CHAPTER 3
THE NEXT MORNING, Dimi was in her dressing room, pretending not to be nervous, reading over her notes for the show, when Cami walked in. Her twin sister took one look at Dimi’s teal blouse—buttoned to her chin—and shook her head.
“You told me you had to be sexy,” she said, reaching out and unbuttoning the top button. “There. That’s slightly better. Stand up.”
“I’ve got to study these notes. We’re going over barbecue techniques today and—”
“Stand up.”
Dimi sighed and stood because there would be no getting rid of Cami until she had her say, whatever that might be.
Cami looked her over. “Lose the flats. You need heels.”
“Heels are uncomfortable.”
“Heels will help you swing your ass.” Cami grinned and started rifling through the closet. “Still can’t believe you’re going through with this.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve developed a fondness for little things like eating.”
“Here.” From the floor of the closet came a pair of spiked heels. “These will do nicely. Just don’t break your ankle. Now where’s this new guy?”
Dimi recognized that matchmaking light in her sister’s eye. “No. No way am I letting you meet him.”
“Makeup,” yelled Suzie from the other side of the closed dressing room door, and she entered the room with the makeup woman in tow. “Go for the slutty look today,” she told Lucy. “Red lipstick and dark eyeliner. Ooh, nice shoe choice,” she told Dimi.
“See? Told ya.” Cami gloated.
Dimi sighed. Then slapped at Suzie’s hand when she reached out and undid the second button on her blouse. But she sat obediently for makeup, her heart starting a slow, heavy drumming.
Nerves, she realized in surprise. She was nervous.
Because of Mitch.
Pressing a hand to her chest, she concentrated on breathing. And Lucy’s tsk. “What now?”
Lucy undid button number three.
“Better,” Suzie declared, pulling Dimi out of her chair. “Now what was that I was supposed to tell you?” She pondered this, then grinned widely. “Oh, yeah. Go swing some ass, girl.”
* * *
Dimi debated the button issue as she walked from her dressing room, down three different hallways, all the way to the kitchen set.
One undone button seemed okay. Two buttons…well, she supposed it could be construed as sexy.
But three, coupled with the come-do-me heels and the red lipstick… Yikes.
A low, appreciative whistle sounded as she entered the soundstage. And then another. And then another, as one by one, the crew noticed her new look and stood to salute her as she passed.
“Stop it,” she grumbled, walking by all of them to stand beneath the bright lights on the set. Lucy followed her with the ever-ready powder puff. So did Suzie, with the clipboard that was more a part of her than her own limbs. The two of them were preening and accepting applause for Dimi’s current look, as if it had been all their doing.
Which of course it had.
Dimi tried to concentrate on her notes instead of the attention she was getting. So when another hand reached out for her buttons, she slapped it away without looking up.
A big, warm, very masculine hand grabbed hers, and her gaze jerked to the dark, amused one of Mitchell Knight.
“You should know I’ve really had it with people putting their hands all over my cleavage,” she warned him, jaw tight. “So if you don’t mind—”
“I just—”
“Look, I’m wearing the lipstick, see?” She rubbed her lips together and ignored the heat that flared in his gaze. Kicking out a leg, she tapped his booted foot with her high-heeled one. “And the pumps, too, though if I fall and break my ankle, I’m going to sue you, whoever is in charge of you, and the entire crew on top of it all for thinking this whole darn thing is so amusing. So lay off with the buttons, I’ve done absolutely everything you’ve asked of me.”
“Not yet, you haven’t.”
His eyes were a very dark gray. This close, she could see flecks of blue in there, as well, dancing beneath all the bright lights. And he had the longest, thickest lashes, the sort a woman would kill for, which were totally wasted on a man. “What else, then?” she demanded, and not very graciously. “What other torture have you come up with that’s worse than these shoes?”
One corner of his mouth quirked. “Torture, huh? Poor baby, turning every man’s head like that.”
“I don’t like it,” she said through her teeth.
“Which brings us back to the one thing you haven’t tried yet, not once.” His hands came up and, very gently for such a big man, he cupped her jaw. His thumb slid over her lower lip, urging it to curve. “Smile. I haven’t seen you try that.”
She sent him a smile, made such only because she bared her teeth.
He sighed. “You might want to keep working on that.”
“Fine.” Could she have possibly gotten off that easy? Maybe he’d changed his mind about going on the air with her! “We’re set, then.”
“Well…” His gaze ran down the length of her, scorching her skin everywhere it touched. “Not really. But it’s a decent start. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow I choose the outfit.”
“But—”
His finger waggled in her face. “You’ve lost the smile already. Warm. Happy. Bubbly. Remember?”
She was going to grind her teeth down to nothing, and if she did, some sexpot-by-the-refrigerator she’d be. “I remember.”
“Good girl,” he said as if she were an obedient puppy. “Let’s roll, people,” he called, coming around the counter to stand next to her. He snapped his fingers at the assistant director, who snapped her fingers at her assistant, and she came running out to clip a mike on Mitch’s shirt.
Apparently, he was staying.
Then he took her hand and pulled her around to the front of the counter to join him.
“But I always start behind the counter, I just dive right into the cooking part—”
“Too serious,” he said, tugging her toward her new mark. “Right there. And remember…”
She bared her teeth into another semblance of a smile.
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Close enough,” he muttered, just as the director started the countdown.
“Ten seconds!”
“Oh, and about those buttons.” Mitch moved a hand toward her, and she gave him her best I’m-going-to-smack-you look. In surrender, he lifted the hand away. “I was trying to tell you before—”
“Save it.”
“Five!”
“Dimi.”
She lifted her hands to her ears. Not very mature, but there it was.
“And three, two…you’re on!”
Dimi’s opening had been the same for the entire two years she’d been doing the show. “Hello, everyone, welcome to Food Time. I’m Dimi Anderson, and today we’re going to—” She stopped abruptly at Suzie’s widened eyes, where she stood just off set. Her assistant pointed to her cleavage.
Dimi glanced down at herself.
And nearly fell off her heels, as she was flashing the entire world—correction, all three viewers—her belly button.
“Tried to tell you,” Mitch offered in a helpful whisper.
No use slugging him on live television, she thought, putting a hand to her heart and covering the view. She wondered how long she could keep her hand there and not look like an idiot. “We’re going to learn some new barbecue techniques today.”
“But first we’re going to make a delicious cherry pie.” Mitch broke in smoothly with a gracious, welcoming smile, distracting their viewers while Dimi raced to button up.
Then what he said sank in. “What?” She stared at him for one full second before she realized she was live—and gawking. Dammit! She managed a smile. “Well, that’s a surprise.”
“Yep.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and stood there with utter confidence, looking one-hundred-percent male in a one-hundred-percent woman’s domain. His angelic expression and sinner’s looks charmed the camera to stay right on him. “Hi,” he said into it. “I’m Mitch Knight. Dessert extraordinaire. I’m also Dimi’s new assistant. Not that she needed one for cooking, but…” He grinned unabashedly, in a way that invited all their viewers to grin with him. “After yesterday’s no-men proclamation, I couldn’t resist coming on and seeing if she meant it. Did you, Dimi?” He batted those long, lush eyelashes. “No more men? Ever?”
Dimi ground her teeth and realized for the first time exactly how appealing he was going to be to their audience. He should have looked ridiculous in a kitchen. He was so big, so…full of presence. But his dark hair gleamed under the bright lights, and so did his eyes. The diamond stud in his ear twinkled. His dark gray trousers fit him in a way that would make any red-blooded woman need a bib to catch the drool. His shirt, a light gray, clung to his broad shoulders and impressive chest. And then there was the clincher. His warm smile was just wicked enough to coax a nun into lusthood.
“Back to that cherry pie,” she said in a voice that came out a little breathless, adding insult to injury. Ruthlessly, she cleared her throat. “I assume you have a recipe handy?”
“Always prepared,” he quipped with a wink. “I guess you’re going to ignore the man question, then.”
“This is a cooking show, not a man show.”
“But I’m a man. And I’m here.”
“So let’s cook, then.” She remembered to smile, barely.
Mitch didn’t have such a problem. He nodded in the direction of the refrigerator. She followed his masculine strut, watching his—
Oh, my God. She was staring at his butt.
On television.
She jerked her eyes up, only to find him grinning at her over his shoulder. Swing it, too, baby, his eyes seemed to say.
In her ridiculous heels, she didn’t have much choice.
Finally, mercifully, they were at the refrigerator. Mitch talked the entire time, about the weather, about the Giants, about everything and anything, and she tried to keep up with him, but he kept looking at her with that look, the one she imagined making all the viewers swoon, and oddly enough, she felt a little dizzy herself.
Ignore him, she reminded herself. Just do your job.
“Now for the ingredients,” he was saying to the camera in that silky voice. “First, cherries.”
He handed a bowl of them to Dimi, who looked at the red succulent fruit.
“Now, no fair wasting time trying to tie any cherry stems with your teeth,” he told the camera. “No one can beat my record.” He reached into the bowl of cherries with his long fingers and grabbed the stem off one, his eyes directly on Dimi’s. Popping the stem into his mouth, and still holding Dimi’s gaze prisoner, he worked the strong muscles in his jaw back and forth. After about five seconds, he stuck out his tongue.
On it was the stem…tied into a neat little knot.
Dimi lost all ability to think, much less talk. Her skin went hot and itchy, and she knew she must have gone red as a beet. She was deathly afraid she recognized her ailment, and it was the very unwelcome emotion called lust.
Darn him! She’d given up men and she meant it, no matter how talented his tongue was.
“Now,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t caused every single woman watching him to get rubbery knees. “We need the other ingredients.” He rattled them off as he handed them one by one to Dimi, who was still standing there with too much cleavage, in heels that made her indeed swing her ass, stunned to the depths by what he was doing to her on live television.
“Here you go,” he said, passing the sugar. “Is that about the right amount?” he asked, walking around her. As he did, he casually and lightly stroked a hand over the small of her back.
Just a barely there touch, and her entire body jerked to attention, including her nipples, which were pressing against the material of her blouse.
Glaring at him would do nothing but egg him on, she decided, but she was sorely tempted. Luckily, a commercial break was called.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, so frustrated, so ruffled, so… Well, she wasn’t sure what else she was, but certainly anger topped the list. “You’re taking over the show!”
“Feel free to talk more instead of standing there with your tongue hanging out as you moon at me.”
When she gaped at him, he laughed. “Yeah, that’s the look I love so much. Oh, come on, this is fun. Let’s go check the phone lines.”
“No one ever calls during the show.”
“No?” He didn’t sound concerned.
They hadn’t made it off the set before Suzie came running up to them, her eyes lit with excitement. “Every phone in the place is ringing off the hook.” She turned to Mitch. “Keep baiting her, they love it. They love how she’s trying to be sexy and is failing completely.”
“What?” Dimi asked, faintly. “I’m…failing?”
“They love that when you look at her, she blushes.” Suzie laughed, gripped her clipboard to her chest and turned to Dimi. “And they especially loved the belly button flash.”
Dimi groaned. “This can’t go on. I need a sweater, pronto.”
“Why?” Mitch asked.
“Because maybe I’m getting cold.”
He looked directly into her eyes. “It’s not getting cold that worries you.”
Bastard. “Get me a sweater, Suzie.”
“Sorry.” She grinned. “We’re fresh out.”
Before Dimi could kill her assistant, Gracie came running up to them. “The phones are wild. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”
“Twenty seconds, everyone! Take your places!”
Mitch offered Dimi his arm, which, much to his amusement, she flatly refused. Sauntering ahead of him, she took two steps on her four-inch pumps and promptly tripped. Muttering something obscene about the absurdity of heels, she kept going.
He worked hard to keep his grin to himself, but it was difficult. This was a personal record for him, starting a show’s turnaround in less than two days.
There’d been a time in his life when he’d expected perfection from himself and all those around him, when he’d worked sixteen-hour days, living and breathing his job. There’d been a time when he’d been too busy for any pleasure, such as spending time with his beloved brother.
Well, Daniel was gone now. Too late, Mitch had learned all work was no way to live. Work had a place, yes.
But so did fun. Unexpectedly, this job could be both, and maybe even more fun than work.
“Five seconds!”
He got into position next to his still-fuming cohost and smiled at her. She didn’t return it. “Ah, ah. Remember—”
“I’ll remember!”
“Three, two, and…” The director punched a finger at them, and off Mitch went, slowly and precisely measuring out ingredients while making sure to touch Dimi whenever possible, which kept a nice color to her cheeks and fire in her gaze.
Perfect.
Then it was time to pull out his baked pie from the oven. He pulled on a mitt, noticing that Dimi very intently watched everything he did with a sort of helplessly fascinated expression.
He liked that in a way that had nothing to do with work.
“And now…” He went to the refrigerator and took out the whipped cream, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively for the camera.
Dimi, who’d just stuck a finger in the leftover cherry mixture, telling their audience how good it was, glanced at him and at what he was holding.
And choked.
Mitch took a step toward her, and she backed up.
He smiled slowly.
“What are you doing with that?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
She took another step back, looking every bit as ruffled and wildly sexy as he’d imagined she could.
She could have no idea how easily she was falling into his vision for the show, because certainly if she did, she wouldn’t be nearly as cooperative, unintentionally or otherwise.
Knowing the audience was eating this up, he sent her his naughtiest grin.
“Mitch.”
“Yep, that’s my name.” He thoroughly and methodically shook the can of whipped cream.
“The whipped cream,” she said, staring at it. “What are you doing with that?”
“What do you want to do with it?”
She sputtered for a moment, then finally seemed to come to her senses. “It’s for the pie.”
“Well, of course it is.” He set it on the counter. “Whatever did you think it was for? And remember, this show is G-rated.”
She didn’t say a word, but her eyes smoldered, and he knew she was going to light into him after the show.
In a sick way, he was looking forward to it.