Читать книгу Getting It Now! - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 7

ONLY THE FOUNDING MEMBERS of Chicks in Charge wouldn’t think anything about hosting a baby shower at a bar, Carrie Robbins thought with a small smile as she watched her friend open yet another gift. Colored pacifiers floated in margarita glasses—the mom-to-be’s a virgin margarita, of course—and baby bottles doubled as candle holders, illuminating New Orleans’ Blue Monkey Pub with a properly festive glow.

Though hardly conventional, they’d rented the pub for the night and the small party was an unequivocal success. She popped a petit-four into her mouth and swallowed a sigh of satisfaction as the sugary pastry melted on her tongue.

And the food wasn’t half bad either, Carrie thought with a slightly smug grin.

“You’ve outdone yourself, darling,” Frankie said, polishing off another helping of blueberry bread pudding, one of Carrie’s signature dishes. “Let me pay you for the food.”

“Absolutely not.” One of the only perks to parading half-naked around the set of The Negligee Gourmet was the paycheck. She’d made a decent living prior to joining the lineup at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!, but the added cash and security she’d garnered through the slight change in profession had certainly had its advantages. Being able to cater Zora’s baby shower without sparing any expense was certainly one of them. Moving out of an apartment and into a house was another.

“Are you sure?” Frankie persisted. “I don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Carrie told her. She cocked her head, flashed an impish smile. “Cooking in the buff pays well.”

Frankie chuckled softly. “Stop belittling. You aren’t in the buff.” She frowned, evidently searching for a kinder description. “You’re merely…scantily clad.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “And painted and teased up like a porn queen,” she added dryly. She hadn’t counted on that part when she’d signed on with the network, otherwise she might have reconsidered…but she doubted it.

Frankie made a moue of understanding. “I do wish they’d lay off the makeup and the eighties hairstyle. You’re gorgeous without all of that.”

Her lips curled with droll humor. “I’ll be sure and pass your suggestions along.”

Not that they’d be heeded. None of hers certainly had. Evidently the male demographic liked sophisticated meals prepared by trashy-looking women. Red lipstick, electric-blue eye-shadow, false eyelashes and big-ass hair seemed to be the perfect combination. Carrie snorted. It invariably took her half an hour to remove the paint and get the various gels, sprays and tangles out of her hair.

Other than the regular trim to remove dead-ends, Carrie didn’t have what one could call a hair regimen. She washed, she dried, she brushed. Occasionally she’d braid, but that was the extent of her hair concerns.

As for makeup, she didn’t like the feel of it against her skin—too sticky—and other than a sheer gloss on her lips and the rare swipe of a mascara wand upon her lashes, she didn’t fool with it. Sitting for a full hour and a half while the hair and makeup people on set painted and poofed her was an excruciating waste of time.

But her friends had been right—it was definitely preferable to working for Martin. Calmly giving that sanctimonious, controlling, petty, ball-less bastard her two-week notice had been, unquestionably, one of the high points in her life.

Had his restaurant not enjoyed world-renowned success, she would have never tolerated his maniacal abuse for as long as she had. But despite his notoriously bad temper, or perhaps as a result of it, Chez Martin’s had been the best game in town and she would have been foolish to quit before something better had come along.

Thankfully it had, and she’d happily quit. Martin had gaped like an out-of-water guppy for a full ten seconds before he’d exploded in anger. After everything he’d done for her? How dare she?

Ha.

Other than joyously giving her a hard time for the past several years, she’d like to know just what it was in particular he thought that he’d done for her. Was she supposed to be thankful for the constant criticism? The unpaid overtime? The snide comments about her looks?

Supposedly beautiful people were given preferential treatment in today’s society, but all Carrie had ever gotten for her so-called “blessing” was grief, and any time she’d ever shared that—usually in her own defense—she’d been given the whole mockingly snide poor-little-pretty-girl spiel. Not from her real friends, of course. They knew her better.

Still…being attractive wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Men habitually hit on her, underestimated her, and assumed that being pretty somehow made her stupid. Women tended to dislike her on sight, were threatened by her. She had the same insecurities and hang-ups as anyone else. To think that she somehow had it easier simply because of the way she looked was retarded. Hell, everyone had problems.

Furthermore, Carrie had technically been on both sides of the fence. As a child she’d been plagued with a weight problem. Growing up all over the globe with her traveling doctor parents had made it somewhat tolerable—frankly, in her experience people of other cultures were less inclined to make fun of her—but the first time she’d set foot in a U.S. public school, in the latter part of her junior year of high school, had been a different matter altogether.

She’d been taunted, teased and ridiculed until the idea of carrying one extra pound on her frame had been intolerable. She’d gone on a strict diet, had started an exercise regimen, and by the time she’d entered her senior year, she’d shed more than fifty pounds.

Then the “pretty” problems started. She couldn’t win for losing.

At any rate, Carrie knew she was healthier and, learning to take control of her food instead of being ruled by it had led to a love of cooking which had steered her into her chosen career path. Who knew who or what she might have been otherwise?

It was ironic really, Carrie thought, idly sipping her drink. Her entire adult life she’d wanted to be taken seriously as a chef. Out of the limelight, in the kitchen—the back of the house, as those in her profession liked to say—letting her food speak for itself, and yet here she was capitalizing on the very thing that she’d always tried to avoid—her looks.

The show had been a huge success, the powers that be were ecstatic. Furthermore, though they’d primarily been targeting the male demographic, recent polls indicated that she was doing well with the female viewers as well. By all accounts, everything about it had been a resounding coup…and if she murmured one word of discontent she’d be that “poor little pretty girl” again, only this time they could add “famous” into the mix. Carrie sighed.

In truth, she didn’t give a damn about either—she just wanted to cook.

April Wilson-Hayes slid onto a barstool next to her and gestured to the enormous pile of gifts accumulating on the table beside Zora. “Good thing Frankie made sure the guys were here, otherwise we’d have a hell of time getting all of this stuff loaded into Zora’s car.”

Another perk to hosting the shower in the bar. Carrie’s gaze slid to one of the pool tables on the other side of the room. Ben, Ross and Tate—the proud papa—were currently engrossed in one of many informal tournaments. Though Ben was the newcomer—Ross and Tate had been friends for years—he’d been easily welcomed into the fold. Evidently being married to a CHiC founding member formed an instant commiserating bond of friendship between them.

Carrie could still remember the first time April had brought Ben to one of their weekly get-togethers. Once the pleasantries were over and the first round was finished, Tate and Ross had smoothly summoned Ben aside, presumably to give him a few lessons regarding the care and feeding of a Chick In Charge. Carrie felt a smile tease her lips.

“They’re good for lifting heavy objects,” Carrie conceded.

And in her opinion, that was about it.

Aside from one serious but soured relationship she’d had in culinary school, she’d yet to find a guy who was genuinely interested in anything beyond her immediate packaging.

Admittedly being the last CHiC without a rooster—Frankie’s nickname for the guys—seemed a little odd and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t envious—hell, who didn’t want to be loved?—but until she found the right one—one who would want to look beyond the surface, who wouldn’t be intimidated by her skill and shared some of the same interests—she wasn’t settling. Life was too short and despite wishing she could host her show fully clothed, she was too content to settle for anything less than the best.

Her parents had provided an excellent example—forty years, a few bumps, yet their commitment to each other had never wavered. That’s what she wanted, Carrie thought. A love that would endure. They were presently in Africa—along with her younger brother who had also joined the organization—but Carrie couldn’t begrudge them their calling. So long as there was a place in the world with little to no medical service, she knew her only sibling and parents would be there.

“Still enjoying the house?” April asked.

“Oh, God yes,” Carrie told her. April’s husband Ben had been looking for a buyer for his house around the same time she’d inked her Negligee contract and she’d wanted out of her claustrophobic apartment and into a home with a roomy kitchen.

The stars had aligned perfectly in her favor and to say that she’d fallen in love with the classic Georgian mansion was a vast understatement. It was a little big for one person, but she’d filled it with a collection of antiques and mementoes which had quickly morphed it into her home.

As with most women who are in the market for a house, the kitchen had been the key selling point. De spite all the fancy crown molding and pocket doors, the kitchen remained her favorite room.

“Great,” she said with a happy now. “What about work?” April wanted to know. “Any news on that special yet?”

Carrie tensed and shook her head. The special in question was the network’s way of capitalizing on their hottest stars and low summer ratings. They’d decided to pair their Negligee Gourmet up with Britain’s handsome answer to Emeril Lagasse—Philip Mallory.

A soft sigh stuttered out of her lungs. Unfortunately she couldn’t think his name without summon ing the image and…mercy. Thick, wavy dark-auburn hair, pale gray eyes—liquid silver, she thought—and a six and half foot athletic frame that put a woman in mind of crisp white sheets, a dark stormy night and warmed truffle oil. Excellent bone structure, a crooked, boyishly sexy smile and that biting British wit made him one of the most compelling men she’d ever shared air with.

Unfortunately, it was quite obvious that he didn’t enjoy sharing air with her.

Carrie didn’t know if he’d merely taken an instant dislike to her, or if it was her show that he held in such distain. Given the slight sneer his otherwise beautiful lips usually formed when he saw her and the blatant disregard he generally treated her to the very rare occasions their paths crossed, she imagined it was a little bit of both.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t have given a damn—she’d developed a pretty thick skin over the years and 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.