Getting It Now!

by Rhonda Nelson

  That he’d managed to warrant enough emotion to let her down when she barely knew him told her that if she didn’t get things under control pretty damned quick, she was going to be in trouble. Clearly the charming guy who’d been welcomed—and often anxiously awaited—into her living room via the television set for the past couple of years was simply a character he played, and the sooner she learned the difference, the better off she’d be. Carrie sighed, swallowed her disappointment.

  If only the TV had lied about how fantastically good-looking—translate: sexy, magnetic, compelling, beautiful, etc.—he was, she’d be fine.

  Honestly, the man just did something for her. That wavy dark auburn hair, the way it curled at the nape of his neck. Those intelligent, heavy-lidded silver eyes, the perfect combination of clever and broodingly sexy. The shape of his jaw, the angle of his cheek and that slightly crooked smile…All of it combined was enough to make her breath seep out in a sigh, her heart leap and her sex burn.

  And under present circumstances, that was a recipe for disaster.

  Besides, after the way he’d acted this evening, she’d decided to dish up a little retribution. When Carrie had walked into this restaurant tonight she’d had every intention of being professional and courteous—even knowing that he hadn’t wanted to do the special with her, so frankly, she thought she was being quite nice about the whole thing. The idea of taking her friends’ advice—of upping the sex factor of her performance and wearing less simply to distract him—had been completely out of the question.

  Until five minutes ago.

  Clearly Philip Mallory needed a lesson in humility and she wasn’t a founding member of Chicks in Charge for nothing. When pushed far enough, she’d push back and, curiously, the idea of figuratively knocking Philip on his delectable British ass was vastly appealing.

  She couldn’t fault him for wanting the show to be more about the food and less about her breasts—she did, too—but trying to patronizingly bully her into being his assistant because he disapproved set her teeth on edge. The only thing he needed to concern himself with was how well she did her job—a job she was quite good at, dammit. Instead, he’d stepped over the line and thereby pushed her over hers.

  He would regret it, Carrie thought as a slow smile slid around her lips. For the first time in her life she was actually looking forward to taking advantage of her sex appeal.

  Carrie had enough experience with the opposite sex to know when a guy was attracted to her and, while Philip Mallory might not want to feel the chemistry between them, she knew he did. Frankie had been right. He’d spent entirely too much time staring at her mouth to indicate otherwise. She’d felt that keen lazy gaze trail over her lips, down her neck—even on those breasts which had been such a hot topic of conversation. No doubt it galled him, too, Carrie thought, but in the end it wouldn’t matter.

  He’d gotten the wrong tiger by the tail this time.

  Heartened by her plan, Carrie freshened her lip-gloss, then exited the bathroom. She was halfway across the dining room when she noticed that someone—a distinctly female someone—had taken her seat and that Philip had gone on the charm offensive, smiling and talking as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  As though she weren’t here.

  Irritation stiffened her spine and she was caught off guard by an unexpected simultaneous burst of envy and jealousy. Neither of which she cared for. A telling sentiment lurked in that realization, but she deliberately pushed it aside and summoned a forced smile as she neared their table.

  “…and that’s the trick to it,” Philip said amiably. “Coat your spatula with a shot of nonstick spray and you won’t have any problem turning your omelet next time, I assure you.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” the groupie in her seat gushed as though Philip had just given her the power to end world hunger. “Really?”

  “Really,” Carrie inserted with a brittle smile. Philip’s gaze had slid to her, a silent acknowledgement, but he’d continued to politely bask in the glow of what was clearly a fan’s enthusiasm.

  The woman’s startled gaze swung to Carrie. A flicker of instant dislike dimmed her starstruck gaze as she swiftly sized her up. “Er…we’re talking,” she said, doing a little hand motion between herself and Philip that indicated Carrie wasn’t welcome. “Do you mind?”

  Resisting the impulse to drag her up by the hair of her head, Carrie gritted her teeth. “I mind that you’re in my chair.”

  She blinked as though she didn’t quite understand. Evidently too stupid, Carrie thought, growing increasingly annoyed. Philip, damn him, looked on with smug humor.

  “Forgive me, Beth, for being so rude,” Philip belatedly chimed in. “This is my assistant, Carrie Robbins.”

  Carrie shot him a withering look. “Coworker,” she corrected.

  “We’re having a working dinner,” he explained.

  “Yes,” Carrie added. “And we’re not finished yet. I’d like dessert.” She looked pointedly at Beth. “My chair?”

  Looking extremely disgruntled, Beth finally removed her sizable ass from Carrie’s chair. She pulled a smile together for Philip’s benefit. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Like I said, I, uh—” she bent and awkwardly gathered her purse “—I watch you all the time.”

  Philip beamed at her, the wretch. “Thank you.”

  Carrie received a considerably less warm smile—slightly sick, in fact—as she walked away.

  Philip relaxed against his chair and absently scratched his chest. “Charming girl,” he said. “Had a spatula problem.”

  “Thank God you could help her,” Carrie remarked drolly.

  His lips quirked. “You’re mad again,” he tutted infuriatingly. He shot her a questioning glance. “You don’t have some sort of anger management problem I should know about, do you?”

  “No,” Carrie said. “Ordinarily I’m pretty unflappable.”

  His gaze seemed to sharpen with interest. “Meaning I’m the problem?” he asked innocently. “Perhaps you should go back and tell Joyce that I’m too much bother and that you can’t possibly work with me.”

  She knew that was his game, but she hadn’t expected him to tip his hand quite so quickly. Carrie struggled to suppress a smile and shook her head. “That pesky contract,” she reminded him.

  He grimaced. “Yeah. Personally, I thought my agent had taken care of that little niggling detail this time.”

  From the tone of his voice, his agent had probably come damned close to strangulation when Philip had learned that he hadn’t, Carrie thought.

  He threw back the rest of his drink. “Clearly I’m going to have to pay better attention the next time negotiations come ’round.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “And you should, too.” He scowled adorably. “In fact, you should fire your agent altogether and get a new one, then you might actually be able to wear something that doesn’t scream ‘I’ll shag you!’ during your show.” His displeased expression increased. “Week before last you came dangerously close to setting that fur trim attached to your bodice on fire. Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Bloody ridiculous.”

  “I have no intention of firing my agent,” Carrie told him, inordinately heartened by the fact that he’d watched her often enough to note a potential mishap. Still, she thought as she struggled to flatten a smile, the man was insufferable. “Is there an opinion you have that you don’t share?” she asked.

  “No,” he told her moodily. “It’s part of my charm.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Did your agent tell you that?”

  Philip laughed, a soft sexy chuckle that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end and, for the briefest of moments, she got a glimpse of the guy she’d always thought he’d been, the one her foolish heart thought it recognized. She let go a shaky sigh.

  “Touché,” he said softly.

  “Is there anything else we need to go over?” she asked, suddenly ready to call an end to this encounter. She could deal with smart-ass Philip a whole l
ot better than the guy she’d hoped he’d be. That guy was dangerous.

  Philip sighed heavily. “If you’re going to adhere to your principles and not renege on your contract, then no, I suppose not.” His silvery gaze slid to hers causing her breath to hitch in her throat. “But I thought you wanted dessert.”

  Carrie snagged enough cash to cover her meal and a tip from her wallet and put it in the middle of the table. “Mine’s waiting at home.”

  He arched a surprised brow. “I thought you were single.”

  “I am.”

  His eyes widened significantly as he gratifyingly jumped to the wrong conclusion, that she had a guy at home. “Well, then.”

  Carrie knew she should tell him that the only thing waiting at home for her was Hoover, her dog—so named for his tendency to eat anything he found on the floor whether it be trash or food—and a lovely carton of Godiva ice cream.

  She knew she should…but in the end, she didn’t. Let him wonder, Carrie thought. A petty form of retribution, but she’d take it where she could.

  She smiled, slung her purse over her shoulder. “See you Monday,” she said.

  Seemingly resigned, he tossed some bills on the table as well and stood when she did. “Yes, but I daresay I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”

  Carrie chuckled softly at his miserable tone. If he only knew, she thought. If he only knew…

  4

  “I HAD PLANS, YOU KNOW,” Rupert announced testily as he strode past Philip into the foyer. “I’m your agent, not your bloody babysitter.”

  “If by plans you mean you intended to haunt Jackson Square and dazzle female tourists with your charming accent, then I imagine the populace of New Orleans would thank me for intervening.”

  He knew that calling Rupert and essentially demanding that he come over and keep him company tested the boundaries of their professional relationship, but he was supposed to be his friend as well, right?

  Furthermore, he’d thought about inviting over a female companion, but after spending dinner with Carrie, he couldn’t muster the needed enthusiasm. He tried to tell himself that her unwillingness to adhere to his assistant idea had put him in an ill humor, but he suspected that it had more to do with not wanting to spend the night with a poor substitute.

  It’d be like craving Baked Alaska and settling for a snack cake.

  Which put him in mind of the dessert she’d mentioned waiting at home. That little tidbit had annoyed him far more than it should have, dammit. What was it to him if she had a guy waiting at home? Nothing…so long as that guy was her brother, or an infirm old uncle, or an impotent friend. But she’d hardly refer to any of the above as dessert, now would she? And that unhappy realization brought him back to his ill humor and sexually frustrated state.

  Though he’d managed to cover things well enough—thank God for that nice linen napkin he’d placed in his lap, Philip thought—his loins had been experiencing the fiery blazes of hell all during their meal. Honestly, he’d been amazed at his stark reaction, though in truth now that he thought about it, he didn’t know why he’d been so surprised. If he got a hard-on from simply watching her show, then it only stood to reason that being with her was going to have a more potent effect.

  And it certainly had.

  Though he’d tried his best to be obnoxious and intimidating, he kept getting distracted by the delicate slope of her cheek, the classic arch of her brow and that plump, suckable bottom lip. Every particle of his being had been affected by her presence. His scalp had tingled, his palms had itched, and his belly had suddenly felt as though it had been pumped full of air. It had been most disconcerting.

  To make matters worse, he’d felt that odd sense of familiarity with her again and, while it had been curiously enjoyable over dinner, he’d felt the absence of the sentiment the minute they’d parted ways, leaving him at odds and out of sorts.

  He’d come home, fixed himself a drink and watched her show. When that had failed to alleviate his gloomy mood, he’d called Rupert. This house was too bloody big, Philip thought, pouring his irritated agent a glass of wine.

  “What’s this about?” Rupert wanted to know.

  Philip shrugged. “I thought you might want to know how things went this evening.”

  “You could have told me that over the phone,” Rupert said. “Why did I have to trot over here? I’ve got a life, too, you know.”

  Well, this superb mess was thanks to Rupert’s inability to properly ink a contract, so he was just going to have to get over it, Philip thought. “Until this special is over, your life, like mine, is on hold. If I’m going to go to hell in a handbasket, you can bet that I’m not making the trip alone. You’re coming along for the ride as well.”

  Rupert collapsed heavily into a chair. “So that’s what this is about. You’re lonely again. Why don’t you let me call—”

  “I’m not lonely,” Philip lied churlishly. “And I swear if you suggest calling a hooker for me one more time there’s going to be bloodshed.”

  “They don’t call it the Big Easy for nothing,” Rupert replied.

  “For God’s sake, I don’t have to pay to get my knob polished,” he told him, still annoyed. Him? Lonely? He wasn’t lonely, dammit. Lonely implied that he needed someone to make him happy and he didn’t. He’d learned to be self-sufficient when his parents had stopped hugging him. He’d learned that there wasn’t anything anyone could give him that he couldn’t manufacture for himself.

  Lonely, hell.

  Rupert kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “So, how did it go?” he asked with a somewhat resigned sigh.

  “Not well,” Philip told him, ready for a subject change.

  “I take it she didn’t like the idea of being your assistant?”

  “No,” Philip said with a chuckle, remembering her thin-lipped expression. “It quite pissed her off.”

  Rupert tutted thoughtfully. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but honestly, I’m not. These American women are different. Bossy,” he said with a puzzled frown. “Did you know there’s an entire movement of women from New Orleans who call themselves the Chicks in Charge? It’s a club of sorts where bossy women teach other women how to be bossy. I heard a couple of hens clucking about it in line at the grocery yesterday.”

  A memory stirred, but vanished before he could grasp it. “That sounds familiar,” he said, wondering where he’d heard the phrase.

  “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” Rupert lamented. “Women didn’t used to be so bloody picky. If it weren’t for the whole British thing to set me apart, I daresay I’d be having a hard time finding a woman to occasionally warm my bed.” He shot Philip a look. “That’s your problem, you know. If you’d just let a pretty bird balance on your balls for a night, I daresay this foul mood of yours would dissipate.”

  Philip smiled blandly. Getting laid was Rupert’s answer to everything. No doubt to some extent he was right, but since the Sophie incident, Philip had been in a sort of hibernating celibacy.

  For years he’d enjoyed a healthy sex life, had pretty much dipped his wick as frequently as the urge struck, but something about the Sophie deal—being made a royal fool of—had put an end to that carefree mentality. He hadn’t had a woman since, and to be completely frank, aside from fantasizing about Carrie Robbins, hadn’t been interested.

  Not to say that he hadn’t been horny—men didn’t need an excuse to be horny. If the wind blew properly, most men could get it up. But when the urge struck, he merely took matters into his own hands—that whole self-sufficient thing—and there were no complications.

  But if tonight’s reaction to Carrie was any indication, he could sure as hell anticipate complications for the coming week. Being with her, particularly when he knew she was going to be primped up like a porn star, was undoubtedly going to push him to the brink of sexual insanity.

  Philip frowned. “I want you to go back first thing Monday morning before we start and see if you can do anything about her w
ardrobe.” Beating a dead horse, he knew, but he was desperate.

  “Philip,” Rupert said, heaving a beleaguered sigh. “There’s no point. They’re not going to budge.”

  “Just try, would you?” he asked impatiently. He massaged the bridge of his nose.

  Rupert studied him thoughtfully. “So that’s the way of it then?”

  “What are you gabbing about?”

  “You’re attracted to her.”

  “Well, of course, I’m attracted to her,” Philip snapped. “She’s bloody gorgeous and she doesn’t wear any clothes. Who wouldn’t be attracted to her?”

  “I’m not,” Rupert said matter-of-factly.

  Philip shot him a disbelieving look. “Sod off.”

  “I’m not,” Rupert insisted. “She’s too pretty,” he explained. “In order for me to be attracted to a woman, I’ve got to know there’s a shot at having her. A girl like that—” he shrugged “—not a chance in hell. She’s out of my league, mate.”

  “But what about fantasies and such?” Philip asked, surprised by his agent’s mentality.

  “You mean like celebrities? Like if Halle Berry suddenly plucked me off the street and wanted to shag me till my balls turned blue?” He nodded. “Yeah, I have those. But they’re fantasies. I know they’re never going to happen. See the difference?”

  Philip paused. Strangely, he did.

  “If you’re attracted to Carrie, it means you know it could happen, that it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

  Philip chucked darkly. “Oh, it’s definitely out of the realm of possibility.”

  Rupert arched a brow. “Because she’s not interested or because you insist?” he asked annoyingly.

  “Both,” Philip said, not altogether sure that the two applied. Frankly, before he’d completely pissed her off, he’d discerned what he thought might be a flicker of interest on her part. He’d deemed it wishful thinking, and hadn’t given it another thought.