“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 first move, set the tone for the next of week. He would lead, she would follow, and either she could fall in line and do things the way he wanted to, or she’d be miserable. It was as simple as that. A hard-assed approach, but it was better than losing his show.
Again.
Unfortunately, he’d lost the upper hand the instant she’d opened her dressing-room door and everything had gone depressingly downhill from there. He’d been struck dumb and mesmerized and, as bizarre as it seemed, he’d gotten the strangest inkling that he’d met her before, a sense of knowing her that didn’t—couldn’t—exist. No doubt a result of watching her show, Philip thought absently.
Furthermore, as unbelievable as it was, he’d never seen her out of her Negligee costume. In keeping with her show’s concept, she was always tramped up like a centerfold. Big hair, little outfits, lots of makeup. A wet dream come to life. Every man’s fantasy.
Unequivocally hot.
So who would have ever thought that she’d be even more beautiful out of costume? That those indigo eyes which sparkled amid false lashes and mascara would be all the more clear and gorgeous without them? Like sugared violets, Philip thought, then drew up short and snorted.
Christ, he was turning into a bloody poet.
The long and short of it was, she was the most spectacularly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Delicate bone structure, a flawless cameo complexion, plump kissable lips and long straight hair the color of moonbeams. No doubt other men had rhapsodized her angelic appearance—and admittedly she had an ethereal look—but Philip couldn’t imagine anything on the other side of heaven any more gorgeous than her.
Carrie was…indescribably appealing. Fascinatingly sensual, he thought broodingly.
Furthermore, he’d detected a depth of character that he imagined many men missed. She was smart, quick and funny. Factor in sexy, gorgeous and talented and she became positively lethal.
But she wouldn’t be lethal for him, dammit, despite evidence to the contrary. Namely their first encounter.
Philip had planned on citing the time and place for their working dinner, but had been knocked off his game the instant she opened the door. He chuckled darkly. And only by the grace of God had he not been knocked on his ass.
He couldn’t afford for that to happen again.
From here on out he was going to be Mr. Professional. In charge and on top of the play. He darted out of the parking garage and into afternoon traffic.
No more fantasizing about bending her over the counter, or staring at her breasts, or wondering what sort of sexual havoc that hot mouth of hers could wreak upon his body. No more dreams of crowning her breasts with clotted cream and strawberry jam, then lazily licking it off. Of filling her belly button and the twin dimples in the small of her back with warmed chocolate and spooning it out with his tongue. No more dreams of feasting on her until her skin dewed, her sex wept and she cried his name.
Philip’s dick jerked against his zipper, forcing a mangled curse from between his lips. A futile bark of laughter erupted from his throat. He could no-more this and no-more that from now until Doomsday, but it wasn’t going to change the fact that he wanted her. Had wanted her from the first instant he’d seen her sashay across her set and pick up a spatula.
But that was the point right? How could he not think about shagging her when she was dressed like that? Which was the height of irony because he found the whole idea of her costume appalling attire for the kitchen. In his opinion it was a cheap marketing ploy that devalued her and her skill.
Furthermore, he’d watched enough of her shows to realize that she wasn’t altogether comfortable playing the vixen. Oh, she could do it well enough, Philip thought, his lips sliding into a smile. Quite well, in fact. But every once in a while he’d catch a glimpse of strain and instinctively knew it was a direct result of the get-up.
She was a fantastic chef, an excellent host with true star potential. What on earth had possessed her to agree to be The Negligee Gourmet when she clearly would rather the show be about the food? The art of pulling a meal together?
Certainly the money was better. He knew that. But for whatever reason—possibly even wishful thinking—he didn’t believe it was about the money for Carrie. She simply didn’t seem the type. Hell, who knew? Perhaps she merely hoped to parlay the Negligee career into a better deal at a later time, but if that was the case, Philip grimly imagined she’d be in for an unpleasant surprise.