color of moonbeams. No doubt other men had rhapsodized her angelic appearance—and admittedly she had an ethereal look—but Philip couldn’t imagine anything on the other side of heaven any more gorgeous than her.
Carrie was…indescribably appealing. Fascinatingly sensual, he thought broodingly.
Furthermore, he’d detected a depth of character that he imagined many men missed. She was smart, quick and funny. Factor in sexy, gorgeous and talented and she became positively lethal.
But she wouldn’t be lethal for him, dammit, despite evidence to the contrary. Namely their first encounter.
Philip had planned on citing the time and place for their working dinner, but had been knocked off his game the instant she opened the door. He chuckled darkly. And only by the grace of God had he not been knocked on his ass.
He couldn’t afford for that to happen again.
From here on out he was going to be Mr. Professional. In charge and on top of the play. He darted out of the parking garage and into afternoon traffic.
No more fantasizing about bending her over the counter, or staring at her breasts, or wondering what sort of sexual havoc that hot mouth of hers could wreak upon his body. No more dreams of crowning her breasts with clotted cream and strawberry jam, then lazily licking it off. Of filling her belly button and the twin dimples in the small of her back with warmed chocolate and spooning it out with his tongue. No more dreams of feasting on her until her skin dewed, her sex wept and she cried his name.
Philip’s dick jerked against his zipper, forcing a mangled curse from between his lips. A futile bark of laughter erupted from his throat. He could no-more this and no-more that from now until Doomsday, but it wasn’t going to change the fact that he wanted her. Had wanted her from the first instant he’d seen her sashay across her set and pick up a spatula.
But that was the point right? How could he not think about shagging her when she was dressed like that? Which was the height of irony because he found the whole idea of her costume appalling attire for the kitchen. In his opinion it was a cheap marketing ploy that devalued her and her skill.
Furthermore, he’d watched enough of her shows to realize that she wasn’t altogether comfortable playing the vixen. Oh, she could do it well enough, Philip thought, his lips sliding into a smile. Quite well, in fact. But every once in a while he’d catch a glimpse of strain and instinctively knew it was a direct result of the get-up.
She was a fantastic chef, an excellent host with true star potential. What on earth had possessed her to agree to be The Negligee Gourmet when she clearly would rather the show be about the food? The art of pulling a meal together?
Certainly the money was better. He knew that. But for whatever reason—possibly even wishful thinking—he didn’t believe it was about the money for Carrie. She simply didn’t seem the type. Hell, who knew? Perhaps she merely hoped to parlay the Negligee career into a better deal at a later time, but if that was the case, Philip grimly imagined she’d be in for an unpleasant surprise.
Her show had been a huge hit and the execs who were currently patting themselves on the back for their good fortune wouldn’t think kindly upon changing the format later. Chances were she’d pigeon-holed herself right into a career he wasn’t altogether certain she’d wanted.
But then, what did he know? He’d merely watched her on television and, though the camera was adept at picking up hidden facets of a person’s personality, he really didn’t know her—he merely thought he did.
And that, my friends, was the beauty of television, Philip thought.
Though he’d rather let hungry buzzards feast upon his privates than do this special with her, Philip couldn’t deny that he was keenly interested in discovering what made her tick. He might not like the concept of her show, but peep show aside, he sure as hell loved watching her cook. She was a natural in the kitchen, possessed an innate sense of how to marry flavors and compliment a palate. The kind of talent that had been bestowed at birth, not learned, which made her all the more intriguing.
And, Philip thought with a shaky sigh, he was meeting this walking mystery at Mama Mojo’s at six tomorrow night. Ostensibly to put her in her place. Which should be a cool trick considering he was more interested in putting her on her back.
And on her belly.
And on a table.
And against a wall.
Really, the possibilities were endless.
“OKAY,” FRANKIE SALVATERRA announced above the din at the Blue Monkey pub in the famed French Quarter. “It’s time to officially call the Bitch-Fest to order.” Her gaze darted around the table. “Who wants to go first?”