Getting It Now!

“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,” Frankie replied archly. “Which is why we’re culling all of those plans and starting over.”

Every woman seated at their table with the exception of Frankie groaned at this pronouncement.

Zora, however, was the first to offer an opinion and predictably, it wasn’t sugar-coated. “That’s insane,” she said, absently rubbing a hand over her very pregnant belly. “You’ve spent a fortune pulling the ‘wedding of your dreams’ together. You wanted something grand and feminine and beautiful.”

No doubt to counteract some of the lingering insecurities wrought by her father, Carrie thought sadly. Geez, that horrible old bastard had really done a number on her. Fortunately she’d met a guy who knew that—knew what she needed—and loved her enough to indulge her.

“What do you mean you’re starting over?” Zora continued, still evidently outraged.

“You know,” Frankie said, “I was really expecting a little bit of support here.” Looking distinctly sly, she dunked the lime floating in her club soda.

Club soda? Carrie thought, squinting thoughtfully. Now that was odd. She’d known Frankie Salvaterra for almost ten years and she’d never seen her drink a club soda. Particularly in a bar. Carrie inwardly gasped, shot her friend a closer look.

Frankie’s lips twitched with a barely suppressed grin. “We’re starting over because if I don’t get married now, I’m not going to fit in my dress.”

April frowned. “Not going to fit in your—”

Zora looked from Frankie’s drink to her smug smile and inhaled sharply. “You’re pregnant!” she breathed, eyes twinkling with unabashed joy.

Frankie beamed and nodded. “I am,” she confirmed proudly.

April squealed, Carrie laughed, and Zora positively glowed. “Oh, Frankie,” she said, taking her friend’s hand. “You’re going to make the best mama.”

Frankie dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “And you guys are going to make the best honorary aunts.” She swallowed, took a deep breath and appeared to be attempting to gather her wits. “So here’s the deal. We want to get married next weekend—Saturday—and I need your help. We’re paring down the guest list from fifteen hundred to fifteen. The people who are important to me are the ones we see on a regular basis. To hell with all the others,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They’re only showing up for the food.”

Speaking of which, Carrie thought. “I’ll cater,” she promptly volunteered. “It’ll be my gift.”

“And I know the perfect place,” April said. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “You can have Ben’s and my tree.”

The tree in question was a two-hundred-plus-year-old live oak which had held special meaning for them. They’d originally planned to host their own wedding there beneath its sheltering branches, but the timing had been off. Too cold. New Orleans summer heat was notorious, but the shade of that tree would undoubtedly end up being just as cool as a crowded reception room.

“Oh, April,” Frankie said, choking up. “I think that would be perfect.”

“And we’ll designate Ben as the photographer,” she added, then chuckled. “You can bet he’ll have a camera with him anyway.”

“Then all that leaves is the honeymoon,” Zora told her. “And Tate and I would like to have that honor.”

“Zora,” Frankie gasped softly. “That’s too much.”

“I insist,” she said. Which was the last word. When Zora made up her mind, that was it. Conversation over.

Frankie’s dark brown eyes glittered with liquid emotion and her face softened with untold joy. “I knew I could count on you guys.”

Zora reached over and squeezed her hand again. “Always.” She let go a breath. “Now who wants to bitch next?”

April shook her head, shot them all a contented smile. “Sorry. I got nothing.”

And no wonder, Carrie thought. After more than a decade apart, April had been reunited with her special someone, her soul mate, Ben. She had every reason to be happy.

“Stop bragging,” Carrie finally teased. She rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, you happy people are nauseating. All pregnant and in love.”

Zora turned to Frankie. “Has the nausea started yet?” she wanted to know. “Because if it has I can tell you that eating a saltine cracker before I get out of bed and having Tate rub my feet helps considerably.”

“What does rubbing your feet have to do with being nauseated?” April asked.

Zora pulled a negligent shrug and smiled coyly. “Nothing. It just makes me feel better.”

Carrie chuckled. “Very devious. I like it.”

Zora cast her a considering look. “So if our happiness is making you nauseated, does that mean that something’s happened that’s made you unhappy?”

Shrewd as always, Carrie thought, swirling her straw around her drink.

“It’s the Brit, isn’t it?” Frankie said. “The hot one with the great ass?”

Carrie felt a grin tug at her lips. Frankie certainly had a way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “That would be the one, yes.”

“Ah…Let me guess,” April chimed in. “The special has finally come through.”

Carrie let go a sigh and nodded. “We start next week.”

“Next week?” Frankie asked shrilly. “When did you hear about this?”

“Today.”

“Good grief,” April moaned, appalled. “How do they expect the two of you to be ready in that kind of time frame?”

“We’re ‘professionals,’” Carrie quoted. “And we’re meeting at Mama Mojo’s at six tomorrow night to go over the breakdowns and new format.”

Zora quirked a disbelieving brow. “You mean to tell me that they expect you to be ready to do this on Monday?”

“They do,” Carrie confirmed.

“Can you?” April asked, the most practical of the bunch. “I mean, is it possible?”

Carrie cocked her head and smiled sadly. “I guess it has to be.”

“This is outrageous,” Zora said. “Did you call Nancy?”

“There’s no point,” Carrie told her. “I agreed to it months ago.”

She frowned, cocked her head and a lock of red hair slid from behind her ear. “But I don’t understand. What’s been the hold up? Why are you just getting started now?”

Carrie’s lips quirked with bitter humor. “My future cohost has been the holdout. I don’t know whether he takes exception to me or my show, but suffice it to say he’s been vehemently opposed to doing the special with me.”

“Sounds like an uninformed bastard,” Frankie said, gratifyingly annoyed on Carrie’s behalf.

April paused consideringly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I watch his show. I wouldn’t have expected this out of him.”

Her either, Carrie thought, heartened by the fact that she hadn’t been the only one who’d misjudged his character. She shared the rumor she’d gotten from Joyce this afternoon regarding the special gone bad with the BBC.

“Now that makes more sense,” Zora said. “You’re smart, funny and beautiful and, more importantly, you are damned fine at what you do. If he has a problem hosting a show with you, I really find it hard to believe that it’s personal. I’d be willing to bet he’s got his own reasons and they have nothing to do with you.”

She hoped Zora was right. It would certainly make the next week easier to get through, that was for sure. At any rate, she knew that a small part of it was personal. When she’d called Joyce this afternoon to confirm the rendezvous with Philip, her producer had shared another interesting tidbit.

Carrie felt a smile tug at her lips. “I do know that he’s asked the producers if we can tone down the ‘centerfold’ image while we’re working together.”

Frankie chuckled. “Probably afraid he’ll inadvertently close his pecker in the oven.” She nodded and those dark brown eyes flickered with intelligence.

“Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. Mr.

Stuffy Brit obviously has the hots for you.”

Carrie’s heart did an odd little flutter. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

April and Zora shared a look. “I don’t know, Carrie,” April said. “That’s a pretty telling request.

Clearly he’s worried about staying focused.”

Carrie took a sip of her drink and shifted in her seat. “I think he’s more worried about tainting him self with my lesser moral standards.”

Frankie let go an exasperated sigh. “For the last time, Carrie, you have not sold out! I know you’ll be happier when you can negotiate a better deal—”

“You mean when I can wear clothes,” she said.

“—but in the meantime, you’re just upping your value. You’ve got a helluva following.”

“But will they follow me when I’m not painted up like a streetwalker?” she asked quietly. Carrie admitted another niggling fear. “I, uh…” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I think that instead of upping my value, I may have marketed myself right out of a normal hosting position. You know what they say,” she said, pulling a shrug. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. When it comes time to renew my contract, what’s going to make them let me have my way? What’s going to motivate them?”

“Your talent,” Zora said simply. “Because at the heart of your show, that’s what it’s all about.” She smiled softly. “We watch you, Carrie. You’re passionate about what you do and you’re good at it. Granted some viewers might be watching to see if your boobs fall out of your nightie, but the majority of your audience simply enjoys spending a half hour with you.”

Carefully hopeful, Carrie sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

Zora nodded imperiously. “I know I am. Just wait and see.”

Frankie smiled wickedly. “In the meantime, I think you need to torture him. He wants you to wear something different—fine,” she said with a devious nod. “If I were you, I’d wear less.”

Carrie chuckled. “I don’t know that it’s possible.”

“Oh, it is,” April said, getting into the spirit of Frankie’s revenge. “Frankie’s right. He’s held out and hurt your feelings—”

Startled, Carrie looked up. “No, he—”

“Yes, he has and there’s no point in denying it. You’ve watched him for years. I’ve heard you talk about him before, and when this thing at Let’s Cook, New Orleans! came through, you couldn’t wait to meet him.”

All true, Carrie knew.

“Furthermore,” Frankie chimed in, “we all know that you’ve had a crush on him.”

Carrie started to deny it, but a firm look from Frankie made her change her mind.

“You have,” she insisted. “You, my dear friend, have been presented with a perfect opportunity. One week, a hot co-host who needs an attitude adjustment, and the opportunity to start cooking with something other than gas.”

Carrie couldn’t help it, she chuckled and shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

“And you haven’t been laid in months.”

Closer to a year, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Between the hours she’d worked for Martin, then starting the new show, things had been too crazy to pursue romance of any kind. But a relationship with Philip? When she suspected what he thought of her?

Not no, but hell no.

Zora studied her carefully. “Even if you’re not in the market for romance, I think a little calculated retribution is in order.” She cocked her head and smiled. “And now that you know his weakness…Well,” she said. “It’s up to you, of course.”

Carrie merely smiled. She wasn’t so much worried about his weaknesses as her own. It would be heartily embarrassing to set out to teach him a lesson and end up not making the grade herself.

Or worse, God forbid, falling for him.

3

AT PRECISELY FOUR MINUTES after six, Philip covertly watched Carrie weave her way through the throng of tables to the one he’d been shown to in the back. Though she appeared completely oblivious to the attention her entrance garnered, he knew she couldn’t be. Heads turned as she walked past. Flickering looks of interest from men—envy from women—followed her as she cut a path through the crowded restaurant.

How did she stand it? Philip wondered absently. That constant attention? It had to be bloody nerve-racking.

Wearing a cool pale yellow sheath dress, long hair hanging like a silvery-blonde curtain down her back, and a pair of strappy sandals on her feet, Carrie looked classically gorgeous. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup—in fact, the tip of her nose had that squeaky clean glow—odd that he should find that adorable—and other than being naturally sexy, no traces of her Negligee persona were evident.

Once again he was struck by the difference. The change was unbelievably dramatic, the perfectly rare combination of wholesome and sexy. For reasons he couldn’t explain, his breath quickened, his palms grew clammy and a line of gooseflesh raced up his back. He’d experienced these unwanted symptoms before when he’d watched her show, but seeing her in the flesh compounded them significantly.

He stood—to his chagrin, somewhat shakily—when she neared their table. “Is this spot all right?” he asked. “It was the closest thing to private available.”

Carrie nodded, seated herself in the chair he’d pulled out for her. “Sure. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

“No,” he said. “I’ve, uh…I’ve only been here a few minutes. Just long enough to peruse the menu.”

She looked up and her violet gaze tangled with his, causing a curious whirling sensation behind his navel. “You’ve never been here before?”

Trying hard not to be mesmerized, Philip shook his head. “Er…no. I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed the pleasure.”

Her lips formed an enchanting smile. “Oh, then you’re in for a treat. Personally, I always have the jambalaya. It’s some of the best in the area.”

“I’ll take your recommendation then,” Philip told her, offering her a smile. Best to soften her up with pleasantries before he proceeded with the mandates, he decided. Provided he’d even remember them. Once again he could feel his brain turning to mush and his dick thickening in her glowing presence.

Thankfully once the waiter had supplied drinks and taken their order, he’d regained a modicum of his composure. “Have you had a chance to look at the breakdowns yet?” he asked.

Carrie nodded, bent down and withdrew them from her purse. “I have. I noticed in keeping with the ‘sizzling’ theme, there are several spicy dishes. Are there any that you object to? Anything you want to tweak or change?”

“No,” Philip said. He paused, blew out a breath. “Look, before we go any further, do you mind if I’m completely honest with you, Carrie?”

The smallest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Who wouldn’t prefer the truth to a lie?”

Philip hesitated. He’d been rehearsing this spiel for the past couple of hours and yet now that the time had come to make good his delivery, he was having a hard time keeping to the diplomatic but hard-assed approach. He leaned forward. “I’m sure that you’ve heard that I wasn’t particularly keen to do this special.”

Her eyes sparkled with wry humor. “I might have heard mention of it once or twice.”

Again that charming humor, he thought. “Did you happen to hear mention of why?”

The bane of his recent existence calmly sipped her drink and pulled a light shrug. “Just an unconfirmed rumor.”

“Well, let me give you the official version. The last time I did a ‘special’ my female co-host hijacked my show.” His voice inexplicably hardened. “Don’t take it personally, but I have no intention of letting that happen again.”

The faintest hint of irritation tightened her otherwise serene features.

“I’m the one with the most experience here,” he continued, “and if it’s all the same to you, rather than being equal partners per se, I’d prefer that you think of yourself as an assistant.”

Her compelling eyes widened fractionally. “An assistant?” she repeated tightly.

“Sort of like my Vanna White,” Philip said, giving her an analogy he hoped she’d understand. He’d grown quite fond of The Wheel of Fortune since moving to New Orleans. Fascinating game, really.

“I’m not a letter-turner on a game show—I’m a chef,” Carrie said, her smooth voice slightly strangled with what Philip belatedly realized was anger. “As for being your assistant, if it’s all the same to you,” she said, patronizingly throwing his phrasing back at him, “I’d just as soon stick to the format.”

Philip winced. Frankly, he hadn’t really expected her to argue with him. His was the voice of experience after all. But he could tell by the somewhat mulish set of her jaw and the white circle around her supremely sexy mouth that she was heartily displeased. What? he wondered. Did she not like Vanna?

“I’ve insulted you,” he said.

“Now that’s insightful,” she replied sarcastically.

Hmm, Philip thought with a mental wince. That was bad…because he really hadn’t gotten to the part where he’d assumed he’d offend her. But there was no way around it, and he was a firm believer in speaking his mind. Fewer misunderstandings that way. Besides, after the Sophie debacle he didn’t appreciate subterfuge.

“I won’t argue the point that you’re a chef, and a damned fine one to boot,” he said. “I’ve watched your show, have even eaten at Chez Martin’s several times before you joined the network. It’s not your ability that I’m concerned with,” he told her. He leaned back in his seat and regarded her moodily. “Frankly, it’s your attire. I’ve asked the producers to let you wear clothes during our special, but they’ve said no.” His lips quirked. “Evidently your audience expects you to be naked,” he drawled.

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