LITMIR.BIZ

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“I mean, is it possible?”

      Carrie cocked her head and smiled sadly. “I guess it has to be.”

      “This is outrageous,” Zora said. “Did you call Nancy?”

      “There’s no point,” Carrie told her. “I agreed to it months ago.”

      She frowned, cocked her head and a lock of red hair slid from behind her ear. “But I don’t understand. What’s been the hold up? Why are you just getting started now?”

      Carrie’s lips quirked with bitter humor. “My future cohost has been the holdout. I don’t know whether he takes exception to me or my show, but suffice it to say he’s been vehemently opposed to doing the special with me.”

      “Sounds like an uninformed bastard,” Frankie said, gratifyingly annoyed on Carrie’s behalf.

      April paused consideringly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I watch his show. I wouldn’t have expected this out of him.”

      Her either, Carrie thought, heartened by the fact that she hadn’t been the only one who’d misjudged his character. She shared the rumor she’d gotten from Joyce this afternoon regarding the special gone bad with the BBC.

      “Now that makes more sense,” Zora said. “You’re smart, funny and beautiful and, more importantly, you are damned fine at what you do. If he has a problem hosting a show with you, I really find it hard to believe that it’s personal. I’d be willing to bet he’s got his own reasons and they have nothing to do with you.”

      She hoped Zora was right. It would certainly make the next week easier to get through, that was for sure. At any rate, she knew that a small part of it was personal. When she’d called Joyce this afternoon to confirm the rendezvous with Philip, her producer had shared another interesting tidbit.

      Carrie felt a smile tug at her lips. “I do know that he’s asked the producers if we can tone down the ‘centerfold’ image while we’re working together.”

      Frankie chuckled. “Probably afraid he’ll inadvertently close his pecker in the oven.” She nodded and those dark brown eyes flickered with intelligence.

      “Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. Mr.

      Stuffy Brit obviously has the hots for you.”

      Carrie’s heart did an odd little flutter. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

      April and Zora shared a look. “I don’t know, Carrie,” April said. “That’s a pretty telling request.

      Clearly he’s worried about staying focused.”

      Carrie took a sip of her drink and shifted in her seat. “I think he’s more worried about tainting him self with my lesser moral standards.”

      Frankie let go an exasperated sigh. “For the last time, Carrie, you have not sold out! I know you’ll be happier when you can negotiate a better deal—”

      “You mean when I can wear clothes,” she said.

      “—but in the meantime, you’re just upping your value. You’ve got a helluva following.”

      “But will they follow me when I’m not painted up like a streetwalker?” she asked quietly. Carrie admitted another niggling fear. “I, uh…” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I think that instead of upping my value, I may have marketed myself right out of a normal hosting position. You know what they say,” she said, pulling a shrug. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. When it comes time to renew my contract, what’s going to make them let me have my way? What’s going to motivate them?”

      “Your talent,” Zora said simply. “Because at the heart of your show, that’s what it’s all about.” She smiled softly. “We watch you, Carrie. You’re passionate about what you do and you’re good at it. Granted some viewers might be watching to see if your boobs fall out of your nightie, but the majority of your audience simply enjoys spending a half hour with you.”

      Carefully hopeful, Carrie sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

      Zora nodded imperiously. “I know I am. Just wait and see.”

      Frankie smiled wickedly. “In the meantime, I think you need to torture him. He wants you to wear something different—fine,” she said with a devious nod. “If I were you, I’d wear less.”

      Carrie chuckled. “I don’t know that it’s possible.”

      “Oh, it is,” April said, getting into the spirit of Frankie’s revenge. “Frankie’s right. He’s held out and hurt your feelings—”

      Startled, Carrie looked up. “No, he—”

      “Yes, he has and there’s no point in denying it. You’ve watched him for years. I’ve heard you talk about him before, and when this thing at Let’s Cook, New Orleans! came through, you couldn’t wait to meet him.”

      All true, Carrie knew.

      “Furthermore,” Frankie chimed in, “we all know that you’ve had a crush on him.”

      Carrie started to deny it, but a firm look from Frankie made her change her mind.

      “You have,” she insisted. “You, my dear friend, have been presented with a perfect opportunity. One week, a hot co-host who needs an attitude adjustment, and the opportunity to start cooking with something other than gas.”

      Carrie couldn’t help it, she chuckled and shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

      “And you haven’t been laid in months.”

      Closer to a year, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Between the hours she’d worked for Martin, then starting the new show, things had been too crazy to pursue romance of any kind. But a relationship with Philip? When she suspected what he thought of her?

      Not no, but hell no.

      Zora studied her carefully. “Even if you’re not in the market for romance, I think a little calculated retribution is in order.” She cocked her head and smiled. “And now that you know his weakness…Well,” she said. “It’s up to you, of course.”

      Carrie merely smiled. She wasn’t so much worried about his weaknesses as her own. It would be heartily embarrassing to set out to teach him a lesson and end up not making the grade herself.

      Or worse, God forbid, falling for him.

      3

      AT PRECISELY FOUR MINUTES after six, Philip covertly watched Carrie weave her way through the throng of tables to the one he’d been shown to in the back. Though she appeared completely oblivious to the attention her entrance garnered, he knew she couldn’t be. Heads turned as she walked past. Flickering looks of interest from men—envy from women—followed her as she cut a path through the crowded restaurant.

      How did she stand it? Philip wondered absently. That constant attention? It had to be bloody nerve-racking.

      Wearing a cool pale yellow sheath dress, long hair hanging like a silvery-blonde curtain down her back, and a pair of strappy sandals on her feet, Carrie looked classically gorgeous. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup—in fact, the tip of her nose had that squeaky clean glow—odd that he should find that adorable—and other than being naturally sexy, no traces of her Negligee persona were evident.

      Once again he was struck by the difference. The change was unbelievably dramatic, the perfectly rare combination of wholesome and sexy. For reasons he couldn’t explain, his breath quickened, his palms grew clammy and a line of gooseflesh raced up his back. He’d experienced these unwanted symptoms before when he’d watched her show, but seeing her in the flesh compounded them significantly.

      He stood—to his chagrin, somewhat shakily—when she neared their table. “Is this spot all right?” he asked. “It was the closest thing to private available.”

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