Getting It Now!

by Rhonda Nelson

  Rather than wait around for Jerry and Joyce to go on and on about their “chemistry” and “heat” and “special spark,” Carrie had calmly asked Philip if he’d look over tomorrow’s breakdown, then the wench had shot him a saucy wink and he’d casually followed her all the way to her dressing room.

  Then he’d snapped.

  Much as he had before, when he’d flipped and kissed her. Only this time he knew what she would taste like, how fantastic she’d feel—how carnally responsive—and he hadn’t been able to employ any sort of thoughtful seduction.

  He’d freed his dick from his pants, scooched her panties over and toppled her like a randy virgin boy desperate to get at his first lover. He’d taken her with all the finesse of a sex-crazed bull elephant. Hell, he’d practically knocked her to the bloody floor, Philip thought, feeling his lips slip into a faint smile.

  Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind.

  And if anything, she’d seemed to enjoy it all the more. Last night when he’d finally fallen asleep with her, Philip hadn’t given any thought to how they would work together today. Frankly, doing any sort of thinking last night had been out of the question. It had been too remarkable. Too…much, for lack of any better description.

  Last night had been, simply put, the best night of his life.

  Being with her had been…Philip paused, remembering. He let go an unsteady breath. It had been…unsurpassable. If he lived to be one hundred—no, forget that, Philip thought—if he lived forever, he knew he’d never have another evening so unbelievably perfect. Knew he’d never come close to finding the contentment he’d found in Carrie’s arms. His gaze turned inward once more. Candlelight and moonbeam hair, that soft open palm.

  Odd that of all the memories of last night, that was the one he kept coming back to. One would think he’d linger over visions of her breasts, plump and perfect, the soft curve of her hip, her sweet sex. Admittedly, those had revisited him. Philip swallowed. But that darling hand upon his chest…that one had affected him.

  Deeply.

  In fact, for all intents and purposes, she might have well reached through his chest and touched his heart. For reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom or explain, he knew it’d never be the same again.

  If he had any sense at all he’d be terrified—he grimly suspected he knew what this feeling was, even if he wasn’t ready to label it, and yet he lacked the emotional reserve to be frightened. He was too damned excited. Couldn’t wait to get out of his house tonight and into hers.

  “Much as I’m thrilled to see that you’re enjoying yourself, we need to talk, Philip,” Rupert said gravely.

  Philip rinsed his razor and tapped it against the side of the sink. “About what?”

  “Your performance with Carrie. You’re having too much fun.”

  Philip chuckled. Now that was an understatement. Sexual tension aside, he loved working with her. They had an instinctive rhythm in the kitchen, could easily read each other, knew exactly how to segue into each segment of the show. In fact, neither one of them had even looked at the teleprompter today. They joked, laughed, had fun. They complemented each other extremely well and, though they’d only worked on three shows together, the camaraderie between the two of them bespoke of a much longer acquaintance.

  “Having too much fun?” Philip asked. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid, Rupert?”

  “I’m not being paranoid,” he snapped. “I’m being smart. I warned you yesterday that if you didn’t dial things down a notch, I feared you were going to end up paired up with her permanently. I was under the impression that you were against that. Am I to assume now that your position has changed?”

  “No,” Philip said. Though, quite frankly, he wouldn’t mind doing an additional show with Carrie, preferably fully clothed. Though he felt like a hypocrite—he’d certainly benefited from and enjoyed her half-dressed ensemble, particularly of late—he still thought that the marketing ploy cheapened her talent. She deserved better.

  “Then, for your sake—and her feelings,” he added, “I suggest that you not enjoy yourself quite so much these next couple of days. Both Joyce and Jerry have already called and asked for an audience Friday. It’s not time to renegotiate. What, pray tell, could they want, I wonder?” Rupert paused, presumably to let that little morsel of news sink in.

  Philip’s instincts went on red alert. “They’ve both asked to see you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Together or separate?”

  “Together,” Rupert said, confirming Philip’s suspicions. Unless they were interested in lengthening the special or had some other idea in mind, there’d be no reason for the two of them to want to meet with Rupert together. Undoubtedly they had something up their sleeve…something that would most likely put him and Carrie at cross-purposes, which didn’t bode well for their budding relationship.

  “Shit,” Philip swore. Why did things have to be so damned complicated? Why couldn’t the network leave things well enough alone?

  Rupert smiled grimly. “I thought you’d see things my way.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Rupert shrugged. “You didn’t have to.”

  Philip released an irritated breath. “What a bloody nightmare.”

  “Would you like me to get you a drink?”

  “No, I’d like you to brush up on contract law. I think we’re going to need it.”

  Oh, to hell with it, Philip thought, staring at his grave reflection in the mirror. He was worrying for nothing. He’d cooperated. He’d been a team player. He’d done everything they’d asked him to do with the assurance from all parties that there was no ulterior motive.

  Clearly, he was paranoid and worrying for nothing, and his own paranoia had rubbed off on Rupert. He wasn’t going to think about it anymore. Refused to borrow trouble and ruin his relationship with Carrie. If they wanted to pair them up for good, he’d just say no.

  Problem solved.

  She’d understand, dammit. She might not like it, but she would respect his wishes. After all, he’d been up front with her. He’d never given her any reason to suspect that he’d like to make this co-hosting thing a permanent arrangement, right?

  Satisfied that he’d argued himself out of a miserable corner, Philip nodded succinctly. Right.

  Everything would be fine.

  Starting with tonight…

  12

  PHILIP LEANED OVER her shoulder, his warm breath fanning against her neck causing a shower of goose bumps to race up her back. “That’s excellent work,” he murmured. “Beautiful detail.”

  Carrie sat her at her kitchen table, various tools and food-coloring paints lined up in front of her as she worked on Frankie’s hummingbird. Actually painting the bird had ended up being a lot more difficult than making the form and sculpting it to start with. She’d contacted Ross this afternoon and gotten him to send a digital picture of the original stained glass ornament that she was basing her design on. It was her hope that Frankie would recognize it.

  “Thank you,” Carrie told him, carefully adding another stroke of color. She glanced across the table at the orange trumpet vine blossom Philip had done for her. “You don’t do shabby work yourself.”

  Philip straightened. “Do you want me to work on the leaves now?” he asked.

  Carrie paused long enough to look up. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” She winced. “This is taking me longer than I thought it would.”

  Philip’s sexy mouth curled into that crooked smile that made her breath hitch in her throat. “I don’t mind at all. The sooner you get finished, the sooner we can move onto…other things,” he said, his voice a slightly rough suggestive purr.

  Carrie chuckled softly, cocked her head and released a small sigh. “So long as your motives are clear.”

  “I could make them very plain for you,” Philip offered accommodatingly. He took the chair opposite her and set to work.

  “Oh, I think they’re plain enough.”

&
nbsp; He nodded, his lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  He was incorrigible, Carrie thought, and for some reason found that absolutely adorable. Tonight he wore another cool linen shirt—French blue, a fantastic shade for him—and a pair of loose white shorts. Pricey sandals were strapped onto his distinctly masculine feet. Carrie bit her lip, felt a hot flash of desire hit the tops of her thighs. He epitomized the perfect urban male, she decided—comfortably chic. Very sexy.

  Though he hadn’t looked at her, his eyes widened significantly. “If you want me to work for you, you’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” Philip warned amiably. “I’m only a man. And a very horny one to boot,” he added grimly.

  “Sorry,” Carrie said, making a concerted effort to not provoke him. She did appreciate the help, after all.

  A comfortable silence stretched between them as they worked and there was something completely natural and right about Philip being here, in her kitchen, helping her. She felt as if they were part of a team, a cozy companionship that she instinctively knew she could become seriously addicted to.

  Hoover seemed to approve too, she thought, casting a fond look at her dog. He’d dragged his bed over next to Philip’s chair and, after Philip had obligingly petted him, he’d lain down and gone to sleep.

  “Tell me about England,” Carrie said, deciding that a little personal information was in order.

  Philip’s gaze darted to hers and he arched a questioning brow. “You’ve never been before?” he asked.

  Carrie shook her head.

  “Odd,” Philip remarked. “As much as you’ve talked about traveling with your parents—Doctors Without Borders, right?—I just assumed…”

  Carrie felt a little bud of pleasure unfurl in her chest. Had he actually watched every show? she wondered. “Too rich,” she explained. “People with money don’t need health care.”

  He carefully veined a small leaf. “Right. And where are your parents now?”

  “Cambodia. Along with my brother. He’s a doctor as well.”

  Philip looked up and frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention him.”

  Carrie’s lips quirked with droll humor as she painted the last bit of the first wing. She studied her handiwork critically, then corrected a slight mistake. “You must have missed that episode.”

  “Wrong,” Philip told her. “I’ve seen them all. In fact, I have recorded every one of them.”

  Carrie grinned. “Is that right?”

  “It is. Now back to the subject of your brother. Younger or older?”

  She let go a sigh, dipped her brush and set to work on the other side. “Younger.”

  “And you weren’t interested in being a doctor as well? No calling to go into the medical field?”

  Carrie laughed. “Er…no. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  Philip smiled at her. “Yes, well, I can see where that would put you at a disadvantage.” He paused.

  “So why cooking? What led you in that direction?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” she said, wonder ing how her plan to carefully interrogate him for little morsels of information had suddenly been turned around on her.

  “You certainly can,” Philip said. “Later. Come on. Why cooking?”

  If he was expecting her to confess to some grandiose dream of always having a passion for the art, then he was going to be sadly disappointed. It had come, but…“Believe me, there’s nothing romantic about it.”

  “I don’t care. What? Did you have a doting grand mother who baked with you? Fond memories of making cookies with your mother as a child?”

  Carrie laughed. “Sorry. None of the above. I was an overweight child with serious food issues which were only compounded when we briefly came back to the States in my late teens. In order to beat it, I had to master it.” She shrugged. “Becoming a chef was the product of that psychosis,” she told him.

  Now this was a first, Carrie thought as Philip goggled at her. She’d shocked him. “What?” she asked.

  He shook his head, apparently trying to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “It’s just so hard to imagine you being anything but perfect. You’re beau—”

  “I’m not perfect,” Carrie said, unable to suppress the slight irritation in her voice. “Nobody’s perfect. Being pretty doesn’t make someone perfect. It doesn’t make their life easier.”

  His smile slowly fell and he studied her closely. Dammit, Carrie thought. Why hadn’t she just kept her mouth shut?

  “I never said it did,” Philip told her. “Sorry if I hit a button.”

  Irritated with herself, Carrie frowned and shook her head. “No apology needed. I overreacted. It’s my hang-up, not yours.” She paused, deciding she owed him an explanation for her outburst. “It’s just, I know what it feels like to be imperfect. To be different. I lived with the stigma of being overweight. I was sneered at and ridiculed. Then I lost the weight and have lived with the stigma of being pretty.” She gestured impatiently. “There’s this perception that if you’re thin and pretty, the world is your oyster…and frankly, that’s a crock.” She laughed bitterly under her breath. “I worked for Martin Renauld for years and there wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t make some sort of snide comment. But I went in there every day and did my job because his was the best restaurant in town. When The Negligee Gourmet deal came along, I’ll be honest. I was disappointed. I thought I was getting a show where my talent was the selling point. I was wrong. My sex appeal was the selling point. My looks. I worried about selling out, about compromising, but in the end I did what was best for me and followed the money. Do I wish things were different? Yes. But they’re still better and that’s what I have to think about.”

  Seemingly digesting everything she’d said, Philip merely nodded. “Wow,” he finally said. “I had no idea. I, er…I don’t know what to say.”

  Curiously relieved that she’d explained herself, that she’d essentially laid all of her cards out on the table, Carrie smiled and shrugged. “You don’t have to say anything. We’re changing the subject anyway.”

  “We are? To what?”

  “You. I’ve answered all of your questions—and then some,” she said, poking her tongue in her cheek. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Philip exhaled a weary breath. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Carrie snagged a notepad and pretended to jot something down.

  “What are you doing?” Philip wanted to know.

  “You’re right,” Carrie said slowly, scrawling the words with a ridiculous amount of attention onto the paper. She finished and slid it to him. “Sign and date it please. I doubt I’ll ever hear those words again.”

  Philip’s eyes widened when he realized what she’d done and he laughingly pushed the pad back at her. “Sorry. I won’t arm you with proof of your intelligence. You’re too damned smart as it is.”

  Now, that was a compliment, Carrie thought, pleased. “Okay,” she said. “What do I want to know first? Ah, yes. How old are you?”

  He regarded her moodily. “Thirty-three.”

  “And where did you grow up?”

  “Fulham, a suburb just inside London.”

  Carrie worked on her hummingbird’s beak. “And have you been able to visit much since you moved here?”

  “Visit who?” Philip asked. “My family’s dead.”

  Had she not been concentrating, she would have fumbled her bird. She glanced up in time to see Philip wince, to see a flash of pain pass quickly over his features. He might have made a glib announcement, but there was clearly nothing glib about the pain it had caused him. The pain he still felt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stunned. “I had no idea.”

  Philip shook his head. “No worries. They’ve been gone a long time. Besides, you had no way of knowing.”

  Still. She felt like a moron and her heart broke for him. “What happened?”

  “My mum had
breast cancer.” Philip swallowed. “Dreadful disease. She passed away four years ago. My, uh…My father couldn’t deal with it. He committed suicide a week after we buried her.”

  “Oh, Philip,” Carrie said, aching for him. How terrible. “I’m so sorry.”

  Philip didn’t look up, but continued to work on the vines and leaves for the cake. “You know, this is going to sound harsh, but we weren’t really all that close. My little sister drowned when she was five and they never quite recovered. They were so afraid that something might happen to me that they sort of, I don’t know, disconnected I guess. As a result, I was never really able to get close to them.” He let go a breath. “It was all for the best, I suppose, since they came to such a tragic end.”

  Losing one’s entire family could not be for the best, Carrie thought, swallowing the lump of mournful outrage which had formed in her throat. “Your sister, what was her name?”

  A fond smile drifted over his lips. “Penny. She had a head full of bright coppery hair. Thus her namesake.”

  Carrie continued to work, instinctively knew that Philip would shut down if he in any way suspected how this conversation was affecting her. Furthermore, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her pity. “And how old were you when she died?”

  “Nine.”

  So old enough to remember being loved properly, but young enough to suffer years of lonely loss.

  That would certainly account for the haunting pain she’d seen in those gorgeous silvery eyes, Carrie thought. No wonder he guarded his heart so fiercely.

  He’d had to protect it because he was the only one who’d given a damn about it.

  Until now, Carrie thought, feeling emotion seep into every swiftly thawing crevice of her heart. She gave a damn. In fact, were she completely honest with herself, she gave more than a damn.

  Though reason told her that it was impossible—hell, they barely knew each other—instinct told her otherwise. She’d had that continual sense of familiarity since before meeting him and that feeling had been on fast-forward since Saturday.