LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

      Carrie didn’t know what was more intimidating—the idea that she’d start this week-long session with Philip or the notion of purposely seeking him out this weekend to make plans for a special she knew he’d been coerced into doing. Her stomach rolled.

      Oh, joy.

      “You’re both professionals. We don’t anticipate any problems.”

      Lucky them, because she sure as hell did. Just because he’d agreed to do the session didn’t mean that he was “on board.” It merely meant that after months of harassing him and threatening him with God knows what, he’d merely stopped resisting.

      Joyce scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Here’s Philip’s number. If you don’t hear from him by noon tomorrow, er…go ahead and give him a call, would you?” She did a perky little nod that was in no way encouraging.

      Meaning, he’s not going to call you, Carrie thought, feeling the first prickling of irritation along her nerves. “Joyce, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, he obviously doesn’t want to—”

      “It’ll be fine,” Joyce assured her, propelling her off set. “Philip’s a good guy. He just likes doing things his own way. Rumor has it he did a similar special with the BBC and it ended badly. This isn’t going to end badly. It’s a one-week segment to jazz summer ratings. There’s no ulterior motive here. Once Philip sees that, he’ll be fine.”

      Now, that was an interesting little tidbit, Carrie thought. She hadn’t been privy to that rumor, though she did remember seeing Philip paired up with a busty brunette in some of the reruns she’d run across on one of the British

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