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
“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.
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.
“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.
Just a barely there touch, and her entire body jerked to attention, including her nipples, which were pressing against the material of her blouse.
Glaring at him would do nothing but egg him on, she decided, but she was sorely tempted. Luckily, a commercial break was called.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, so frustrated, so ruffled, so… Well, she wasn’t sure what else she was, but certainly anger topped the list. “You’re taking over the show!”
“Feel free to talk more instead of standing there with your tongue hanging out as you moon at me.”
When she gaped at him, he laughed. “Yeah, that’s the look I love so much. Oh, come on, this is fun. Let’s go check the phone lines.”
“No one ever calls during the show.”
“No?” He didn’t sound concerned.
They hadn’t made it off the set before Suzie came running up to them, her eyes lit with excitement. “Every phone in the place is ringing off the hook.” She turned to Mitch. “Keep baiting her, they love it. They love how she’s trying to be sexy and is failing completely.”
“What?” Dimi asked, faintly. “I’m…failing?”
“They love that when you look at her, she blushes.” Suzie laughed, gripped her clipboard to her chest and turned to Dimi. “And they especially loved the belly button flash.”
Dimi groaned. “This can’t go on. I need a sweater, pronto.”
“Why?” Mitch asked.
“Because maybe I’m getting cold.”
He looked directly into her eyes. “It’s not getting cold that worries you.”
Bastard. “Get me a sweater, Suzie.”
“Sorry.” She grinned. “We’re fresh out.”
Before Dimi could kill her assistant, Gracie came running up to them. “The phones are wild. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”
“Twenty seconds, everyone! Take your places!”
Mitch offered Dimi his arm, which, much to his amusement, she flatly refused. Sauntering ahead of him, she took two steps on her four-inch pumps and promptly tripped. Muttering something obscene about the absurdity of heels, she kept going.
He worked hard to keep his grin to himself, but it was difficult. This was a personal record for him, starting a show’s turnaround in less than two days.
There’d been a time in his life when he’d expected perfection from himself and all those around him, when he’d worked sixteen-hour days, living and breathing his job. There’d been a time when he’d been too busy for any pleasure, such as spending time with his beloved brother.
Well, Daniel was gone now. Too late, Mitch had learned all work was no way to live. Work had a place, yes.
But so did fun. Unexpectedly, this job could be both, and maybe even more fun than work.
“Five seconds!”
He got into position next to his still-fuming co-host and smiled at her. She didn’t return it. “Ah, ah. Remember-”
“I’ll remember!”
“Three, two, and…” The director punched a finger at them, and off Mitch went, slowly and precisely measuring out ingredients while making sure to touch Dimi whenever possible, which kept a nice color to her cheeks and fire in her gaze.
Perfect.
Then it was time to pull out his baked pie from the oven. He pulled on a mitt, noticing that Dimi very intently watched everything he did with a sort of helplessly fascinated expression.
He liked that in a way that had nothing to do with work.
“And now…” He went to the refrigerator and took out the whipped cream, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively for the camera.
Dimi, who’d just stuck a finger in the leftover cherry mixture, telling their audience how good it was, glanced at him and at what he was holding.
And choked.
Mitch took a step toward her, and she backed up.
He smiled slowly.
“What are you doing with that?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
