Can't Stand the Heat Page 5

  Nikko took in the scene, pleasure swelling within him at how the crew had brought his vision to reality.

  A sudden giggle had his gaze shooting to the pantry. He knew that giggle. He’d dreamed about it the night before when sleep had finally overtaken him and allowed him some respite from his aching leg. Those perfect coral-colored lips pulled back, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth; the way the corners of the mouth had tipped upward, a small dimple popping up around them while she smiled at Amos Dixon and his son.

  But not, he remembered, at him. She’d laughed at something he’d said, twice, then with the next breath dissolved into the cool, professional, in-control woman she’d been when they first met.

  While his new executive producer sat across from him in his study, he’d imagined running his tongue into and around those two little grooves, wondering what she’d taste like; how soft her skin would be.

  And how much he’d like to erase that professional mien from her face and see the real woman buried underneath it.

  Carefully he sauntered, with much more ease and nonchalance than he felt, toward the pantry.

  Her back was to him. A simple, classic, and elegant long-sleeved white blouse that seemed ridiculous when the temperature outside was fast approaching ninety covered her torso, along with dark-fitted trousers ending just where black-and-white Converse sneakers graced her feet. That champagne cloud of hair was pulled off her neck into a messy bun on top of her head, secured with what looked like a pencil shoved through its center. Remembering how those soft waves had reflected the afternoon sunlight, Nikko had a sudden urge to come up behind her and pull the pencil out, allowing those curls to cascade to her shoulders. He went so far as to envision himself wrapping his fingers through the tresses and yanking her head back to his, where he could put his mouth all over her.

  He blinked a few times and then, like a wet dog trying to divest itself of water, gave his head and shoulders a violent shake.

  He wasn’t going to put his mouth anywhere on his new executive producer, that was a fact. Her presence here was as a thorn in his side, not as a potential mate for his bed.

  When she turned and giggled again at something the set technician said, he had a hard time remembering that.

  Her eyes widened a bit when her gaze lit on his and in a fraction of a second, her smile disappeared, the laughter dimmed, and her lips pulled into flat line. She turned back to the tech, said something, and put her hand on his upper arm. The man nodded and smiled at her, while she squeezed his bicep.

  With her e-notebook clasped in the other hand, Nikko swore she took a calming breath before she moved to him. The thought she needed it in order to speak to him sent a blast of anger through his system.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m glad I got a chance to see you before I leave.”

  “You’re leaving? Dare I hope that means you’re going back home so I can run my show in peace?”

  He had to give her credit—again. Her gaze never flickered from his, her face never lost its poised expression. If anything, he was afraid she might be laughing at him behind those cool and composed eyes.

  With a tiny head tilt she actually made him feel small and petty without ever saying a word. There was only one other person who’d ever been able to do that: his mother.

  “I meant before I leave for the airport to pick up the chefs and judges.”

  “I forgot you’re going to get them,” he said.

  “There’s a twenty-passenger van scheduled to meet us at the airport.” She glanced down at her tablet. “An empty bunkhouse is set up for the chefs to stay in and Mr. Dixon’s housekeeper told me she’s got the judges’ rooms ready as well. But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

  She glanced down at the device in her hand again, tapped it a few times, and then said, “All the proteins for the first three challenges have arrived and have been stored. Bryan was just telling me—”

  “Bryan?”

  She looked back up at him. “Bryan Sinclair? The supply manager?”

  Nikko had forgotten the man’s name, but did remember blowing him off a few days ago when he’d approached him about a problem. With his leg throbbing like a bitch, all he’d wanted to do was sit down, so he’d gruffly told Sinclair to take care of whatever the problem was on his own. Apparently, he had.

  He nodded and waved his hand for her to continue.

  “He only ordered enough for the first three challenges because he figured you’d like all the ingredients to be fresh and not frozen. The first three challenges should take up the entire first week according to what I read in the show bible, correct?”

  Nikko nodded again.

  “Good. Then I’ll tell him that was okay to do. He wanted to make sure it met with your approval—”

  “Then why didn’t he ask me, himself? Why ask you? I’m in charge. Not you.”

  He knew he was behaving like a total jerk, but at the moment he didn’t care. He wanted to see just how far he could push her before she pushed back. If she pushed back.

  Disappointment filtered through him when she replied. “Yes, you are. There’s no question about that. But as your EP, the crew knows to use me as a go-between for information and not bother you at every turn so you can concentrate on running the show as a whole. Remember what I said last evening?” Her gaze stayed on his face, never wavering, her expression staying calm. “My job is to make your job easier? By coming to me with individual issues, that allows you to do what you do best.”

  He was almost afraid to hear what she thought that was.

  “Run the show,” she said after a moment.

  Dixon’s son shot up to them before he could reply.

  “Hey, Stacy. You just about ready to go? Hey, Mr. Stamp.” The cowboy tipped a finger to the brim of his Stetson.

  “Just about,” she told him, a wide smile blooming.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you out by the truck.” With a nod to Nikko, he was gone again.

  “One more thing before I go,” she said, turning her face—her professional face—back to him. “I’m going to assume you want to have a production meeting this evening once everyone has arrived and is settled in. I ask because with the schedule you’ve set up there doesn’t seem to be a lot of leeway to have one before filming starts. Tonight is probably going to be the best time to round everyone up.”

  He kept his surprise to himself. He’d been planning on calling everyone—cast and crew—together before dinner to do just that. That she’d anticipated it proved what she’d said before was true: This wasn’t her first rodeo. The girl knew how a show should be run.

  “Fine,” he said after a few seconds to organize his thoughts. “I’ll do it before dinner.”

  “Whatever you want,” she said. “I’ll let the crew and everyone else know.”

  “You do that.”

  “Before I leave, is there anything I can get you, or do you need me to do anything for you?”

  This time he didn’t try to hide his surprise. Not one person on any other show he’d ever been connected with, had asked him that question.

  “No,” he said when he could find his voice. “No. Not now.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you in a few hours.” Before she left him, she snapped her fingers and pulled a piece of paper out of her pants pocket. “I meant to give this to you last night.”

  He reached out a hand and glanced down at the paper. “What is it?”

  “My cell phone number.”

  His head whipped back up.

  “I’ve found it’s the easiest way to get in touch with me when I’m not readily accessible. Like now, when I have to leave the ranch. One of the sound techs told me the walkie-talkies don’t have great range outside of the compound, so this makes more sense to use if you need me. Okay?”

  Nikko simply nodded. He tucked the pape
r into his pocket.

  “I’ll see you later.” When he didn’t respond, she pursed her lips and walked away.

  Nikko’s gaze followed her through the building and out the door.

  Chapter Four

  The headache brewing behind her eyes after her impromptu meeting with Dominick Stamp was now blasting like a jackhammer: steady, loud, and pounding. With a silent curse she realized she hadn’t taken her allergy medication after her shower and the sinus pressure she routinely was able to stave off had seeped through, making her feel like she was both underwater and stuffed.

  Her allergies had routinely been a topic of amusement among her family, since she never suffered while living in the congested, pollution-filled city, but only when exposed to fresh air and open spaces.

  “Just another weird physical thing about me,” she’d said more times than she could remember.

  The fact she was riding in a crowded, cramped van along with Melora and the contestant chefs, who were all speaking at once, their excitement and animation loud and nonstop, increased the drubbing tenfold.

  Melora had been waiting by Beau’s truck after Stacy said good-bye to Stamp. The girl had changed into a black summer dress with tiny straps that showcased her thin arms and delicate frame.

  Too thin and too delicate. Did the teen have an issue with food? Stacy hoped not, drawing from unfortunate experience on how devastating an eating disorder could be, especially for a teenaged girl on the brink of womanhood.

  “So your dad’s okay with you going with us?” Stacy asked as she climbed into the cab with Beau’s assistance.

  “Everything’s cool,” the girl said while adjusting her seat belt.

  Beau helped the time pass quickly by telling them amusing anecdotes about life on the ranch. He was a natural storyteller, and Stacy suspected he embellished a few of the stories to make them funnier. She didn’t mind, though, because when she sneaked a look at Melora, the anxiety she’d previously seen in the girl’s eyes had flown, replaced by a childish pleasure.

  At the airport the van stood waiting, while the trio made their way to the baggage-claim area.

  The preproduction crew had arranged for all the chefs and the two judges to arrive at the same time to make travel to the ranch easy. After reviewing the cast-info sheets, Stacy memorized all the faces she needed to find. Her eyes darted over the throng of travelers all waiting for the luggage carousel to begin spitting out their bags. She approached them, got their attention, and introduced herself.

  A chorus of happy responses came back to her. Referring to her notebook, she called out the names of chefs and all were present, as was one of the judges. There was one glaring absence, though.

  Stacy pulled out her phone and connected immediately to EBS headquarters. After a ten-minute wait she was told Jade Quartemaine, the second judge, had, at the last minute, opted to fly on her own and would be arriving later that afternoon.

  After getting everyone’s luggage stowed, Dan Roth, the second judge, asked if he could ride back with Beau, stating with a laconic grin, “I’ve been stuck with this rowdy bunch since before dawn and I need a break. Do you mind?”

  Stacy told him she didn’t, and she and Melora got into the van after making sure everyone else was situated.

  Dan Roth had been right: This was a rowdy bunch.

  Twelve of the country’s best and brightest chefs had been chosen from a selection process that included over six hundred applicants. Dominick Stamp, Teddy Davis, and a selection committee comprised of top EBS network chiefs whittled the number down to fifty, and then twelve. Ten men and two women made the final cut, and while the number might heavily favor the male side, Stacy knew the women selected were the tops in their areas of expertise.

  “No egos in this bunch,” Melora whispered and then rolled her eyes. “Not!”

  Stacy stifled a laugh. One thing she’d learned from being around world-class chefs and reality-television stars was there was never a shortage of egos of every size, shape, and gender.

  “So, EP,” Clayton Burbank, one of the more seasoned and louder of the chefs called from across the van, “what’s the 411? We gonna start as soon as we get there, or is Nitro Nikko gonna give us a break and let us get settled first?”

  Stacy heard Melora’s swift inhale, felt the air shift as the girl touched her chin to her chest.

  Just because her father had a reputation for being…volatile, it didn’t mean his child had to be embarrassed by it.

  “Clay,” Stacy said, planting a smile on her face and leveling a forceful glare at the chef, “did you meet Melora? She’s Mr. Stamp’s daughter. She’ll be staying at the ranch with us while we film.”

  She was pleased when the man had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “Um, no. Hey, kid,” he said with a wobbly smile. “Nice to meet you. I’ve worked with your old man before.”

  Melora lifted her head and nailed the chef with a level gaze of her own. “Yeah, I remember. Kitchen Cook-Off.” She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “You lost, right? Never even made it to the finals?”

  If Stacy had been pleased when Clay looked repentant for his flippant remark, she was downright delighted with Melora’s.

  She knew she should have been upset at the girl’s rude question. She was, after all, being disrespectful. But it gave her a tiny sense of pride to know the girl had a bit of a backbone and wasn’t afraid of showing it.

  Clayton Burbank’s neck flushed a cherry red, and as the other cooks teased him about the loss, he nodded once, then turned his attention out the window.

  Stacy happened to notice one of the other competitors—the youngest, in fact, at just barely nineteen—Riley MacNeill, slant a glance at Melora, a tiny smile pulling on his mouth. Melora noticed the look too. She slid her gaze up, then down again, her upper teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks.

  MacNeill was not only the youngest of the chefs to win a spot in the competition—and with that came a world of worry in Stacy’s mind to begin with—he was also the only chef to have never competed professionally before. At under twenty-one, he wasn’t legally allowed to drink alcohol and if he did while on the show, legal issues could develop, potentially prompting sponsors to quit their association with the network.

  All the other chefs were experienced in the food business, some major industry award winners. The closest in age to MacNeill was Dorinda Katay, at thirty. Stacy’s concern was for the boy’s emotional well-being more than anything else. Would he be able to keep up with the unyielding pace of a food competition, the wearing strain of long hours with little restorative sleep?

  His bio told her he was a graduate from a prestigious cordon bleu cooking school and already had an impressive professional CV. But the rigors and demands of a cooking competition, when up against some of the most famous—and infamous—chefs in the country was very different from day-to-day cooking. She made a mental note to make sure she checked in with the young chef and his producer, often.

  Stacy stood, swaying a little as the van continued speeding toward the ranch. It was a perfect time to address Clayton Burbank’s question. She set her feet hip-distance apart and found her balance. “If I could have everyone’s attention.”

  With all eyes focused on her, she said, “You’ve all signed the mandatory confidentiality clauses in your contracts, and once we get to the ranch, you’ll need to surrender your phones and any devices you brought with you, including tablets, e-notebooks, and laptops.”

  “But my recipes are all saved on my tablet,” Donovan O’Mara called out.

  With a shake of her head, Stacy said, “Don, you know you’re not allowed to refer to recipes anyway during the competition. Everything you do has to come organically or from memory.”

  “Tough break, O’Mara,” Chesney Folds said with a laugh. “Your memory sucks on a good day.”
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br />   The chefs all broke into laughter, a chorus of good-natured banter and ribbing exploding among them. Most of them knew one another in some capacity, either having a history of working together in restaurants, or competing on other cooking-challenge shows.

  “Your items will be locked away so you can’t be tempted to use them. I’ll have the key and all your families have our production information, so if any one needs to get in touch with you, I’ll let you know.”

  She went on to tell them they’d be meeting their individual producers once everyone was settled at the ranch.

  “Dominick Stamp has thought of some amazing challenges, so you’ll be working hard to win that two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar first prize.”

  The amount sent a cheer throughout the van.

  A few minutes later they stopped at the main house.

  Stacy was the first one to hop out, Melora at her side. She’d planned on waiting for the chefs to each alight and then escort them down to the bunkhouse Dixon had set up for them.

  Before she could even plant her feet on the ground Nikko Stamp was on her.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he thundered, the force of his anger pushing her flat against the side of the van. Her tablet slipped from her grip and fell to the ground as her whole body startled at the rage in his voice.

  “What—?”

  “Where do you get off taking my daughter off this ranch without asking me? You had no right. She’s not your responsibility.”

  Stacy’s gaze flew to Melora’s as the girl, terror written across her face, jumped from the van. When she tried to grab her father’s arm, screaming, “Daddy, no!” at him, he grabbed her wrist instead. “And you,” he roared. “How could you sneak off without telling me where you were going? Didn’t you think I was going to be worried when I couldn’t find you? Hmm? Were you thinking at all, Melora, or just doing whatever the hell you wanted, like you always do?”