Getting It Now! Read online

  Until she’d come back to their table and had found Beth in her chair.

  Philip smiled. He’d definitely detected a hint of jealousy there, he thought, recalling her tightly controlled outrage.

  Now that had certainly been an enlightening exchange. He’d learned a couple of interesting little facts, the first being the aforementioned jealousy. Given the flash of anger in those otherwise calm eyes, Philip knew that his deliberately provoking attention to the other woman had ticked her off.

  But what he’d found equally interesting was how swiftly Beth had deemed Carrie a threat. She’d taken one look at her and her expression had gone from polite to icy. She’d disliked her on sight. Carrie had taken it in stride, which told Philip that this was a seemingly regular occurrence. It had to be disheartening to be judged so unfairly, he thought.

  To some extent he could see where the Negligee costume might actually be an advantage—it gave her anonymity. If she garnered that much attention out of costume, then there would be no end to what she’d get if people truly recognized her.

  Regardless, Philip fervently—selfishly—wished that at the very least, they’d dial the sex factor down a notch. Things didn’t bode well for his peace of mind, ability to concentrate and his plans to remain self-sufficient otherwise.

  She was walking temptation…and he wanted her.

  “There’s no morals clause this time,” Rupert said, as though he’d read his mind.

  Bloody hell, Philip thought. There went that excuse.

  “ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, Carrie?” Dana—formerly Dan until the marvels of medical science had proven otherwise—asked skeptically. She held the almost completely sheer concoction of pink fabric and feathers by a single spaghetti strap.

  Carrie nodded. “I’m sure.”

  Dana grunted and shot her a bewildered look, then went about steaming the wrinkles out of the piece. She had good reason to be confused. Her wardrobe manager had tried repeatedly to get her to wear the ultra sexy, ultra revealing negligee over the past few months and each time she’d hauled it off the rack, Carrie had shook her head and deemed it too risqué. That she’d come in this morning and specifically asked for the outfit had to throw her for a loop.

  “Okay,” Dana finally said, apparently unable to quell her curiosity. “What gives? Why now?”

  “We’re doing a special,” Carrie told her. “The theme is Summer Sizzling. This outfit says sizzle, right?”

  “Don’t be coy,” her friend said. “I know better.

  You still flinch every time I spray hairspray on your ass to keep your panties from riding up.”

  “There’s nothing odd about that,” Carrie told her.

  “Why don’t I apply hairspray to your ass and see if you don’t flinch?”

  Dana grinned. “Honey, my ass wouldn’t flinch if you applied a cattle prod. Drag Queen U, baby.

  Where do you think I learned that hairspray trick?”

  She snorted, handed Carrie the outfit and gestured for her to change behind the curtain. “The last time I tried to get you into this costume you said over your dead body and you look pretty damned live to me.

  Tell the truth. What’s happened? What’s changed your sweet little anal-retentive modest heart?”

  Carrie smiled, struggled into the outfit. After a couple of minor adjustments, she managed to squeeze her breasts into the cups. “My new co-host had some…issues with my wardrobe,” Carrie admitted. She stepped out from behind the curtain waited for Dana to lace up the back.

  Taking offense, Dana grunted. “What kind of issues?” she demanded.

  “Evidently he thought I wasn’t wearing enough.” She told her about their meeting and his assistant request. How he’d asked to tone down the centerfold image while they were working together.

  Dana chuckled, finished knotting the laces so they wouldn’t come undone, then slid a finger down Carrie’s spine. “Ah, yeah. There it is,” she said, as though just making an important discovery.

  Carrie frowned, tried to look over her shoulder. “Where what is?” she asked.

  “Your backbone. I knew you had one.” She nodded approvingly, bent down and tweaked the feathers along the hem of the garment. “Well, baby, this is one case where less is more. You look hot. You’re going to set the cameras on fire.”

  Carrie didn’t care so much about that as setting Philip on fire—his temper and his libido. The more she’d thought about things over the weekend, the more she’d been convinced that he needed taking down a peg or two. His assistant, she thought again. Good grief. Just where the hell did he get off?

  Joyce had also told her that he’d insisted on using her set. That was fine—she was more comfortable there, after all. But why had his been off-limits? What made him so almighty that he dictated so much of how this played out? Like he was the only person being inconvenienced? Didn’t she have any say?

  Obviously he didn’t think so, but he’d best think again. And if he hadn’t already, he would the minute she walked onto set in this, Carrie thought.

  “Does this mean that I can pull out all the stops this week?” Dana asked hopefully. “I found a sexy little mocha number in a vintage shop that would make any dog bark, if you know what I mean. I was saving it for myself, but—” she eyed Carrie’s cleavage enviously “—you’d definitely fill it out better.”

  “Bring it in,” Carrie told her determinedly. “As long as it covers the essentials, I’ll wear it.”

  Dana shot her a considering look. “Mercy. He must have really pissed you off.”

  “He did worse,” she said grimly. “He underestimated me.”

  Seemingly impressed, Dana inclined her head. “Get him, baby. Teach his self-important ass a lesson he’ll never forget.” She coupled a sly glance with a mysterious smile and made a yum noise deep in the back of her throat. “I know there’s a few lessons I wouldn’t mind teaching him.”

  “Dana,” Carrie admonished.

  “What?” she asked. “Like I don’t know you think he’s hot.”

  “Dana.”

  “Don’t ‘Dana’ me,” her wardrobe manager said. “You know it’s true.”

  It was, and she couldn’t deny it. Still…“That’s neither here nor there.”

  She grunted again. “I’d take him here, there, anywhere. Mercy, that man has one helluva ass. Like a ripe apple,” she said with a faraway look. “Now, that’s an ass you can sink your teeth into.”

  Carrie chuckled, slightly outraged. “You’re crazy.”

  “And so are you if you don’t take advantage of this opportunity. One look at you in this outfit and he’ll be ready to detonate,” she said. “Hell, I’m not even a man anymore, but if I still had a penis you in this would have initiated the launch sequence.”

  Sweet Lord, Carrie thought as a strangled laugh bubbled up her throat. Her cheeks stung with instant heat. Was there anything she wouldn’t say? “I’m flattered…I guess,” she said, wondering what the PC response would be to that sort of compliment.

  Dana laughed. “Oh, hon. You’re such an easy target.”

  And therein was the problem, Carrie thought. She was tired of being an easy target. Tired of being underestimated, an object of lust but never love, of constantly been leered at and envied, instantly disliked. The incident at Mama Mojo’s with Beth sprang unhappily to mind. It shouldn’t bother her—she had great friends, the best—and yet it did.

  She had to stop giving people the power to hurt her, Carrie thought, irritated with herself. She had to stop caring what other people thought and stop apologizing for first being fat, then losing the weight and being pretty.

  She’d tried to fix herself on both counts and look what had happened?

  After that last miserable year of school—in yet another attempt to blend in or be accepted, she thought bitterly—Carrie had decided that being pretty was overrated. She’d hidden behind her hair, had worn shapeless jeans two sizes too big and shirts that swallowed her. A soft smile tugged her lips.
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  But then Providence had provided her with the spunkiest, most outspoken roommate she could ever have hoped to have had—Frankie Salvaterra—and the little Italian hothead had bullied her out of her cocoon, had made her realize that as long as she was true to herself, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. In other words, “Screw ’em.”

  Frankie had no idea of knowing, but Carrie had always felt like she’d saved her that year. She’d started doing things to please herself and had begun to tune out the people who weren’t important in her life. Occasionally she’d still revert to old behaviors—like now—but for the most part, she was proud of who she was and who she’d become.

  Their next-door roommates had been Zora and April. The four had formed an instant bond—one that she was eternally grateful for because up until then, she’d never had a group of real girlfriends. Their nomadic lifestyle hadn’t afforded her the time to form any lasting attachments to anyone and, like she’d said before, high school had been an outright nightmare. Carrie let go a breath.

  Bottom line—she was who she was…and she was tired of apologizing for it.

  She felt the cool blast of hairspray hit her ass and was proud of herself when she barely twitched. Right now she was Let’s Cook, New Orleans! Negligee Gourmet.

  She’d dressed for the part—the time had come to start playing it.

  5

  “SO THAT’S THE WAY it’ll play out,” Jerry was saying. “Just be sure and watch for your minute cues. Time will run out a lot faster with the two of you than you’ve—”

  Jerry stopped short and his gaze was suddenly riveted to something to the left of Philip’s right arm. In fact, the entire studio had gone disturbingly quiet.

  “—been used to,” his producer finally finished in a thinly strangled voice. He cleared his throat.

  “Holy mother,” he heard one of the camera guys whisper.

  “She doesn’t look like my mother, bro,” someone whispered.

  Philip knew there was only one reason why the studio would grind to a halt like this—Carrie. Evidently she’d made her entrance and, judging from Jerry’s reaction and the other discreet coughs and telling pauses, he knew she must have really pulled out all the stops. Though he equally anticipated and dreaded it, Philip slowly turned ’round.

  And immediately wished he hadn’t, because he felt a flash-fire engulf his loins and his mouth dropped appallingly open before he’d had the presence of mind to lock his jaw.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerily as she competently negotiated the various cables strewn along the floor in what had to be five-inch heels.

  She wore a tiny pink nightie fashioned out of some alarmingly see-through fabric and feathers. And thank God for the feathers, Philip thought, which strategically covered her breasts. Upon closer inspection, a thicker material lay underneath forming a pair of panties, otherwise she would have undoubtedly had feathers covering her kitty as well. Which called to mind all sorts of cat and canary analogies, Philip thought, doing his best to a swallow a maniacal laugh.

  To make matters worse, her hair wasn’t snarled up into big waves, but had been left long in sensual curls that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. In addition, her makeup didn’t appear to have been troweled on by an artist channeling Tammy Faye Baker.

  Whoever had applied this morning’s look knew what they were doing. They’d subtley enhanced her natural beauty by highlighting the most striking features of her face—her eyes and lips. Pale lavender shaded her lids, complementing their violet color, and a soft raspberry glowed on her plump, kissable mouth.

  It was a flawless combination of the two, Philip realized—the Carrie he’d met Saturday night and her Negligee counterpart. She looked competent, confident, and determined. In fact, he detected not even the slightest hint of nervousness at all.

  Curiously, that disturbed him almost as much as the hard-on currently threatening to swell out of his pants.

  “Good morning,” he finally drawled.

  Carrie smiled at him. “I have no complaints so far,” she said. “But it’s early.”

  From the corner of his eye he watched Jerry and Joyce share an uncomfortable look. “Well,” Joyce said nervously. “Before we get started why don’t the two of you inspect the kitchen, familiarize yourselves with each Act.”

  Carrie nodded, cast him a glance. “Come along,” she told him with an imperious little wave which set his teeth on edge. “Since this is my set, how about I show you the layout?”

  Philip fell in line behind her. Predictably, his gaze gravitated to her barely covered ass, which somehow only served to irritate him more. “It’s still a kitchen,” he pointed out. “Last time I checked, I knew my way around one,” he drawled sardonically.

  “Be that as it may, you don’t know your way around this one.”

  Actually, he’d watched her show enough he could undoubtedly navigate it blindfolded but since all that little admission would do was flatter her, Philip decided to keep it to himself.

  “Here’s the refrigerator, of course,” she said, gesturing much like the letter-turner he’d wanted her to be. She ticked off the other major appliances, as well, as though he were too thick to recognize a stove. By the time she’d finished her little demonstration, Philip was seriously considering strangling her with his apron strings.

  He glanced at her outfit and hardened even more painfully. “What?” he asked. “Couldn’t find any pasties?”

  Her lips curled with smug humor. “Those are for tomorrow.”

  His eyes had bugged before he’d realized she was kidding and she laughed delightedly at his expense.

  “I’m joking,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest, inadvertently plumping her cleavage. “I think the network would draw a line at pasties.”

  “Not if it sold advertising,” Philip said. “You’re playing with fire, you know,” he told her.

  She merely shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “I play with fire all the time.”

  Not to this degree, he’d wager. He’d known that he’d pissed her off with his little assistant idea, but he’d honestly not had any idea that he’d angered her into this form of revenge. If he’d had, he’d never have suggested it.

  And that’s exactly what it was, Philip thought—revenge. He’d asked her to wear more, so to punish him, or put him in his place, or some other crackbrained female notion, she’d decided to torture him by wearing less. His nostrils flared as he pulled in a breath.

  And gallingly, it was working.

  He’d be lucky if he didn’t slice a finger off or set himself on fire. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate when she looked like that? he wondered with furious despair. When all he could think about was popping one of those lush breasts loose of its dangerously unstable cup and making a meal out of her? Of nudging that flimsy fabric clinging to her ass aside and burying himself into her? What a freaking nightmare, he thought. An unholy quagmire of—

  “Ready yet?” Jerry called to them.

  Philip pushed a hand through his hair. Ready? No. Resigned? Yes. He summoned a smile. “Certainly.”

  “What about you, Carrie?” Joyce wanted to know. “Does everything look okay?”

  “Looks fine, Joyce. I’m ready when you are.”

  “Okay,” Joyce called. “Places, everyone! Let’s make some magic happen.”

  The studio bustled to life, everyone hurrying to find their respective places. Philip felt Carrie move in beside him and, though it could have simply been his imagination, he suspected that she purposely brushed against him. His dick twitched hard behind his zipper. He closed his eyes tightly shut and swore, tried to think calming thoughts.

  “Here we go people,” Jerry called. “Three, two, one…”

  “Good evening, everyone,” Carrie said. “I’m Carrie Robbins, your Negligee Gourmet.”

  “And I’m Philip Mallory,” he smoothly interjected. “Have we got a treat for you. For this week—and this week only—” he decided to
emphasize “—Carrie and I are teaming up to bring you special Summer Sizzling programming.”

  Carrie grinned. “If summer’s not hot enough for you, then we’ve got some fantastic meals planned that we guarantee will warm things up around your table…and hopefully other areas of your home as well,” she added, her voice loaded with sexy innuendo.

  “Guys,” Philip confided, “women love a man who knows his way around a kitchen. If your honey isn’t feeling the love, treating her to a hot, spicy dish is one surefire way to warm her up.”

  Carrie smoothly followed the cue. “And ladies, we’ve all been told the quickest way to a guy’s heart is through his belly.”

  Or more accurately his zipper, Philip thought, with a soft chuckle which caused Carrie to shoot him a look. Who wrote this stuff? he wondered, wishing they could simply ad-lib.

  “Today we’re going to grill some fresh salmon steaks,” Philip said, dutifully following the teleprompter.

  “And we’re going to enhance that flavor by adding a spicy mango chutney,” Carrie added.

  “We’ll round the meal out with a fresh garden salad and roasted potatoes,” he finished.

  “If you’re interested in seeing what’s for dessert, stay tuned,” Carrie told their viewers. She shot the camera a distinctly seductive smile. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

  They cut to commercial and Philip breathed a silent sigh of relief. Jerry hurried up. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” his producer asked hopefully.

  That depended on whether or not you asked his dick, Philip thought, which threatened to launch right out of his pants every time she purposely brushed against him.

  “The chemistry is fantastic,” Jerry went on. “The two of you look amazing together and the dialogue seems natural.”

  “About that,” Carrie said. “Can we ad-lib a little? To me it sounds a bit too rehearsed.”

  Philip’s first impulse was to agree—it was stilted and flowery and frankly, he hated it—but it was better than Carrie ignoring the script altogether. If they gave her carte blanche with the dialogue, who knew what she’d come up with? He shuddered to think.