Eat Your Heart Out

by Jill Shalvis

  Ted beamed.

  Dimi fumed. This was not a joke!

  “Keep trying,” Mitch suggested.

  “What happened to Ritchie?” Dimi asked bluntly.

  He cocked his head at her and still didn’t smile. “Do you really want to know?”

  Probably not, she decided. Ritchie had yelled a lot and thrown his weight around—which at two hundred plus pounds on a five-foot frame had been considerable—but at least what you saw with Ritchie was what you got.

  Her new producer slipped his sunglasses into his chest pocket. He stood there with legs spread wide, hands on his hips, looking like he owned the world.

  And he did. Her world.

  “I don’t suppose you’re interested in low-fat California cuisine?” she asked hopefully.

  “I’m interested in ratings.” His voice was low and direct and full of authority. “What do you know about getting good ratings?”

  “Apparently not much.” She sent daggers to her so-called staff, who were slinking off like worms, every last one of them.

  “Well then, we have a lot to discuss. The show needs some serious spicing up.”

  She turned her attention back to Mr. Producer. “Spicing?”

  “I thought we’d try humor, among other things.”

  “I don’t do humor.”

  “You did yesterday when you announced your impending shriveled-up-old-maid status.”

  Dimi felt the blush creep up her face. “You said humor ‘among other things.’ What things?”

  “Sex.”

  She felt her eyes bug out of her head. “Excuse me?”

  “Humor and sex. That’s what you need.”

  Dimi didn’t gape often, but she did now. “That’s what I need?”

  “On the show,” he clarified, his mouth quirking slightly.

  The bastard.

  He glanced at his watch. “See you in my office in, say, five?”

  As if he was really asking her! Nope, this was a definite demand. A subtle one, but a demand nevertheless. “Are you going to fire me?”

  He lifted a brow. “I don’t usually discuss business in the parking lot.”

  Oh, definitely. She was toast. Burnt toast.

  CHAPTER 2

  MITCH WALKED DOWN the hall of the busy television studio toward his newly assigned office, ignoring the stares he received from every corner high and low. He was familiar with being the outsider. His job called for it, as well as for instilling a good amount of fear in his subordinates.

  He knew that it wasn’t exactly politically correct, terrifying the people who worked for him, but he’d found fear an incredible motivator.

  He wasn’t going to make friends, that was a foregone conclusion, and quite honestly, no big deal. Friends had always been rare, given that he’d come from a military family who’d moved around at the drop of a hat. Besides, until two years ago he hadn’t needed friends. He’d had his brother.

  He didn’t have Daniel now. But friends were out of the question. He was temporary here. All he had to do was turn Food Time into the success the owners knew it could be. Once he did that, and accepted his large bonus for doing so, he could return to southern California.

  Or wherever suited him.

  “He’s scary,” he heard one clerk whisper to another as he strode down the hall.

  “Yeah, but so sexy.” The reply was hushed.

  Mitch bit back a grin. Scary and sexy. Not bad for his first day. He’d been called worse, much worse.

  Shame that he only had one minute before his scheduled meeting with Ms. Anderson, so he couldn’t loiter and scare some more people into actually doing their jobs. Because if he knew Dimi’s type—Ah, yes, there she was, standing in front of his office, staring at the door as if she were his sacrificial lamb, poor baby. Early, too. Being late would go against the grain for a serious workaholic such as her.

  So intense. Obviously she hadn’t learned what he had, to live each day—hell, each moment as if it were his last.

  Work wasn’t everything, not even close, and he’d learned that the hard way, after Daniel had died. As a result, he’d vowed to never work harder than he played, but he did play pretty hard. And yet, he believed in being the best, and that meant concentrating on Food Time, at least for now.

  Which also meant he needed to decide if he was going to fire the far-too-serious chef in order to get the direction for the show he wanted.

  Dimi still stood before his closed office door, hand raised as if to knock, staring at the wood. Her full bottom lip was being tortured by her teeth, indecision dancing across her beautiful face.

  And she was beautiful, stunningly so. Tall, blonde and curvy. Serious pinup status. Most men would be rendered stupid by just looking at her, unless of course a man was one who’d spent much of his life surrounded by the Hollywood starlet type.

  But Dimi was no typical blonde bombshell willing to sleep with him for a scrap of a part. Not even close. He’d caught her show. She had the basic looks, all right, but not the humor or natural grace with which to pull the entire package off.

  Not to mention, despite that incredible, mouthwatering body, she was the antithesis of sexy. Take her outfit, for example—a full-blown navy power suit that barely showed her calves and covered every other inch of her except her face.

  She definitely needed work.

  Fortunately, Mitch specialized in such work. He could fix the show, and her, if he so chose. The question was, did he so choose?

  In what appeared to be a sudden panic, Dimi dropped her hand to her side.

  “God, what if he fires me?” she muttered, then, just as suddenly, she thrust her chin up. “Well then, I’ll get another job, that’s what.” She brought up her hand again, then made a disparaging sound and dropped her head to the door. “So all you can do is cook,” she told the wood. “There’s plenty of opportunities out there. A restaurant, for one.”

  Fascinated by this picture of misery, and greatly amused, Mitch settled against the opposite wall to watch.

  “Or I could become a wife,” she said, resigned.

  “But then you’d have to retract your whole giving-up-men thing,” he noted.

  Letting out a little squeal, she whirled around, hand to her chest. When she saw him, her eyes narrowed and she pointed. “You were eavesdropping.”

  “On the conversation you were having with yourself?” When she blushed, he pushed away from the wall. “You know, my office door works better if you actually open it.”

  She didn’t so much as crack a smile, and he sighed. Just as he’d thought—no sense of humor. That was going to have to change if she wanted to stay.

  “I was going to knock,” she said.

  “Before or after you finished talking to yourself?”

  “Look, if you’re going to fire me, I’d like to know right now.”

  “Right this second?”

  Some of her resolve faltered, and she swallowed. “Y-yes.”

  “Out here in the hallway, where no less than five different crew members are lingering, waiting for the word on what happens to you?”

  Dimi’s gaze darted to the plants that lined the hallway, giving away her workmates. Not that he hadn’t noticed hot pink go-go boots behind the giant creeping charlie, or neon green vinyl pants behind the miniature palm, and since the hibiscus was currently shaking like crazy, he knew damn well there were at least three more people hidden behind that, too.

  Odd, since not one of them had appeared to give Richard a second thought. They obviously cared about Dimi, though, on whom he turned to give another long look.

  She was still all bombshell body and blond hair and incredible expression. It’d be a shame to let her go. If she’d lose half her clothing, at least, and maybe try smiling, she’d bowl people over.

  Instead, she squared her shoulders and regarded him seriously. “They’re hiding because they’re worried. They’re not used to a producer like you.”

  “Like me?”

  �
�Let’s just say Ritchie had a different technique.”

  “I hope so.”

  “No, I mean…” Her gaze ran down the front of him, and he had to figure he only imagined that flare of awareness in her eyes, because he was pretty sure he knew what she thought of him.

  “Ritchie wore jeans,” she said. “Every day. His idea of dressing up was to tuck in his T-shirt. He never once wore leather, and since he fainted if he had to so much as trim his nails, I’m quite positive he had nothing pierced.”

  “It’s just an earring.”

  She gave him a long look, and nothing about it was flattering, which made him want to laugh because women usually found him fairly irresistible. He leaned past her, past the soft, silky blond hair, past the oddly intoxicating scent of her shampoo, past the body so tall she could almost look at him eye to eye.

  Hell of a time to realize how arousing that could be.

  Opening the office door, he gestured her inside. “You get to go first. The plants, and the crew in them, can have the next meeting.”

  “First to the guillotine, what an honor. Thanks.”

  He widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Was that wit I just heard?”

  He grinned at her back as she stalked into his office. “Hey, wait a minute. Tell another joke. Maybe there’s a chance for the show, after all.”

  She whirled around, hope lighting her eyes…until she realized he was still teasing her. Then her face once again became carefully measured.

  Oddly enough, he felt like a jerk.

  Interesting. He’d done much worse than tease a woman with absolutely no remorse, so why did he suddenly feel like apologizing? “Please,” he said, indicating a chair. “Sit.”

  She lowered herself to one of the two chairs in front of his big desk. Good. He sat in the other, noticing that her mouth tightened at his choice of being right next to her, rather than behind his desk. “Okay, let’s be up-front,” he said briskly. “We have two problems. Well, three if you count yourself.”

  Her eyes flashed him death wishes, but she said nothing.

  Control. He liked that. He respected that. But he still had his doubts. “First, the show is too uptight. As I mentioned, we need humor. We need sex, Dimi.”

  “Can you stop saying it like that?”

  “Like what?” he asked innocently.

  “Look, it’s a cooking show.” She grated the words out. “Humor and—and…”

  “Sex?” he offered helpfully. “Is that the word you’re having trouble with?”

  She folded her hands and managed, despite her come-hither good looks, to look like a prim schoolteacher. “Neither have any place on a cooking show. For that, they could turn to Debra Dee’s station.”

  “But I don’t want them to do that,” he replied reasonably. “I want them to tune in to you. Hence the good humor and sexiness.”

  She leapt to her feet and walked to his window.

  “Why is this such a problem?”

  Her back to him, she sighed and said, “Because I don’t know how to be funny or sexy.”

  “So you’ll learn.”

  That had her turning around to face him. “How?”

  “Well, that’s the beauty of it. I’ll teach you.”

  “You’ll—Oh, my God.” She sank to a chair, his own, in fact, but he didn’t point that out, mostly because she looked so utterly distressed and so utterly adorable.

  “We’ll have lessons,” he told her. “You’ll learn in no time, as I happen to be one excellent teacher.”

  Tipping her head back, she stared at the ceiling. “Terrific. Now I’m so pathetic I need help to turn me into a real woman.”

  His gaze took a tour down that lush body, and he slowly shook his head. “I never said you weren’t a real woman, Dimi.” His voice was a little lower, a little rougher, than he intended.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “I don’t flirt with people who work for me.” Never. Mixing business and pleasure was a bad mistake, one he didn’t intend to make. “Are you open to my help or not?”

  “And if I said no? You’ll fire me?”

  He had to shake his head. “You’re into this firing stuff, aren’t you.” She only stared at him steadily, making him sigh. “Honestly? It’d be a damn shame to lose you. You’re a fabulous chef, have an amazing voice and beneath all those clothes have exactly the look I want for the show.” He received such a scandalized glare, he nearly laughed. “All you need is the drive.”

  “The drive.”

  “Shoot for the moon, Dimi. With your outer package, you can have it all.”

  Her mouth opened, then carefully closed.

  “I want fast banter, live. I want lots of warm, loving smiles, live. I want you bubbly and laughing—”

  “Live,” she said tersely. “I get it.”

  Not quite, she didn’t. “And hot. Hot, Dimi. Do you know what I’m saying? I want skin, and yes, go ahead, roll your eyes and groan. Fine. But skin sells. I want some body language, too. Try it when you’re walking from the refrigerator to the counter to the oven.”

  “Body language.”

  “Yeah. Good old-fashioned body language. Swing your ass once in a while. You walk like a wooden doll.”

  “Swing my—” She shook her head. “This is insane. I don’t swing when I walk.”

  “I know. But you need to.”

  “And I don’t intend to show anyone skin.” When he lifted a brow, she hoisted that chin so far he thought she was going to fall over. “And even if I did agree to this insanity, it’s a moot point. I gave up men. Live. Remember?”

  “You’re going to have to recant that.”

  “Why? It’s not like I have anyone to banter with.”

  “Well, here’s the beauty of this whole tutoring thing.” He grinned. “Meet your new on-air assistant. Your bantering partner.”

  When he bowed before her, she stared at him. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t need an assistant.”

  “Ah, but you do.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He just looked at her.

  “Your way or the highway, huh?”

  At her look of hurt dismay, he actually felt a twinge of conscience, which disturbed him. This was a job. Fix the show. Move on. Leave behind no regrets and no broken promises. “My way or the highway,” he agreed quietly.

  * * *

  Dimi exited the meeting in shock. So much so that she forgot to check the plants for Suzie.

  Swing her ass. Show skin.

  Oh. My. God.

  She’d never hyperventilated before, but she was close now. Needing fresh air, she headed toward the side exit of the studio and found herself in the parking lot, aimlessly walking the aisles of cars.

  “Psst.”

  Dimi looked around and saw nothing but vehicles.

  “Over here!”

  She whirled, and there, in the back of Leo’s cherry-red Ford pickup, sat her entire crew, huddled, looking terrified.

  Sighing, she headed toward them. Ted handed her a mug. Leo filled it with coffee from a thermos. Gracie dumped a sugar packet into it. Suzie took one look at Dimi’s face and added two more packets.

  Everyone waited with bated breath while she sipped and got a good zap of caffeine and sugar.

  “Well?” Leo finally demanded. “What happened in there? You took so long I thought maybe his leather jacket and amazing gray eyes finally got to you and you’d attacked him or something.”

  “Did you somehow miss the show where I gave up men?” Dimi held up her hand when they all started to speak at once, and took the time to swallow several more desperately needed sips of coffee. She wished she was home so she could raid her sister’s kitchen for potato chips. Barbecue, high on the fat, because she needed a junk food run in the worst way. “It’s…bad.”

  “He fired you?” Suzie whispered. “Oh, God. Unemployment, here we come.”

  “Worse.” Dimi t
ook another sip, then faced her crew bravely. “He wants to change the tone of the show. Wants to make it…”

  “What?” Suzie demanded in unison with the others.

  “Funny.”

  “We know that. It’s no big deal, right?”

  “Not just funny. He wants a little more…”

  “What?” Suzie cried. “Spit it out!”

  “Sex,” Dimi muttered into the mug. “Dammit, he wants me to smile and laugh and probably coo disgusting sentiments while I’m at it.”

  “That’s all?” Leo asked. “That’s not so bad.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Ted agreed.

  “No, it’s not. He wants me to show skin and swing my—” Dimi blushed. “Well, let’s just say I need to walk differently, too.”

  Everyone gaped at her, then suddenly broke into collective, relieved laughter. Suzie hooted the loudest, practically falling out of the truck bed.

  Dimi folded her arms and bore the moment. “I don’t see the humor in this, not one bit. None of you are going to have to—to…”

  “Swing?” Suzie slapped her knee and started laughing all over again. “Oh, this is good,” she finally said with a sniff.

  “Yeah?” Dimi glared at her. “You haven’t heard the worst of it. He’s going to be the one to make sure I’m sexy and funny enough, and if you think I’m going to enjoy lessons from one Mitchell Knight, then think again.”

  “Are you kidding?” Gracie stopped laughing. “The sexiest, toughest, coolest man on the planet is going to give you lessons in being sexy? Oh, man. Oh, man!” She fanned herself, then turned a speculative eye on Dimi. “Hey, maybe we can switch jobs. What?” she demanded of the laughing Ted and Leo. “I wouldn’t mind getting lessons from the likes of him.”

  “I thought he was the biggest, baddest producer and you were terrified of him,” Dimi reminded her.

  “Yeah, but that’s in the work sense. This would be…pleasure. Oh, come on! He’s all big and built and rugged, not to mention gorgeous. And those eyes…whew. Talk about dark, edgy intensity.” She shivered. “He’s quite the package, if you don’t have to work for him.”

  “Which I do,” Dimi said glumly.