Nerves, she realized in surprise. She was nervous.

Because of Mitch.

Pressing a hand to her chest, she concentrated on breathing. And Lucy’s tsk. “What now?”

Lucy undid button number three.

“Better,” Suzie declared, pulling Dimi out of her chair. “Now what was that I was supposed to tell you?” She pondered this, then grinned widely. “Oh, yeah. Go swing some ass, girl.”


DIMI DEBATED the button issue as she walked from her dressing room, down three different hallways, all the way to the kitchen set.

One undone button seemed okay. Two buttons…well, she supposed it could be construed as sexy.

But three, coupled with the come-do-me heels and the red lipstick… Yikes.

A low, appreciative whistle sounded as she entered the soundstage. And then another. And then another, as one by one, the crew noticed her new look and stood to salute her as she passed.

“Stop it,” she grumbled, walking by all of them to stand beneath the bright lights on the set. Lucy followed her with the ever-ready powder puff. So did Suzie, with the clipboard that was more a part of her than her own limbs. The two of them were preening and accepting applause for Dimi’s current look, as if it had been all their doing.

Which of course it had.

Dimi tried to concentrate on her notes instead of the attention she was getting. So when another hand reached out for her buttons, she slapped it away without looking up.

A big, warm, very masculine hand grabbed hers, and her gaze jerked to the dark, amused one of Mitchell Knight.

“You should know I’ve really had it with people putting their hands all over my cleavage,” she warned him, jaw tight. “So if you don’t mind-”

“I just-”

“Look, I’m wearing the lipstick, see?” She rubbed her lips together and ignored the heat that flared in his gaze. Kicking out a leg, she tapped his booted foot with her high-heeled one. “And the pumps, too, though if I fall and break my ankle, I’m going to sue you, whoever is in charge of you, and the entire crew on top of it all for thinking this whole darn thing is so amusing. So lay off with the buttons, I’ve done absolutely everything you’ve asked of me.”

“Not yet, you haven’t.”

His eyes were a very dark gray. This close, she could see flecks of blue in there, as well, dancing beneath all the bright lights. And he had the longest, thickest lashes, the sort a woman would kill for, which were totally wasted on a man. “What else, then?” she demanded, and not very graciously. “What other torture have you come up with that’s worse than these shoes?”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Torture, huh? Poor baby, turning every man’s head like that.”

“I don’t like it,” she said through her teeth.

“Which brings us back to the one thing you haven’t tried yet, not once.” His hands came up and, very gently for such a big man, he cupped her jaw. His thumb slid over her lower lip, urging it to curve. “Smile. I haven’t seen you try that.”

She sent him a smile, made such only because she bared her teeth.

He sighed. “You might want to keep working on that.”

“Fine.” Could she have possibly gotten off that easy? Maybe he’d changed his mind about going on the air with her! “We’re set, then.”

“Well…” His gaze ran down the length of her, scorching her skin everywhere it touched. “Not really. But it’s a decent start. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow I choose the outfit.”

“But-”

His finger waggled in her face. “You’ve lost the smile already. Warm. Happy. Bubbly. Remember?”

She was going to grind her teeth down to nothing, and if she did, some sexpot-by-the-refrigerator she’d be. “I remember.”

“Good girl,” he said as if she were an obedient puppy. “Let’s roll, people,” he called, coming around the counter to stand next to her. He snapped his fingers at the assistant director, who snapped her fingers at her assistant, and she came running out to clip a mike on Mitch’s shirt.

Apparently, he was staying.

Then he took her hand and pulled her around to the front of the counter to join him.

“But I always start behind the counter, I just dive right into the cooking part-”

“Too serious,” he said, tugging her toward her new mark. “Right there. And remember…”

She bared her teeth into another semblance of a smile.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Close enough,” he muttered, just as the director started the countdown.

“Ten seconds!”

“Oh, and about those buttons.” Mitch moved a hand toward her, and she gave him her best I’m-going-to-smack-you look. In surrender, he lifted the hand away. “I was trying to tell you before-”

“Save it.”

“Five!”

“Dimi.”

She lifted her hands to her ears. Not very mature, but there it was.

“And three, two…you’re on!”

Dimi’s opening had been the same for the entire two years she’d been doing the show. “Hello, everyone, welcome to Food Time. I’m Dimi Anderson, and today we’re going to-” She stopped abruptly at Suzie’s widened eyes, where she stood just off set. Her assistant pointed to her cleavage.

Dimi glanced down at herself.

And nearly fell off her heels, as she was flashing the entire world-correction, all three viewers-her belly button.

“Tried to tell you,” Mitch offered in a helpful whisper.

No use slugging him on live television, she thought, putting a hand to her heart and covering the view. She wondered how long she could keep her hand there and not look like an idiot. “We’re going to learn some new barbecue techniques today.”

“But first we’re going to make a delicious cherry pie.” Mitch broke in smoothly with a gracious, welcoming smile, distracting their viewers while Dimi raced to button up.

Then what he said sank in. “What?” She stared at him for one full second before she realized she was live-and gawking. Dammit! She managed a smile. “Well, that’s a surprise.”

“Yep.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and stood there with utter confidence, looking one-hundred-percent male in a one-hundred-percent woman’s domain. His angelic expression and sinner’s looks charmed the camera to stay right on him. “Hi,” he said into it. “I’m Mitch Knight. Dessert extraordinaire. I’m also Dimi’s new assistant. Not that she needed one for cooking, but…” He grinned unabashedly, in a way that invited all their viewers to grin with him. “After yesterday’s no-men proclamation, I couldn’t resist coming on and seeing if she meant it. Did you, Dimi?” He batted those long, lush eyelashes. “No more men? Ever?”

Dimi ground her teeth and realized for the first time exactly how appealing he was going to be to their audience. He should have looked ridiculous in a kitchen. He was so big, so…full of presence. But his dark hair gleamed under the bright lights, and so did his eyes. The diamond stud in his ear twinkled. His dark gray trousers fit him in a way that would make any red-blooded woman need a bib to catch the drool. His shirt, a light gray, clung to his broad shoulders and impressive chest. And then there was the clincher. His warm smile was just wicked enough to coax a nun into lusthood.

“Back to that cherry pie,” she said in a voice that came out a little breathless, adding insult to injury. Ruthlessly, she cleared her throat. “I assume you have a recipe handy?”

“Always prepared,” he quipped with a wink. “I guess you’re going to ignore the man question, then.”

“This is a cooking show, not a man show.”

“But I’m a man. And I’m here.”

“So let’s cook, then.” She remembered to smile, barely.

Mitch didn’t have such a problem. He nodded in the direction of the refrigerator. She followed his masculine strut, watching his-

Oh, my God. She was staring at his butt.

On television.

She jerked her eyes up, only to find him grinning at her over his shoulder. Swing it, too, baby, his eyes seemed to say.

In her ridiculous heels, she didn’t have much choice.

Finally, mercifully, they were at the refrigerator. Mitch talked the entire time, about the weather, about the Giants, about everything and anything, and she tried to keep up with him, but he kept looking at her with that look, the one she imagined making all the viewers swoon, and oddly enough, she felt a little dizzy herself.

Ignore him, she reminded herself. Just do your job.

“Now for the ingredients,” he was saying to the camera in that silky voice. “First, cherries.”

He handed a bowl of them to Dimi, who looked at the red succulent fruit.

“Now, no fair wasting time trying to tie any cherry stems with your teeth,” he told the camera. “No one can beat my record.” He reached into the bowl of cherries with his long fingers and grabbed the stem off one, his eyes directly on Dimi’s. Popping the stem into his mouth, and still holding Dimi’s gaze prisoner, he worked the strong muscles in his jaw back and forth. After about five seconds, he stuck out his tongue.

On it was the stem…tied into a neat little knot.

Dimi lost all ability to think, much less talk. Her skin went hot and itchy, and she knew she must have gone red as a beet. She was deathly afraid she recognized her ailment, and it was the very unwelcome emotion called lust.

Darn him! She’d given up men and she meant it, no matter how talented his tongue was.

“Now,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t caused every single woman watching him to get rubbery knees. “We need the other ingredients.” He rattled them off as he handed them one by one to Dimi, who was still standing there with too much cleavage, in heels that made her indeed swing her ass, stunned to the depths by what he was doing to her on live television.

“Here you go,” he said, passing the sugar. “Is that about the right amount?” he asked, walking around her. As he did, he casually and lightly stroked a hand over the small of her back.