Loe raamatut: «Getting It Now!»
“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
MILLS & BOON
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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.”
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
