Blind Date Disasters & Eat Your Heart Out (17 page)

“It won't come out until tomorrow.”

Exactly his point about this place, Mitch
thought as everyone smiled with fondness for their little town with only one newspaper once a week.

Dimi rushed into the conference room, a suspicious, mysterious mass in her arms covered with a black towel. “Sorry I'm late.”

“What do you have there?” Leo asked.

Dimi shot a look at Mitch. “Nothing.” She shoved the thing under the table, sat and folded her arms. The picture of calm.

Unless one looked deep enough, which of course Mitch did. She looked ruffled, unnerved and damned distracting while doing it.

“Thirty minutes to air,” Gracie announced, checking her watch.

“Okay, anyone have anything else before we disperse?” Mitch asked, keeping his eyes on Dimi, but no big surprise, she wouldn't look at him.

“Just maintain the status quo,” Suzie said, consulting her clipboard. “Yesterday's calls topped our record. They're loving it all.”

“The new recipes?” Dimi asked, coming to life.

“Well, yes. Among other things.”

“Such as?” Mitch asked.

“Such as you and Dimi and your chemistry. They
loved
yesterday's bread-making show.”

“The recipe,” Dimi said, shining with pleasure. “I knew it. It was a fabulous one, from Romania—”

“Uh, no.” Suzie shook her head and laughed. “What they really enjoyed was watching you and Mitch and how you kneaded the dough together, remember?”

Mitch remembered. Their hands had gotten entangled in the gooey, sticky mess Dimi had so expertly created, and at the touch, the two of them had nearly gone up in flames. Startled, they'd stared at each other like two star-crossed, unsatisfied lovers, and the camera hadn't missed it.

Not that, and not later, when every time they accidentally touched—which he perversely made sure was as often as possible—it had only upped the heat. They'd shaped the dough, stroking and stretching and pulling, and every motion had become a sensual sort of dance.

Indeed, as he already knew, the phones had rung off the hook, people wanting more. Hell,
he
wanted more. And no, he had no idea where his this-was-just-a-job mentality had gone.

“People are definitely really into this new
look for Dimi,” Leo agreed. “They keep tuning in to make sure she doesn't revert to her earlier dowdiness— Er, um, I mean…”

“Thanks,” Dimi said dryly. She rose. “Thanks a lot.”

“Well, look at the time,” Suzie said, glancing at her watch and rescuing a miserable Leo. “Dimi, you need costume and makeup, pronto.”

A perfect mix of fear and reluctant thrill crossed Dimi's face. “How bad is the costume today?”

Suzie looked at Mitch and managed to keep a bland face. But both of them knew today's costume was the best yet. “Not bad at all.”

A squeal startled them all. Dimi jumped, blushed and tried to look innocent.

But Mitch knew that squeal. Frowning, he looked at her, suddenly recognizing the lump beneath the towel. “You brought Brownie to work?”

“I had to. Tanner's painting my kitchen, and she hates the fumes.”

“We've got to get rolling, gang,” Suzie said, tapping her watch.

“I'll take Brownie,” Mitch offered. “She can hang out in my office.”

Dimi looked concerned. “But—”

“But what? Do you think I'd terrorize your hamster?”

“She won't strut and smile and dress on command.”

“But will she be nice to me?”

Dimi smirked. “No, she's shy. And very serious about her food. Don't put your finger in the cage. She doesn't know you, she might bite.”

“Got it.” Mitch shook his head when Dimi was gone and pulled Brownie out from beneath the table. “Hey, girl,” he said softly. “Remember me?”

Brownie rushed out of her little hideaway and wrinkled her nose, eyes bright.

“You do, don't you?”

She waited patiently, a serious look on her face.

Mitch had to laugh. “Look at that, she's even got you mimicking her expressions. Want something to eat?”

She wriggled her nose solemnly.

He bought a granola bar from the vending machine and fed a corner of it to the hamster, making her stand up on her hind legs for it, which she did willingly. “I'll be back later to teach you more tricks,” he told her. “Just to annoy Dimi.”

Making sure Brownie was comfy, he headed to the set, ready to face another show that would leave him sweating, frustrated and trembling like a baby.

Not to mention as hard as a rock.

“Y
OU HAVE TO
wash them first.” Demonstrating for both the camera and the enraptured crew, Dimi ignored Mitch and turned on the faucet.

Mitch said nothing, which made her nervous. He always had something to say. In fact, he'd had plenty to say just before they'd started, reminding her to smile once in awhile, reminding her to banter with him—as if she needed reminding!—and also to wear her new clothes, not let them wear her.

Yeah, yeah,
she'd responded.
Sex kitten. I know.

God, she knew. He didn't need to say it, she
felt
it. It wasn't the sexy clothes, either, or her new smiles, or the way she walked.

It was him.
He
made her feel it, and everything she did in the kitchen became languid, sensual. By the end of every day she was one big trembling, frustrated mass.

But she was on the air now, live, and she
couldn't lose her concentration, not when they'd been doing so well.

She dumped the vegetables in the sink. Luckily her sleeves wouldn't get in the way. How could they when she was wearing a cropped sweater with short sleeves and not nearly enough material to suit her?

And let's not get into the skirt she had on. It had to be illegal to show this much leg during the family hour.

She reached for the zucchini, running her fingers over the long, thick length to clean it. Mitch made a low, unintelligible sound, too quiet for the camera but not too quiet for her ears.

Her heart picked up speed. Her breathing quickened.

Hands still running over the zucchini, she looked up and found her gaze locked with hot, hot, hot eyes.

“You have a way with that thing,” he murmured.

She froze, instantly realizing her mistake, but it was too late. Mitch had found his humor and was daring her with a lifted brow to continue.

So she lifted her chin, set the zucchini aside and reached for…a yellow squash. A deformed yellow squash that looked even more like a phal
lic symbol than the zucchini had. She stared at it, wondering how on earth she'd chosen these pieces just that morning without realizing how…naughty they looked.

Mitch let out a laugh. “You going to stare at that all day, or cook with it?”

“Cook with it,” she said between her teeth. “It's got terrific flavor this time of year, sliced a certain way and set over the open flame of a barbecue.”

“I was thinking,” Mitch said conversationally.

“Oh, really?”

Mitch grinned.

The camera ate them up. Dimi knew it and tried not to think about it because it had been so much easier when it had been just her, alone on the set, doing as she pleased without this big, confident hulk of testosterone standing around making her lose her train of thought every time he so much as looked at her.

Which he did disconcertingly often.

“I was thinking,” he repeated, still amused. “That the show should be called ‘Now We're Cooking…With Heat.”'

She was absolutely not going to let him bait her on the air. “That sounds a little—”

“Risqué?” His grin widened. Under the bright lights, his eyes glittered and his earring sparkled. Every inch of him oozed a sexiness that left her with little or no ability to resist him. “Honey, what you're doing with those vegetables should be R-rated.”

She couldn't help it, she blushed. Her body tightened in a funny way that made her want to rub her thighs together. “Why is it a man has to make everything dirty?”

“It's a male genetic flaw.”

She made a sound of disgust and grabbed the next vegetable. A red pepper. A round red pepper that in no way could be construed as anything sexual. Her eyes dared him, waiting for some comment.

He was at her side, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward and seriously examined what she was doing. Silently, thank God.

She used the opportunity to describe her tried and true method for slicing the vegetables in order to get the most flavor out of them. When she'd finished, and Mitch was handing her a bowl of oil and the paintbrush she used to coat the veggies over the flame, she gave him a sidelong look and went for broke. “I can't tell you
how much I've appreciated your help the past few weeks.”

Mitch looked at her.

“But I think I could take it from here.” When he merely raised a brow, she said, “You know, handle the show by myself. The way I used to. Without an assistant.”

“Is that right?” He poured more oil into her bowl, making sure that their fingers touched.

“Yes.” She hated the little spark of awareness that stunned her even now. Why hadn't she gotten used to him and all his blatant sexuality? Why hadn't he realized she was pathetic, that she wasn't suited for this hot sexy siren stuff? “Tomorrow we're cooking shrimp and littleneck oysters with wild rice. A one-person job, really.”

“Oysters. Hmm.”

She supposed that secret little grin he shot her would be considered irresistible. Not to her. “What does
hmm
mean?”

“Nothing.”

She relaxed and kept slicing.

“It's just that you said oysters.”

“Yes.”

“You having problems with your libido, Dimi?”

Too late she remembered the myth following the poor oyster. Dammit.

He merely grinned. “Hey, are the veggies supposed to be on fire like that, do you think?”

She tore her gaze away from his and wanted to groan. Live television didn't make that possible, so she held an even expression while quickly turning down the barbecue. The flames leapt until she grabbed the water spritzer hanging from the side of the barbecue and sprayed water over the coals.

Smoke filled the kitchen set. Managing not to cough, she smiled into the camera and said, “Whatever you do, watch the oil.” She watched as Mitch rescued her vegetables before they got charred. “As you can see, it can easily get out of control if you let it.”

“And whatever you do,” Mitch added, leaning close to Dimi in a familiar way, also smiling into the camera, “don't get sidetracked by your partner.”

“I did not get sidetracked by you.”

“Ah, so you admit it. We're partners.”

They were close enough to kiss, she realized inanely. “I admit no such thing.”

“Sure? Cuz it would appear I've saved your veggies. Sure would be a shame to lose me,
wouldn't it?” He blinked innocently into the camera. “Seeing how much she needs me and all, right?” His smile was cozy, easy and entirely addictive.

“Break!” the director called. “Commercial, everyone. Three minutes.”

Dimi hightailed it off the set, leaving Gracie and Leo leaping up to clear the smoke. She assumed Mitch stayed to help, as well, but she had a whole three minutes to herself, and she desperately needed it. Racing to her dressing room to take one deep breath in peace, she opened the door.

As she entered, Cami jerked away from her closet and looked guilty.

“What are you doing here?” Dimi knew she sounded petulant, but darn it, she wanted to be alone to clear her head of the lusty haze Mitch always managed to put her in.

Cami shoved her hands, full of something chartreuse and gauzy, behind her back. “Nothing. I'm not doing anything.”

“You're stealing my clothes.”

“Okay, I'm stealing your clothes. But God, Sis, you have an amazing set of designer stuff now. Not a Kmart item in the bunch. You don't
mind, do you? After all, you always steal my food.”

“But you sew all your own clothes.” Dimi rubbed her temples. “Never mind. Take what you want. I've got to get back out there.”

“Hmm.” Cami looked her over. “Your headache wouldn't be Mitch-induced by any chance, now, would it?”

“Of course not.”

Cami shook her head. “If you let him go, especially after I humiliated myself to help you catch him, I'll be mad at you.”

“You're always mad at me.”

“Okay, I'll sic Mom on you.”

Dimi shuddered. “Not that.”

“Remember all my blind date disasters?”

“How could I forget?”

“If you let him go,” Cami vowed, “that's what'll happen to you.”

“If I let him go…” Dimi shook her head. “What are you talking about? I don't
have
him.”

“By the crook of your little finger, Sis. You've got him by the crook of your little finger.”

That was when Dimi realized her sister had truly lost it. She was so in love with Tanner her brain had turned to mush.

Running to the set just in time to get her nose fluffed and to repin her mike to her shirt, Dimi caught Mitch's dark, questing gaze.

By the crook of your little finger, Sis. You've got him.

Yeah, right! She'd never caught anything—by the crook of her little finger or otherwise. And even if by some miracle it could be true, did she even want him?

Suzie adjusted Dimi's mike, caught the strange connection between host and producer and smiled knowingly. “By the way, Dimi, you can't lose your assistant.”

“What? Why?”

“Only seconds after you suggested it on the air, the phones went crazy.”

Mitch's mouth curved, but wisely, he kept it shut.

Suzie said it all for him. “People are freaking out that maybe you'll get rid of him. They're begging you to reconsider.”

“Fifteen seconds, people!”

Suzie backed off the set, leaving only Dimi and Mitch, and given Mitch's superior, triumphant glow, there was nothing left to say.

She was stuck with him.

 

B
Y THE END
of Mitch's second week,
Food Time
's dramatic turn into a rating and critical success had been cemented. In the eyes of everyone around him, all of whom had thanked him repeatedly, he was a hero.

In everyone's eyes except Dimi's, that is, and as it so happened, she was the only one he worried about, which concerned him for various reasons. One, that he cared for her at all, when she was an entire world away from what he'd always gone for. Hell, make that a galaxy.

And two, that she didn't care for him back, not even a little.

Oh, she lusted after him, he'd made sure of that. Lusted even while she fought it. But getting her there had been work, and work only.

Which brought him to troubling fact number three. He never mixed business and pleasure, so this entire train of thought was moot.

Completely moot.

Yet here he was, heading out on his bike toward some small pizza joint in the middle of nowhere to join everyone for a staff dinner to celebrate their success.

Chilly wind froze his face. The smell of the mountain air assaulted his senses as he rode through the streets. The majestic Sierra peaks all
around him were tall, dark. Huge. Nothing like the bright, noisy streets of Los Angeles, but for some reason, he suddenly couldn't think of anyplace he'd rather be.

Power drummed between his legs, the power of his Harley. It was a release to drive through the black night with only the stars and one lone headlight guiding his way, but not the kind of release he needed after so many weeks of hot and heavy sexual innuendo and teasing.

No, what he needed now was a woman beneath him. Or over him. He wasn't picky and would take either, but it wasn't going to happen.

Expecting to be the last to arrive, he pulled into the parking lot, but there was a lone woman getting out of a car. At the sound of his bike, she whipped around, blond hair flying around her face.

Dimi. The only member of
Food Time
who hadn't yet thanked him for saving their careers.

His heart took off like crazy as he imagined her taking the time to thank him tonight. At just the thought, his body tightened.

The thrill of the ride, he told himself, and swung his leg off the bike. He pulled the rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket and strolled toward her.

“What do you have?” she asked, her voice sounding suspiciously breathless.

Great, so they were both frustrated no end. Well, as that was his own doing, he had no one to blame but himself. “Nothing,” he said, strangely not willing to give her something else to get upset about. Not yet, anyway, because he knew she'd find out soon enough.

Putting his hand on the small of her back, he nudged her inside the noisy, musical, smoky pizza joint, feeling oddly reluctant to remove it as they came to the staff's table.

Everyone was there. Gracie with her husband. Leo with a date. Ted and his wife. Suzie, single and on the prowl. And all the others. Even Cami had come, she had Tanner with her, and a dopey grin on her face that announced to the world she'd very recently had wild, satisfying sex.

“Hey, did anyone catch today's headlines?” Leo called.

Mitch shook his head in warning, but the man was egged on by too many pre-pizza beers and the need to impress his date. With great ceremony, Leo stood on his chair, wobbling enough to make Mitch worry about the man's hard head.

Leo then cleared his throat, smoothed out the wrinkled newspaper he held and waggled his
eyebrows. “We've all been talking about how we've made it,” he announced. “And while we've thanked Mitch, I think most of us have forgotten to thank the other party responsible for our success.” He pointed to Dimi. “This is for you, baby.” With great ceremony, he shook the paper and read the headline out loud. “Sex Kitty Can Really Cook!”