Accidental Cinderella

This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.

And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…

She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.

Chapter Three

Never before had Lindsay landed a job that fast. After placing the call on Sunday, she went in the following day for a test taping. Now, here she was on Tuesday morning, standing amidst a maze of white tents that an army of workers were busily erecting on the St. Michel Parc Fête green.

She’d called Ida May, who had graciously agreed to continue looking after the house. And with that squared away, she was the new host of Chandler Guide’s Diva Dishes. Rather than sitting behind the Trevard Social Services reception desk taking orders from Bloody Mary, she was on assignment at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival.

Oh. My. God.

She shuddered as a giddy sense of possibility seemed as if it might lift her off the ground.

In the distance a symphony of hammers and power tools rang out a determined song. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of lumber, freshly mowed grass and the odor of the hard work that was happening all around her.

Tomorrow the place would be filled with epicures and delectable aromas from the various booths and cooking shows and demonstrations, but today the place more closely resembled a construction site.

Lindsay watched in wonder, trying to imagine how they would pull it off and have everything ready in time. Or, more aptly, tried to imagine how she would be ready for her first show by tomorrow.

She’d seen several of the previous Diva spots that had aired last year with the former host whom, Chandler proclaimed, came across like a cold fish. He was depending on Lindsay to breathe new life into the show, to deliver an edgier, more provocative performance that would boost recognition and sales of Chandler Guides. They were going for a younger, hipper image. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, he wanted her to be the sand in the oyster that produced a pearl. How was she supposed to accomplish that? By simply being herself, Chandler said.

Herself?

Edgy? Provocative? Gritty?

Oh, boy.

Quite frankly, the thought made her head spin. It felt as if she were on a wild ride, hanging on for dear life. She didn’t dare loosen her grip or risk being flung out into the stratosphere. Only, for once in her life, she felt as if she just might be on a ride that would actually take her somewhere.

“There you are. Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Paula English, Diva Dishes segment producer, rushed into the press tent, talking as she scribbled notes on a clipboard. The woman elevated multitasking to a new level. “We can talk with a French vintner or a local cheese maker….”

As her words trailed off, Paula frowned and gnawed her bottom lip, continuing to write notes to herself.

“Those are two of the most boring ideas I can think of,” said cameraman Sam Gunn, who had trailed in behind Paula. Sam rounded out the three-member Diva Dishes team. It was a lean operation, and Paula pulled no punches upon their introduction when unsmiling, she sighed and said, “Oh goody. I get to train another new host.” Then she promptly informed Lindsay that each person, especially Lindsay, was expected to pull his or her weight.

“There’s no room for slacking and no time for learning curves,” she’d said. “You’ll have to hit the ground running if we’re going to make our deadline.”

Lindsay couldn’t tell if Paula’s brusqueness was simply business, or if it was passive-aggressive resentment toward the new girl.

Whatever. The vacation was over, and the pressure was on Lindsay to not only show Chandler he’d made the right choice in hiring her, but to prove to herself she hadn’t made a fatal error by quitting her job back in Trevard.

“So that’s all you’ve got?” Sam shook his head. “I hope to hell Lindsay is good at improvising because it’s going to take a genius to make something brilliant out of that.”

Improvised brilliance? A solid lump formed in Lindsay’s throat, then it dropped like a lead ball into the pit of her stomach. Improvising had never been her strong suit. She’d learned late in the game that it was one of the things she hated about news reporting. Improvising meant saying the wrong thing. Embarrassing herself. She thought she’d outgrow the fear with a little experience under her belt. Her career had never made it to that point.

Paula lifted her gaze from the page and glowered at Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

She didn’t call him a moron, but her tone implied it. The tension between them was nearly palpable.

Sam arched a brow. “Last time I checked, I was the cameraman and you were the producer.”

Sam gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink that implied he was choosing sides. While it was good to have an ally in Sam, she didn’t want the team to be divided. They had to work together or they’d go nowhere fast.

Paula tucked her pen behind her ear. “Quit heckling me and make yourselves useful.”

She nodded at Lindsay. “Come on, let’s go have a look around and see if we can come up with something better. Sam, you go scout locations.”

Unsmiling, Sam stared at Paula long enough to raise the possibility of a showdown. But then he broke the standoff.

“This is your show,” he said to Lindsay. “Don’t let her push you around.”

Paula frowned and looked as if she might spit nails. She hissed, “Meet back here at 5:30 p.m., Sam. We have a dinner meeting with Chandler.”

Then Paula muttered under her breath as he walked away. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s why you don’t sleep with your coworkers.”

Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “You and Sam?” The words fell out before she could stop them.

Paula turned her wary gaze on Lindsay and seemed to sum her up for a moment. Then, to Lindsay’s surprise, Paula nodded. “Yeah. It was sort of messy. We were the inspiration behind Chandler Guide’s Gunn-English policy.”

“What?” Why was Paula telling her this?

“The Gunn-English policy.” There was no warmth in her expression. “A no fraternizing policy.”

Was this Paula’s not-so-subtle way of saying hands off? Because it sure didn’t feel like girl talk.

“Ah, thanks for the heads up,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Sam.

No way. No how.

She’d been through that before—she and her ex-fiancé, Joe, had worked at the television station—he’d been an up-and-coming anchor. She’d been a general assignment reporter. Their problems started when she confided in him about the uncomfortable advances their boss, Gerard Webb, was making when they were alone. After all, if you can’t trust your fiancé, who can you trust?

But Joe shocked her by getting mad at her, saying “Don’t blow it out of proportion, Lindsay, and most important, don’t do anything stupid that will jeopardize our jobs.”

How could she not say anything? How could he not stand up for her? But when it all hit the fan, Joe proved whose side he was on. When she filed the complaint against Webb, Joe broke off their engagement, claiming she must have been leading Webb on, doing something to give him the wrong impression. In other words, she “must have asked for it.”

“There’s no sense in the two of us staying here,” Paula said. “I’m going to go talk to the festival coordinator. You stay here.” She gestured to a table full of literature on the far side of the tent. “See if you can find something better for the show in the press kits.”

Then without so much as a goodbye, Paula turned and walked away, leaving Lindsay on her own.

It was make-it-or-fall-flat-on-her-face time. Since the latter wasn’t an option, she had to get her rear in gear. The best place to start was to find a knockout idea for the first show, proving that she could pull her weight.

Dodging a team of men hauling a stack of boxes, she made her way to the publicity table. She scanned the various brochures, press kits and photos stacked neatly on the cloth-covered rectangular table. A familiar face snagged her gaze. Smiling up at her from a photo pasted on the cover of a blue folder was none other than Carlos Montigo.

Lindsay’s stomach performed an erratic somersault that drew a defensive hand to her belly.

With her free hand, she reached for the folder.

The press kit was printed on glossy paper. No expenses spared. Impressive. It had all the makings of a staged comeback.

Lindsay opened the folder and pulled out a bio, which gave the general who—Carlos Montigo; what—self-taught chef; when—he’d been cooking all his life; where—born in Madrid, raised in Paris, and subsequently made his mark after he moved to Miami; and why—because food was his passion, yada yada yada. But no mention of his hiatus.

Of course not.

Behind the bio was one of his signature recipes for beef bourguignonne and several eight-by-ten glossy black-and-whites: Montigo working in a restaurant kitchen; Montigo on the set of a cooking show; Montigo smiling warmly and toasting the camera with a glass of wine. Good photos of a gorgeous man—longish, glossy dark hair. Great bones that the camera loved. The trademark dark stubble on his jaw that made him look ruggedly handsome, but there was something about his crooked nose and the look in his eyes that promised danger. Good lord, the man made her squirm, and if there was one thing she couldn’t resist it was a man who made…a good subject for the third Diva Dishes segment.

Lindsay had been out of the television business for several years, but despite advances in technology, one truth remained: a good reporter did her research before an interview.

She had a lot to learn about Carlos Montigo, and what she learned this afternoon—without letting his sexy smile and rugged good looks cloud her judgment—would tell her whether she’d pitch the story to Carson, Paula and Sam.

Sure, The Diva Dishes wasn’t 60 Minutes, but her gut told her there was a story here, and she was bound and determined to have a meaty idea to present to them at five-thirty.

So, she went back to the hotel and booted up the MacBook Chandler had given her when she accepted the job.

Leaning back against a stack of pillows, she performed a Google search of Montigo’s name. One hundred fifty thousand matches came up.

The first listing was a Wikipedia entry. She clicked on it and the page opened, revealing a color photograph of Carlos that made her bite her bottom lip. Underneath the photo it said:

Carlos Montigo is a restaurateur and celebrity chef. The former owner of South Miami Beach’s Prima Bella Donna starred in one season of Food TV’s You Want A Piece of Me?

He was born in 1972 in Madrid, Spain and raised in Paris, France. He moved to Miami, Florida after meeting Donna Lewis and together, the two opened Prima Bella Donna. The couple divorced in 2006 citing irreconcilable differences. Lewis is now sole owner of the restaurant and has employed three different chefs in the two years since Montigo has been gone.

Montigo was the center of controversy when a reporter for the Miami Herald initially set out to write a story about Montigo’s refusal of a Michelin star and in the process discovered that the chef had lied about his credentials.

Following the exposé, Food TV terminated Montigo’s contract on the show You Want A Piece of Me.

Lindsay blinked. He lied? Why on earth would a man who was seemingly sitting on top of the world fake his credentials?

She scrolled down to a list of resources the author used for the story. She found a link to the Miami Herald story and clicked on it.

Miami Herald February 10, 2006

Celebrity Chef Spices Up Resume

Carlos Montigo, the celebrity chef/owner of Prima Bella Donna in South Beach, who rose to fame on the wings of the Food TV show You Want a Piece of Me has caught his pants-on-fire. It seems Montigo, 35, falsely positioned himself as a culinary hotshot with hoity-toity credentials. In response, Food TV executives have relieved him of the remainder of his contract. They will show reruns of the episodes that have already been taped.

According to Montigo’s biography on FoodTV.com the chef claimed to hold a diploma from the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu culinary arts school in Paris. Au contraire, say school officials. “Our records cannot substantiate a connection between Monsieur Montigo and the school. He did not earn a Grand Diplome from our institution and should cease and desist connecting himself to Le Cordon Bleu.”

Also, he maintained he was formerly a chef at the Élysée Palace in Paris, the official residence of the French president. That assertion also was proven to be a lie.

Montigo and his representatives did not return phone calls before the publication of this article.

It was like reading about a train wreck. What would possess him to do that? How did he think he could get away with falsifying his background? When you’re in the public eye, you’re begging people to ask questions and snoop around. Well, that’s exactly what she’d ask him tomorrow when they met.

Her conscience protested.

It would be awkward digging up the past, rehashing things he probably wanted to put behind him—asking the tough questions was another aspect she’d found difficult about journalism.

She stared at the black-and-white photo of Carlos on the screen, a shot of Carlos in a leather jacket and a tough look on his handsome face, a publicity shot for You Want A Piece of Me.

But surely if he was promoting himself at the festival he had to know that media would ask questions.

She’d have to. It was her job—especially since Chandler wanted edgy.

Well, as edgy as you could get in a three-minute spot.

She searched some more and viewed Carlos’s Web site, which was all about pitching his new cookbook—published by Lone Wolf Press.

Hmm…never heard of that house.

It also had recipes and a bio that didn’t reveal anything new. It only mentioned his brief relationship with Food TV and his old stomping ground, Prima Bella Donna, in passing.

Nothing about the controversy.

The Food TV site was even less revealing. There was no mention of Carlos Montigo. It was as if he’d never existed in their realm.

She searched hundreds of articles that appeared in her Google search, but they were simply rehashings of the Herald article and didn’t offer anything new.

Until she clicked on one that showed Carlos and a attractive brunette toasting each other on a Mediterranean-styled terrace with a gorgeous water view behind them.

The title of the article, which was presumably written before all hell broke loose, was The Chef and His Prima Donna.

Lindsay skimmed it, wanting to know more about this woman who, according to the article, was no wallflower, and what caused their irreconcilable differences.

They looked so happy in the photo.

According to the article, equal parts of Carlos’s cooking and her charm were responsible for growing their Prima Bella Donna into the toast of the South Beach restaurant scene.

So this was his ex.

Lindsay studied her pretty face and the way Carlos was smiling at her. It reminded her of the way that Luc looked at Sophie.

But no! That was completely different.

Sophie and Luc were happy.

Carlos and Donna were…divorced.

Does love ever last?

How do you go from looking at each other as though the sun rose and set in your love’s eyes to being…irreconcilable?

She blinked away the thought. She had just opened a word processing program on her computer and began to write notes and interview questions when her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Lindsay? It’s Sophie. How are you?”

Thrilled at the sound of her friend’s voice, Lindsay sat up. She set the laptop aside and swung her feet over the side of the bed.

“Sophie, hi! It’s so good to hear your voice, but why on earth are you calling me? You’re on your honeymoon.”

Sophie laughed. “Are you kidding? Do you think I could wait another two weeks to see how your meeting with Carson went? Besides, Luc went down to consult with the concierge about a trip we want to take tomorrow. So I have a few minutes. Tell me how it went.”

For a split second, Lindsay considered playing a joke on Sophie—like they used to kid each other when they worked together—she thought about saying she’d gone home without talking to Chandler…or better yet, that Chandler said, “Thanks, but no, thanks.” But she didn’t have the heart. Not when her friend had been so good to give her this opportunity, and she didn’t want to waste the precious little time they had to talk playing a prank.

“He offered me the job.”

Sophie squealed. “And?”

“And we start shooting tomorrow at the St. Michel Food and Wine festival. In fact, I was working on my interview questions. Oh, Sophie, I don’t know how I will ever repay you for this.”

“You can repay me by knocking the socks off Chandler…and your admiring public.”

“No pressure, huh? Couldn’t I just take you to lunch the next time I see you?”

They both laughed.

“Lunch would be good. Could we set a date for a return visit now?”

Lindsay sighed. “I wish we could, but with work, I don’t know when I’ll be able to make it back to St. Michel.”

“Oh, Linds, I’m so happy for you. Not to bring up a sore subject, but how did Mary take it? I’ll bet she had a fit.”

Lindsay sighed. “That’s putting it mildly. I thought she was going to reach through the phone and strangle me. I’ve never quit a job without giving at least two weeks’ notice.”

Lindsay cringed at the thought.

“Right, but she should understand you’re not just ditching her. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I hope so because if not, I’ve just blown years of my life because Mary informed me she won’t give me a good reference—no way, no how.”

“Well, you won’t need one. Despite my prodding, Carson wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t see something special in you, Linds.”

“Here’s my idea.” Lindsay took a deep breath and placed Carlos Montigo’s press kit on the restaurant table in front of Carson Chandler. She, Paula and Sam were having dinner with Carson to firm up their game plan for the first show.

They still hadn’t ironed out the focus of the show. When they met back at the press tent, Lindsay, giddy with possibility, had spouted her idea. Even though she’d anticipated Paula being a hard sell, Lindsay had no idea that woman would be so disagreeable and dead set on her wine and goat cheese man.

It was clear that Paula was turning the show content into a competition when she grabbed the first opportunity to present her idea to Chandler—before they’d even been seated at the restaurant.

Chandler had nodded politely, and asked as they walked to the table, “But where’s the edginess in wine and goat cheese, Paula? Remember, we’re making the jump from run-of-the-mill to edgy and provocative.”

When Paula didn’t reply, Lindsay decided it was time for her pitch. She took a deep breath and twisted her hands into the napkin on her lap.

“Do you remember that Food TV chef, Carlos Montigo?” Lindsay asked. “The one who got the boot because he lied about his credentials? Well, he’s here at the festival and it looks like he’s staging a comeback.”

Paula grimaced as she opened the menu. “Why would you want to give him free press?”

“It’s not free press,” Lindsay said. “It’s a chance to give Carson the type of story he wants. Something with an edge.”

Lindsay glanced at Chandler to gauge his response, but he was staring at the menu. She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. If he had, he didn’t look enthused.

Over the menu, Paula regarded Lindsay with arched brows and a smug smirk that gave her pessimistic mouth an ironic upturn. No backing there—no surprise. So, Lindsay looked to Sam for support, but he was busy buttering a dinner roll. For a moment, an awkward silence enveloped them.

Okay.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of herbed bread baking in a wood-burning oven. The enticing scent of rosemary and thyme filled the restaurant and fueled her courage. Giving the napkin one last twist, Lindsay decided it was time for the new girl to prove her mettle.

“In all my research, I couldn’t find anything telling his side of the story,” Lindsay said. “This is a chance to ask him why he lied and to hear about his future plans.”

Paula closed her menu and shook her head, as if Lindsay had proposed a feature on The Wiggles or something else laughably inappropriate and ridiculous.

“Who cares?” Paula choked on an incredulous laugh, then pursed her lips as if stifling the urge to guffaw. She looked at Chandler as if she expected him to have the same reaction.

“Who cares?” Lindsay countered. “A lot of people would find the story interesting.”

“Maybe we can catch up with him for another episode,” Paula dismissed. “Since we’re in St. Michel, we’ll go with the wine and goat cheese theme.”

Chandler held up his hand. “Not so fast, Paula. You haven’t made a case for your goat man.”

Paula laughed again, as if she expected Chandler to join in on the joke. But his serious expression warned otherwise.

“I think Lindsay is onto something with the Montigo story,” he said. “Let’s move forward with it.”

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