Can't Stand the Heat Read online

  For the second time since coming back from the airport, Stacy looked down at the sheet of paper Teddy Davis had signed.

  When Stamp had backed her against the van and screamed at her in front of the entire production team, she’d been tempted to quit on the spot, run to her room, pack, and then have Beau bring her straight back to the airport. One of the reasons she hadn’t was this piece of paper.

  She’d agreed to work on this show to guarantee she’d be given her own in the end.

  Nitro Nikko, Clay Burbank had called the director, and it seemed almost everyone she’d met today agreed it was an appropriate moniker for the man, herself included.

  But underneath that explosive personality, Stacy saw two things she’d never thought to see in so vital, vibrant, and successful a man: vulnerability and pain.

  The pain she could easily attribute to his leg. She’d watched him rub it the night before, as if trying to ease a chronic ache. He’d been trying not to limp when he’d stormed away from her today, and he’d probably been successful in his subterfuge with everyone else. But she was an expert at what to look for. No one was more attuned to what raw, punishing pain did to a person, their abilities, their body stance. Nikko was in a great deal of it and trying his best not to let it show.

  As for his vulnerability...well, that could be laid right at his daughter’s door. His out-of-control anger broadcast plainly as stark fear to Stacy. She couldn’t begin to understand what lay behind it, but, as she’d thought before, there was a story there between father and daughter.

  Dominick Stamp was a brilliant technical director, a bear to work with, and one of the most intriguing, captivating men she’d ever met, a thought that had her laughingly questioning her own sanity.

  From the moment her hand had shot to his in introduction, to the first time she’d actually been able to see him, eye to eye and not hidden behind sunglasses, she’d been enthralled by the force of his personality and his rugged, all-male looks. His emotions were mercurial, his temper trigger-primed to unleash at a second’s prompting. In essence, her personality opposite in every way.

  Where she’d be a negotiator, he’d be a fighter. She’d approach a problem calmly and attempt to find a peaceful, effective resolution, while she imagined he’d face one head-on, make a quick decision and then implement it, brokering no one else’s opinion. He was a yeller; she spoke quietly and firmly, as her grandmother had taught her to.

  Even physically they were polar opposites, Dominick, dark and olive complected, his Italian heritage obvious, to her fair and light Polish and Irish–blended genes.

  All in all, a fascinating, powerful man and one—she knew if she wasn’t working with—she’d like to know on a more personal level. But she was working with him and one thing Stacy never mixed was business and her private life. She’d learned the hard way it never worked out, and when it ended—as it always did—she was the one holding the baggage left in its wake.

  Besides, even though she found him intriguing, everything he’d said and done to her since she’d arrived told her he hated her guts.

  Okay, maybe that was a little harsh. He didn’t really know her enough to hate her, but he certainly despised her presence and the reason she was here.

  So, despite the subtle physical attraction she felt for the man, keeping it cool and professional between them was the way to cope.

  Stacy made a quick call to the airport to ensure the luxury car she’d ordered for Jade Quartermaine had picked up the overdue judge. It wasn’t fair Beau should have to trek all the way back there. And she didn’t want to tell Dominick the star of his show was arriving late, knowing the kind of response she’d get if she did. After saying a silent prayer to the Gods of Traffic the car would arrive at the ranch on time, Stacy took a final glance at the signed note, folded it, then stuck it in her top dresser drawer.

  Armed with her e-notebook and the walkie-talkie that was now all but glued to her hip, she walked toward the dining hall.

  Since the ranch was a large and vast working establishment, and the hands Amos Dixon employed were required to be on site at all times, a large structure built to house them during meals had been constructed five years ago when Amos had expanded his business. The Feedbag, as it was commonly called by the cowboys, was located upwind of the livestock buildings, almost directly behind the main house.

  It took Stacy less than five minutes to walk there from her room. After speaking with the cooking crew Dixon employed, she knew tonight’s meal for the production crew and the chefs was a ranch favorite: barbequed ribs, baked beans, and grilled corn on the cob, served banquet style. The head cook, a wizened, sun-leathered man with cornflower-blue eyes and a twinkle in them—whose name Stacy was enchanted to learn was Cookie—had informed her there was no alcohol allowed on the ranch or served with meals. Amos Dixon’s orders.

  Stacy thought about the fifty-five cases of California harvested red and white wines she’d seen listed on the supply manifest and made a mental note to discuss the alcohol’s intended use just in cooking with Amos before shooting began. She could just imagine the shit storm Nikko would kick up if Amos forbade it. As long as the alcohol was kept away from the workers and used solely in cooking, there shouldn’t be any problem.

  She took a seat at the picnic-style benches a few minutes before the meeting was due to start and appreciated the silence surrounding her as she went over a few last-minute details. So engrossed was she in reading, she never realized anyone had come into the hall until a gentle tap on her shoulder had her startling.

  “Sorry,” Riley MacNeill said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She smiled at the young man, charmed once again by his sweet shyness.

  “Not scared,” she said, patting the bench. “Have a seat.” While he did, she added, “I’m actually glad to see you before all the others arrive. We didn’t get a chance to speak a lot when you were being fitted for your jacket.”

  At a hair under six-foot, Riley folded his long legs under the table and Stacy took the moment to take stock of him.

  His face still possessed a thin layer of baby fat in the jowls, a darkening shadow of afternoon stubble beginning to bloom on his square jaw. Eyes the color of blue Wedgwood had just enough guardedness in them to summon up the natural comforter in Stacy.

  “Are you all settled in?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s gonna be a little weird, sleeping in bunk beds, sharing space, you know? One bathroom for ten guys. I’m used to living alone.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m not complaining,” he added with a head shake. “It’s just…weird. I haven’t had to share a room with anyone in a long time.”

  “I know. But it’s not forever. And when the show wraps, just think how happy you’ll be to get back to your own place. You’ll appreciate it even more. You live in Manhattan, right?”

  He nodded. “Tribeca. It’s close to the restaurant so I can walk to work every day.”

  They chatted for a few minutes about the upscale New York eatery where he was, as he put it, second-in-command, until more of the chefs and crew started ambling in.

  Stacy was struck once again by the noise level, but her headache had subsided courtesy of the pain meds. A beep from her walkie-talkie signaled someone wanted her. She connected and said, “This is Stacy.”

  Carrie James, one of the cast producers spoke back. “Jade Quartermaine just arrived and I’m on my way to pick her up and bring her to the meeting.”

  “Ten-four.” Stacy disconnected.

  Riley was quietly laughing at her side.

  “What?”

  “You sound like a cop. Ten-four. Cop-speak.”

  Stacy glanced around at the growing throng of chefs and crew and sighed. “I have to admit, I feel like a cop sometimes on a show like this. Trying to keep everyone focused and out of trouble. It’s not easy with chefs of this c
aliber. You’re all used to calling the shots, being in charge, and not listening to directions.” She turned to face him. “You’re like a bunch of toddlers who require discipline and a good spanking every now and then to keep you in line.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being spanked by you,” Clay Burbank said from behind her.

  She looked up and burst out laughing at the lecherous—yet humorous—way he lifted his bushy eyebrows as he leered down at her. Dan Roth and two other chefs were with him and joined in the good-natured banter.

  * * * *

  All of Nikko’s senses went on alert when he entered the dining hall. His gaze found Stacy in an instant, surrounded by a few of the male chefs, laughing and smiling easily at them. It was as if he was attuned to the sound of her voice. As if he could pick her out of a crowd without any trouble. As if he’d be able to find her anywhere he looked.

  A momentary vision of Scarlett O’Hara surrounded by her numerous fawning beaux in a scene from Gone with the Wind played in his mind. While she didn’t resemble a spoiled Southern belle, flirting and simpering, she did have the complete attention of all the men around her. Her lips pursed into the most kissable of pouts, and his blood started to pound in his ears as he watched Clay Burbank bend and kiss her cheek.

  The twin stains of pink that immediately popped out on her skin made his breath catch. In that moment she lifted her head, caught him staring, and her cheerful smile vanished. She said something to the group, stood, and made her way over to him, the entire time her gaze staying locked to his.

  He hadn’t known she wore glasses.

  “Almost everyone is here,” she said as an opening.

  If she was upset at the way he’d treated her just hours before, she was good at hiding it. Her features were calm and relaxed, her voice that smooth professional pitch again.

  He was about to reply when he heard his name called from the doorway.

  Jade Quartermaine sauntered up to them.

  “I just arrived and was told to report here immediately,” she said, stretching up to him in expectation of a kiss. “Don’t pass go. Don’t collect two hundred dollars.” Her lips pulled back in the faintest of grins. “Just get down to the dining hall.”

  Nikko bussed both her cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you hadn’t arrived with everyone else, Jade,” he said, sliding a look at Stacy.

  “I had to meet with my agent this morning,” she said, wrapping her arm into the crook of his elbow and pressing her body in close to his.

  Too close. He’d forgotten how clingy she was.

  “Luckily, my assistant was able to reschedule my flight. I was so hurried, though. I haven’t even been to my room yet. I must look a fright.”

  She ran her free hand down the length of a body-hugging green sheath from waist to thigh, then patted her perfectly coiffed red hair.

  Nikko refrained from responding that she looked as if she’d stepped off a photo shoot, knowing that’s what she wanted him to say.

  “What have I missed?” she asked.

  “Nothing, yet. I was just about to start.”

  Because it looked like she had no intention of letting go of his arm, Nikko walked toward the tables, now filled with the cast and crew, taking her along with him.

  “Have a seat,” he said, unwinding her arm from his.

  Like a cat stretching in the midday sun, Jade lowered her body slowly, one vertebra at a time, with every male eye focused on her movements. Which, since he knew her so well, was exactly what she’d planned.

  Stacy went back to where she’d been sitting when he arrived, wedging herself between Burbank and MacNeill, who both looked more than happy to make room for her.

  “Okay, folks,” he shouted, garnering everyone in the room’s attention. “Let’s get started.”

  Ten minutes into his rundown, he lost the thin thread of control he’d been hanging on to.

  Between the numerous interruptions by the chefs, calling out questions at him, and then the joking responses they tossed at one another, Nikko had had it.

  His leg hurt, the chefs were being assholes, and he needed to get back and get dinner started for Melora.

  When the noise level crescendoed, Nikko slammed his palm down on the table.

  “Enough!”

  Like schoolchildren being reprimanded by an at-wit’s-end-teacher, they all quieted in an instant.

  “I know you’re all excited to start this competition,” he said, digging deep down for a semblance of control, “but let me get through this first and then you can all go do whatever you want for the rest of the night. Okay?”

  A sea of nodding heads filled his vision.

  “Now, as far as the filming schedule goes—”

  He got no further.

  “We know about the schedule, Nikko,” Davey Crimes called from the back of the room. “No worries. Your EP filled us in on the way here.”

  Before he could stop it, Nikko saw a flash of red cross his eyeline and he spun to where Stacy was seated. “Oh she did, did she?” It took every ounce of willpower not to scream the words as he glowered at her. Her face turned three different shades of crimson under his scrutiny. “Well, let me remind you all, Miss Peters isn’t in charge of this production. I am. So if you want to know what’s really going to happen, you’d better listen up. That includes the crew, as well,” he added, running his gaze around the room.

  He went on to tell them that he’d changed the times they were going to be needed for the first day of shooting, and that the challenge he’d originally planned he’d scrapped for a different one.

  He’d done no such thing, but as soon as he’d heard Stacy Peters had already spoken to them, he wanted to punish her. She needed to be reminded who was in charge on this show, who she reported to.

  A few heads turned to her, sorry and embarrassed glances tossing her way. She didn’t get up and run from the room, which, he admitted, he’d hoped for, but opened her notebook and began typing while he spoke.

  When he finished, he tossed her another heated glare and reminded them, “This is a competition. I expect you all to conduct yourselves as professionals. No juvenile pranks, no ridiculous alliances. This isn’t Survivor. You’re all on your own. Act like grown-ups.” He told them to get a good night’s sleep in order to be at their brightest and best in the morning. Groans and grumbles came back at him.

  “I see your dinner is being brought out,” Nikko said when he spied the ranch kitchen staff bringing in pots of food through the hall’s kitchen-entrance doors. “Enjoy your meal and I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  When he saw Stacy rise and go in the opposite direction of the food line, he called out, “Miss Peters, I’d like a word with you. Now.”

  Stacy stopped short. Clutching her notebook, the bulky walkie-talkie secured to a band at her hip, she followed him through the double entrance doors. Once they were closed behind them, he turned.

  “Let’s get something straight right now.” He was substantially taller than she was and it gave him a little petty pleasure that the closer he came to her the more she had to dip her head back to maintain eye contact.

  But she did, her gaze never once wavering, her body staying rooted, not retreating.

  “It’s not your job to tell the cast and crew anything unless I instruct you to. It’s my responsibility to go over the shooting schedule, the production schedule—hell, even their sleeping schedule—with them. Not you. Do you understand me?”

  Stacy nodded, her eyes trained on his.

  “I thought I made myself clear last night about what I expect from you.”

  “You did.”

  “Then why the hell did you take it upon yourself to brief them all”—he swiped his hand in the direction of the hall—“about the shooting schedule?”

  “I’m sorry I did,” she told him. “I realize now I shouldn’t have. I’m
…I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Was that a slight a warble in her voice? He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t get by him she offered no reason why she had.

  They continued to stare at one another.

  Why didn’t she fight back? Why didn’t she rail at him? Scream at him? Tell him he was a jerk and then storm off? Why the hell didn’t she defend herself?

  “It better not,” he found himself saying.

  She nodded. “Do you need me to do anything in preparation for the change in the challenge?”

  He squinted at her, not remembering at first what he’d told the room.

  Shit. Now he’d put his foot in it. He had to come up with something quick.

  “Not at the moment,” he said quickly. “I’ll text you the particulars in a little while. I need to get back to my daughter first.”

  Stacy opened her mouth and then just as quick shut it again.

  “Yes?”

  It took her a moment before she replied. He hadn’t noticed until then how her hands were clenched around her notebook, her knuckles almost white with the exertion.

  “I just wanted to apologize for this afternoon as well. For taking Melora with me to the airport. I’m sorry you were so worried, so…concerned.”

  He waited for her to tell him Melora had lied to her, but the words never came.

  Intrigued, he wondered why not. He was about to tell her the fault was with his daughter’s deception, but before he could, the doors opened and Jade Quartermaine came through them.

  “Oh, good, you haven’t left yet.” She ambled up to them, cast a quick, dismissive glance at Stacy, and then wound her arm through his again. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Nikko knew her well enough to know she didn’t care if she was.

  “No. We’re finished,” he said, flicking a quick look at Stacy. She was staring down at her shoes, her cheeks once again pink.

  “Good.” The smile on Jade’s face was pure feline. “I’m not in the mood for the barbequed ribs they’re serving in there.” She cocked her head behind her. “Why don’t you walk me back to the house and tell me where a girl can get a decent salad around here.”