“I can’t control myself around you.”

Philip shrugged, then continued. “You saw what happened on the show this afternoon. I burned a tenderloin, then had to kiss you because it was your fault.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “My fault?”

His gaze met hers over the rim of his wineglass. “Yes, of course. I was distracted by your breasts.”

Carrie cocked her head and smiled. “Back to those again, are we?” She stood. “Do you mind if I work while we talk?” she asked, thinking that a change of subject was in order. Before she did something stupid like lean forward and kiss him again.

Philip swiftly swallowed the drink in his mouth, set his wineglass aside and hurriedly stood. “Better still, how about I help you?”

Carrie grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d hate for you to get distracted.”

“I should be fine as long as you don’t take off your shirt,” Philip said casually.

Carrie didn’t know what made her do it. But one second she’d been standing there fully clothed, and the next, she’d grabbed the hem of her shirt and slowly—deliberately—pulled it up over her head.

The die was cast.

Dear Reader,

Well, this is it—the last book in my CHICKS IN CHARGE series. I hope that you’ve enjoyed getting to know these feisty women—and their fantastic heroes—as much as I have. Saying goodbye to them brings a sense of accomplishment tinged with the ultimate regret that I won’t be hanging out with them anymore. Like all my characters, they’ve become friends of sorts, if only in my imagination. If you’re just picking up this book, then I hope you’ll visit eHarlequin.com and get the others. Getting It! was a January release, followed by Getting It Good! in February. Getting It Right! was on the shelves last month. (Noticing a theme here?)

During the holiday season it’s easy to get caught up in shopping, baking and various parties. I don’t know how it is at your house, but at mine the bulk—translate all—of the work gets firmly placed in my lap. I put up the tree, hang the decorations, do all of the shopping, wrapping and coordinating of schedules. I bake—and typically gain five pounds—and distribute all of our family Christmas cards. But somewhere in the midst of the madness, I always find a few hours to slip away and curl up with a good book. Here’s hoping you do, too, and that your season is brimming with lots of girl power and romance.

Happy reading!

Rhonda Nelson

Getting It Now!
Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the ultimate Chick in Charge, my phenomenal editor, Brenda Chin. I’m continually amazed and humbled by your infinite wisdom and unending enthusiasm for my work. You are, without question, the best editor any author could ever hope to have, and working with you is not only a dream come true, but a blessing that has enriched my life in too many ways to count. My sincerest thanks always.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Prologue

ONLY THE FOUNDING MEMBERS of Chicks in Charge wouldn’t think anything about hosting a baby shower at a bar, Carrie Robbins thought with a small smile as she watched her friend open yet another gift. Colored pacifiers floated in margarita glasses—the mom-to-be’s a virgin margarita, of course—and baby bottles doubled as candle holders, illuminating New Orleans’ Blue Monkey Pub with a properly festive glow.

Though hardly conventional, they’d rented the pub for the night and the small party was an unequivocal success. She popped a petit-four into her mouth and swallowed a sigh of satisfaction as the sugary pastry melted on her tongue.

And the food wasn’t half bad either, Carrie thought with a slightly smug grin.

“You’ve outdone yourself, darling,” Frankie said, polishing off another helping of blueberry bread pudding, one of Carrie’s signature dishes. “Let me pay you for the food.”

“Absolutely not.” One of the only perks to parading half-naked around the set of The Negligee Gourmet was the paycheck. She’d made a decent living prior to joining the lineup at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!, but the added cash and security she’d garnered through the slight change in profession had certainly had its advantages. Being able to cater Zora’s baby shower without sparing any expense was certainly one of them. Moving out of an apartment and into a house was another.

“Are you sure?” Frankie persisted. “I don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Carrie told her. She cocked her head, flashed an impish smile. “Cooking in the buff pays well.”

Frankie chuckled softly. “Stop belittling. You aren’t in the buff.” She frowned, evidently searching for a kinder description. “You’re merely…scantily clad.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “And painted and teased up like a porn queen,” she added dryly. She hadn’t counted on that part when she’d signed on with the network, otherwise she might have reconsidered…but she doubted it.

Frankie made a moue of understanding. “I do wish they’d lay off the makeup and the eighties hairstyle. You’re gorgeous without all of that.”

Her lips curled with droll humor. “I’ll be sure and pass your suggestions along.”

Not that they’d be heeded. None of hers certainly had. Evidently the male demographic liked sophisticated meals prepared by trashy-looking women. Red lipstick, electric-blue eye-shadow, false eyelashes and big-ass hair seemed to be the perfect combination. Carrie snorted. It invariably took her half an hour to remove the paint and get the various gels, sprays and tangles out of her hair.

Other than the regular trim to remove dead-ends, Carrie didn’t have what one could call a hair regimen. She washed, she dried, she brushed. Occasionally she’d braid, but that was the extent of her hair concerns.

As for makeup, she didn’t like the feel of it against her skin—too sticky—and other than a sheer gloss on her lips and the rare swipe of a mascara wand upon her lashes, she didn’t fool with it. Sitting for a full hour and a half while the hair and makeup people on set painted and poofed her was an excruciating waste of time.

But her friends had been right—it was definitely preferable to working for Martin. Calmly giving that sanctimonious, controlling, petty, ball-less bastard her two-week notice had been, unquestionably, one of the high points in her life.

Had his restaurant not enjoyed world-renowned success, she would have never tolerated his maniacal abuse for as long as she had. But despite his notoriously bad temper, or perhaps as a result of it, Chez Martin’s had been the best game in town and she would have been foolish to quit before something better had come along.

Thankfully it had, and she’d happily quit. Martin had gaped like an out-of-water guppy for a full ten seconds before he’d exploded in anger. After everything he’d done for her? How dare she?

Ha.

Other than joyously giving her a hard time for the past several years, she’d like to know just what it was in particular he thought that he’d done for her. Was she supposed to be thankful for the constant criticism? The unpaid overtime? The snide comments about her looks?

Supposedly beautiful people were given preferential treatment in today’s society, but all Carrie had ever gotten for her so-called “blessing” was grief, and any time she’d ever shared that—usually in her own defense—she’d been given the whole mockingly snide poor-little-pretty-girl spiel. Not from her real friends, of course. They knew her better.

Still…being attractive wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Men habitually hit on her, underestimated her, and assumed that being pretty somehow made her stupid. Women tended to dislike her on sight, were threatened by her. She had the same insecurities and hang-ups as anyone else. To think that she somehow had it easier simply because of the way she looked was retarded. Hell, everyone had problems.

Furthermore, Carrie had technically been on both sides of the fence. As a child she’d been plagued with a weight problem. Growing up all over the globe with her traveling doctor parents had made it somewhat tolerable—frankly, in her experience people of other cultures were less inclined to make fun of her—but the first time she’d set foot in a U.S. public school, in the latter part of her junior year of high school, had been a different matter altogether.

She’d been taunted, teased and ridiculed until the idea of carrying one extra pound on her frame had been intolerable. She’d gone on a strict diet, had started an exercise regimen, and by the time she’d entered her senior year, she’d shed more than fifty pounds.

Then the “pretty” problems started. She couldn’t win for losing.

At any rate, Carrie knew she was healthier and, learning to take control of her food instead of being ruled by it had led to a love of cooking which had steered her into her chosen career path. Who knew who or what she might have been otherwise?

It was ironic really, Carrie thought, idly sipping her drink. Her entire adult life she’d wanted to be taken seriously as a chef. Out of the limelight, in the kitchen—the back of the house, as those in her profession liked to say—letting her food speak for itself, and yet here she was capitalizing on the very thing that she’d always tried to avoid—her looks.

The show had been a huge success, the powers that be were ecstatic. Furthermore, though they’d primarily been targeting the male demographic, recent polls indicated that she was doing well with the female viewers as well. By all accounts, everything about it had been a resounding coup…and if she murmured one word of discontent she’d be that “poor little pretty girl” again, only this time they could add “famous” into the mix. Carrie sighed.

In truth, she didn’t give a damn about either—she just wanted to cook.

April Wilson-Hayes slid onto a barstool next to her and gestured to the enormous pile of gifts accumulating on the table beside Zora. “Good thing Frankie made sure the guys were here, otherwise we’d have a hell of time getting all of this stuff loaded into Zora’s car.”

Another perk to hosting the shower in the bar. Carrie’s gaze slid to one of the pool tables on the other side of the room. Ben, Ross and Tate—the proud papa—were currently engrossed in one of many informal tournaments. Though Ben was the newcomer—Ross and Tate had been friends for years—he’d been easily welcomed into the fold. Evidently being married to a CHiC founding member formed an instant commiserating bond of friendship between them.

Carrie could still remember the first time April had brought Ben to one of their weekly get-togethers. Once the pleasantries were over and the first round was finished, Tate and Ross had smoothly summoned Ben aside, presumably to give him a few lessons regarding the care and feeding of a Chick In Charge. Carrie felt a smile tease her lips.

“They’re good for lifting heavy objects,” Carrie conceded.

And in her opinion, that was about it.

Aside from one serious but soured relationship she’d had in culinary school, she’d yet to find a guy who was genuinely interested in anything beyond her immediate packaging.

Admittedly being the last CHiC without a rooster—Frankie’s nickname for the guys—seemed a little odd and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t envious—hell, who didn’t want to be loved?—but until she found the right one—one who would want to look beyond the surface, who wouldn’t be intimidated by her skill and shared some of the same interests—she wasn’t settling. Life was too short and despite wishing she could host her show fully clothed, she was too content to settle for anything less than the best.

Her parents had provided an excellent example—forty years, a few bumps, yet their commitment to each other had never wavered. That’s what she wanted, Carrie thought. A love that would endure. They were presently in Africa—along with her younger brother who had also joined the organization—but Carrie couldn’t begrudge them their calling. So long as there was a place in the world with little to no medical service, she knew her only sibling and parents would be there.

“Still enjoying the house?” April asked.

“Oh, God yes,” Carrie told her. April’s husband Ben had been looking for a buyer for his house around the same time she’d inked her Negligee contract and she’d wanted out of her claustrophobic apartment and into a home with a roomy kitchen.

The stars had aligned perfectly in her favor and to say that she’d fallen in love with the classic Georgian mansion was a vast understatement. It was a little big for one person, but she’d filled it with a collection of antiques and mementoes which had quickly morphed it into her home.

As with most women who are in the market for a house, the kitchen had been the key selling point. De spite all the fancy crown molding and pocket doors, the kitchen remained her favorite room.

“Great,” she said with a happy now. “What about work?” April wanted to know. “Any news on that special yet?”

Carrie tensed and shook her head. The special in question was the network’s way of capitalizing on their hottest stars and low summer ratings. They’d decided to pair their Negligee Gourmet up with Britain’s handsome answer to Emeril Lagasse—Philip Mallory.

A soft sigh stuttered out of her lungs. Unfortunately she couldn’t think his name without summon ing the image and…mercy. Thick, wavy dark-auburn hair, pale gray eyes—liquid silver, she thought—and a six and half foot athletic frame that put a woman in mind of crisp white sheets, a dark stormy night and warmed truffle oil. Excellent bone structure, a crooked, boyishly sexy smile and that biting British wit made him one of the most compelling men she’d ever shared air with.

Unfortunately, it was quite obvious that he didn’t enjoy sharing air with her.

Carrie didn’t know if he’d merely taken an instant dislike to her, or if it was her show that he held in such distain. Given the slight sneer his otherwise beautiful lips usually formed when he saw her and the blatant disregard he generally treated her to the very rare occasions their paths crossed, she imagined it was a little bit of both.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t have given a damn—she’d developed a pretty thick skin over the years and working with Martin had certainly toughened her hide, but Philip’s ready uncharitable opinion of her stung more than she’d care to admit. Probably because she’d always nursed a secret crush and, more important, admired him as a peer. To know that evidently neither sentiment was returned was quite a blow to her ego, not to mention wholly disappointing.

She’d been watching him for years—she’d faithfully followed his British program before he’d made the hop across the pond—and, though at the time she’d formed her opinions she’d never met him, she would never have thought he would have ended up being so…shallow.

Finding herself slightly starstruck and still gallingly attracted to him only added insult to injury.

Between being extremely cautious and adhering to exacting standards, Carrie had always found it relatively easy to master her libido. Quite frankly, it took a special guy—the perfect ratio of confidence, intelligence, humor and sex appeal—to do it for her and very few men made the cut.

Regrettably, aside from being a judgmental ass, Philip Mallory defined her perfect guy. Had from the first instant she’d watched him in the kitchen.

Everything about him called to her, evoked her senses. That crisp accent, the self-deprecating humor. He frequently referenced books or opinions that she shared and she’d always foolishly imagined some sort of special link, an “if-only…” fantasy where, were they to ever meet, there’d be this instant recognition. Sort of like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in that final scene of Sleepless in Seattle. Carrie’s lips curled. Clearly she’d been watching too many romantic comedies, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d found herself seriously intrigued and attracted to him.

And who wouldn’t be? He was positively gorgeous.

Particularly his hands, Carrie thought, easily summoning the shape—the strength—of them to her mind. Watching him work…Ah, she thought as a soft smile shaped her lips, now that was art in motion. Simply beautiful.

But watching him work with her would be her worst nightmare—a waking one if the execs had their way.

Number one, she knew that he’d been resisting the idea for months, that he was vehemently opposed to working with her. Carrie inwardly cringed. Talk about humiliating. She’d been thrilled at the idea and he’d been appalled, had evidently equated the proposal with begrudgingly walking his annoying little sister to school. At least that was the rumor in the kitchen and he’d definitely not given her any reason to suspect otherwise.

Considering that her entire body went into sensory overload every time she heard that voice or caught a glimpse of him, Carrie had no desire to further her humiliation by allowing him a peek at her pathetic attraction, one she was relatively certain she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of concealing if she had to work with him on a day-to-day basis.

She’d like to think that her pride would prevent her from making a fool of herself, but she grimly suspected the combination of her acute fascination with him and red-hot attraction to him would burn up any vestiges of self-respect. Factor in her penchant for casting him as the lead in her perfect-guy fantasy and things became considerably worse.

In short, Philip Mallory was her Achilles heel.

And if that special became a reality she’d undoubtedly be buying a nice pair of combat boots.

1

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.”

“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?”

One of the perks to having a day job was never missing or being late for their standing Friday-night pastime—the Bitch-Fest. God knows it had gotten Carrie though many a trying time. Something about sharing her angst among her fellow CHiC friends—Zora, Frankie and April—had made her problems seem a lot lighter. And with good reason—when she shared them, they were divided.

“No takers?” Frankie said when no one immediately responded. “Fine. I’ll go first.” She paused, scanned the faces which held her attention. “I’m tired of being engaged,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want to get married. Now.”

“Now?” Zora parroted, seemingly stunned. “But there’s no way your planner can pull together the ceremony that you and Ross have outlined now. It’s physically impossible.”

Frankie and Ross’s wedding plans had begun to rival that of Charles and Diana’s. She’d commissioned doves, ice sculptures, rare orchids and had hired a local coveted designer—Madame LeBeau, who was rumored to be positively impossible to work with—to do both her dress and the bridesmaids’ ensembles.

April Wilson-Hayes sipped her margarita. “She’s right. Logistically, it’s just not possible.”

“I know that,” Frankie replied archly. “Which is why we’re culling all of those plans and starting over.”

Every woman seated at their table with the exception of Frankie groaned at this pronouncement.

Zora, however, was the first to offer an opinion and predictably, it wasn’t sugar-coated. “That’s insane,” she said, absently rubbing a hand over her very pregnant belly. “You’ve spent a fortune pulling the ‘wedding of your dreams’ together. You wanted something grand and feminine and beautiful.”

No doubt to counteract some of the lingering insecurities wrought by her father, Carrie thought sadly. Geez, that horrible old bastard had really done a number on her. Fortunately she’d met a guy who knew that—knew what she needed—and loved her enough to indulge her.

“What do you mean you’re starting over?” Zora continued, still evidently outraged.

“You know,” Frankie said, “I was really expecting a little bit of support here.” Looking distinctly sly, she dunked the lime floating in her club soda.

Club soda? Carrie thought, squinting thoughtfully. Now that was odd. She’d known Frankie Salvaterra for almost ten years and she’d never seen her drink a club soda. Particularly in a bar. Carrie inwardly gasped, shot her friend a closer look.

Frankie’s lips twitched with a barely suppressed grin. “We’re starting over because if I don’t get married now, I’m not going to fit in my dress.”

April frowned. “Not going to fit in your—”

Zora looked from Frankie’s drink to her smug smile and inhaled sharply. “You’re pregnant!” she breathed, eyes twinkling with unabashed joy.

Frankie beamed and nodded. “I am,” she confirmed proudly.

April squealed, Carrie laughed, and Zora positively glowed. “Oh, Frankie,” she said, taking her friend’s hand. “You’re going to make the best mama.”

Frankie dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “And you guys are going to make the best honorary aunts.” She swallowed, took a deep breath and appeared to be attempting to gather her wits. “So here’s the deal. We want to get married next weekend—Saturday—and I need your help. We’re paring down the guest list from fifteen hundred to fifteen. The people who are important to me are the ones we see on a regular basis. To hell with all the others,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They’re only showing up for the food.”

Speaking of which, Carrie thought. “I’ll cater,” she promptly volunteered. “It’ll be my gift.”

“And I know the perfect place,” April said. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “You can have Ben’s and my tree.”

The tree in question was a two-hundred-plus-year-old live oak which had held special meaning for them. They’d originally planned to host their own wedding there beneath its sheltering branches, but the timing had been off. Too cold. New Orleans summer heat was notorious, but the shade of that tree would undoubtedly end up being just as cool as a crowded reception room.

“Oh, April,” Frankie said, choking up. “I think that would be perfect.”

“And we’ll designate Ben as the photographer,” she added, then chuckled. “You can bet he’ll have a camera with him anyway.”

“Then all that leaves is the honeymoon,” Zora told her. “And Tate and I would like to have that honor.”

“Zora,” Frankie gasped softly. “That’s too much.”

“I insist,” she said. Which was the last word. When Zora made up her mind, that was it. Conversation over.

Frankie’s dark brown eyes glittered with liquid emotion and her face softened with untold joy. “I knew I could count on you guys.”

Zora reached over and squeezed her hand again. “Always.” She let go a breath. “Now who wants to bitch next?”

April shook her head, shot them all a contented smile. “Sorry. I got nothing.”

And no wonder, Carrie thought. After more than a decade apart, April had been reunited with her special someone, her soul mate, Ben. She had every reason to be happy.

“Stop bragging,” Carrie finally teased. She rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, you happy people are nauseating. All pregnant and in love.”

Zora turned to Frankie. “Has the nausea started yet?” she wanted to know. “Because if it has I can tell you that eating a saltine cracker before I get out of bed and having Tate rub my feet helps considerably.”

“What does rubbing your feet have to do with being nauseated?” April asked.

Zora pulled a negligent shrug and smiled coyly. “Nothing. It just makes me feel better.”

Carrie chuckled. “Very devious. I like it.”

Zora cast her a considering look. “So if our happiness is making you nauseated, does that mean that something’s happened that’s made you unhappy?”

Shrewd as always, Carrie thought, swirling her straw around her drink.

“It’s the Brit, isn’t it?” Frankie said. “The hot one with the great ass?”

Carrie felt a grin tug at her lips. Frankie certainly had a way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “That would be the one, yes.”

“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.

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