“So, a man who cooks. Why hasn’t some lucky lady snapped you up?”

“There’s been no one recently I’ve wanted to be involved with.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sort of.

A swarm of butterflies swooped in Lindsay’s stomach.

“I was a lonely kid,” he said. “The kind of lonely that can only be understood by someone who’s felt it, too. You know, not belonging. I can’t imagine that you were that kind of kid.”

“Ah, but I was,” she said. “Sometimes I still am.”

“I don’t believe it.” His voice was a sexy whisper.

Then he kissed her. His mouth was so inviting, and even though a voice of reason sounded in a distant fog in the back of her mind—she really shouldn’t be doing this—she had to have one more taste.

Dear Reader,

I have a confession to make: even though I’m not a terrific cook, I eat up the Food Network and cooking shows on other channels, such as Top Chef. I can’t get enough of them. From BBQ to beautifully baked cakes (and everything in between), I devour these tasty shows.

On the upside, this indulgence has greatly improved my previously limited culinary repertoire. It also started the wheels turning for Accidental Cinderella. I’ve always wondered about the stories behind these shows; how did these Food Network stars make the leap from the kitchen to cable? That question inspired this book. In these pages I explore what happens when you take an unlikely cooking/travel show host and mix her up with a bad-boy chef in desperate need of redemption. The result is deliciously sweet and spicy.

I hope you’ll have as much fun reading Accidental Cinderella as I had writing it!

Bon appétit!

Nancy Robards Thompson

Accidental Cinderella
Nancy Robards Thompson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON

Award-winning author Nancy Robards Thompson is a sister, wife and mother who has lived the majority of her life south of the Mason-Dixon line. As the oldest sibling, she reveled in her ability to make her brother laugh at inappropriate moments and she soon learned she could get away with it by proclaiming, “What? I wasn’t doing anything.” It’s no wonder that upon graduating from college with a degree in journalism, she discovered that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Since hanging up her press pass to write novels full-time, critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” She loves chocolate, champagne, cats and art (though not necessarily in that order). When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, hiking and doing yoga.

For Michael, for all the wonderful meals over the years.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“You almost make a girl believe in fairy tales.” In this rare intimate moment amidst the festive chaos, Lindsay Bingham reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair into her friend Sophie Baldwin’s bridal veil.

Sophie looked every bit the princess she was. Literally. A real princess.

The wedding was magical and the reception was the social ticket of the year, Lindsay marveled. It was still hard to believe that salt-of-the-earth Sophie Baldwin from Trevard, North Carolina, was full-fledged royalty.

Last year, she’d discovered her birthright—or maybe it was more apropos to say her birthright finally found her—and she’d been swept away to the island of St. Michel in imperial fashion. As if that weren’t enough good fortune, she’d just married her prince in a gorgeous December wedding.

Right on cue, tall, handsome Luc Lejardin whirled by on the dance floor with another woman in his arms. But as he caught and held his bride’s gaze, it was perfectly clear he only had eyes for one woman.

Lindsay sighed. She would’ve gladly relinquished rights to an entire kingdom to have a man look at her that way.

“If I keep humming, ‘Wish Upon A Star,’ will I get my turn as Cinderella?”

Sophie smiled. “Maybe, but since that song belongs to Pinocchio, you might end up with a fibbing bad boy rather than a handsome prince.”

Fibbing bad boys. The story of her life.

“That’s right,” she conceded. “Cinderella’s fight song was ‘A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes….’”

Sophie winked at her. “A little dream-wishing never hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, but for the foreseeable future, I’m going to do my best to do more than dream. I’m getting my life together. I’m calling it the ‘New Me’ plan.”

Yeah, rather than the old “Plan of Self-Destruction.” A strategy that involved seeing how many years she could accrue at her dead-end job as a receptionist at Trevard Social Services and how many Mr. Wrongs she could pack into one lifetime.

She sighed against the beat of protest that thrummed inside her. Frankly, her “New Me” plan was a lot easier in theory than in practice. Her receptionist job was comfortable. It was so simple she could do it on autopilot. Even though her boss was a colossal pain in the butt, it was definitely one of those devil-you-know situations. Or so she told herself.

But the job was getting her nowhere.

As were the men she sometimes dated.

From her perspective, the journey toward true love sometimes seemed akin to walking a tightrope strung across a dark, scary abyss. She’d walked that rope before, holding the hand of a man she loved and trusted, a man who, once upon a time, said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Ultimately, he’d not just let go of her hand; he’d shoved her into the darkness below.

She’d nearly drowned in the misery.

Even now, almost seven years later, when she thought about the man who’d broken her heart, the pain resurfaced like it was covered by fading Novocain.

To numb herself, she dated. She’d even had relationships—if you could call them that. The men all had one thing in common beyond the tall, broad-shouldered, feral masculinity: none were husband material.

She preferred it that way. By dating the perennial bad boy, it was a given that those relationships wouldn’t last. She kept a firm grip on her heart. That way it couldn’t be broken.

Sophie squeezed Lindsay’s hand. “I think focusing on you is a wonderful idea, and to help you with that, I have a surprise for you.” Sophie’s face lit with a certain look Lindsay had seen before. A look that meant Lindsay should probably run the other way—as fast as she could.

Her friend always meant well, and she could also be extraordinarily generous, as evidenced by the way she’d packed the past month full of fabulous surprises—from daylong, head-to-toe spa days, to designer clothes, shoes and handbags, to the custom-made Cartier diamond necklace and earrings she’d presented her attendants to wear with their bridesmaids dresses.

“What are you up to now?” Lindsay narrowed her eyes, playing along with the tone Sophie had set for this one.

“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I have to say hello to someone.”

She followed Sophie’s gaze to a short, slight man who was making his way toward them.

“Your highness, such a lovely wedding.” The man had a thick Italian accent. He bowed and dusted Sophie’s hand with a kiss. “It is a great honor to bear witness to such a momentous occasion.”

Okay, this could take a while. But Lindsay had monopolized Sophie long enough. It was time to relinquish her friend and give others a turn. It was a good time to get a drink. The guests didn’t want to talk to her, and that was okay. Really, it was. She didn’t want to stand there, awkward as a sixth finger while this man did what every guest at this wedding endeavored to do: endear himself to the future queen of St. Michel.

She turned to Sophie. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Sophie smiled. “Is everything okay?”

Lindsay nodded. “Absolutely, I need something to drink. Would either of you care for something?”

“Nothing for me,” said the Italian. “But please allow me to be at your service.”

“No, no, thank you. You stay here and talk. I’ll be back.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Sophie whispered.

She’d been so good to make sure Lindsay didn’t feel out of place during her stay at the palace. The poor woman must be exhausted.

“I’m fine,” Lindsay assured her. “I’ll find you later.”

“Okay, don’t forget. Your surprise.”

Sophie had been so generous already. Lindsay couldn’t imagine what else she could pull out of her crown. Especially tonight. Sophie’s big night. It felt wrong for her friend to take time away from her wedding to give her something else. If anyone should be fussed over tonight, it was the bride.

Across the room, Lindsay spied a tux-clad server with a tray of champagne flutes. She walked over and helped herself, then turned to survey the crowd. The guest list was studded with several A-listers who melded so well with the others that sometimes Lindsay had to do a double take before she could identify them. But she was careful to not be too obvious. No one here gawked or gushed.

That’s why it was important that she honored the agreement she’d made with herself and remained cool—and not go stark raving fan girl, even though Johnny Depp was sitting directly in her line of vision at a table for two, with his arm draped around a petite woman.

Lindsay bit her bottom lip instead.

Johnny. Depp.

She watched as the actor lifted a cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. It was just as well she didn’t try to engage him in conversation, because with all this pent-up nervous energy, she’d probably end up saying the wrong thing or bleating like a startled goat rather than forming words that made any sense.

Her toes curled in her custom-made Jimmy Choos (one of the bridesmaid gifts from Sophie), and she exhaled a full-body sigh, reluctantly tearing her gaze from him.

As she skimmed the crowd, she stopped suddenly, backtracking to a familiar face. A sulking hulk of handsomeness and broad shoulders sat alone at a table toward the back of the ballroom.

It was that famous chef. Oh, what was his name…?

As she studied his ruggedly attractive face, the olive skin and perpetual five o’clock shadow, Lindsay’s mind flipped through names one by one, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.

A couple of years ago, he’d been the poster boy of the trashy tabloids. Oh, what was his name…? He used to have a show on Food TV…but something had happened. She couldn’t remember what. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him on television. Not that she’d ever been a big fan—but boy, he was even better-looking in person than on TV, and the tabloid photos didn’t do him justice.

Montigo.

Carlos Montigo.

Yes! That was it.

She snapped her fingers. As if he’d heard her, which was impossible over the clamor of conversation and music, his dark gaze slid to hers and locked into place.

Her stomach performed a curious lurching summersault. Good grief, the guy was handsome. But based on the headlines, he was no Prince Charming. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Still, she couldn’t make herself look away.

Ping. There it was. That steel-to-bad boy magnetic draw of attraction—pulling her in a direction her better judgment warned she shouldn’t go.

He kept watching her and she kept watching him back, over the top of her champagne flute.

She’d known guys with bad reputations like him. He was exactly the type of guy she was drawn to.

If there was one thing her résumé of postengagement relationships had taught her it was you can’t rehabilitate a bad boy.

That was the short-term draw.

A slow, lopsided smile that barely turned up the corner of Montigo’s lips promised trouble. Those were definitely bad-boy eyes gazing at her. Dark, sexy, bad-boy eyes that were meandering brazenly down the length of her body.

It wasn’t the way Luc looked at Sophie. No, this was something altogether different. Her mind skittered through all sorts of possibilities involving bare broad shoulders, rumpled bed sheets and a lot more skin than he was showing now….

It kind of took her breath away.

It was her last night in St. Michel….

Even if he wasn’t part of her “New Me” plan, she’d never see him again.

But then the strangest thing happened. Her better judgment kicked in.

What was the point of a one-night stand—besides a night of great sex?

Back home, her friend Ida May Higgins, the woman who’d known Lindsay since she was born, who’d cared for her after her mother died and had in many ways been a surrogate mother to her, insisted that the only way Lindsay could fix what her former fiancé, Derrick, had broken was by simply taking the time to be alone so that she could get to know herself.

Alone.

As in no one-night stands.

Besides, Sophie had yet to cut the cake and toss the bouquet. As the maid of honor, Lindsay needed to be available for Sophie, not formulating a plan to hook up with Mr. Hottie.

Willing herself not to look back at him, Lindsay swallowed the rest of her champagne, set the empty glass on a busing tray and made her way toward the terrace for a breath of fresh air.

Something—anything—to clear her head.

If she were at home right now, she’d pull out her mother’s recipe book—a small red notebook filled with pages of handwritten recipes, mostly desserts—and bake. The kitchen was her sanctuary; baking helped her keep her sanity.

Even though she’d been so young when her mother had died she didn’t have memories of her, she had her recipes. And bringing them to life somehow made Lindsay feel connected to this woman she never really knew.

She’d brought the red notebook to St. Michel with her but she hadn’t been near a kitchen in the month she’d been there. So, since baking wasn’t an option, she made her way toward the ballroom’s open doors.

The terrace was dotted with a smattering of people. Mostly couples who’d stepped out into the moonlight for a little romance, it seemed, from the way people were paired up, some with arms entwined, others stealing little kisses—one couple, off in the far corner, getting a little too frisky for public decency.

Lindsay hated intruding on the romance, but she couldn’t go back inside. Not just yet. To give them some privacy, she walked to the other end of the terrace, leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing and tilted her face into the briny breeze that blew in off the ocean.

It was a gorgeous night. In North Carolina, she’d need a parka and gloves to be outside on a December evening. Here, the temperature was a little chilly, but it was brisk and fresh—just what she needed. She was already starting to feel revived.

After being in St. Michel a month, Trevard, North Carolina, seemed like a vague smudge on a distant horizon. It was hard to believe she’d be going home tomorrow. She blinked away the thought. No way would she waste her last night dwelling on the mundane. She’d have her fill of that soon enough.

She looked around, taking in the huge moon hanging over the water like a brilliant blood orange, spilling diamond seeds across the inky sky and into the restless sea below. Such a beautiful moon on Sophie and Luc’s wedding night, as if the heavens were bestowing a special blessing upon their union.

It was all so romantic.

A shooting star burst across the sky like a Roman candle. Remembering her earlier conversation with Sophie, a chill skittered over her. She crossed her arms to rub away the goose bumps, then closed her eyes and wished…

When she was done, she looked around, blinking a couple of times at the couples paired up on the terrace.

Well, Cinderella, you’re certainly not going to find your prince at Lover’s Lane. Better get back inside.

As she turned to leave the happy couples to their romantic seclusion, she nearly bumped into someone. Backlit by the warm glow of the ballroom, he was silhouetted and she could barely make out his features. But she didn’t need better light to recognize Carlos Montigo.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said with a melodic Spanish accent, warming her from the inside out.

“It is beautiful. I was just—”

“If you’re cold, I’d be happy to offer you my jacket.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine.”

He nodded and stepped up to the railing next to her. Looking at him from this angle made her draw in a quick breath. He might’ve been born of the bad-boy mold that attracted her, but something in his voice and in the way he carried himself suggested he was different. But exactly how, she couldn’t discern.

“You made a beautiful bridesmaid for the princess.”

“Thank you. Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”

She cringed at the inane question. This was not North Carolina. Sophie hadn’t met three-quarters of the guests, and she’d bet good money that Sophie and Luc didn’t know most of them personally. That was what famous people did—hang out with other famous people. Go to their weddings. Whether they knew each other or not.

“I am acquainted with the Henri Lejardin, St. Michel’s minister of art and culture, the brother of the groom. I have catered events for him in the past. I am in town for another occasion—the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival—and he invited me tonight.

“I am Carlos Montigo.” He offered a hand and she took it.

“Lindsay Bingham,” she returned.

He lifted her hand to his lips. She liked this gallant European custom.

His gaze slid to hers and locked into place.

An electric jolt coursed through her, and she couldn’t look away. Even though she knew she should.

Oh, boy, she was in trouble.

But then, with the same air of rogue regality he’d shown when he so blatantly perused her from across the room, he released her hand and did a sweeping search of her face, his gaze finally lingering on her lips, which were suddenly so dry she had to moisten them before she could speak.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Florida.”

“Really? I had you pegged for a European all the way.”

“All the way?” he said, mimicking her slight southern accent. His mouth quirked up at the corner, forming a sexy half smile that Lindsay would’ve bet money had driven more than one woman wild.

“You’re definitely American, and judging from the accent, from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. Am I right?”

“No, you’re not. I don’t have an accent.”

He stood about a foot taller than Lindsay, yet now that her vision had adjusted to the moonlit terrace, she could see that his eyes were actually a deep shade of green rather than brown as she first thought.

“Yes, love, you do.”

Oh, boy, indeed. Tall. Broad shoulders. Green eyes.

A lethal trinity, and if she didn’t watch herself, she could find herself in a lot of trouble. A cool breeze blew in across the water. She tipped her face up to it and closed her eyes, hoping it would help her regain her senses.

“Mmm, that’s nice. Isn’t it?”

“Paradise,” Carlos murmured. “I think I may have just found paradise, Lindsay Bingham.”

What?

“Really?” She leveled him with a bemused gaze. “And I think I’ve just heard the cheesiest pickup line ever.”

They laughed, and his eyes did that face-searching thing again that made her feel completely and deliciously devoured.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asked. “Seeing that it’s open bar.”

“Only if it’s the best champagne.”

He smiled. “Wait right here. I’ll be back. With a bottle.”

She was definitely in trouble. Especially since in the five seconds that he’d been gone, she’d already begun to tell herself that Florida and North Carolina weren’t that far apart. At least there wasn’t an ocean between them.

Even so, it didn’t mean she had to sleep with him just because the guy was coming on to her….

A little dose of harmless flirtation might be good for her. So why not?

Because.

That soothing breeze blew in again, caressing her. Not in a seductive way, but in a way that reminded her of her “New Me” plan.

In answer, she tipped her face into the breeze and breathed in deep.

Even though Carlos Montigo was tempting, she was tired. And if she was completely honest with herself, she didn’t have the energy to play games. Because her gut was warning that if she laid one hand on the Montigo burner she would surely get burned.

“Lindsay? There you are.”

It was Sophie. In that split second before Lindsay realized it, she’d checked her posture and smiled. Reflexive moves, thanks to the ever-present paparazzi that had been milling about the past month. Not because of how Carlos Montigo’s gaze had just shamelessly undressed her, and in response she’d thanked him with her best what happens on my last night in St. Michel stays in St. Michel smolder….

Her cheeks burned, and she strengthened her resolve to resist temptation.

“I thought you were coming back?” Sophie said. “We’ve been looking for you.” With her head, she gestured to Carson Chandler, who waited in the doorway. “Carson wants to talk to you.”

Talk to me?

Sophie had introduced Lindsay to Chandler earlier that week. Tonight, as she and Sophie walked toward him, he’d acknowledged her with a polite, “Good evening, Ms. Bingham. Lovely to see you.”

Why did he want to talk to her?

The billionaire media mogul had turned a travel guide business into an empire. Everyone knew his name. Sort of like how people knew of the Rockefellers or William Randolph Hearst.

Sophie gave Lindsay a look and mouthed, surprise!

“What?” Lindsay mouthed back.

But Sophie ignored her, turning instead to Chandler. “Carson, would you do me a favor?”

He smiled. “Certainly, your highness, your wish is my command.”

“Will you dance with Lindsay? My handlers are beckoning.” Sophie rolled her eyes and gave her head a quick shake. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to having handlers. Or, for that matter, the fact that I need to be handled.”

She turned on a flourish of tulle and silk, leaving Lindsay and the older man alone. There was an awkward pause during which Lindsay’s mind spun. Carlos would be back any minute with the champagne. She couldn’t just leave without excusing herself. What kind of surprise could Carson Chandler have for her? He was handsome in an aloof, moneyed way, but then again didn’t all men look gorgeous in white tie? Still, he was old enough to be her grandfather. She resisted the urge to fidget, or worse yet, glance around for Carlos.

Finally, Chandler tilted his head to one side in a regal gesture and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Feeling suddenly shy and exhausted, Lindsay tried to let him off the hook. “Please don’t feel obligated to entertain me.”

She was the kind of wrung-out tired that made even the thought of dancing feel like an effort. Since she was leaving tomorrow, what she really wanted to do was go upstairs and enjoy one last long, hot soak in that huge, marble tub in her suite.

“Dancing with you, Miss Bingham, would be my honor,” said Carson. “Besides, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

“Oh. Well, then.” How could she deny a man his honor? One quick dance wouldn’t hurt. In fact, she might even be back before Carlos returned with the champagne. “But please call me Lindsay.”

She took his arm and walked back into the ballroom with him. When he smiled, he vaguely reminded her of Ricardo Montalbán sans accent. Of course he would. Because wasn’t St. Michel Fantasy Island? How could she have missed that? A place where her best friend got to be a princess and Lindsay had been able to play Cinderella. For an entire month.

Here she was at the ball. Even though tomorrow her coach would turn back into a pumpkin and she’d board a plane homeward bound for Trevard, she’d had the time of her life.

Of course, she wished her Cinderella fantasy came with Prince Charming and happily-ever-after. But as Carson Chandler whirled her around the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she glanced up at the crystal chandeliers, admiring the way the light played through the facets, illuminating the cut crystal like brilliant diamonds.

How many women got to attend a royal wedding in their lifetime? She should be grateful for the experience, even if the handsome prince didn’t come chasing her across the Atlantic to see if the slipper fit.

Her gaze wandered back to the doors to the terrace. She wondered if Carlos was back yet. She hoped he didn’t think she’d run out on him. Surely he’d wait. Wouldn’t he? A ridiculous tangled sense of conflict flooded through her.

Oh, well. They’d just met and tomorrow she’d go home. Her “New Me” plan didn’t call for leaving one Jimmy Choo behind on the palace step with the slim hope a man—even Carlos Montigo—would find it and bring it to her on the other side of the ocean.

“The princess tells me you’ve worked in television, Miss Bingham.”

Carson’s voice startled her back to the present.

“Excuse me?”

The orchestra was loud. She must not have heard him correctly. He leaned in closer. A little too close for Lindsay’s comfort.

“You’re such a beautiful woman. Actually, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we were introduced earlier this week. Princess Sophie tells me you have broadcast journalism experience?”

Her cheeks warmed and graceless dread unfurled in her belly, working its way up until it blocked the words to explain her short-lived journalistic career. The question unlocked a door in the recesses of her mind behind which she’d stashed a very bad memory. The memory of an incident that cost Lindsay her dream.

“I was curious about the type of television work you’d done?”

Sophie was one of the few people who knew of this thwarted dream. Why would she tell Chandler?

“I don’t know what Sophie told you.” Or more important, why. “But in college, I majored in broadcast journalism, and I reported for a network affiliate for a short time.”

“Why for only a short while? I have a feeling the camera would love your face.”

Lindsay stiffened, suddenly aware of his hand on the small of her back. Nothing improper, but now the door that had been closed tight for years had opened and a flood of bad memories…of a powerful man taking advantage…poured out.

“Relax, Miss Bingham, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m a happily married man.”

Okay.

She felt a little silly for jumping to conclusions. With her penchant for bad boys, obviously, she was no prude, but those relationships had always been mutual and consensual. Even if the men in her past had ended up being bad choices, she’d never sold herself for a job. And she never would. That’s why she’d left the television industry in the first place.

“You didn’t answer my question, Miss Bingham. Why are you no longer working in television?”

She wished she’d simply told him she had no experience rather than opening this can of worms. Oh, Sophie, what did you do?

“It just wasn’t the career for me.”

Again, his hand pressed into the small of her back as he gently led into a turn on the dance floor.

“Do you work now?” he asked.

She laughed. She couldn’t help it.

“Well, yes. Of course I do. Not everyone here is royalty or independently wealthy.”

Ugh, that sounded rude. She hadn’t meant it to.

“I work for Trevard County Social Services in North Carolina. That’s how I know Sophie.”

“The same line of work as the princess’s former job?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Well, what exactly do you do?”

She bristled. Why the game of fifty questions? She wasn’t embarrassed by where she came from or that she’d chosen not to be a television talking head. She had an honest job. That was more than some could say—those who had no qualms about sleeping with a married man on their quest to the anchor desk.

“I’m the office manager.”

“And do you enjoy your work, Miss Bingham?”

No.

“It’s Lindsay.” She glanced up at him, frowning. “Do you always ask so many questions, Mr. Chandler?”

“Only when I’m trying to decide if I’ll invite someone to interview for a job.”

A job?

The music stopped. Carson Chandler escorted Lindsay off the dance floor.

Wait! What job?

As they reached the edge of the parquet, he said. “Thank you for the dance. Miss Bingham, er, Lindsay, Chandler Guides produces a three-minute segment that airs on Food TV between full-length shows. It’s called The Diva Dishes. The spots highlight travel, food and festivities of various destinations. Have you seen the spots?”

Lindsay nodded. She was addicted to Food TV.

“The mini-sodes, if you will, have the potential to boost the sales of our travel guides. But in the first year, increases didn’t live up to our expectations. Because of that we let the host go. She didn’t have that diva spark I was looking for. That je ne sais quoi that captivates.”

He paused and put a hand to Lindsay’s chin, looking her over appraisingly. “You really do have the most exquisite eyes, my dear. I’m sure everyone tells you so.”

Lindsay’s guard went up again like steel trapdoors. She was just about to pull away, a split second before Chandler dropped his hand.

“I digress,” he continued. “Monday, right here in St. Michel, we will conclude auditions for the new host. The person we choose will start right away because we’re taping this weekend at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival. I’m inviting you to audition.”

Every nerve in Lindsay’s body went on hyperalert. The St. Michel Food and Wine Festival? Wasn’t that the event Carlos mentioned?

But…but she couldn’t audition. She was flying out tomorrow. Mary was expecting her back at work bright and early Monday morning. Plus, Chandler made her uncomfortable. Brought back too many bad memories.

He must have read the hesitancy in her expression, or perhaps she didn’t return a properly enthusiastic response.

“Hundreds have auditioned, Lindsay. To be quite honest, you will be the only one we see Monday. I’m sure I needn’t remind you that you have a fabulous friend in the princess. She was quite generous with her praise of you, and quite convincing that you are the diva for whom I’ve been searching.”

An awkward pause followed this unexpected compliment. Boy, Sophie wasn’t kidding when she said she had a surprise.

As Lindsay searched for how to respond to Chandler, the clock in the castle tower tolled midnight. Out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay glimpsed Carlos walk through the doorway that led in from the terrace, but then she lost sight of him as he was swallowed up by the crowd.

Chandler reached inside his breast pocket and produced a business card. In the style of a magician weaving a coin through his fingers, he presented it to her with a flourish.

“Call my assistant for the location of the audition. It will be a very nice, lucrative opportunity.”

She took a deep breath, glancing around, trying to locate Carlos as she gathered the words she needed to nip Chandler’s wild idea in the bud.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Chandler. I’m flattered, really I am. But it’s been several years since I was in front of a camera. As tempting as the opportunity sounds, I’m afraid I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

“Oh, but I believe you are. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not offering you the job on the spot.” He smiled. “We’ll have to see how you look on camera, but as I said earlier, I have a hunch the camera will love your face. And, Miss Bingham, my hunches are always right.”

Chapter Two

“You left?” The vein in Max Standridge’s forehead pulsed like it might explode. Normally, Carlos Montigo would rib him about it, but better judgment warned, not today.

Instead he settled into the hotel suite’s couch, shrugged and pierced Max with his best what of it? stare.

Max pounded his fist once on the desktop. “You know the hoops I jumped through to wrangle you an invite to that wedding, Montigo. It was an opportunity, man. Why’d you leave? You could’ve at least made contact with the minister of art and education. We talked about how important that was.”

“Why did I leave?” Montigo stood and grabbed the La St. Michel social page off the coffee table, took a few steps and flung it onto the desk. It careened across the glossy surface until Max stopped it with a slap of his palm.

“That’s why I left.”

He gestured to a front-page photo of Lindsay Bingham in her sexy red dress, wearing that drive-a-man-to-madness smile.

In the photo her arms were outstretched, the bridal bouquet was in midair, poised to fall gracefully into her elegant hands.

Max sneered. “You have something against brides tossing flowers?”

“Yeah, I’m a conscientious objector to weddings in general.” Carlos rolled his eyes. “Especially when they toss the damn flowers eight times to get the right photo to con the world into buying the fairy tale wedding bull. What a crock of sh—”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Max looked perplexed.

Carlos stared at the photo, into the eyes that had captivated him last night…at the face that had danced through his restless dreams making sleep fitful and his mood edgy because he was so damn tired today.

Max was his best friend, but there was no way Carlos could tell him that he’d narrowly escaped letting the woman get under his skin. But she’d ditched him while he went to get drinks, for a media mogul who could’ve bought and sold most of Europe.

Why should he be surprised that yet another woman followed the scent of money? Didn’t they all?

If he told Max that, the guy would have license to mock him for a year, ribbing him about his bruised ego and poor choice of woman. So instead of fessing up, he improvised.

“It’s fake,” Carlos said. “The first toss hit her in the head. Nearly put her eye out. Since that wasn’t the perfect fairy tale outcome, they did it again. And again. Eight. Times. It wasn’t a wedding. It was a three-ring circus full of barracudas, phonies and opportunists.”

Max pressed his hands to his eyes, then raked his fingers through his hair, pulling so tight that for a moment his eyes were drawn into slits. Carlos couldn’t bear to look at him. So he turned around and reclaimed his spot on the sofa. The wedding had been closed to the paparazzi. The royal image makers were, no doubt, doling out the photos and video clips they wanted the world to see. How long would it take for the press to dig up the real deal? A rogue video or an embarrassing picture taken with a camera smuggled in by some opportunistic schmuck hungry to sell secrets?

“I’m your manager, Montigo, not a miracle worker. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

Help me? He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

“I’m not a charity case, Max.”

“I didn’t say you were, but you have to lose that chip on your shoulder if we’re going to make this work.”

For the love of God, the guy nagged more than Montigo’s ex-wife, Donna.

The ornate hotel room with its frilly pink cabbage rose wallpaper was closing in on him. Just like the ballroom had last night. The only reason he didn’t walk out right now was because Max, unlike Donna, hadn’t walked out on him when the chips were down.

They needed one more good run.

Get in. Make money. Get out.

This cookbook needed to sell. Then Carlos could repay Max and use the rest for a project none of the beautiful people cared to touch.

Damn hypocrites.

And that was fine by him.

All he wanted was a restaurant where he could cook what he wanted to cook and play by his own rules. A place where he could open his doors to kids who’d screwed up and give them a fighting chance in this world.

Because didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

He’d had it all once—right in the palm of his hand. Until his fall from grace, when he’d lost everything.

The past two years had changed him. Rearranged his priorities. Proven that there were more important things than money and parties.

But it also showed him how much he valued his independence.

Now that the dust had settled and he’d begun to pick up the pieces, he knew he didn’t need the pretty people to succeed. The ones who once called him friend, but now pretended to not remember his name. But that was fine—life in the fast lane came with too many strings and always, always too high a price.

He would make his own way—as he’d started to before Donna and all her glitzy ambitions. He would be beholden to no one.

“So I guess this means I need to cold-call Lejardin’s office and try to get us in sometime in the next week,” Max muttered, pensive, as if contemplating an impossible task.

“No need,” Carlos said.

Max sighed, a weary, exasperated sound.

“Lejardin’s stopping by the booth on Wednesday. Though you might want to call his assistant and confirm, things were pretty crazy at the wedding. They only had to do the garter toss six times. But still. Since he was in the wedding party, he was a little distracted. But I had to get out while I could. Before I hurt someone.”

Carlos smiled at his own joke. Dazed, Max opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He snapped his jaw shut.

Carlos reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s his direct line. Should get you right through.”

The trip to the airport where the St. Michel state jet awaited to fly Lindsay home to Trevard was a scenic fifteen minutes by limousine from the Palais de St. Michel. Lindsay settled into the soft leather seat, savoring her final glimpse of the St. Michel coast and the last vestiges of the good life.

Who knew when she’d return? She wanted to commit this parting scene to memory, to drink it all in. Even though she wanted to think she’d visit Sophie regularly, she didn’t expect her friend to send a jet to fetch her every time they wanted a girls’ weekend. And God knew she’d have to miser away every spare cent and every minute of vacation time before she could afford to take another trip abroad.

She sighed as they passed the yacht club, boats bobbing in the azure water, crisp, white sails billowing in the wind. Most of the vessels were larger than the modest apartment Lindsay called home.

Pointedly, she ignored the nagging question that kept forcing its way to the front of her mind—just how did one go back to Trevard after living like this?

Experts claimed it took twenty-one days to make a habit. She’d been here exactly thirty-two days. Not that it had taken anywhere close to twenty-one days to get used to the St. Michel life.

But the habit rule also worked in reverse, she reminded herself. She had a good job back in Trevard. A life there—no matter how much she’d love to stay in St. Michel, no matter how tempting Carson Chandler’s offer to audition for The Diva Dishes, Lindsay had been away long enough.

The longer she put off going home, the harder it would be to go back. Besides, judging by the hoops she’d jumped through to get the time off—even though she had the vacation days—she didn’t dare ask her boss for a single day more.

As the limo passed through a seven-story carved stone archway that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a blue funk threatened to envelope Lindsay. She fought off the mood by reminding herself to look at the good. How many people had flown by private jet, been chauffeured by limousine and lodged in a five-hundred-year-old castle?

It was good while it lasted, and she needed to make the most out of these last moments rather than waste them brooding.

She grabbed her handbag, a cavernous Marc Jacobs—another bridesmaid gift from Sophie—and foraged for a compact and tube of lipstick to touch up her face before they arrived at the airport.

Instead of the makeup, her fingers found their way to Carson Chandler’s business card and plucked it from the inner pocket where she’d stashed it. She ran her finger over the black letters embossed on the ivory-colored linen, then flipped it over and studied the bold script he’d used to write the contact number for his assistant, Sheila.

It would be a very nice opportunity for the right person. And I believe you might be the right person, Miss Bingham.

Sophie had promised Chandler was a gentleman, “…happily married for nearly fifty years.”

Interesting, since the man had a reputation in the business world for changing his mind as often as the wind changed directions. Even the spot he’d invited her to audition for seemed tentative.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Sophie had confided. “So you can’t breathe a word, but you know he just purchased the Epicurean Traveler Network. Well, he wants to eventually turn the three-minute Diva spot into an hour-long show. You have to do this, Linds, because this little spot could turn into something really big.”

Yeah, right. And it could be a dead end if he hired her and later decided to go with someone else—as he’d fired the previous Diva host.

Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to get Sophie’s voice out of her head. “Cinderella certainly didn’t get to the ball by locking herself away in the tower. She saw the opportunity and she took it.”

Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at the Cinderella metaphor. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were simply one big fairy tale?

Then she wouldn’t have to worry about cads who lied and cheated to get what they wanted.

Lies that cost Lindsay her fiancé, her job as a television reporter and her dignity.

“Chandler knows if he does you wrong he’ll suffer the wrath of the future queen of St. Michel.”

Lindsay sounded a humorless chuckle. God, Sophie almost sounded serious.

“Should I call you Ann Boleyn?” Lindsay had asked.

“Nah. Your royal highness will suffice.” Then it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. But her laugh was genuine. “You know I’m right, Linds. You’ve been hiding behind the reception desk. You’re wasting your talent answering phones.”

Really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t the bad taste her foray into journalism left in her mouth as much as it was the uncertainty of the job in question.

Even if The Diva Dishes did have the potential to morph into a full-fledged television show, Chandler seemed too likely to change his mind midstream. His vision seemed too fickle. Sure, she had the future queen of St. Michel on her side—she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality of Sophie’s new life—but Chandler was a businessman and he’d make decisions based on what he deemed good for business, as evidenced by the way he fired the former host when she didn’t live up to his expectations.

What if Lindsay couldn’t pull it off? Her job at Trevard Social Services wasn’t ideal, but she’d been there so long. It was comfortable—well, as comfortable as Mary Matthews allowed you to become. Lindsay’s salary, though not huge, was enough to make ends meet, and you couldn’t beat the government benefits.

Plus, she wouldn’t be able to give two weeks’ notice. Mary was certain to get her panties in a wad over that. She’d fussed over Lindsay taking time off for the wedding—even though Lindsay had more than enough accrued vacation.

No. Quitting on a whim just wasn’t practical.

Sheila’s number was one Lindsay wouldn’t need, except for possibly making a courtesy thanks-but-no-thanks call.

An awkward uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Carson Chandler hadn’t invited her to a party. So it wasn’t as if she needed to RSVP, but he’d offered her a good opportunity. And she was the only one they were seeing at the St. Michel audition. Surely they’d have to arrange a camera ahead of time. It was rude to not call and tell them she wouldn’t be there Monday.

The pang of missed opportunity pierced her, as she decided to call. If she’d learned one thing this month in St. Michel it was when in doubt, err on the polite side.

Lindsay pulled her cell phone out of the bag and switched it on. It had been off the entire week of the wedding when the battery had died, and she’d been too busy to worry about recharging it. She wasn’t expecting any calls.

This morning, she’d remembered it needed charging and plugged it in, an afterthought as she prepared to leave. But she’d only bothered to turn it on now. And what she saw made her flinch: thirteen missed calls had gone to voice mail. All from her boss Mary Matthews over the past two days, Lindsay discovered, as she flipped through the call log.

Undistilled dread coursed through her as if someone had uncorked a bottle of something bitter and upended it into her system. What did Mary want? What was so darned urgent it couldn’t wait until Lindsay was back in the office?

A multitude of possibilities sprang to mind, ranging from Mary wondering where she could find fresh file folders to her asking, “what’s the phone number of that little sandwich shop that delivers?”

To Mary Matthews, a paper clip could be urgent if she couldn’t put her fingers on one when she needed it.

Lindsay tapped a French manicured nail on the phone, debating whether to pick up the messages now or wait until tomorrow morning. When she was back on the clock.

After all, what could she do from this side of the Atlantic?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

But what if it truly was an emergency?

She struck the key that connected her to the voice mailbox.

The first message contained no greeting. No I’m-sorry-to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but niceties.

It simply consisted of two words: “Call me.”

After not hearing Mary’s voice for so long, it was both familiar and strange, grating and startling in Lindsay’s ear. It reminded her of how long she’d been away, and worse yet how she hadn’t even missed home.

Not once.

The second call was a bit more forceful: “Lindsay, did you receive my message? I need you to call me.”

Followed by: “Lindsay, this is the third time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls.”

Which was followed by: “Lindsay, I am furious. We agreed you could take a month off as long as you remained available to me. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Call me ASAP or—”

Lindsay clicked off the phone.

Call me ASAP or—or what?

How like Mary to call before Lindsay’s vacation was over, assuming it would be no bother, no imposition to drop what she was doing and serve her.

Mary’s voice had been adamant and crackling in that last call, like a live wire one wouldn’t dare cross. But it was that call, that self-righteous tone of voice that suddenly shocked some sense into Lindsay.

Like a bolt out of the blue…

Shining a bright, hot spotlight on her cold, pathetic life.

This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.

And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…

She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.

Chapter Three

Never before had Lindsay landed a job that fast. After placing the call on Sunday, she went in the following day for a test taping. Now, here she was on Tuesday morning, standing amidst a maze of white tents that an army of workers were busily erecting on the St. Michel Parc Fête green.

She’d called Ida May, who had graciously agreed to continue looking after the house. And with that squared away, she was the new host of Chandler Guide’s Diva Dishes. Rather than sitting behind the Trevard Social Services reception desk taking orders from Bloody Mary, she was on assignment at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival.

Oh. My. God.

She shuddered as a giddy sense of possibility seemed as if it might lift her off the ground.

In the distance a symphony of hammers and power tools rang out a determined song. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of lumber, freshly mowed grass and the odor of the hard work that was happening all around her.

Tomorrow the place would be filled with epicures and delectable aromas from the various booths and cooking shows and demonstrations, but today the place more closely resembled a construction site.

Lindsay watched in wonder, trying to imagine how they would pull it off and have everything ready in time. Or, more aptly, tried to imagine how she would be ready for her first show by tomorrow.

She’d seen several of the previous Diva spots that had aired last year with the former host whom, Chandler proclaimed, came across like a cold fish. He was depending on Lindsay to breathe new life into the show, to deliver an edgier, more provocative performance that would boost recognition and sales of Chandler Guides. They were going for a younger, hipper image. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, he wanted her to be the sand in the oyster that produced a pearl. How was she supposed to accomplish that? By simply being herself, Chandler said.

Herself?

Edgy? Provocative? Gritty?

Oh, boy.

Quite frankly, the thought made her head spin. It felt as if she were on a wild ride, hanging on for dear life. She didn’t dare loosen her grip or risk being flung out into the stratosphere. Only, for once in her life, she felt as if she just might be on a ride that would actually take her somewhere.

“There you are. Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Paula English, Diva Dishes segment producer, rushed into the press tent, talking as she scribbled notes on a clipboard. The woman elevated multitasking to a new level. “We can talk with a French vintner or a local cheese maker….”

As her words trailed off, Paula frowned and gnawed her bottom lip, continuing to write notes to herself.

“Those are two of the most boring ideas I can think of,” said cameraman Sam Gunn, who had trailed in behind Paula. Sam rounded out the three-member Diva Dishes team. It was a lean operation, and Paula pulled no punches upon their introduction when unsmiling, she sighed and said, “Oh goody. I get to train another new host.” Then she promptly informed Lindsay that each person, especially Lindsay, was expected to pull his or her weight.

“There’s no room for slacking and no time for learning curves,” she’d said. “You’ll have to hit the ground running if we’re going to make our deadline.”

Lindsay couldn’t tell if Paula’s brusqueness was simply business, or if it was passive-aggressive resentment toward the new girl.

Whatever. The vacation was over, and the pressure was on Lindsay to not only show Chandler he’d made the right choice in hiring her, but to prove to herself she hadn’t made a fatal error by quitting her job back in Trevard.

“So that’s all you’ve got?” Sam shook his head. “I hope to hell Lindsay is good at improvising because it’s going to take a genius to make something brilliant out of that.”

Improvised brilliance? A solid lump formed in Lindsay’s throat, then it dropped like a lead ball into the pit of her stomach. Improvising had never been her strong suit. She’d learned late in the game that it was one of the things she hated about news reporting. Improvising meant saying the wrong thing. Embarrassing herself. She thought she’d outgrow the fear with a little experience under her belt. Her career had never made it to that point.

Paula lifted her gaze from the page and glowered at Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

She didn’t call him a moron, but her tone implied it. The tension between them was nearly palpable.

Sam arched a brow. “Last time I checked, I was the cameraman and you were the producer.”

Sam gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink that implied he was choosing sides. While it was good to have an ally in Sam, she didn’t want the team to be divided. They had to work together or they’d go nowhere fast.

Paula tucked her pen behind her ear. “Quit heckling me and make yourselves useful.”

She nodded at Lindsay. “Come on, let’s go have a look around and see if we can come up with something better. Sam, you go scout locations.”

Unsmiling, Sam stared at Paula long enough to raise the possibility of a showdown. But then he broke the standoff.

“This is your show,” he said to Lindsay. “Don’t let her push you around.”

Paula frowned and looked as if she might spit nails. She hissed, “Meet back here at 5:30 p.m., Sam. We have a dinner meeting with Chandler.”

Then Paula muttered under her breath as he walked away. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s why you don’t sleep with your coworkers.”

Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “You and Sam?” The words fell out before she could stop them.

Paula turned her wary gaze on Lindsay and seemed to sum her up for a moment. Then, to Lindsay’s surprise, Paula nodded. “Yeah. It was sort of messy. We were the inspiration behind Chandler Guide’s Gunn-English policy.”

“What?” Why was Paula telling her this?

“The Gunn-English policy.” There was no warmth in her expression. “A no fraternizing policy.”

Was this Paula’s not-so-subtle way of saying hands off? Because it sure didn’t feel like girl talk.

“Ah, thanks for the heads up,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Sam.

No way. No how.

She’d been through that before—she and her ex-fiancé, Joe, had worked at the television station—he’d been an up-and-coming anchor. She’d been a general assignment reporter. Their problems started when she confided in him about the uncomfortable advances their boss, Gerard Webb, was making when they were alone. After all, if you can’t trust your fiancé, who can you trust?

But Joe shocked her by getting mad at her, saying “Don’t blow it out of proportion, Lindsay, and most important, don’t do anything stupid that will jeopardize our jobs.”

How could she not say anything? How could he not stand up for her? But when it all hit the fan, Joe proved whose side he was on. When she filed the complaint against Webb, Joe broke off their engagement, claiming she must have been leading Webb on, doing something to give him the wrong impression. In other words, she “must have asked for it.”

“There’s no sense in the two of us staying here,” Paula said. “I’m going to go talk to the festival coordinator. You stay here.” She gestured to a table full of literature on the far side of the tent. “See if you can find something better for the show in the press kits.”

Then without so much as a goodbye, Paula turned and walked away, leaving Lindsay on her own.

It was make-it-or-fall-flat-on-her-face time. Since the latter wasn’t an option, she had to get her rear in gear. The best place to start was to find a knockout idea for the first show, proving that she could pull her weight.

Dodging a team of men hauling a stack of boxes, she made her way to the publicity table. She scanned the various brochures, press kits and photos stacked neatly on the cloth-covered rectangular table. A familiar face snagged her gaze. Smiling up at her from a photo pasted on the cover of a blue folder was none other than Carlos Montigo.

Lindsay’s stomach performed an erratic somersault that drew a defensive hand to her belly.

With her free hand, she reached for the folder.

The press kit was printed on glossy paper. No expenses spared. Impressive. It had all the makings of a staged comeback.

Lindsay opened the folder and pulled out a bio, which gave the general who—Carlos Montigo; what—self-taught chef; when—he’d been cooking all his life; where—born in Madrid, raised in Paris, and subsequently made his mark after he moved to Miami; and why—because food was his passion, yada yada yada. But no mention of his hiatus.

Of course not.

Behind the bio was one of his signature recipes for beef bourguignonne and several eight-by-ten glossy black-and-whites: Montigo working in a restaurant kitchen; Montigo on the set of a cooking show; Montigo smiling warmly and toasting the camera with a glass of wine. Good photos of a gorgeous man—longish, glossy dark hair. Great bones that the camera loved. The trademark dark stubble on his jaw that made him look ruggedly handsome, but there was something about his crooked nose and the look in his eyes that promised danger. Good lord, the man made her squirm, and if there was one thing she couldn’t resist it was a man who made…a good subject for the third Diva Dishes segment.

Lindsay had been out of the television business for several years, but despite advances in technology, one truth remained: a good reporter did her research before an interview.

She had a lot to learn about Carlos Montigo, and what she learned this afternoon—without letting his sexy smile and rugged good looks cloud her judgment—would tell her whether she’d pitch the story to Carson, Paula and Sam.

Sure, The Diva Dishes wasn’t 60 Minutes, but her gut told her there was a story here, and she was bound and determined to have a meaty idea to present to them at five-thirty.

So, she went back to the hotel and booted up the MacBook Chandler had given her when she accepted the job.

Leaning back against a stack of pillows, she performed a Google search of Montigo’s name. One hundred fifty thousand matches came up.

The first listing was a Wikipedia entry. She clicked on it and the page opened, revealing a color photograph of Carlos that made her bite her bottom lip. Underneath the photo it said:

Carlos Montigo is a restaurateur and celebrity chef. The former owner of South Miami Beach’s Prima Bella Donna starred in one season of Food TV’s You Want A Piece of Me?

He was born in 1972 in Madrid, Spain and raised in Paris, France. He moved to Miami, Florida after meeting Donna Lewis and together, the two opened Prima Bella Donna. The couple divorced in 2006 citing irreconcilable differences. Lewis is now sole owner of the restaurant and has employed three different chefs in the two years since Montigo has been gone.

Montigo was the center of controversy when a reporter for the Miami Herald initially set out to write a story about Montigo’s refusal of a Michelin star and in the process discovered that the chef had lied about his credentials.

Following the exposé, Food TV terminated Montigo’s contract on the show You Want A Piece of Me.

Lindsay blinked. He lied? Why on earth would a man who was seemingly sitting on top of the world fake his credentials?

She scrolled down to a list of resources the author used for the story. She found a link to the Miami Herald story and clicked on it.

Miami Herald February 10, 2006

Celebrity Chef Spices Up Resume

Carlos Montigo, the celebrity chef/owner of Prima Bella Donna in South Beach, who rose to fame on the wings of the Food TV show You Want a Piece of Me has caught his pants-on-fire. It seems Montigo, 35, falsely positioned himself as a culinary hotshot with hoity-toity credentials. In response, Food TV executives have relieved him of the remainder of his contract. They will show reruns of the episodes that have already been taped.

According to Montigo’s biography on FoodTV.com the chef claimed to hold a diploma from the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu culinary arts school in Paris. Au contraire, say school officials. “Our records cannot substantiate a connection between Monsieur Montigo and the school. He did not earn a Grand Diplome from our institution and should cease and desist connecting himself to Le Cordon Bleu.”

Also, he maintained he was formerly a chef at the Élysée Palace in Paris, the official residence of the French president. That assertion also was proven to be a lie.

Montigo and his representatives did not return phone calls before the publication of this article.

It was like reading about a train wreck. What would possess him to do that? How did he think he could get away with falsifying his background? When you’re in the public eye, you’re begging people to ask questions and snoop around. Well, that’s exactly what she’d ask him tomorrow when they met.

Her conscience protested.

It would be awkward digging up the past, rehashing things he probably wanted to put behind him—asking the tough questions was another aspect she’d found difficult about journalism.

She stared at the black-and-white photo of Carlos on the screen, a shot of Carlos in a leather jacket and a tough look on his handsome face, a publicity shot for You Want A Piece of Me.

But surely if he was promoting himself at the festival he had to know that media would ask questions.

She’d have to. It was her job—especially since Chandler wanted edgy.

Well, as edgy as you could get in a three-minute spot.

She searched some more and viewed Carlos’s Web site, which was all about pitching his new cookbook—published by Lone Wolf Press.

Hmm…never heard of that house.

It also had recipes and a bio that didn’t reveal anything new. It only mentioned his brief relationship with Food TV and his old stomping ground, Prima Bella Donna, in passing.

Nothing about the controversy.

The Food TV site was even less revealing. There was no mention of Carlos Montigo. It was as if he’d never existed in their realm.

She searched hundreds of articles that appeared in her Google search, but they were simply rehashings of the Herald article and didn’t offer anything new.

Until she clicked on one that showed Carlos and a attractive brunette toasting each other on a Mediterranean-styled terrace with a gorgeous water view behind them.

The title of the article, which was presumably written before all hell broke loose, was The Chef and His Prima Donna.

Lindsay skimmed it, wanting to know more about this woman who, according to the article, was no wallflower, and what caused their irreconcilable differences.

They looked so happy in the photo.

According to the article, equal parts of Carlos’s cooking and her charm were responsible for growing their Prima Bella Donna into the toast of the South Beach restaurant scene.

So this was his ex.

Lindsay studied her pretty face and the way Carlos was smiling at her. It reminded her of the way that Luc looked at Sophie.

But no! That was completely different.

Sophie and Luc were happy.

Carlos and Donna were…divorced.

Does love ever last?

How do you go from looking at each other as though the sun rose and set in your love’s eyes to being…irreconcilable?

She blinked away the thought. She had just opened a word processing program on her computer and began to write notes and interview questions when her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Lindsay? It’s Sophie. How are you?”

Thrilled at the sound of her friend’s voice, Lindsay sat up. She set the laptop aside and swung her feet over the side of the bed.

“Sophie, hi! It’s so good to hear your voice, but why on earth are you calling me? You’re on your honeymoon.”

Sophie laughed. “Are you kidding? Do you think I could wait another two weeks to see how your meeting with Carson went? Besides, Luc went down to consult with the concierge about a trip we want to take tomorrow. So I have a few minutes. Tell me how it went.”

For a split second, Lindsay considered playing a joke on Sophie—like they used to kid each other when they worked together—she thought about saying she’d gone home without talking to Chandler…or better yet, that Chandler said, “Thanks, but no, thanks.” But she didn’t have the heart. Not when her friend had been so good to give her this opportunity, and she didn’t want to waste the precious little time they had to talk playing a prank.

“He offered me the job.”

Sophie squealed. “And?”

“And we start shooting tomorrow at the St. Michel Food and Wine festival. In fact, I was working on my interview questions. Oh, Sophie, I don’t know how I will ever repay you for this.”

“You can repay me by knocking the socks off Chandler…and your admiring public.”

“No pressure, huh? Couldn’t I just take you to lunch the next time I see you?”

They both laughed.

“Lunch would be good. Could we set a date for a return visit now?”

Lindsay sighed. “I wish we could, but with work, I don’t know when I’ll be able to make it back to St. Michel.”

“Oh, Linds, I’m so happy for you. Not to bring up a sore subject, but how did Mary take it? I’ll bet she had a fit.”

Lindsay sighed. “That’s putting it mildly. I thought she was going to reach through the phone and strangle me. I’ve never quit a job without giving at least two weeks’ notice.”

Lindsay cringed at the thought.

“Right, but she should understand you’re not just ditching her. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I hope so because if not, I’ve just blown years of my life because Mary informed me she won’t give me a good reference—no way, no how.”

“Well, you won’t need one. Despite my prodding, Carson wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t see something special in you, Linds.”

“Here’s my idea.” Lindsay took a deep breath and placed Carlos Montigo’s press kit on the restaurant table in front of Carson Chandler. She, Paula and Sam were having dinner with Carson to firm up their game plan for the first show.

They still hadn’t ironed out the focus of the show. When they met back at the press tent, Lindsay, giddy with possibility, had spouted her idea. Even though she’d anticipated Paula being a hard sell, Lindsay had no idea that woman would be so disagreeable and dead set on her wine and goat cheese man.

It was clear that Paula was turning the show content into a competition when she grabbed the first opportunity to present her idea to Chandler—before they’d even been seated at the restaurant.

Chandler had nodded politely, and asked as they walked to the table, “But where’s the edginess in wine and goat cheese, Paula? Remember, we’re making the jump from run-of-the-mill to edgy and provocative.”

When Paula didn’t reply, Lindsay decided it was time for her pitch. She took a deep breath and twisted her hands into the napkin on her lap.

“Do you remember that Food TV chef, Carlos Montigo?” Lindsay asked. “The one who got the boot because he lied about his credentials? Well, he’s here at the festival and it looks like he’s staging a comeback.”

Paula grimaced as she opened the menu. “Why would you want to give him free press?”

“It’s not free press,” Lindsay said. “It’s a chance to give Carson the type of story he wants. Something with an edge.”

Lindsay glanced at Chandler to gauge his response, but he was staring at the menu. She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. If he had, he didn’t look enthused.

Over the menu, Paula regarded Lindsay with arched brows and a smug smirk that gave her pessimistic mouth an ironic upturn. No backing there—no surprise. So, Lindsay looked to Sam for support, but he was busy buttering a dinner roll. For a moment, an awkward silence enveloped them.

Okay.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of herbed bread baking in a wood-burning oven. The enticing scent of rosemary and thyme filled the restaurant and fueled her courage. Giving the napkin one last twist, Lindsay decided it was time for the new girl to prove her mettle.

“In all my research, I couldn’t find anything telling his side of the story,” Lindsay said. “This is a chance to ask him why he lied and to hear about his future plans.”

Paula closed her menu and shook her head, as if Lindsay had proposed a feature on The Wiggles or something else laughably inappropriate and ridiculous.

“Who cares?” Paula choked on an incredulous laugh, then pursed her lips as if stifling the urge to guffaw. She looked at Chandler as if she expected him to have the same reaction.

“Who cares?” Lindsay countered. “A lot of people would find the story interesting.”

“Maybe we can catch up with him for another episode,” Paula dismissed. “Since we’re in St. Michel, we’ll go with the wine and goat cheese theme.”

Chandler held up his hand. “Not so fast, Paula. You haven’t made a case for your goat man.”

Paula laughed again, as if she expected Chandler to join in on the joke. But his serious expression warned otherwise.

“I think Lindsay is onto something with the Montigo story,” he said. “Let’s move forward with it.”

Chapter Four

Carlos’s role in the food and wine fest was three-fold and simple: He’d host a one-hour, audience-interactive cooking demonstration; join five chefs in presenting a charity fundraiser “celebrity chef” dinner; and sign books at a launch party celebrating the release of his new cookbook, Carlos in the Kitchen.

The launch party, sponsored by the publisher, Lone Wolf Press, was his last event in the lineup. And, by all accounts, the most important to him.

There was a lot riding on this book.

As the taxi stopped in front of the Hotel St. Michel, Carlos tucked a copy of the new cookbook under his arm.

No one need know that Carlos and Max were the driving force behind Lone Wolf. It wasn’t ideal to self-publish and throw a party for himself. But his former publisher had dropped him and these days corporate sponsors were hard to come by.

The way he and Max had sheltered the publishing house, no one need be the wiser. Right now, that was the last thing on his mind. Things were off to a great start. Max, who deserved a huge bonus once they got on their feet, had secured an interview with the new host of The Diva Dishes. That interview was the reason he’d rushed back to the hotel.

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