Getting It Now! Read online

  “Actually, I’d prefer to follow the script,” Philip said, shooting her a look that proclaimed his displeasure.

  She cocked her head and gave him a wry smile. “Really,” she said. “That’s odd. Saturday night you weren’t interested in following the format at all. Better dialogue makes for a better show. I’m a fairly competent conversationalist. You seem to be as well. What’s the problem?”

  “There isn’t a problem, per se. I just think things would run more smoothly if we followed the teleprompter.”

  The corner of her ripe mouth tucked into a grin and her eyes sparkled with humor. “More smoothly, eh?”

  Philip considered her, then rested a hip against the counter. Instinct told him to let it go, but pride wouldn’t allow it. “Yes, more smoothly. You see, I’ve noticed that you occasionally run off on various unrelated tangents on your show and well…” He offered her an indulgent smile he knew would irritate her. “While it’s fascinating that you once met an African shaman who thought rosemary held healing properties, it doesn’t exactly apply to the preparation of a meal.”

  Ah, now that lit her temper, Philip thought, pleased when her cheeks brightened with annoyed color.

  “It does when I’m seasoning with rosemary,” she said tightly.

  He pulled a light shrug. “If you say so.”

  Rather than argue anymore, Carrie looked to Jerry to settle the argument. His head had been darting back and forth between them as though he’d been following a tennis match.

  He flushed, obviously torn. “I don’t see any harm in ad-libbing so long as it pertains to the meal,” his traitorous producer finally said.

  Philip mentally swore and swallowed a resigned sigh. The first battle—a landmark—and she’d claimed it. Unfortunately, he gloomily suspected it was the first of many.

  KNOWING THAT IT WOULD infuriate the hell out of him because it was her recipe, Carrie picked up a fork and loaded it for Philip. “You’ve got to try this,” she said as they prepared to round out their show.

  Smiling, Philip’s eyes widened in warning and he shook his head. “Oh, I’m sure it’s wonderful, but—”

  Carrie popped the bite into his mouth before he could finish, withdrew the fork and, smiling, waited for him to swallow. She knew he never tried any of his own meals on his show and it bothered her. If food was prepared, it should be eaten. That he wouldn’t eat his own stuff was curiously incriminating.

  He glared at her. “Wonderful,” he said. “An excellent blend of flavors.” He glanced at Jerry, noted the fifteen-second cue and smiled. “Thanks for joining us,” he said.

  “…and be sure and tune in tomorrow,” Carrie added. “Another sizzling summer meal that’s guaranteed to satisfy one hunger and spark another is on the menu. Until then, best wishes for your hot dishes.”

  “And that’s a wrap,” Joyce called. She beamed at both of them and the studio burst into applause. “Fantastic,” she enthused. “Loved the ad-libbing, Carrie. It really gave it a personal flair—like the two of you could be friends…or more,” she added slyly. A chorus of ooh-la-la’s and catcalls erupted on set.

  She certainly couldn’t deny that. Other than a few little veiled comments, she and Philip had worked together remarkably well.

  Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that she’d happily tortured him throughout their session. Plumping her cleavage, accidentally-on-purpose pressing her breasts against his arm, licking her lips. She’d had entirely too much fun watching those silvery eyes darken with arousal, watching him struggle to maintain his composure when it was clear he couldn’t decide which he wanted to do more—strangle her or kiss her.

  Frankie had definitely been right—Philip Mallory, her fantasy guy, wanted her. She smiled and mentally rocked back on her heels.

  He didn’t want to…but he did.

  Jerry watched the final minute on the playback, then hurried over. “Seriously, that was amazing. The perfect blend of camaraderie and tension. This is going to boom, I’m tellin’ ya.” He slapped Philip on the back and smiled widely at Carrie. “Great job. I’m not kidding. That was phenomenal.”

  Philip shot her a droll look. “I didn’t see ‘Feed Philip’ on the teleprompter.”

  “Don’t worry. You aren’t going blind.”

  “I know that, dammit,” he said peevishly. “It wasn’t there. I thought you were only going to ad-lib dialogue. Tell me, do you intend to be a renegade host for the rest of the week?”

  Carrie chuckled. “R-renegade host?”

  He flushed, then scowled. “You know what I mean. I don’t like to eat on camera. I don’t even sample my own meals.”

  “I know,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s annoying.”

  “Annoying?”

  “Yes. If you won’t even eat it, what’s to make a person who’s watched your show go to the trouble of cooking it? What’s the point?”

  “The point is that whether I eat it or not, it’s still good.”

  “But eating it yourself proves that, right?”

  His expression blackened further. “Why am I arguing with you?” he asked. “Why in bloody blazes do I care if my eating on camera annoys you or not? Just don’t feed me anymore, or I assure you, you won’t care for the outcome.”

  Carrie quirked a brow. “You’ll spit it out?”

  He smiled wolfishly at her. “Possibly even at you.”

  An unexpected chuckle bubbled up her throat. “That would call for some serious retribution.”

  His eyes glinted with wry humor. “I think you’re practicing enough of that already, don’t you?”

  Carrie smiled innocently and looked away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He shook his head, laughed and that twinkling gaze caught and held hers. “Oh, but you do. That’s why you’ve shown up here today wearing less than you’ve ever worn. Why today, I wonder?” he asked with mock bewilderment. “Could it possibly be because I asked you to wear more?”

  Carrie chewed the inside of her cheek and regarded him with cool amusement. “Have you watched all of my shows?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, clearing his throat. “Why do you ask?”

  “You keep referencing them, that’s why.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, you know how it goes. Keep your friends close…”

  “And your enemies closer,” Carrie finished, inclining her head as understanding dawned. She swallowed a bitter laugh. So much for hoping he’d actually admired her as a peer. “At what point did I become your enemy?”

  “The instant Jerry mentioned the special,” Philip told her. “I like things the way they are, Carrie. No matter how well this goes, I don’t want to do another show. I want to keep the one I’ve got.”

  Since she’d like to have a better one, Carrie didn’t bother lying. She merely nodded. “Understood.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Philip’s gaze dropped to her feather-clad breasts, then retraced the path and found her gaze once more. He sidled a little closer to her, purposely invading her personal space. “Furthermore payback’s an interesting thing,” he said. “It’s a door that swings both ways.”

  Oh, hell, Carrie thought, feeling her heartrate kick into Mach III. She hadn’t expected this. Using her own sex appeal as a weapon had been quite liberating, but frankly, if the idea that he might actually turn the tables on her had ever entered her head, she would have left well enough alone.

  Carrie swallowed. “It is?”

  He sidled even closer. She could feel his heat, could feel every hair on her body arcing toward him as though he had some sort of magnetic appeal. “Definitely,” he whispered, those silvery eyes falling to her mouth.

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” she managed, struggling not to lean into him. That supremely carnal mouth of his was mere inches from hers. If she tiptoed, she could taste him. A fatal mistake, she knew, but God, she’d never been more tempted, or more certain that he’d taste like heaven and hell, sin a
nd salvation. Dark and dangerous, hot and thrilling.

  Addictive.

  Funny thing about flirting, Carrie realized. With every conceded point she managed to wring from him, her own attraction seemed to inflate and grow. Furthermore, until today, she’d never gotten fully into her Negligee role—never truly let her sensual side go the way the network had hoped she would. Oh, she’d done well enough, she supposed. Her ratings were excellent. Fan mail arrived in bulk daily. They had no reason to complain.

  But she’d discovered the problem this morning—the reason she’d never fully engaged her Negligee persona was because she’d never had a catalyst. Never had any reason to flirt, or preen, or purposely play coy.

  Until today.

  Until Philip.

  Frankly, Carrie had had the time of her life today, watching him struggle to maintain his composure. The naughtier she became, the harder he tried, the more fun she had. It was a fascinating cycle, which had the unwelcome side effect of making her want him all the more.

  If he turned the tables on her—started using his own sex appeal as a weapon to combat hers—Carrie knew she’d be in serious trouble. Should he crook his finger, her resistance would sizzle away like water on hot griddle. Evaporate completely. Simply standing next to him did things to her sex that generally didn’t happen until well into foreplay.

  Take now, for instance. She could feel her heat drenching into the fabric nestled between her legs, a hot steady throb beating at her center. And thank heaven these feathers covered her nipples because they were presently drawn up in tight little nubs, shamelessly puckered for his kiss. An image of that carnal mouth attached to her bare breast materialized in her mind’s eye.

  Her knees wobbled.

  She took the fantasy a step further and imagined using those big hands to set her atop the kitchen island, spreading her thighs and taking her until she couldn’t find the strength to breathe, much less stand. Hard and fast, desperate and dirty. In every dream, that’s how it had played out.

  That’s how much she’d wanted him.

  Philip smiled, seemingly satisfied that he’d made his point and drew back, thus enabling her to breathe regularly again. He turned and started off set, then paused and shot her a curiously triumphant look. “Hey, Carrie?”

  “Yeah,” she said shakily, struggling to gather her wits.

  “You made one helluva assistant today.”

  She let her head loll back and laughed. Oh, Lord, what had she gotten herself into? What the hell had she started?

  “So did you,” she shot back, determined not to let him have the last word.

  She only hoped he didn’t end up having the last laugh.

  6

  WELL, NOW, PHILIP THOUGHT as Carrie’s tinkling laughter followed him off-set, that had certainly been interesting. He’d suspected that she was attracted to him, but there was nothing like confirmation to make a man feel inordinately better, particularly when his privates had been locked in Satan’s own hell for the past hour.

  However, seeing those gorgeous violet eyes of hers darken into an even more compelling hue had made every agonizing second of his torture worth it.

  Carrie Robbins epitomized beautiful and sexy, but when she was turned on…

  Bloody hell, Philip thought as his breath quaked out in a shaky sigh.

  Where he’d summoned the wherewithal to pull back—to not kiss her—when every particle of his being had screamed for him to do just that, he’d never know. She’d wanted it, too. He’d watched her lids droop, the pulse-beat in her neck flutter. He’d felt her sweet breath fan against his lips, had tasted it and almost whimpered.

  Him. Whimper.

  It was insane.

  Not to brag, but up until his self-imposed celibacy, Philip had enjoyed countless lovers, had been praised for his skill in the sack. In his opinion, a good lover had to have an excellent sense of timing. He had to be able to recognize the time to kiss, the time to nuzzle, the time to massage, the time to suck, the time to dawdle and the time to make haste.

  One false note could ruin the entire melody for a woman, so learning to listen to her—a quick inhalation, a groan of pleasure, a prolonged silence—and being able to appropriately read what each one of those cues meant was an art form that, frankly, he believed British men had honed. Philip grinned. The ability to debauch was practically in their blood, passed down from generations of rakes who’d slaked their lusts upon their wives, mistresses, harlots and courtesans.

  Philip himself had lost his virginity at thirteen when a friend’s older sister had balled the hell out of him. Naturally, having found the whole experience to his liking, his sexual education hit fast-forward after that. In fact, beyond the first time, he’d pretty much been about getting it as often as he could.

  But practice, as they say, makes perfect and he was a relatively bright teen. He’d soon learned that if a girl enjoyed it, she was more interested in having a go with him again and so he’d learned to be patient, to read the signs, and the end result was a skillful lover whose number one priority was satisfying a female. The fact was it didn’t take much to make a guy come, but a woman…Ah, a woman had to be coaxed, and getting her there was half the fun.

  And getting Carrie there would undoubtedly be a party to end all parties, he knew. Her body looked like it had been created expressly for hot, sweaty sex, for carnal pleasures and erotic fantasies. Philip let go a breath.

  And she wanted him.

  Was this a new development? he wondered, or like him, had she been secretly wrestling with an attraction? Hell, who knew? And in the end, it really didn’t matter. What mattered now was what he planned to do with this new fascinating tidbit of information.

  Naturally, his first impulse was to bed her. He was a man, after all, presented with an extraordinarily beautiful woman who clearly wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was bright, funny, a damn good chef, and there was simply something about her that made her far more intriguing than any other female he’d ever come in contact with.

  Philip couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it all the same. He couldn’t see the air, but that didn’t stop him from breathing, right? Something about Carrie Robbins made his skin tingle, his belly inflate, not to mention that nagging familiarity—for lack of a better explanation—that continually wreaked havoc with his senses. He didn’t know her and yet…strangely, he felt like he did.

  Every time he saw her he felt like he’d come across a seldom seen but treasured friend. His heart did an odd little flutter that poets had rhapsodized about in lyric and verse for centuries. Those annoyances combined with the unrelenting hard-on were beginning to seriously wear upon his nerves.

  At any rate, as much as he’d love to back her up against the wall and take her until his legs wobbled, Philip’s memory of what had happened the last time he’d slept with a co-worker was still too stark. Morals clause or not, the idea of being made a fool of once again thawed his dick faster than a popsicle on a flaming grill.

  Everything bedamned, that would not ever happen to him again.

  Since bedding her was out of the question, that just left option number two. She’d gleefully enjoyed using her considerable sex appeal to drive him stark raving mad today. Since she wanted him, too, why should she have all the fun?

  And she’d definitely been having fun, too, Philip thought, recalling the sly little smile she’d sent him when he’d accidentally-on-purpose dropped a whisk so that he could hunker down out of the camera’s view and adjust himself. An alarming tent had begun to form on the front of his apron, and he’d just as soon not embarrass himself by showing all of America his penis, thank you very much. Not that he wasn’t proud of it, but…

  Of course, he wouldn’t have to worry about hauling around an enormous hard-on if she’d just wear some damned clothes. Where in the hell had they found that outfit? he wondered furiously. Hookers-R-Us? It was indecent. He seriously didn’t know how she’d kept her focus today, but to give her credit, she had.


  She’d managed to multi-task their meal, ad-lib the segment and torture him. He grunted, felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Not bad for a day’s work, the infuriating she-devil.

  Furthermore, though he was extremely reluctant to admit it, working with her today had been…quite pleasant. She was warm, funny and knowledgeable. The time had flown by and, though he knew he didn’t have any business thinking about it, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to fix a meal with her at home. He could easily cast her in a cozy scene in the kitchen, standing alongside him as they cooked and chatted amiably about their day.

  Philip’s chest inexplicably tightened and for whatever reason, Rupert’s “lonely” comment sprang to mind. A guy would never be lonely with her, he thought, letting go a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  Not that he was lonely, dammit, Philip thought, scowling at the direction his thoughts had taken. He merely liked having company every once in a while.

  Rupert was waiting for him as he neared his dressing-room door. “Jerry’s ecstatic,” he said. “Over the moon, thrilled, beside himself and otherwise insane with gratitude that you finally agreed to do the special.”

  Philip summoned a droll smile and let himself into his dressing room. “I am a team player, after all.” He pulled his apron off, hung it on a hook attached to the door and gathered his wallet, keys and cell.

  Rupert scowled. “From the looks of things, you may be playing too well.”

  Philip paused and arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he kept going on and on about ‘chemistry’ and ‘heat.’” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t want things to go too well if I were you. I’d hate for them to get the idea to extend the special. We both know that if ratings are good enough, they could certainly do it. Or pair you up again at a later date,” he added.

  Tension camped in the back of Philip’s neck and he felt his blood pressure boil dangerously close to stroke level. “No, they won’t,” Phillip told him. “Because per my instruction, you had them add that addendum to my contract which nullifies any future requests for any such special.”