Bad Reputations: A steamy, celebrity romance (The Breaking Through Series Book 1)

by Barbara Deleo

  If he was a supplier of cooking equipment, or a repo man, he’d be throwing out some pretty choice expletives right now in response to her attitude. Lucky for her, he had a few more manners than she was displaying. No wonder she was such a PR disaster. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and, finding nowhere to put it on the crowded counter, laid it across his knee. “I’ve come to discuss your contract with Dent and Douglas.”

  Her shoulders straightened. “My contract with Dent and Douglas is finished. I explained to Angela Jenkins that it wasn’t working out.” She turned and played with the strings of the apron. “If there are things to sign my lawyer will take care of it.”

  She leaned closer, and the K slipped beneath the fabric to a part of her he couldn’t see.

  He swallowed, then refocused. Given her significant business troubles, the fight she still had left inside was admirable, and surprisingly sexy. “I’m Angela’s replacement.”

  Her eyes darted from the apron to his face. “May I see your card?”

  Shit. His stomach clenched. He was going to have enough trouble making her come around if she thought he worked for Dent and Douglas. If she knew he was D and D’s new buyer and that they wouldn’t sell until he’d fixed her situation, she’d be the one in the driver’s seat, and no way was that happening. His real identity could be saved for later. “I left my last card with your guy upstairs. Call him.”

  She turned as if looking for her phone, then seemed to think better of it. “In case you haven’t quite got the message, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want an image consultant anymore. Thanks for your time. I’m sorry it was wasted.”

  Good. She believed him. But he wasn’t going anywhere. “No consultant? Why?”

  There was that tongue again, slipping between her lips, and he found his eyes being constantly pulled there. “Because I need to get myself out of this mess.” A flare of pain blossomed in her eyes.

  So, there was a heart beating behind that tough shell. “And how do you intend to do that on your own? From what I understand, your brand’s looking about as attractive as a high-speed train wreck right now. And you’re the one who’s still standing on the accelerator. Seems to me like you need a lot of professional help. Fast.”

  She pulled the hat from her head and tiny blond hairs stood up at different angles. The pain was still in her eyes, and her face had softened. “By working hard, cooking well, things I’ve done since the start of my career. No amount of PR speak and fancy outfits is going to do that for me.”

  He picked up some sort of metal cooking utensil and turned the handle. “I’d suggest it wasn’t your cooking or your work ethic that got you into this mess so it’s not likely they’ll get you out. Your brother did the right thing, hiring the best PR firm in town to turn your fortunes around. You’ll never put this right on your own. From what I understand, if you don’t act soon you’re going to have a parade of removal men banging down your door. And they might not be as gentlemanly as me.”

  She’d rolled the apron into a ball and threw it to the side. “Flynn has a good heart, but he has no clue about this industry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Your colleague, Angela, started telling me what I should wear, how I should speak, who I should be associating with.” Her eyes flashed as she spoke.

  “All excellent advice which I hear you refused to take.”

  She laid a hand at her throat, her slim fingers stroking the pale skin that looked as silky as the fabric covering the rest of her top half. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Matthews.” He threw her his ‘trust-me’ smile. “Blake Matthews.”

  “Well, thanks, Blake Matthews, but I don’t require the services of Dent and Douglas anymore. I’m happy to handle this on my own.” She picked up a towel and turned back toward the stove. “If you don’t mind, I have a party to cater and you’re holding me up.” She bent down to look in an oven, then pulled open the door.

  “What’s the party?”

  She leaned in and put a skewer into the cake. When she drew it back, he noticed her long, dark lashes as she surveyed the end. “It’s for the son of a friend.”

  “Sweet Sixteen? Or twenty-first? You must be glad for the work. I’ve heard that the catering side of Hart Corp. has taken a big hit.” He turned the handle on the cooking thing and a blade inside nearly sliced his finger off.

  She shut the oven door hard and turned, skewer pointing toward him, cheeks flushed. “It’s Niko’s fourth birthday, and unless you want to lose a thumb, I suggest you put that down. There’s a reason we don’t let the public down here.”

  The public? Prickles rose on his neck for a second, and then he reminded himself how much he enjoyed the challenge of getting people like Kirin Hart on his side. Two could play at her game.

  He nodded slowly and placed the cutting thing gently on the counter. “How long have you been catering birthday parties for pre-schoolers? And is that sort of work going to stop your business imploding? Can’t imagine there’s a whole lot of profit in Jell-O molds and Funnel cakes, or whatever kids eat at parties these days.”

  She sighed. “My business is none of your business, Mr. Matthews.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He met the challenging spark in her stare and smiled slowly. He’d come from New York to buy Dent and Douglas—the jewel in his crown of image consultancies and PR firms—and suddenly they’d put a halt to the sale. The Hart Corp debacle—and the resulting media circus—was destroying the reputation San Francisco’s most famous PR company had worked fifty years to develop. They wanted proof that Blake had the capacity to maintain the integrity of their name. And they wouldn’t sell until he’d proven he could fix Kirin Hart and her image.

  He put his palms flat on the cool counter top. “I don’t do failure, Ms. Hart, and right now Dent and Douglas have a contracted client whose image hasn’t been changed, whose fortunes haven’t been turned around as they assured her they would be. Where I come from, we call that a dud rap. I don’t do dud raps. In fact, I’ve never been involved in one, and don’t intend to start now.”

  Kirin tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Angela spent her whole time suggesting I didn’t know how to dress or do my hair. I’m a chef, not a catwalk model. Surely the decision about whether to carry on a contract is up to the client,” she said, voice tight.

  “That might be the case if that client wasn’t the biggest image disaster in American history. The whole world and his PR machine know D and D took you on. Their reputation will be worth nothing if we don’t see the contract through.”

  She took a moment before answering. “And why are you so interested in me? Are you the bad cop, the guy who tries to muscle in and rough up the client when she’s not toeing the line?”

  He adjusted himself on the stool, hooked by her candor and the way her chest rose in defiance. He hadn’t counted on her spitfire responses, or his responses to them. He’d dealt with a lot of people in his career, but no one had captured his fascination as quickly as Kirin Hart. This was a woman who believed in herself and her image so much she was prepared to fight to the death for it. Trouble was, the media was nailing the lid on her career’s coffin hour-by-hour and unless something drastic happened, she’d have nothing left. And his plan to add the crowning company in his coast-to-coast empire would be finished.

  “I’m no bad cop, and I’m not interested in you, Mrs. Hart. I’m interested in your image. They’re two entirely different things. When you begin to understand that, we might start getting somewhere.”

  For a second, something passed across her face, almost as if she’d been hurt by what he’d said, but then she stood straighter. “I’ve told you, I’m not interested. I’ll pay the contract break fee and be done with it. And please don’t call me Mrs. Hart, my name is Kirin.”

  “You’ll renege on the contract and just wait for everything to go up in a smoke of debts? All the things you’ve worked so hard and so long for?”

  The skewer clanged as s
he dropped it on the countertop. “People have been taking from me since my husband died.” Her bottom lip wobbled before she cleared her throat. “In fact, since well before that and right up to the present day. I’m used to it, but I’m not going to let you do it, too.”

  “You mean your husband’s affair? The fact he died when he was with his mistress? Or the sexual harassment accusation against you.”

  Blood drained from her face, and her eyes glistened. “You know about all of it?”

  He crossed his arms. “The way I understand it, firstly your husband single handedly smashed your career, your livelihood and image, and then a low life decided to kick you while you were down. You want that false accusation to be the way you’re remembered? And for everything you worked for before your husband’s deception to be worth nothing?”

  “It’s already happened,” she murmured and looked up at him. Her shoulders had slumped, and the defeated look on her face stirred something deep inside. For the shortest second, her cultivated control was replaced with soft vulnerability and a gut wrenching sadness, and the contrast was mesmerizing.

  She lifted her chin and whispered, “No. No, I don’t want to be remembered that way.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  She picked up a knife and sliced it through a stick of butter. “I’ve been relying on people for too long. Letting other people determine my life’s path. It’s time I took charge.”

  He swallowed, his heart throwing in an extra beat for her vulnerability. “I’m the best there is at turning around public images, Kirin. Come back on board and I’ll have journalists phoning you for interviews, invitations to talk shows and A-list parties. I can have your image back on track, brighter than you ever thought possible, in no time.”

  She reached behind her for a small copper pot and put the butter in. “And what makes you so sure you can achieve this magic? Is a superhero outfit lurking under that smart suit?” Her first real smile flitted across her face and it dazzled. “A pair of underpants over the tights underneath? I’m sorry but I don’t need rescuing by you or anyone else.”

  He didn’t usually have to spell out his experience. Most people he dealt with had been on a waiting list for his services for months and knew every last detail. “I’ve been in the image industry for fourteen years. I started work at sixteen as an international model and quickly learned that the way you portray yourself can make, or cost you, millions. The image the public currently has of you, if I may be so blunt, is a woman who’s down trodden and beaten.” He waited until she looked directly at him. “I can already tell that’s not the real you at all.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. “Thanks for your interest, but I’m going to do this on my own. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a hundred cupcakes to frost.”

  Blake reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and swiped to the picture he wanted before sliding it across the counter to her. “How’s this ‘doing it on your own’ working out for you?”

  She looked down at the picture on the screen, and a flush swept up her neck. “Yeah, not one of my finest moments.”

  “You flipped the bird at twenty-five photographers and the image spread across nationwide news channels and is viral on Tik Tok. If this is part of your strategy to go it alone, can I quietly suggest you’re making a dog’s breakfast of it? My research tells me you’ve been hounded by photographers for weeks, that you even had to have one removed from your front yard; all reasons to be upset, but the middle finger salute doesn’t quite fit with your current image.”

  She swept her tongue across her lip again, and in an unbidden flash, his pulse spiked. He suffocated the rogue reaction and focused.

  “How much do you know about cooking, Mr. Matthews, and how much about my career?”

  “It’s Blake,” he said. “I know that you and your husband started young and built a multi-million dollar business. People saw your shows, bought your cookbooks, your grocery products, the whole, ‘Cooking with Hart’ brand as defining integrity, reflecting traditional values and wholesome living. I also know that your husband cheated on you with a much younger woman for years and made a lie of the down home and dependable brand you’d both so carefully created.”

  Kirin had switched off the stoves and fans and leaned against the counter. A connection was growing. “And the rest of it?”

  Blake cleared his throat. “I know that on the back of your husband’s death, a disgruntled employee saw his chance to get a big payout and said you sexually harassed him. All my sources say it’s a nasty, vindictive lie—a complete fabrication but when your board insisted you settle out of court made people thought if there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “I didn’t. . . I would never. . .” She shook her head, her eyes luminous. “Even the thought that I could use my position to do that to someone is so abhorrent.” Her voice wobbled on the last few words, and he wondered for a second if she might cry, but she stood straighter. She was motionless. “Do you believe that’s really what I’m like?”

  He shrugged and pinned his gaze to hers. “What I believe is irrelevant. What the public currently sees is a woman who’s still trying to present an image of traditional values and buttoned down control. A woman who’s become an enigma—someone they don’t really know anymore, and it’s taken the focus right away from what you’re best at—your cooking business. Not only will all that go away if you agree to my plan, but we can harness that new image of you to build a whole new brand.”

  “And what would your strategy be? To tell me to change the way I dress, the way I speak, like Angela did?”

  “There would be some of that,” he admitted. “And a few lessons in what not to say.”

  She reached across to a pile of linen and pulled out a fresh apron and hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Matthews. I appreciate your interest and concern, but part of what’s wrong in my life is that I’ve put too much of my trust in people—especially pushy men—who’ve only wanted to use me for their own gains. You’re not going to be another of those people, so I thank you for your time. Please close the door behind you.” And with that, she turned her back and walked away.

  2

  Three days later Kirin burst through the double glass doors of the TV station, did a swift sidestep towards a bunch of schoolgirls huddled at a bus stop, then took a quick right to where she’d left her car parked in a side alley.

  Slinging her shoulder bag further onto her back she started to run, the clump, clump of her dark brown lace-ups echoing the thump of her heart. The embarrassment—no, the body-aching, mind-numbing shame of the television interview she’d just endured, was enough to make her want to throw up here and now.

  They’d sold the interview to her as an opportunity to start fresh with the public, to explain the pressure she’d been under, talk about the bad choices she’d made, but instead they’d told her about some sort of sex tape they had exclusive access to. And in that horrifying moment she’d ripped the microphone from her blouse, stumbled over a camera cable, and run from the building.

  If she wasn’t so angry, she might cry the hot, hard tears that stung behind her nose. But she was angry. Blood-boiling, head-spinning angry. Waking up every day in this nightmare wouldn’t be so bad if there was some chance of things getting better, but she could see the bottom of the hole she’d fallen into rushing towards her and it was going to hurt like hell when she hit it. Tears clouded her vision and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t try to hold them back.

  As she got closer to her car, the fear of what might be chasing her was overshadowed by the sight of someone lounging on her hood.

  Blake Matthews.

  The man who’d been hijacking her thoughts since she’d asked him to leave her kitchen a few days ago was here in perfect profile and looking like he owned the road. He was so ruggedly self assured, so effortlessly unforgettable, and his all-male perfection was not what she needed right now. Hurriedly, she blinked away the tears.

 
Casting a look over her shoulder and seeing only two photographers and a reporter in high heels making a dash toward her, she made a final push to the car.

  “Need to get away!” she called, as Blake eased himself from the car and strolled to the driver’s door.

  Hand casually slung in a pocket, he tipped his sunglasses up. “Keys. Give them to me.”

  “No! What―?”

  “They’re coming after you.” His intense gaze didn’t move from her face. “And you’re in no state to drive. Keys.”

  “Kirin, Kirin!” a reporter with an English accent shouted. “What about the sex-tape? What sort of things can we expect to see on it? The full monty or just a bit of slap and tickle?”

  She crumpled against the side of the car.

  “Keys. Now.”

  Mindless, she tossed them in his direction and as soon as he had the door unlocked, threw herself into the passenger seat. In a second he’d gunned the engine and they were shooting down the alley toward the main road.

  “That was like a bad movie,” she finally managed, as she rearranged her skirt and blouse and fought to regain her breath.

  “You mean a good movie.” Blake’s broad hands gripped her steering wheel, the bright white of his shirt cuff contrasting with the warm tan of his fingers. For a minute she had to think twice about what he’d just said.

  “How in all hell could my life resemble a good movie?”

  Sleek designer shades covered his eyes, but the quirk at his mouth suggested he was teasing. “In the bad movies, the girl runs screaming from the building and is either knocked down by a Number Ten bus, or the buff guy waiting at her car turns out to be the exact same one she’s been trying to get away from.” He flicked the turn signal and Kirin sat mesmerized by the tiny dimple in his cheek each time he smiled, and the perfectly crafted stubble she’d only seen on movie stars. “In the good movies the guy waiting at the car’s the hero, the one who’s going to solve the problem she was running from.”