Getting It Now! Page 4

  “Ah…Let me guess,” April chimed in. “The special has finally come through.”

  Carrie let go a sigh and nodded. “We start next week.”

  “Next week?” Frankie asked shrilly. “When did you hear about this?”

  “Today.”

  “Good grief,” April moaned, appalled. “How do they expect the two of you to be ready in that kind of time frame?”

  “We’re ‘professionals,’” Carrie quoted. “And we’re meeting at Mama Mojo’s at six tomorrow night to go over the breakdowns and new format.”

  Zora quirked a disbelieving brow. “You mean to tell me that they expect you to be ready to do this on Monday?”

  “They do,” Carrie confirmed.

  “Can you?” April asked, the most practical of the bunch. “I mean, is it possible?”

  Carrie cocked her head and smiled sadly. “I guess it has to be.”

  “This is outrageous,” Zora said. “Did you call Nancy?”

  “There’s no point,” Carrie told her. “I agreed to it months ago.”

  She frowned, cocked her head and a lock of red hair slid from behind her ear. “But I don’t understand. What’s been the hold up? Why are you just getting started now?”

  Carrie’s lips quirked with bitter humor. “My future cohost has been the holdout. I don’t know whether he takes exception to me or my show, but suffice it to say he’s been vehemently opposed to doing the special with me.”

  “Sounds like an uninformed bastard,” Frankie said, gratifyingly annoyed on Carrie’s behalf.

  April paused consideringly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I watch his show. I wouldn’t have expected this out of him.”

  Her either, Carrie thought, heartened by the fact that she hadn’t been the only one who’d misjudged his character. She shared the rumor she’d gotten from Joyce this afternoon regarding the special gone bad with the BBC.

  “Now that makes more sense,” Zora said. “You’re smart, funny and beautiful and, more importantly, you are damned fine at what you do. If he has a problem hosting a show with you, I really find it hard to believe that it’s personal. I’d be willing to bet he’s got his own reasons and they have nothing to do with you.”

  She hoped Zora was right. It would certainly make the next week easier to get through, that was for sure. At any rate, she knew that a small part of it was personal. When she’d called Joyce this afternoon to confirm the rendezvous with Philip, her producer had shared another interesting tidbit.

  Carrie felt a smile tug at her lips. “I do know that he’s asked the producers if we can tone down the ‘centerfold’ image while we’re working together.”

  Frankie chuckled. “Probably afraid he’ll inadvertently close his pecker in the oven.” She nodded and those dark brown eyes flickered with intelligence.

  “Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. Mr.

  Stuffy Brit obviously has the hots for you.”

  Carrie’s heart did an odd little flutter. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  April and Zora shared a look. “I don’t know, Carrie,” April said. “That’s a pretty telling request.

  Clearly he’s worried about staying focused.”

  Carrie took a sip of her drink and shifted in her seat. “I think he’s more worried about tainting him self with my lesser moral standards.”

  Frankie let go an exasperated sigh. “For the last time, Carrie, you have not sold out! I know you’ll be happier when you can negotiate a better deal—”

  “You mean when I can wear clothes,” she said.

  “—but in the meantime, you’re just upping your value. You’ve got a helluva following.”

  “But will they follow me when I’m not painted up like a streetwalker?” she asked quietly. Carrie admitted another niggling fear. “I, uh…” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I think that instead of upping my value, I may have marketed myself right out of a normal hosting position. You know what they say,” she said, pulling a shrug. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. When it comes time to renew my contract, what’s going to make them let me have my way? What’s going to motivate them?”

  “Your talent,” Zora said simply. “Because at the heart of your show, that’s what it’s all about.” She smiled softly. “We watch you, Carrie. You’re passionate about what you do and you’re good at it. Granted some viewers might be watching to see if your boobs fall out of your nightie, but the majority of your audience simply enjoys spending a half hour with you.”

  Carefully hopeful, Carrie sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  Zora nodded imperiously. “I know I am. Just wait and see.”

  Frankie smiled wickedly. “In the meantime, I think you need to torture him. He wants you to wear something different—fine,” she said with a devious nod. “If I were you, I’d wear less.”

  Carrie chuckled. “I don’t know that it’s possible.”

  “Oh, it is,” April said, getting into the spirit of Frankie’s revenge. “Frankie’s right. He’s held out and hurt your feelings—”

  Startled, Carrie looked up. “No, he—”

  “Yes, he has and there’s no point in denying it. You’ve watched him for years. I’ve heard you talk about him before, and when this thing at Let’s Cook, New Orleans! came through, you couldn’t wait to meet him.”

  All true, Carrie knew.

  “Furthermore,” Frankie chimed in, “we all know that you’ve had a crush on him.”

  Carrie started to deny it, but a firm look from Frankie made her change her mind.

  “You have,” she insisted. “You, my dear friend, have been presented with a perfect opportunity. One week, a hot co-host who needs an attitude adjustment, and the opportunity to start cooking with something other than gas.”

  Carrie couldn’t help it, she chuckled and shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “And you haven’t been laid in months.”

  Closer to a year, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Between the hours she’d worked for Martin, then starting the new show, things had been too crazy to pursue romance of any kind. But a relationship with Philip? When she suspected what he thought of her?

  Not no, but hell no.

  Zora studied her carefully. “Even if you’re not in the market for romance, I think a little calculated retribution is in order.” She cocked her head and smiled. “And now that you know his weakness…Well,” she said. “It’s up to you, of course.”

  Carrie merely smiled. She wasn’t so much worried about his weaknesses as her own. It would be heartily embarrassing to set out to teach him a lesson and end up not making the grade herself.

  Or worse, God forbid, falling for him.

  3

  AT PRECISELY FOUR MINUTES after six, Philip covertly watched Carrie weave her way through the throng of tables to the one he’d been shown to in the back. Though she appeared completely oblivious to the attention her entrance garnered, he knew she couldn’t be. Heads turned as she walked past. Flickering looks of interest from men—envy from women—followed her as she cut a path through the crowded restaurant.

  How did she stand it? Philip wondered absently. That constant attention? It had to be bloody nerve-racking.

  Wearing a cool pale yellow sheath dress, long hair hanging like a silvery-blonde curtain down her back, and a pair of strappy sandals on her feet, Carrie looked classically gorgeous. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup—in fact, the tip of her nose had that squeaky clean glow—odd that he should find that adorable—and other than being naturally sexy, no traces of her Negligee persona were evident.

  Once again he was struck by the difference. The change was unbelievably dramatic, the perfectly rare combination of wholesome and sexy. For reasons he couldn’t explain, his breath quickened, his palms grew clammy and a line of gooseflesh raced up his back. He’d experienced these unwanted symptoms before when he’d watched her show, but seeing her in the flesh compounded them significantly.

 
He stood—to his chagrin, somewhat shakily—when she neared their table. “Is this spot all right?” he asked. “It was the closest thing to private available.”

  Carrie nodded, seated herself in the chair he’d pulled out for her. “Sure. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve, uh…I’ve only been here a few minutes. Just long enough to peruse the menu.”

  She looked up and her violet gaze tangled with his, causing a curious whirling sensation behind his navel. “You’ve never been here before?”

  Trying hard not to be mesmerized, Philip shook his head. “Er…no. I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed the pleasure.”

  Her lips formed an enchanting smile. “Oh, then you’re in for a treat. Personally, I always have the jambalaya. It’s some of the best in the area.”

  “I’ll take your recommendation then,” Philip told her, offering her a smile. Best to soften her up with pleasantries before he proceeded with the mandates, he decided. Provided he’d even remember them. Once again he could feel his brain turning to mush and his dick thickening in her glowing presence.

  Thankfully once the waiter had supplied drinks and taken their order, he’d regained a modicum of his composure. “Have you had a chance to look at the breakdowns yet?” he asked.

  Carrie nodded, bent down and withdrew them from her purse. “I have. I noticed in keeping with the ‘sizzling’ theme, there are several spicy dishes. Are there any that you object to? Anything you want to tweak or change?”

  “No,” Philip said. He paused, blew out a breath. “Look, before we go any further, do you mind if I’m completely honest with you, Carrie?”

  The smallest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Who wouldn’t prefer the truth to a lie?”

  Philip hesitated. He’d been rehearsing this spiel for the past couple of hours and yet now that the time had come to make good his delivery, he was having a hard time keeping to the diplomatic but hard-assed approach. He leaned forward. “I’m sure that you’ve heard that I wasn’t particularly keen to do this special.”

  Her eyes sparkled with wry humor. “I might have heard mention of it once or twice.”

  Again that charming humor, he thought. “Did you happen to hear mention of why?”

  The bane of his recent existence calmly sipped her drink and pulled a light shrug. “Just an unconfirmed rumor.”

  “Well, let me give you the official version. The last time I did a ‘special’ my female co-host hijacked my show.” His voice inexplicably hardened. “Don’t take it personally, but I have no intention of letting that happen again.”

  The faintest hint of irritation tightened her otherwise serene features.

  “I’m the one with the most experience here,” he continued, “and if it’s all the same to you, rather than being equal partners per se, I’d prefer that you think of yourself as an assistant.”

  Her compelling eyes widened fractionally. “An assistant?” she repeated tightly.

  “Sort of like my Vanna White,” Philip said, giving her an analogy he hoped she’d understand. He’d grown quite fond of The Wheel of Fortune since moving to New Orleans. Fascinating game, really.

  “I’m not a letter-turner on a game show—I’m a chef,” Carrie said, her smooth voice slightly strangled with what Philip belatedly realized was anger. “As for being your assistant, if it’s all the same to you,” she said, patronizingly throwing his phrasing back at him, “I’d just as soon stick to the format.”

  Philip winced. Frankly, he hadn’t really expected her to argue with him. His was the voice of experience after all. But he could tell by the somewhat mulish set of her jaw and the white circle around her supremely sexy mouth that she was heartily displeased. What? he wondered. Did she not like Vanna?

  “I’ve insulted you,” he said.

  “Now that’s insightful,” she replied sarcastically.

  Hmm, Philip thought with a mental wince. That was bad…because he really hadn’t gotten to the part where he’d assumed he’d offend her. But there was no way around it, and he was a firm believer in speaking his mind. Fewer misunderstandings that way. Besides, after the Sophie debacle he didn’t appreciate subterfuge.

  “I won’t argue the point that you’re a chef, and a damned fine one to boot,” he said. “I’ve watched your show, have even eaten at Chez Martin’s several times before you joined the network. It’s not your ability that I’m concerned with,” he told her. He leaned back in his seat and regarded her moodily. “Frankly, it’s your attire. I’ve asked the producers to let you wear clothes during our special, but they’ve said no.” His lips quirked. “Evidently your audience expects you to be naked,” he drawled.

  Carrie’s mouth formed a smile that lacked warmth. “I’m not naked,” she said, her voice cracking with barely suppressed anger. “I’m merely…scantily clad.”

  Philip smiled blandly. “Well, for all intents and purposes, you might as well be.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “But I’m not.”

  “Look,” he said. “It’s a cooking show, not soft porn. You look quite fetching in your little gowns and such, I’ll admit—”

  Vast understatement. His penis all but exploded every time he got a glimpse of her barely covered ass.

  “—but those outfits are better suited to a bedroom than a kitchen, particularly one that broadcasts into thousands of homes. It undermines the work. Myself personally, I’d prefer things more about the food and less about your breasts.”

  A beat slid into five. He watched her struggle with the effort to maintain composure, but ultimately she managed to rein in her temper. More’s the pity, Philip thought, slightly disappointed. He’d love to tangle with her.

  “Were it up to me, I would like the same,” she replied tightly. “But as it’s not up to you or me, I think we might as well accept things as they are and move on.”

  So it was as he suspected, Philip thought, immeasurably pleased. Being their Negligee Gourmet wasn’t her ultimate goal. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “We both signed contracts,” she snapped impatiently. “It has to be. And for the record,” she continued, “I’m not interested in hijacking your show because, unlike your last co-host, I already have one.”

  “But not one where you get to wear clothes,” he pointed out, needling her. He enjoyed another drink of wine. “I suspect you’d like one without a gimmick—again, like mine—and, just so we’re clear, mine’s not available.”

  She leaned forward and pinned him with a surprisingly hard stare. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t want it.”

  So she says now, Philip thought. But should the opportunity present itself, she’d undoubtedly take it. In his experience—case in point, Sophie—women were like that.

  He smiled, continued to study her, then ultimately decided to let it drop. He’d annoyed her enough this evening and, if nothing else, had proven his point. “Then we shouldn’t have any problem. What say we check out those breakdowns, shall we?”

  HE HAD TO BE THE MOST insufferably irritating man she’d ever had the misfortune to share a meal with, Carrie thought as she all but stomped into the ladies’ room. Nature hadn’t called, but if she’d sat there a moment longer she wasn’t altogether sure she could have held her temper. Even Martin-the-provoking-bastard hadn’t successfully angered her past her boiling point, but something about Philip Mallory’s almost-but-not-quite condescending high-brow tone made her twitch and seethe with irritation.

  While she was routinely guilty of seething, she’d never given anyone the power to provoke her into twitching. The fact that Philip had managed to do it five minutes into their first effort at working together told her two things.

  One, he was a bastard, albeit a sexy one.

  And, two, he was a sexy bastard who could easily get under her skin.

  Because, strangely enough, much as she loathed to admit it, she’d found the whole exchange quite…titillating. She’d been practically mesmerized b
y the same sexy mouth he’d been gleefully insulting her with.

  It wasn’t fair, Carrie thought, to pair such a beautiful set of lips with such an undeserving recipient. Were there any justice in the world, he’d have the thin, bloodless altogether unappealing lips of a bottom-feeder. They’d certainly complement his character, she thought uncharitably.

  As it was, he had the most intriguing mouth she’d ever seen. His lips were slightly full, his smile a bit crooked and the promise to sin lurked in that sensually wicked curve. To make matters worse, she instinctively knew he’d taste like all of the above—hot, thrilling, wicked and sexy.

  Carrie braced both hands on the vanity, stared at her reflection in the mirror and let go a disgusted breath.

  And she also knew that if she didn’t watch herself, she’d be gravitating toward that mouth like a devoted familiar, unable to think for herself. A mindless handmaiden, beholden to the devil himself.

  Lucky for her she didn’t have any intention of letting anything like that happen. He may be one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen—all right, probably the best—and she wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself, so she could admit that she’d been—and to her eternal mortification still was—incredibly attracted to him.

  But that was before she’d been subjected to his pithy commentary on her Negligee attire. That was before the arrogant blockhead had tried to demote her to an “assistant.” Of all the freakin’ nerve. Who the hell did he think he was? Now she knew why he’d shown up at her dressing-room door the instant things had been declared a go—he’d wanted to take charge.

  Ha!

  Like hell.

  Evidently—depressingly—Philip Mallory had made the same mistake lots of men had made about her—he’d underestimated her. She’s pretty. She’s stacked. Surely if God blessed her with good looks, she’s lacking good sense. She can’t possibly be smart, can she?

  Carrie smiled humorlessly. It had been that way since her late teens. Evidently most men thought her brain had migrated to her breasts the instant she’d had enough to fill a C-cup. To know that Philip seemed to fit into that category was a lot more depressing than it should have been. After all, she was used to it. So used to it in fact that she rarely thought enough of a guy to let him disappoint her.