Getting It Now!. Rhonda Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Her show had been a huge hit and the execs who were currently patting themselves on the back for their good fortune wouldn’t think kindly upon changing the format later. Chances were she’d pigeon-holed herself right into a career he wasn’t altogether certain she’d wanted.

      But then, what did he know? He’d merely watched her on television and, though the camera was adept at picking up hidden facets of a person’s personality, he really didn’t know her—he merely thought he did.

      And that, my friends, was the beauty of television, Philip thought.

      Though he’d rather let hungry buzzards feast upon his privates than do this special with her, Philip couldn’t deny that he was keenly interested in discovering what made her tick. He might not like the concept of her show, but peep show aside, he sure as hell loved watching her cook. She was a natural in the kitchen, possessed an innate sense of how to marry flavors and compliment a palate. The kind of talent that had been bestowed at birth, not learned, which made her all the more intriguing.

      And, Philip thought with a shaky sigh, he was meeting this walking mystery at Mama Mojo’s at six tomorrow night. Ostensibly to put her in her place. Which should be a cool trick considering he was more interested in putting her on her back.

      And on her belly.

      And on a table.

      And against a wall.

      Really, the possibilities were endless.

      “OKAY,” FRANKIE SALVATERRA announced above the din at the Blue Monkey pub in the famed French Quarter. “It’s time to officially call the Bitch-Fest to order.” Her gaze darted around the table. “Who wants to go first?”

      One of the perks to having a day job was never missing or being late for their standing Friday-night pastime—the Bitch-Fest. God knows it had gotten Carrie though many a trying time. Something about sharing her angst among her fellow CHiC friends—Zora, Frankie and April—had made her problems seem a lot lighter. And with good reason—when she shared them, they were divided.

      “No takers?” Frankie said when no one immediately responded. “Fine. I’ll go first.” She paused, scanned the faces which held her attention. “I’m tired of being engaged,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want to get married. Now.”

      “Now?” Zora parroted, seemingly stunned. “But there’s no way your planner can pull together the ceremony that you and Ross have outlined now. It’s physically impossible.”

      Frankie and Ross’s wedding plans had begun to rival that of Charles and Diana’s. She’d commissioned doves, ice sculptures, rare orchids and had hired a local coveted designer—Madame LeBeau, who was rumored to be positively impossible to work with—to do both her dress and the bridesmaids’ ensembles.

      April Wilson-Hayes sipped her margarita. “She’s right. Logistically, it’s just not possible.”

      “I know that,” СКАЧАТЬ