Getting It Now!

by Rhonda Nelson

  Philip Mallory made her heart sing with recognition, her body resonate with pleasure and her soul hum with joy.

  He was the yin to her yang, her missing part.

  Carrie swallowed, traced the smooth line of his cheek with her gaze, silently watched him work and a rush of emotion engulfed her, made her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

  He completed her, Carrie thought, struggling to keep her composure. He made her whole.

  “What?” Philip asked as though her world had not just tilted on its axis. “No more questions?”

  Carrie painted the second eye on her humming bird and gently set it aside. “Just one,” she said.

  Philip didn’t look up, merely smiled one of those it-figured sort of grins. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “When are you taking me to bed?”

  He stilled, then carefully looked up. His gaze tangled with hers, sucking all the air out of her lungs.

  Those silvery eyes suddenly glinted with molten heat. “Tell you what,” he said thoughtfully. He paused, finished the bud he’d been working on, and placed it on the parchment paper. “How about I practice some of your notorious efficiency and take you now?”

  A thrill shot through her, triggering a wicked giggle. “Now works for me.”

  HIS GUTS STILL CHURNING from that miserable conversation about his family, Philip abandoned any pretense of control, stalked around the table, pulled her from her chair up against his body, pushed his hands into that streaming moonbeam hair and staked a claim on her mouth that he hoped she’d never forget.

  He poured every ounce of heartache and joy, misery and happiness into the meeting of their mouths. He gave it all to her, held nothing back. He couldn’t. She’d laid him bare, had made him tell all—bloody share it all—and now she had to deal with the fallout. He wouldn’t be denied. Wouldn’t be ignored. Wouldn’t simply cease to exist just to make things easier for her.

  Carrie groaned into his mouth and he savored that sound, felt it reverberate against his tongue. “God, I want you,” she said. She cupped his face in her hands, a tender yet erotic gesture that somehow had the power to make him want to alternately scream and weep. “I can’t help myself. I just look at you and something happens to me. I melt,” she said, slowly running her tongue across his bottom lip.

  Philip’s dick jerked against his shorts. He gathered her up, headed toward the door. “Is there a bedroom down here?” he asked. He didn’t want to take the time to go upstairs. He wanted her now. Knew that the second he planted himself between her thighs the pain and smothering loneliness would abate and, for the moment, at any rate, he’d feel good. Whole.

  As if he’d been born again and this time had come out right. That he could be lovable no matter what happened. That someone couldn’t simply decide not to care about him anymore. That wasn’t love, dammit. Love was uncontrollable, wasn’t a choice. It was felt, not doled out to only those one wanted to give it to.

  “Who needs a bed?” Carrie said, licking a hot path up the side of his neck. Her teeth nipped at his earlobe, then her tongue pushed into his ear and he nearly dropped her it felt so damned good. A quake rocketed through him.

  “You’re right,” Philip told her, swiftly changing directions. He settled her onto her kitchen counter. “Does this work for you?”

  Carrie tore his shirt up over his head and slung it aside. “It will when you’re inside me. Efficiency, Philip,” she needled with a soft wicked chuckle. “Remember?”

  Christ. She was going to be the death of him. She ran her hands over his bare chest, her face a mask of sleepy, greedy pleasure as her palms slid over him. “Talk about beautiful,” she murmured.

  Philip worked her skirt up her legs and stilled when his hands continued to find bare flesh. A choked laugh tore from his throat. “No panties?”

  Carrie palmed him through his shorts, licked her lips, then swiftly opened his fly. “I thought I’d make things easier for you. FYI, I’m not wearing a bra either.” He sprang free, right into her waiting hand. Her lids fluttered shut as she closed her fingers around him, causing a bead of moisture to ooze from his tip.

  Philip pushed the straps of her tank top off her shoulders, slid it down until he’d bared both of her breasts. A mere nod of his head and she was in his mouth, pebbling against his tongue.

  Carrie gasped, scooted forward and guided him to her center. “Come in,” she pleaded. “Come inside me. Let me love you.”

  Let me love you.

  He almost staggered. Philip braced both hands on the counter on either side of her, then pushed himself home. A combined sense of peace and chaos bombarded him, forcing him to lock his knees.

  A storm of emotion and sensation tore through him, whipped his insides into a swirling mass of tender sentiment and the hot, driving need to brand her somehow. Make her permanently his. To be where no man aside from himself would ever be welcome again. The ache in his heart eased and a fractured laugh of relief shattered out of him, then she clamped around him, ran those sweet hands over his chest again and Philip simply let go. Let instinct take over.

  When the last vestiges of release pulsed through them, Carrie reverently kissed his lids, his jaw, where neck met shoulder, then bent forward and tenderly kissed his chest, the region just above his still-racing heart.

  And with that selfless gesture, he gave it to her.

  13

  “AND THAT CONCLUDES our Summer Sizzling special,” Philip said, smiling at the camera.

  Feeling decidedly wicked, Carrie lifted her foot and ran it up the side of Philip’s leg. From the corner of her eye she watched his smile freeze. “We hope that you’ve enjoyed this week with us and that you’ve cooked up a little more than good food,” she said with a significant lift of her brow. “Until then, best wishes for your hot dishes.”

  Jerry called it a wrap and the studio erupted in cheers. Rather than join in the festivities, eyes twinkling, Philip shot her a murderous smile. “I can’t believe you did that,” he said. “What if I’d dropped the plate?”

  “But you didn’t,” she pointed out.

  “But I could have.”

  “Disaster averted, eh? Besides, I was simply paying you back. I could have lopped a finger off when you copped a feel in Act Two.”

  He paused, remembering, then smiled unrepentantly. “Well, there is that.”

  Unable to help herself, Carrie chuckled. “I’ve had a good time with you this week,” she said, feeling slightly sad that their working time together was over. At least, professionally, at any rate.

  Though they’d spent every waking and non-waking moment together for the past couple of days, Carrie had purposely avoided the subject. Furthermore, she suspected he had, too.

  Philip looked away, then that woefully familiar gaze found hers once more and a reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his curiously endearing mouth. “I have, too, Carrie. And I mean that. I know I was a bit of an ass—”

  She cleared her throat loudly.

  “Okay,” he amended. “A complete ass about it in the beginning. But, extracurricular activities aside, it’s been a pleasure. Seriously. You are a spectacularly fine chef and an equally fine host. I hope the network wises up and gives you the show you really deserve.”

  Warmed by his praise and sincerity, Carrie grinned and decided a little teasing was in order to lighten the moment. “So long as it’s not yours, right?”

  His eyes widened and a startled chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Quite right. I’d prefer to keep my own.”

  “Completely understandable.”

  For whatever reason, he looked curiously relieved.

  “Philip, Carrie,” Joyce called above the small din. “The director wants to see you before you leave.”

  An unsettling sense of foreboding slipped up Carrie’s spine. Philip’s expression turned grim and they shared a look. If the director of programming wanted to see them—now, of all times—then that could only mean one thing: they wanted to change the format.


  Philip swore under his breath, then grabbed her elbow and propelled her toward her dressing room. “Change first,” he said. “Cleavage might help your cause, but pants will lend credibility.”

  Carrie scowled. She knew he was right, but found herself slightly annoyed at his high-handed tone nonetheless. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” she said tightly.

  Looking like he was preparing for a rectal exam, Philip leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait here.”

  Carrie knew this had been his fear from the beginning—that he’d somehow get shunted out of his own show and permanently paired up with her—which was why she took deep calming breaths in an effort to cool her increasingly warming temper. How many times did she have to tell him that she didn’t want his damned show? How many other ways could she say it?

  She made quick work of changing her clothes and rejoined him in the hall. The silent trek up to the director’s office was excruciatingly tense. Philip didn’t say a word, merely scowled.

  Dennis Spencer stood when they entered his office and greeted them with a warm smile. “Carrie, Philip,” he said to each in turn. He gestured toward the tufted chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Please sit.”

  Philip looked as if he’d wanted to argue, but ultimately settled into the chair next to her. He nodded, acknowledging the director. “Spencer,” he said tightly.

  If Dennis was at all aware of Philip’s displeasure—and he had to be because Carrie wasn’t even looking at him and could feel the sentiment rolling off him in waves—then he did an impeccable job of not letting on.

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Summer Sizzling programming was my idea.”

  Carrie nodded, feeling her belly tip in a nauseated roll. Oh, hell. This couldn’t be good.

  “As I’m sure your producers have mentioned to you, it’s been a smashing success. We’ve received calls, e-mail and fan mail by the droves.” He smiled encouragingly, as though they should be happy about this news.

  Clearly, Philip wasn’t.

  Dennis’s smile faltered, but he ultimately pressed on. “Apart, the two of you are fantastic. Together, you’re phenomenal.”

  Philip’s jaw hardened and he shifted forward in his chair. “Look, Spencer, I can see where you’re going with this. As I’m sure you’re aware, I didn’t want to do this special to start with. I only came on board to prevent being in breach of contract.”

  Carrie had figured as much, but for some incomprehensible reason, hearing him say it pricked at her heart. It wasn’t personal, she knew—at least not in the derogatory sense—but that didn’t keep her from inwardly flinching all the same.

  Dennis seemed to be weighing his options. His brow drew into a faintly thoughtful line and his shrewd gaze bounced between them. “I can see that trying to coax you into cooperating isn’t going to work. So I’ll just cut to the chase.” His gaze found Carrie’s. “Carrie, do you have any problem working with Philip?”

  “No, but—”

  “That’ll do,” he said, interrupting her. “Philip, you’ve got another three years on your current contract. Without buying you out—which we have no intention of doing, by the way—there’s nothing I can technically do to force your cooperation.” He pulled a shrug. “I could continue organizing specials and putting you with Carrie…but we’ve got something a lot more permanent in mind.”

  Philip laughed bitterly. “Bloody hell,” he said, then shot Carrie a look. “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do this. I knew this would happen.” He chuckled darkly. “It’s my lot in life apparently.”

  Dennis ignored Philip’s sarcasm and his gaze drifted to her. “Carrie, you on the other hand are due for renewal the end of the month.”

  Carrie swallowed, feeling distinctly sick. She’d known that, but other than instructing her agent to try to work on a better wardrobe, she hadn’t really given much thought to it. “I’m aware of that,” she finally said, for lack of anything better.

  He smiled, but the action lacked genuine warmth. “Here’s our position,” he said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Unless Philip agrees to join you on your show, then we’re not going to renew your contract.”

  Carrie inhaled sharply and Philip vaulted from his chair. “You have got to be kidding,” Philip snapped. “What’s one got to do with the other? She’s got excellent ratings in her own right! She’s the best damned chef here!”

  Looking extremely smug, Dennis leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, I’m sure she hopes that you keep those things in mind when you make your decision.”

  Nausea clawed its way up the back of Carrie’s throat and her head felt like it was going to explode.

  This could not be happening. It was simply too horrible to—

  Philip braced both hands on the desk and leaned forward threateningly. “Here’s the thing. I made my decision before we ever had this meeting. It’s no.”

  Dennis looked genuinely surprised, but Carrie wasn’t. Furthermore, she didn’t blame him. “Philip,” she began. “I—”

  “Sorry, Carrie,” he said in a voice that chilled her.

  “I can’t do this. It’s a deal breaker, if you know what I mean.”

  Then without another word, he turned and walked out.

  If you know what I mean.

  Significant ominous words, and unfortunately, she did know what they meant.

  It was over.

  He’d certainly ended that efficiently, hadn’t he? Carrie thought as her heart, true to form, just as efficiently broke.

  “LOOK, RUPERT,” PHILIP BARKED into his cell phone. “I don’t give a damn what you’re doing or who you’re doing it to or for. You get over here and take care of this mess now, or I swear this time I’ll really fire you.”

  That sanctimonious little pissant, Philip thought, his mind a black hole of rage as he stormed out of the studio to his car. Who would have ever thought Dennis Spencer had it in him to be such a—

  “What are you raving about?” Rupert said. “Slow down and start over.”

  Philip related Spencer’s threat once again, felt his blood pressure gathering vein-bursting strength. “Can he do that?” Philip demanded. “Can he simply choose to not renew her contract if I don’t agree to work with her?”

  Rupert’s sigh sounded through the line. “Yes, I’m afraid he can. Look, Philip, I know that you’re upset, but this is really an issue that her agent needs to address, not yours.”

  Philip slid behind the wheel, started the engine and shot out of the parking garage. “But there has to be something I can do,” he argued. “I don’t want her getting fired on my account.”

  “Do you want to work with her?”

  Philip negotiated traffic, did a mental search of his fractured thoughts and tried to decide if he really didn’t want to work with her, of he simply didn’t like being backed into a corner.

  In the end, the answer was, in part, the same as it had always been. “No,” he admitted. “At least not all the time, at any rate.” And definitely not so long as they continued to insult her talent by dressing her up like a porn star before each session. Honestly, though he knew why she’d made the choice she’d made—and he really didn’t blame her—he still didn’t see how she stood it.

  Then again, who was he to judge? He’d never walked in her shoes. In a similar situation, who was to say he wouldn’t don a thong and let them dub him The Bare-Assed Baker?

  “Then there’s your answer, I’m afraid,” Rupert told him. “If you don’t want to work with her, then there’s nothing left for you to do. Let her agent take care of it. If she’s got a halfway decent one, then they’ll be able to handle it.”

  Philip wished he could be reassured, but didn’t find Rupert’s advice the least bit comforting. In fact, he felt like a selfish ass, which was precisely the way Spencer had counted on him feeling. If Philip had to guess, he imagined that Spencer had caught wind of rumors which correctly paired him up with
Carrie. It wasn’t as though they’d made a big secret about their relationship. Hell, though they hadn’t specifically said anything about it, he knew any fool could watch their shows—particularly the last two—and put the pieces together.

  Philip swore. That bastard, he thought again. Of all the scheming underhanded nerve.

  “What happens if I bail out of my contract?”

  “Aside from the fact that you’ll never work in your desired field again, nothing, I suppose,” Rupert said lightly, as though ending his career wasn’t a big deal. “What was Carrie’s reaction?” his agent asked.

  Philip stilled, drawing a blank. “Er…I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Rupert asked, almost threateningly. “She was there with you, right? What did she say?”

  Philip dialed back his memory, replayed the scene in Spencer’s office. “I, uh…”

  Rupert heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t tell me that you went off half-cocked and didn’t even give her a chance to speak? To defend herself. Tell me that you care enough about her to give her the benefit of the doubt, not just get pissed off and storm out, leaving her alone with that controlling little asshole who is presently trying to ruin both of your careers. Tell me you didn’t do that, Philip,” Rupert repeated wearily, his voice depressingly resigned. “Tell me you’ve got sense enough to see that this girl isn’t anything like Sophie.”

  Philip wheeled his car into his driveway, rolled to an abrupt stop, then shifted into Park. His big empty house loomed before him. The import of what he’d just done—the mistake he’d just made—settled like the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He’d done exactly what Rupert had just said.

  Was guilty of all of the above.

  And worse, he realized, his belly filling with a numbing sort of dread. He’d assumed that if he said no—if he refused to work with her—that she’d never forgive him and end it with him. Discard him. Stop caring. His throat tightened.