Though she’d had serious reservations, she’d agreed to be their Negligee Gourmet, but she’d had no intention of compromising on the food. That was a hill she’d been prepared to die on and, thanks to the agent Tate Hatcher—Zora’s husband—had recommended, she’d ultimately gotten her way.
Carrie briefly entertained the idea of contacting her agent about this and seeing if perhaps she could do anything. Nancy Rutherford was a rottweiler in toy poodle’s clothing. On the surface she was delicate and sweet, but when it came time to negotiate she could tear up a contract with the best of them.
Regardless, it was a little late in the game to object now, particularly when she’d already given her consent. If she bailed now, she’d only make herself look bad and, unlike Philip, she had less experience in the business and therefore more to lose. If she had any prayer of at some point hosting a show in something more than a half-yard of fabric she couldn’t afford to risk a reputation of being difficult to work with.
Carrie braided her hair and secured it with a band. Better to make the best of it and move on. She’d endured four years with Martin. Surely to God she could handle one week with Philip Mallory. She stuffed the breakdowns into her purse and her lips formed a ghost of a smile.
If nothing else, he was easier to look at.
In perfect punctuation of that thought, she pulled open her dressing-room door and drew up short at the sight of Philip’s startled look.
Carrie blinked, stunned. Her entire body tingled from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Her breath disturbingly vanished from her lungs and her heart threatened to gallop right out of her chest. You know, she’d realized he was tall, but she’d never truly appreciated just how tall he really was until he was standing less than two feet from her.
He cocked his head and a tentative smile caught the corner of his sexy mouth. “Er…sorry. I was look ing for Carrie Robbins.”
Oh, now this was fun, Carrie thought, struggling to bring her unruly body back under control. He didn’t recognize her without the makeup. She man aged a grin. “You’ve found her.”
His eyes widened and a gratifying blush stained his cheeks. “I—” He paused, seemingly at a loss, and looked her up and down. “Sorry. I, uh…I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m wearing clothes,” Carrie replied dryly. “It tends to throw people.”
“Quite right,” he said distractedly. “I’m sure I would have recognized your breasts.”
Carrie made a little choking noise, something between a gasp and a chuckle. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
“Bugger,” Philip swore. “Did I say that aloud? I said that aloud, didn’t I? Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I’m Philip Mallory, by the way.”
Trying very hard not to be charmed by the whole distractedly adorable British shtick, Carrie smiled. “I know who you are.”
“Oh, good. Then we’re both on the same page.”
His gaze lingered over her face once more, still seemingly shocked to discover that she looked nor mal beneath the paint. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “I assume your producer has mentioned the Summer Sizzling special to you?”
“She has. Just a few minutes ago, in fact.”
“Excellent. And you got the breakdowns?”
She nodded. “I did.”
“Jerry mentioned that we should get together over the weekend. Is there any particular time that would work best for you?”
So he’d had the balls to seek her out and was deferring to her schedule as well? For someone who’d been dead set against the idea, he was certainly com ing around swiftly enough. Almost too swiftly, Carrie thought suspiciously.
“I’m free tomorrow night if that’ll work for you,” she said, pettily hoping to ruin any dating plans he might have had.
Philip nodded without hesitation. “That’s fine. Perhaps a working dinner, then?”
“Sure. Mama Mojo’s, sixish?”
“That suits me.” He paused, pushed a hand through his hair, shot her another curious look. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll, er…See you tomorrow night.”
“Right,” Carrie said, totally unnerved by the unexpected, bizarre encounter as she watched him walk away. Her gaze lingered over those loose dark auburn curls at the nape of his neck, the broad scope of shoulders, followed his spine, then settled predictably on his ass.
Encased in a pair of worn denim jeans which were loose enough for comfort, but tight enough to give her imagination a break, he looked sexy as hell. She mentally removed the jeans and entertained the truffle oil fantasy again. Warmth burned the tops of her thighs and a thin breath seeped past her curiously dry lips.
Oh, hell, she thought with a resigned sigh. Time to buy those combat boots. Or, judging by her exaggerated reaction to him, maybe full body armor was more in order.
2
I WOULD HAVE RECOGNIZED your breasts? Philip thought, cheeks burning with uncustomary heat as he made his way to his car. In other words, he’d spent so much time looking at her breasts that he didn’t recognize her face?
What a freaking nightmare.
She had to think he was a lecherous idiot.
Things had definitely not gone according to plan, that was for damned sure, he thought with a grunt of disgust. Within minutes of Rupert making the call to let the execs know he was on board, he’d gotten a relieved call from Jerry. Things would be fine. Just a special to boost summer ratings. There was no plan to hijack his show or permanently pair him up with Carrie. No worries. Seriously. Thanks for being a team player.
Mostly the same spiel they’d given Rupert, but something about it coming from Jerry made him feel marginally better about the whole thing. He’d certainly never gotten any such assurance from his previous producer, that was for damned sure. But that didn’t mean he planned to let his guard down, though. It just meant that, for the time being, everything appeared kosher.
Furthermore, though he’d come on board, it was obvious that they didn’t expect his complete cooperation. Jerry had offered to courier the breakdowns in order to save Philip a trip back down to the studio—save him all of thirty minutes—then had gone on to say that he and Carrie would need to get together over the weekend to familiarize themselves with the new format, but that she’d contact him. Not to put himself out.
The rumor of his unwillingness to commit to the special had been buzzing around the network for months—she had to know that he didn’t want to do it. Most likely she’d heard why, too, so he had no intention of apologizing for it. He’d watched her often enough to know that she was smart—she could put the pieces together. But what she didn’t know was that if this had to happen, he was going to be in charge.
Meaning he intended to run the show.
So there’d been none of this she’ll-get-in-touch-with-you crap. He’d planned to make the
