"BLOODY HELL." Philip Mallory bit out the words.
"This cannot be happening again."
"I realize that on the surface it might seem like a
recurring scenario, but things are different this time."
Philip glared across the table at his agent. "How so?" he
asked sarcastically, sprawling against the back of his
chair. "Once again after working my ass off on my own
show, I'm being paired up with a talentless hack whose
only redeeming quality is a pair of perky breasts."
Hardly an accurate assessment of Carrie Robbins's skill or
breasts, but at the moment he was more interested in being
pissed off and petty than fair. As far as talent went,
Philip knew she was a damned fine chef. He'd watched her
show and had frequented Chez Martin's enough to know that
she didn't abide mediocre work.
Furthermore, Philip thought broodingly, her breasts were
more than perky โ they were perfect. Plump, pert and lush.
God knows he'd seen enough of them to know over recent
months. Between his own acute fascination of her, the
skimpy little negligees she wore on set and one smitten
cameraman whose zoom lens had a tendency to tighten and
stick to her delectable cleavage, he'd been left with
little choice. Hardly a hardship, he knew, but Philip was
of the opinion that cleavage and nighties were more
appropriate clothing for a bedroom than a kitchen. His
lips quirked.
Unless, of course, a couple was playing the wicked lord
and naughty scullery maid, then her limited attire would
be completely fitting. If he didn't think that she was
making a mockery of the art of cooking, was selling
herself short and not The Enemy โ thanks to the cork-
brained producers who'd come up with the jolly idea of
special programming โ Philip wouldn't resent fantasizing
about bending her beautiful ass over the nearest counter
and taking her until his ruddy dick exploded.
As it was, he did resent it.
Factor out his unfortunate over-the-top attraction to her
and it was a too-familiar scene which had once before
resulted in a miserable outcome.
"They're not suggesting making it permanent, Philip. They
just want a week-long segment to take advantage of sagging
summer ratings."
"I don't give a damn. I'm not doing it."
Rupert winced, causing an unpleasant sensation to commence
in Philip's belly. He knew that look. It was the you're-
fucked look. "Well, see, the thing is โ"
"I'm not doing it, Rupert," Philip said threaten-ingly.
"Then you'll be in breach of contract and they'll fire
you."
And there it was, Philip thought with a bitter laugh. The
bend-over order. "If I'll be in breach of contract, then
you didn't do your job and you'll be the one getting
fired, my friend."
Rupert shifted uneasily and a gratifying flicker of fear
raced across his face. It was an empty threat, of course.
Rupert Newell represented the longest relationship he'd
ever had in his life and he wasn't about to sever it over
something as trivial as having to do a week-long segment
with The Negligee Gourmet. Still...
"How could you have let this happen again?" Philip
demanded pleadingly. "After the Sophie debacle, Rupert?
Come on!" It was ridiculous.
"I was assured that it would be a nonissue, and you were
harping at me to 'make something happen." He affected a
wounded look, one Philip had seen many times over the
years. "So I did, and this is the thanks that I get. Just
a year ago I was the best agent in the world for
negotiating this deal and now I'm on the brink of getting
fired all because of a simple one-week special that in no
way resembles the hostile takeover of your show that
Sophie-the-whore managed to maneuver."
There was nothing hostile about the way she'd maneuvered
him, Philip thought, cheeks burning with renewed
humiliation. She'd shagged him literally and physically
right out of a show. Thanks to a back-door clause which
enabled the network to suspend his contract unless he
agreed to do "special segments" and a morals clause which
prohibited any sexual relationships between currently
contracted persons, Philip had found himself screwed โ
rather poorly, he thought with a moody scowl โ right out
of a job.
Sophie had insidiously worked her magic behind the scenes,
discrediting him as a host, then had cried sexual
harassment as the final coup. Despite excellent ratings,
he'd found himself summarily fired and Sophie โ a sous
chef from the kitchen who'd been angling to host โ had
gotten his show.
Hell, the bitch had even been given his set.
By the time Rupert had negotiated the Let's Cook, New
Orleans! deal he'd been desperate to get back to work and,
while he'd entertained several offers from various schools
and restaurants both in the States and the U.K., Philip
had ultimately decided against them. He truly enjoyed
being in front of the camera โ the combination of drama
and teaching. Had known that he'd found his niche.
Furthermore, he'd decided a change in scenery had been in
order and had found America to his liking. He'd visited
often enough before โ mostly New York and L.A. โ but
something about the dark, soulful spirit of New Orleans
really appealed to him. Far removed from his rolling
English hills, that was for sure.
Since moving here a little over a year ago, Philip had
still found a couple of weeks here and there to fly home.
He had no family left to speak of โ both his parents had
passed away years ago, and his only sibling had preceded
them in death when she'd been five. A drowning accident,
one his parents had never recovered from.
Rather than loving the child they had left, both of them
had distanced themselves from him, presumably, Philip
thought, to lessen the pain should another unexpected
death occur. Philip didn't blame them โ couldn't because
he'd powerlessly witnessed their grief โ 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 โ his ultimate refuge โ 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 overlooked a
gorgeous view of the ocean. Mornings would find him kicked
back in a patio chair with a good book โ he'd amassed an
extensive library there โ 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 afternoon,"
Rupert said. "Since you've been the hold-out, 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 โ I have for the
past six months โ 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 โ I don't want mine tainted with
what I'm certain is going to be a bloody disaster โ 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.
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