Chapter Two
This couldn’t be the new executive producer.
She looked like an intern, barely out of college, not the seasoned television producer Teddy Davis had emailed him about.
The one he’d emailed back saying he neither wanted nor needed.
Hair the color of champagne fell just below her shoulders in a soft cascade of waves and ripples. Even in the heat and humidity engulfing them, it looked fresh. Her face was a perfect heart, a tiny dip in the center of the hairline bifurcating her brow into two perfectly aligned sections, her flawless chin falling into a delicate point. She had one hand out to shake his, the other shading her eyes from the strong and harsh afternoon sun, but underneath her fingers he was able to make out a pair of sloe-shaped eyes in a deep, forest green.
Taller than average but small boned, her legs took up most of her lissome body. With her lips held together in a tight line, she reached him.
“I’m Stacy Peters, Mr. Stamp.”
He stopped and planted his feet, his gaze shifting to her outstretched hand and then back up to her face without taking it. Her eyes narrowed into a determined glare and it looked as if she wasn’t going to back down until he shook it. With reluctance, he did.
Like the rest of her, her fingers were narrow and thin as they coiled around his.
A blast of heat instantly warmed and calmed his entire body like a few shots of his favorite Irish whiskey did after a rough and painful day. The subtle aroma of vanilla floated to him, filling his senses with the sweet fragrance. The persistent, throbbing ache in his left leg the liquor helped chase away was momentarily forgotten with his hand rooted in hers.
As soon as she pressed her fingers firmly against his palm once, she pulled her hand back.
For a split second, Nikko missed the touch.
In the next, he found his anger again.
“Look, Miss Peters—”
“Stacy is fine.”
He ignored her. “I told Davis I didn’t need an executive producer. I don’t need anyone telling me how to run this show, what’s going to make it a hit, how to rip the best from the concept. The show will be fine without someone questioning every decision I make and counting every dollar I spend.”
Stacy nodded and folded her hands together in front of her, her gaze staying locked on his as he spoke.
“Those last two he sent me were worthless and more trouble than I could stand.”
“Yes. I know there were…problems with the previous EPs—”
“Problems?” His scornful bark of a laugh was loud and harsh as he cut her off. “Two of the most annoying, incompetent people I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. One was worse than the other. They had no knowledge of how to run a television production. Knew nothing about costs, location shots, or even how to set up food service for the crew. Between the two of them together, I don’t think they had a full brain.”
Surprised was too tame a word to describe his reaction when she laughed out loud. The sound hit him square in the chest like a bullet ripping through his rib cage.
Christ, was she laughing at him?
His eyes narrowed and he took a step closer, forcing her head to lift so she could meet his gaze. If he’d thought to intimidate her with his height, he knew he’d failed when she stood her ground, her gaze never wavering from his, her shoulders staying square.
A tiny bit of respect warred with the irritation churning inside him.
“They never even made it out here, one of them quitting an hour after she arrived at the studio. I don’t need incompetents like that around me or this production.”
“I agree.”
Her words didn’t stop him. “Davis promised me creative control when I signed on to this show. That included managing the budget and costs as I saw fit. He gave me his word no one would bother me about piddling things like the price of airfare, how many damn cups we use for coffee or how much it would cost to film at night.”
He took another half step closer, so close now his body almost came in contact with hers.
“What he didn’t promise me was annoying paper pushers who don’t know a thing about running a television show, so you can get right back in that car and have Dixon take you back to the airport, because you’re not needed or wanted here.”
From the side of his vision Nikko saw a small crowd had formed around them. Set technicians, a few of the ranch hands Dixon employed, even the food-service people. He knew he should get a leash on his temper, but the annoyance of being saddled with yet another producer—and one who didn’t even look old enough to vote—had him unable to curtail his fury. Added in was the throbbing mess his leg had turned into from sitting in Dixon’s truck for so many hours.
She’d been nodding at everything he’d said and hadn’t interrupted him once. When he finally stopped, she came to life.
“I can assure you, Mr. Stamp,” she said, her gaze slicing through him with its intensity, “I have no intention of taking any control away from you. This show is yours. Your name is on it, not mine. It’s your baby. And unlike my two predecessors, I do know what I’m doing.” She took a breath, snaked a side-glance at the gathering group of people, and added, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
The crew laughed.
Before Nikko could form a response, she shot her gaze to the senior rancher. She moved toward him, saying, “Mr. Dixon? I’m Stacy Peters, from EBS. Thank you so much for allowing us to film our competition here, for putting us all up, and putting up with us all.”
Nikko watched a free and easy smile grow on her face, one with twin dimples winking at the corners of her mouth, as she slipped her hand into the rancher’s.
“Well, aren’t you just the prettiest thing I’ve seen around here all day,” Amos Dixon said, shaking her hand and wrapping the other one around it to cocoon it between his. “And it’s my pleasure, young lady. My pleasure.”
Stacy giggled at the rancher, her nose crinkling. Nikko’s stomach muscles contracted at the adorable expression on her face.
“I was familiarizing myself with your ranch on the flight and I have to tell you how impressed I am with your business, and how I’m a little in awe of the scope of everything I’ve seen so far. I can’t imagine living here, seeing all this beauty everyday. It’s breathtaking.”
Dixon’s barrel chest puffed out at the praise.
“I’d be delighted to take you on a tour around the ranch anytime, darlin’—you just say the word.”
“I’d love that.”
“Well, you must be tired from the long trip,” Dixon said, keeping her hand tucked in his. “And I imagine you’re getting hungry too. Little thing like you needs a good, hot meal in her and I’ve got the best cook in the state.”
She laughed and said, “I can always eat, Mr. Dixon—”
“Call me Amos, darlin’. Everyone does.”
She nodded. “And a hot meal sounds great right now, but I’ve got some things I need to see to first before I take you up on your offer.”
Turning her attention back to Nikko, she was all professional polish once again, the smile gone, a blank, unreadable look on her face when she said, “Why don’t I drop off all my stuff, and then I can meet with you privately, Mr. Stamp? I know filming starts the day after tomorrow and there’s probably a million things that need to get done before that. I’ve been brought up to speed on everything, but I’d like to hear from you what you need, when you need it, how I can help you get it, and how I can make everything easier for you. Would fifteen minutes be good?”
Dumbfounded, Nikko just nodded.
“Great.” She turned to Dixon’s son. “Beau, can you show me to my room?”
Nikko watched father and son jockey for her attention as Dixon senior said, “Boy, you get the little lady’s bags. I’ll show her up. Shall we?” He held a cocked elbow for her to take, while his son pulled luggage from the trunk of the car.
As the trio walked up the drive and then the porch steps, Nikko’s gaze lasered on the slim back and long legs of his new executive producer as she smiled and listened to the senior rancher wax on and on about his “family’s spread.”
What the fuck had just happened?
Nikko turned to see a battery of eyes staring at him.
“Don’t you have things to do?” he bellowed. “This isn’t vacation camp.”
Like lemmings, they all turned as a unit and scurried away.
Nikko rubbed his throbbing thigh, the unceasing pain careening through him. He needed to sit down, put his leg up, and relax for a while.
Maybe more than a while.
Unfortunately, the demands of his job weren’t going to allow him that time, not now and not in the foreseeable future. Add in the fact he now had to meet with his new executive producer and listen to a load of network bullshit, and he knew it would be a long, long time before he could sit back and just rest.
* * * *
Stacy’s gaze ran around the perimeter of the spacious and brightly decorated rooms she was given. A large bedroom, complete with a walk-in closet, an attached full bath, and its own veranda with wrought-iron table and chairs—the space she’d be calling home for the next eight weeks was almost as large as her Manhattan apartment.
“My late wife had these rooms done-up for my mother-in-law when she came to live with us,” Amos told her, dropping one of her bags at the edge of the bed.
“Grandma moved in the day before I was born and stayed with us until she died, two years ago,” Beau added.
“I’d read you’d lost your wife Caroline several years ago,” Stacy told Amos. “I’m so sorry.”
“When Beau was ten,” he said. “Luckily Ruth, Caro’s mother, stayed with us. Don’t know how I’d have raised my kids without her.” He shook his head, his Stetson gripped tightly in one hand. “Woman had the patience of a saint, that’s the truth.”
Beau chuckled. “She needed it, what with me and my older brothers always getting into mischief.”
“Up to no good is more like it,” Amos said. There was no real heat behind the statement, only paternal love and understanding.
“Well, we’d better let you get all settled,” Amos told her, cocking his head at his youngest son. “Dinner’s at seven, if you’d care to join us. Although the television people have mostly been staying to themselves. Heading into town to eat and such.”
“Mr. Stamp as well?”
The subtle pursing of the rancher’s lips was an indication of how he felt about the director.
It was Beau who answered. “Stamp and his daughter have their own place just off the stables. It’s the old foreman’s cabin. They usually stay there for meals.”
“His daughter? I didn’t know he’d brought any family with him.”
She thought back to the bio she’d glanced at the night before. Stamp was divorced and his ex-wife had died, tragically, in an automobile accident a little under two years ago.
In a car Stamp had been driving.
Beau’s mouth split into a huge grin. “Name’s Melora and from everything I’ve seen so far, she’s not thrilled about being here. Seems like a good kid, though. Just”—he shrugged—“not a happy camper. Cute, but teen-moody, y’know?”
She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.
Been there. Been that.
Amos gave her directions to Stamp’s bungalow and then the two left her alone.
Hands on her hips, Stacy mentally listed what she needed to do.
First things first. She pulled her cell phone from her bag and smiled when she saw she had full service at the out-of-the-way ranch. She hit a speed-dial number and was immediately connected with her mother’s cell. Her parents were currently on a vacation junket in China, and the time difference, plus the availability of good service, was questionable. She left a message saying she’d arrived and would email during the week. Then she plugged in her laptop and sent an arrival email to Teddy Davis. She noticed she had several messages, including one from Kandy she decided to open.
Hey cuz. Hope you arrived safe and sound. Meet any cute, available and willing cowboys yet? LOL. Send pictures!! Check in when you can and remember to just be your awesome, efficient, and calm self, and everyone—including Dominick Stamp—will adore you. Love and miss you, K.
After her brief first meeting with the testy director, Stacy was pretty sure her cousin’s words wouldn’t prove true.
With a quick glance in the full-length cheval mirror, Stacy grabbed her e-notebook, her cell phone, and the room key Amos had given her, and set off to find the man she’d be working under for the next two months.
* * * *
The sound of shouting met her ears a full twenty feet before she got to the front door of the cabin.
Although cabin was a totally inaccurate word for the sprawling two-level structure. Her overactive imagination had conjured a small, single-leveled log home complete with a porch and maybe even a rocking chair, gingham curtains on a lone window, and smoke spewing out of the chimney from a cast-iron woodstove. This was Montana, after all, not Manhattan.
Her imagination did a 180 as she walked up the front steps to land on a porch—yeah, she got that one right—but in every other way she was way off base. The cabin was...well, a house. Not made of logs, but solid, firm brick, the porch wrapping around three sides. Two stories high, it looked like it belonged back in a New England town, not in the center of a cattle ranch. The front door was solid oak, the windows wide and curtained, although not in the red gingham she’d pictured.
The yelling was louder at the front door. Two distinct voices. A man, who sounded just like Dominick Stamp, and a female, younger and shrill. Obviously, the moody teenaged daughter. Stacy cringed at the anger in the young voice, recognizing the tone. She’d sounded much the same way during her teen years.
Should she knock and interrupt the fight, or leave?
The choice was made for her when the door flew open and a blast of cold, air-conditioned air from its interior blew out at her.
The girl was looking over her shoulder and not where she was heading.
Which was right into Stacy.
She avoided getting trampled by quickly shifting to one side.
The girl stopped short, her hand still on the doorknob.
“Oh!”
“Sorry,” Stacy said, giving her an embarrassed grin. “I was just about to knock.”
“Who are you?”
Suspicion curled around the girl’s heavily made-up and lined eyes, her crimson lips pressing into a tight line as she flicked her gaze up and down Stacy.
Not a happy camper, Beau had said. Stacy could add another description based solely on the way the girl was staring at her right now and from the expression in her eyes: Pain. Deep, internal pain.
Been there. Felt that.
Stacy took a small breath and said, “I’m Stacy Peters, the new executive producer. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Stamp to go over a few things. If this is a bad time, I can come back.”
“No, it’s a perfect time, because you can, like, deal with him now instead of me.” The girl cocked her thumb over her shoulder and added, “He’s in his ogre’s lair.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, simply shot past Stacy and jogged down the walkway.
Just as she disappeared around a corner, Stamp roared, “Melora? Where are you?”
This time, Stacy took a deeper, fuller breath and told herself to be calm.
She came into the house, shutting the door gently behind her. It wasn’t difficult to locate Stamp. She just followed his booming voice.
“You get in here, young lady, right now. We’re not done.”
He was sitting behind a massive desk, foraging through several papers on top of it. Stacy took a moment before announcing herself to study the man.
Even from a seated position, his torso overshadowed the top of the desk, a testament to his height. He must have been raking his hands through the sides of his thick hair, because the ends were stuck at odd angles, proving the man hadn’t seen a barber in some time. The deep corrugations bracketing the corners of his mouth told Stacy a few things. One, he was angry— but she knew that from the sound of his voice. Two, he was tired. Seriously sleep-deprived tired. Like a man who hadn’t known the benefits of a relaxing slumber in quite some time. And three, as she’d seen in his daughter, he was filled with pain. His type, though, clearly signaled a physical kind.
“Dammit, Melora, get in—”
When his gaze connected with hers, Stacy had to remind herself to take a breath. Before, his eyes had been hidden behind his sunglasses. Nothing barred them from her now and when they settled on her, widening right before narrowing, Stacy was reminded of the color of her father’s favorite cognac: Rich, bright sepia with tiny flecks of amber shooting out from where they surrounded the pupils, filled eyes tilted upward at the corners.
“What are you doing here? Where’s my daughter?” He looked over Stacy’s shoulder. “Melora!”
“She said she was going for a walk.” Stacy braced herself and, unbidden, moved into the room, directly into his line of sight. “And we agreed I’d come and meet with you privately—”
“I never agreed. I believe I told you I didn’t need or want you here.”
Stacy nodded. “Yes. You did.”
“So why are you still here?” He glanced down at his papers again, dismissing her.
Stacy longed to tell this annoying, arrogant man the real reason she was going to tolerate him for the next few months, but knew the benefit of keeping her mouth shut. Instead, she pointed to the chair in front of the desk, said, “May I?” and held her breath.
He lifted his head and, with what looked like a great deal of unwillingness, swiped a hand in the air.
When she was settled, notebook on her lap, her hands folded over it, she looked across the span of the desk at him.
“Thank you.”
She was surprised when a deep sigh burst from him.
“Don’t thank me,” he said, gruffly, his gaze moving to hers again. “Just say what you need to say. I’ve got a shitload of work to do before filming starts and this is wasting what little free time I have.” He leaned back in the chair, his hand dropping to his thigh, where he gripped it with his fingers.
Stacy ignored the jibe. “Yes, well, that’s one of things I wanted to talk to you about. Time management.”
Before she could say another word, he righted himself again and glared at her. “Excuse me?”
With just those two words Stacy knew immediately why the other producers had quit before production ever got underway. A lesser-willed person would never stand a chance against Dominick Stamp’s forceful, intimidating personality. She could imagine grown men shaking when he settled that dark-eyed, frosted, and piercing stare on them.
Good thing she wasn’t weak-willed and was used to dealing with tyrants and egotistical television personalities.
She clasped her fingers a little more tightly. “It’s my job to see that you have everything you need—including enough time—for the show to run to your specifications.”
“My specifications?”
“Yes. As I said before, this show is yours. You’re in charge. Of everything.”
“Everything, is it?” His sonorous chortle echoed in the room. “That’s a new one.”
“Everything. Budget, timetables, chef challenges, all decisions that need to be made. The bottom line. I’ve worked on and produced enough shows—”
“How many?”
Confused, she asked, “How many what? Shows have I worked on?”
“Yes. You don’t look old enough to have worked on, much less produced, anything.”
Okay, so it was obvious he’d never read the bio Teddy Davis assured her he’d sent before she arrived. She didn’t like tooting her own horn, never had, but had to in order to get this odious man to see her as worthy.
“Three, to date. I was the executive producer of Cooking with Kandy for five seasons. When Kandy ended I produced the Dolly Cardson show, Hello Dolly. When that finished production, Teddy Davis brought me in to executive produce Bake Off after initial production began and the show started having…problems.”
Stamp continued to stare across his desk at her, his expression contemplative.
“I finished with Bake Off last month. It did well in the ratings too.”
Well? Hell, the ratings for the final two episodes had been through the roof, but she didn’t say that.
“You actually worked with Dolly Cardson and lived to tell about it?” he asked after a moment. “Without any battle scars?”
A free and easy smile broke from her at his choice of words and she giggled. His face went expressionless, a fact she didn’t miss.
“They’re well hidden,” she told him, shaking her head, her face becoming a mask of professionalism once again.
He stayed silent, his gaze trained on her.
“Look, Mr. Stamp. I’m not a green kid, looking to make my bones in the business. I’m twenty-nine and have been working steadily for EBS without a break since I graduated from college at twenty-one. Yes, I worked for my cousin in the beginning, but if you know anything about Kandy’s program you know what a high-stress, fast-paced show it was. I know what I’m doing. Now, may I finish?”
Wordlessly, he nodded.
She took a calming breath. “There is only one person who should ultimately be responsible for making all the necessary decisions when it comes to a show, and it’s not the executive producer. It’s the technical director. You, in other words. Not me. My job is to make your job as easy and as worry-free as possible.”
Stacy knew she had his attention when his eyebrows rose. Before he could ask the question she knew was coming, she beat him to it.
“And in order to do that I need to know what you want.”
“What I…want?”
The heat in his eyes had her squirming just a tiny bit in her chair.
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Like I said, my job is to make sure your job is worry-free, so I need to know details, like what food to go with what challenge? What times do you want to film? When do you want the sets prepped? The food ready? The chefs primed to go? All those things are important factors to time perfectly and any one of them can go off the rails for any reason, preventing you from proceeding. It’s my job to see that the trains stay on the proverbial tracks. So, yes, what you want is important for me to know to ensure that everything happens the way you want it to.”
Stacy stopped and took a breath. He’d interrupted her so many times before, she’d wanted to get everything out before giving him the chance to do so once again. She knew she sounded breathless and maybe a little nervous to boot, but at least she had his attention.
“Did Davis tell you how different this competition is from all the others on the network? I can assure you, you’ve never worked on a show like this one before, no matter how many credits you have,” he said after silently staring at her for a few seconds.
“He didn’t personally, but he gave me the show bible, which I read twice, so I could get up to speed. The concept is intriguing.”
“Intriguing? That’s an interesting word choice.”
Why did he have to make everything she said sound as if she was foolish or immature? Well, two could play at this semantics game.
“How would you describe it?”
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his desk. “I guess intriguing is as good a word as any,” he said after considering.
It was Stacy’s turn to nod. “As I understand the format, there’s an afternoon of prep once the challenge is given to the chefs, then the cook-off. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then the meal is served to the judges and the ranch employees? The cowboys?”
“Right. The cowboys cast votes, secretly, while the judges mull over the food, which we film. No winner is announced until the final challenge is complete. The chef with the highest number of votes, plus the numerical scores assigned by the judges after each challenge, will be declared the champion.”
When she’d read the show bible the night before, Stacy had seen immediately how such a format could be a ratings powerhouse. Without declaring a winner or voting off a chef after each challenge, and the audience never knowing anything other than the judges’ musings on the meals, the viewers would want to watch each episode until the finale to see if their favorite chef walked away with the prize.
“It’s a great premise,” she told him. “Did you come up with it?”
For a split second she thought he looked embarrassed at the question. “It’s been something I’ve been mulling around for a while,” he told her, casting his eyes back down at the papers on his desk.
When he didn’t elaborate, she didn’t push. Keeping it professional with this man, she knew, was the key to keeping the peace—on set and with her.
“So, again,” she said, opening her e-notebook. “Tell me what you need me to do before filming starts.”
* * * *
Stacy tossed her room key on the dresser and let the yawn that had been threatening to break free for an hour, go.
After her meeting with Stamp, she’d come back to the main house, where she was met by the Dixons, who’d just finished dinner. Amos had introduced her to the rest of his family, asking if she was hungry—she wasn’t—and then she’d asked for directions to the crew quarters. She needed to meet with them, introduce herself, and get the schedule for the next few days done.
Since the ranch was a working one, the property was littered with bunkhouses for the cowboys and ranch hands who helped keep it productive to live in. One such cabin, she was told, housed the technical crew and the rest of the individual producers who’d be personally assigned to the chefs.
Stacy found her way to the single-story building, the sound of raised voices and free laughter drawing her.
The front door was ajar, so she slipped in and got her first view of the people she’d be, for the most part, in charge of.
Her lips split into a huge grin when she recognized several crew members she’d worked with on other shows, one who spotted her and came rushing forward.
Stacy laughed as she was lifted in the air and spun around before being gently settled back on her feet.
“I heard you got here safe and sound,” Peter Luccassi told her, pulling her into a side hug and guiding her into the house. “Long-ass trip from New York, isn’t it?”
She grinned up at the man in charge of the sound and recording crew. “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore, Toto,” she said back.
“Not even close, kiddo. Hey, look who I found,” he announced as he brought her into the fold. They were immediately engulfed by the crew. Stacy greeted some old friends and was introduced to several new faces, all of whom welcomed her with open arms.
After working on such diverse reality shows, Stacy knew the benefits of having good relationships with the staff, who would do the daily scut work necessary to keep the show moving. A happy crew, her cousin Kandy had told her more times than she could remember, was a productive and hardworking crew. Treat them fairly and with respect, and they’d do anything for you. When she’d worked on Hello Dolly, the main reason she’d been able to turn the show around to the ratings hit it became was because she’d demonstrated to the crew how much they were valued. Something Dolly Cardson had never even thought to show them.
Two hours later Stacy was finally allowed to plead exhaustion and escape to her rooms.
Forgoing a shower, she quickly washed and then rubbed lotion all over her face and body. After changing into her usual sleepwear T-shirt she opened the doors to the veranda and then climbed into bed. She snuggled under the down comforter, loving the cool, crisp air that filtered in from the land surrounding the ranch.
Her mind played over her meeting with her new director. Dominick Stamp, she’d discovered, was a minutia man, and one used to calling the shots, doing everything that needed to be done, and arranging for everything that needed arranging.
Control freak danced through her head numerous times when she’d questioned him about something an executive producer should have been responsible for, only to find out he’d already done what needed doing.
There were still a great many details and tasks that needed to be seen to before filming ever started, though, and she was going to make sure they were fulfilled. And to Dominick Stamp’s specifications.
The analog clock sitting on the bedside table told her it was way past time for bed. Her body was still on East Coast time and screaming for her to get some sleep.
Tomorrow was going to be a time crunch, with the chefs all arriving on the same flight, needing to be picked up and then apprised of what was in store for them for the next few weeks.
Stacy’d told Stamp she’d go to the airport and round them up. His face had registered surprise, but after a moment he’d nodded.
Score one point, she’d thought at the time.
Stamp’s reputation for being a perfectionist didn’t intimidate Stacy in the least. Perfection, she’d often joked, was cousin Kandy’s middle name and Stacy knew the value of paying attention to details. It wasn’t going to be an easy job to wrestle some of that perfectionistic control away from Stamp and allow her to deal with the aspects of the show that were her job. He was famous—or was it infamous?—for dressing down staff in front of the entire production team and he wasn’t discriminatory in who he screamed at. Everyone from the food-service delivery person to the directors of the various technical teams had been shown his wrath.
Some of the crew she’d just met alerted her to a few tense situations Stamp had already created with his outbursts and they hadn’t even begun filming yet.
Stacy knew the job ahead of her was going to be arduous. Before allowing her mind to finally succumb to exhaustion, she said a silent prayer, invoking her grandmother’s name and asking the woman to help keep her focused and calm during the show’s production.