being psychoanalyzed while my head chef sits in the break room right as the lunch rush is wrapping up.”
“No?” Tim took another slug of coffee. “Well, I’m a perfectionist, you know. And I don’t think I can work until I’m sure you aren’t making a mess out of your life.”
Ken pinched the bridge of his nose, half in irritation and half in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, but my life is fine. I’m not holed up in some dark room pining away for Lisa. I hardly think about her—”
Tim snorted.
“—except for this time of year. And I am dating.”
“You’re not seeing anyone seriously.”
“Neither are you.”
“We’re not—”
“Talking about you. I know. But maybe we should.”
“It’s only been a year,” Tim said. “And it’s not like I have a ton of free time.”
“Touché.”
Tim sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “All right. You win. But just tell me one thing.” He looked Ken in the eye and waited for his nod. “You doin’ okay?”
“Sure,” Ken said, not sure if it was the truth or a lie. “I’m absolutely fine.”
ALICIA DUNCAN hated to fail. Particularly when the failure was known, as was this most recent setback. Now she sat perfectly straight in front of the mirror as her producer poured out his litany of complaints. A ponytailed bimbette fussed near her, supposedly fixing Alicia’s makeup, but clearly eavesdropping.
Well, wasn’t that just great? The bimbette would probably run to the phone the second Alicia left, and soon enough the gossip would be everywhere—Alicia was on the outs with her producer because she couldn’t land a piddly-ass little story about restaurant mogul Ken Harper. What made the defeat even more grating was that she and Ken had actually dated last summer, but he still wouldn’t do her this one favor.
She closed her eyes and pressed a finger to her temple. She’d won two Emmys, for crying out loud. She really didn’t need this garbage.
“Have you even heard a word I’ve said?” Gavin’s irritated voice filtered through her thoughts, and she looked up, the reflection of her eyes meeting his in the lighted mirror.
“I don’t need to hear your every word, sweetie. I got your point twenty minutes ago when you first opened your mouth.” The bimbette dabbed her forehead with a powder puff, and Alicia jerked forward, glaring. “You. Out. Now.”
The girl backed away, her eyes wide, her teeth digging into her lower lip.
“And if you say a word about this to anyone, it’ll be your job.” She flashed her most charming smile, the one that had gotten her an anchor slot on a network affiliate. “Understand?”
The girl nodded, then escaped out the door. Alicia took a deep breath, then spun her chair around to face Gavin.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You certainly have a way with people.”
“Don’t give me any crap. I’m in a bad mood, and you’re on my list.” She had better things to do than to sit and listen to Gavin complain about how she hadn’t managed to land a story. Especially since this story, about the fifth anniversary of Oxygen, was such an uninteresting fluff piece. Ken had flat-out refused her offer to have him and his chef on the program. A little banter, a little cooking demonstration. Lightweight stuff, and great publicity for him.
“So why’d he say no?”
“How the hell should I know?” His refusal had totally pissed her off, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Gavin. Instead, she just squinted toward the mirror then ran her finger under her lip, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick. “He’s an idiot?”
“I don’t think so. The man clawed his way up from nothing to become the hottest restaurateur in Southern California. I suspect at least a modicum of savvy, if not downright intelligence.”
She bit back a snarl, not interested in analyzing Ken Harper. “Who cares? He doesn’t want to do it. End of story.”
“Is it?”
She twisted around to look him in the eye. “Why are you so intent on going after Ken Harper?”
Gavin shook his head. “I’m not. I’m intent on going after a story. Harper’s been the unchallenged king of cuisine for years, yet no one’s ever managed to get him to consent to an interview inside his restaurant. We manage that, we get ratings. We get ratings, you get a better slot.” He held his hands out to his side. “I’m only thinking of you, babe.”
“It’s only worth pursuing if there’s a story, Gavin. The man’s as dull as dishwater.” A lie, especially if they were talking about in bed. But she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment.
“Or maybe you didn’t want to return to the place of your former defeat.”
That was another reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don’t be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn’t even in my league.”
“So what’s stopping you from doing the story?”
“There is no story.”
“Are you sure?”
Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damn good to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper’s dirty laundry.
“Or maybe you do think it’s out of your league?”
“Not hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”
2
THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.
Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.
Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”
