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