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, blond 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 blond 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 awhile. 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.”