Image consultant Blake Matthews is facing his toughest PR challenge yet: salvage the image of celebrity chef Kirin Hart. Once he does, he’ll be able to acquire LA’s most successful PR firm. But Kirin’s no easy fix. She’s stubborn about changing her comfortable homemaker image, and is being sued for sexual harassment by a junior staffer. She needs a PR lifeline fast. Only problem is Blake wants more than to make her over…
Kirin doesn’t need a makeover–her fans love her as she is. But she could lose everything if the sex scandal and reputation that has followed doesn’t get quashed right away. Kirin agrees to let model-perfect Blake work his magic for two weeks, but things get complicated when she can’t deny the way her body flares to life whenever he’s near.
Information:
Title: Dishing Up Desire
Author: Barbara DeLeo
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 179 pages
Release Date: July 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62266-172-5
Imprint: Indulgence
Praise for Dishing Up Desire:
“Sizzling, sensual, and deeply romantic. I couldn’t put it down.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Rachel Bailey
Excerpt:
© 2013 Barbara DeLeo
Chapter One
Blake Matthews stepped from the elevator into the cool basement of Hart Corporation and sucked in a lungful of air. The sweet smell of something toasted and warm assaulted his nose, filled his mouth, and confirmed that Kirin Hart, America’s fallen-angel chef, was close by.
Hands slung in his pockets, he strode down the bare concrete corridor toward the enticing smells and cooking sounds, ready to meet the challenge of fixing the public image Mrs. Hart had so spectacularly annihilated.
Because she’d broken the last consultant who’d tried to tackle this mammoth assignment, he’d stepped in to minimize catastrophic fallout to the PR company he was about to buy. The board of directors had given him fourteen days to prove he had what it took to preserve the integrity of their company or they wouldn’t sell to him.
He’d turn the situation around in ten.
A photograph from the file his investigator had put together reeled through his mind—the focused woman carefully disguised beneath homely outfits, pastel cardigans, and blond hair in a sweet plait. She’d certainly crafted the look of dependable domestic goddess well. Pity she’d been accused of sexually harassing a male staffer ten years her junior, thereby smashing that image, and the public’s love for her, to smithereens. Confidence pumped sweetly through his veins. He’d never failed at a job this big, and didn’t intend to start now, especially with the expansion of his business at stake. He’d overhaul Mrs. Hart—beige trouser suit and all—and be back home in New York in no time.
At the end of the corridor he stopped in an open doorway.
Behind a long stainless steel counter strewn with cooking paraphernalia, a woman had her back to him as she stirred something on an enormous industrial stove. He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, the low roar of overhead fans sucking away steam allowing him to watch her unnoticed. He made the most of the sight.
A loose blond ponytail, falling from beneath a small black hat, rested between narrow shoulders. His gaze tracked lower to where the strings of a black chef’s apron fell down the back of a plain tan skirt hugging a perfectly rounded bottom. He took a step into the room but still she worked, backward and forward. Her movements were sexily hypnotic—stirring and shuffling implements, occasionally dusting a hand across the curve of her hip—oblivious to the fact he couldn’t pull his eyes away.
Still unaware of him, she leaned to the back of the stove, dipped a spoon into one of the pans, and steadying a hand beneath, lifted it to her face and blew. As she opened her mouth and slowly slid the spoon between dusky lips, the secret intimacy of it caused his stomach muscles to clench, and on reflex he cleared his throat. When she spun around, the spoon clattered to the floor, her moist mouth forming a perfect O.
“Can I help you?” She reached for a cloth to clean up the liquid splattered across the counter and all down her front. “You must be lost.”
He took a step into the room. “Not lost. I was looking for you. Don’t stop what you’re doing, I was enjoying it.” He moved forward. “Blake—”
“How did you get in? This is a restricted area.” Her eyes flicked to her apron and back at him, the creamy skin at her jaw tightening as she wiped away the mess.
“Through the door.” He tried a grin but she dropped her gaze.
“But I have security.”
The chilly reception wasn’t surprising. Angela Jenkins, the original consultant on this job, had described Kirin Hart as defensive and suspicious—and that was before Kirin had told her that she didn’t need their services anymore. “Might want to check on that security.” He stepped around a stack of cardboard cartons. “I told your doorman who I was and he let me come straight down.”
Finally, sparking caramel eyes focused on him and she stopped still. “What can I do for you?”
He pulled up an industrial looking stool and sat. “If you’re not going to continue cooking, best turn the stoves off. This could take a while.”
She laid both hands on the counter and hooked him with a “give me orders if you dare” look as her chest rose then fell. “The expansion might’ve fallen through but I still need these new stoves.” The mask was edged with hard-assed determination and was even more of a turn on than watching her cook. Her tongue peeped out and she moistened her lips. “I’ll downsize the chillers, though, so you can take the large one in the next room. It was the last you sent.”
She began to remove the apron and her body was revealed. A cream blouse in soft fabric skimmed her breasts and sat lightly across a gently rounded stomach. It had a V-neck but must have had two dozen tiny pearl buttons all down the front and reminded him of a particularly uptight Sunday school teacher he’d once had.
At her throat, a thin gold chain lay against her milky skin with the letter K in a flourishing script. “We won’t be needing the new office furniture you delivered last month either. You can take that back.” She waved a delicate hand and thin gold bracelets tinkled on her wrist. “I’m sorry but I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” She turned back to the stove. “Make an appointment with my P.A. and she’ll coordinate with you. I’m sure you’ll find your way out.”
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her ball-breaking attitude and the fact they’d had an entire conversation without him saying a word.
If he was a supplier of cooking equipment, or a repo man, he’d be throwing out some pretty choice expletives right now in response to an attitude like that. Lucky for her, he had a few more manners than she was displaying. No wonder she was such a PR disaster. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and finding nowhere to put it on the crowded counter, laid it across his knee. “I’ve come to discuss your contract with Dent and Douglas.”
Her shoulders straightened. “My contract with Dent and Douglas is finished. I explained to Angela Jenkins that it wasn’t working out.” She turned and began to play with the strings of the apron. “If there are things to sign, my lawyer will take care of it.”
She leaned closer and the K slipped beneath the fabric to a part of her he couldn’t see.
He swallowed then refocused. Given her significant business troubles, the fight she still had left inside was admirable, and surprisingly sexy. “I’m Angela’s replacement.”
Her cinnamon eyes darted from the apron to his face. “May I see your card?”
Shit. His stomach clenched. He was going to have enough trouble making her come around if she thought he worked for Dent and Douglas. If she knew he was D and D’s new buyer and that they wouldn’t sell until he’d fixed her, she’d be the one in the driver’s seat, and no way was that happening. His real identity could be saved for later. “I left my last card with your guy upstairs. Call him.”
She turned as if looking for her phone then seemed to think better of it. “In case you haven’t quite gotten the message, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want an image consultant anymore. Thanks for your time, I’m sorry it was wasted.”
Good. She believed him. But he wasn’t going anywhere. “No consultant? Why?”
There was that tongue again, slipping between her lips, and he found his eyes being constantly pulled there. “Because I need to get myself out of this mess.” A flare of pain blossomed in her eyes.
So, there was a heart beating behind that tough shell. “And how do you intend to do that on your own? From what I understand, your brand’s looking about as attractive as a high-speed train wreck right now. And you’re the one who’s still standing on the accelerator. Seems to me like you need a lot of professional help. Fast.”
She pulled the hat from her head and tiny blond hairs stood up at different angles. The pain was still in her eyes and her face softened. “By working hard, cooking well, things I’ve done since the start of my career. No amount of PR speak and fancy outfits is going to do that for me.”
He picked up some sort of metal cooking utensil and turned the handle. “I’d suggest it wasn’t your cooking or your work ethic that got you into this mess so it’s not likely they’ll get you out. Your brother did the right thing hiring the best PR firm in town to turn your fortunes around. You’ll never put this right on your own. From what I understand, if you don’t act soon you’re going to have a parade of removal men banging down your door. And they might not be as gentlemanly as me.”
She’d rolled the apron into a ball and threw it to the side. “Flynn has a good heart but he has no clue about this industry.” She rubbed her forehead. “Your colleague, Angela, started telling me what I should wear, how I should speak, who I should be associating with.” Her eyes flashed as she spoke.
“All good advice which I hear you refused to take.”
She laid a hand at her throat, her slim fingers stroking the pale skin that looked as silky as the fabric covering the rest of her top half. “What did you say your name was?”
“Matthews.” He threw her his ‘trust-me’ smile. “Blake Matthews.”
“Well, thanks, Blake Matthews but I don’t require the services of Dent and Douglas anymore. I’m happy to handle this on my own.” She picked up a towel and turned back toward the stove. “If you don’t mind, I have a party to cater and you’re holding me up.” She knelt to look in an oven then pulled open the door.
“What’s the party?”
She leaned in and put a skewer into the cake. When she drew it back he noticed her long, dark lashes as she surveyed the end. “It’s for the daughter of a friend.”
“Sweet Sixteen? Or twenty-first? You must be glad for the work. I’ve heard that the catering side of Hart Corp. has taken a big hit.” He turned the handle on the cooking thing and a blade inside nearly sliced his finger off.
She shut the oven door hard and turned, skewer pointing toward him, cheeks flushed. “It’s Maura’s fourth birthday, and unless you want to lose a thumb, I suggest you put that down. There’s a reason we don’t let the public down here.”
The public? Prickles rose on his neck for a second and then he reminded himself how much he enjoyed the challenge of getting people like Kirin Hart on his side. Two could play at her game.
He nodded slowly and placed the cutting thing gently on the counter. “How long have you been catering birthday parties for pre-schoolers? And is that sort of work going to stop your business imploding? Can’t imagine there’s a whole lot of profit in Jell-O molds and Twinkie cakes, or whatever kids eat at parties these days.”
She sighed. “My business is none of your business, Mr. Matthews.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He met the challenging spark in her stare and smiled slowly. He’d come from New York to buy Dent and Douglas—the jewel in his crown of image consultancies and PR firms—and suddenly they’d put a halt to the sale. The Kirin Hart debacle—and the resulting media circus—was destroying the reputation LA’s most famous PR company had worked fifty years to develop. They wanted proof that Blake had the capacity to maintain the integrity of their name. And they wouldn’t sell until he’d proven he could fix Kirin Hart and her image.
He put his palms flat on the cool counter top. “I don’t do failure, Mrs. Hart, and right now Dent and Douglas has a contracted client whose image hasn’t been changed, whose fortunes haven’t been turned around as they assured her they would be. Where I come from, we call that a dud rap. I don’t do dud raps. In fact, I’ve never been involved in one, and don’t intend to start now.”
Kirin tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Angela spent her whole time suggesting I didn’t know how to dress or do my hair. I’m a chef not a catwalk model, Mr. Matthews. Surely the decision about whether to carry on a contract is up to the client,” she said, voice tight.
“That might be the case if that client wasn’t the biggest image disaster in American history. The whole world and his PR machine know D and D took you on. Their reputation will be worth nothing if we don’t see the contract through.”
She took a moment before answering. “And why are you so interested in me? Are you the bad cop, the guy who tries to muscle in and rough up the client when she’s not toeing the line?”
He adjusted himself on the stool, hooked by her candor and the way her breasts rose in defiance. He hadn’t counted on her spitfire responses, or his responses to them. He’d dealt with a lot of people in his career, but no one had captured his fascination as quickly as Kirin Hart. This was a woman who believed in herself and her image so much she was prepared to fight to the death for it. Trouble was, the media was nailing the lid on her career’s coffin hour-by-hour and unless something drastic happened, she’d have nothing left. And his plan to add the crowning company in his coast-to-coast empire would be finished.
“I’m no bad cop, and I’m not interested in you, Mrs. Hart, I’m interested in your image. They’re two entirely different things. When you begin to understand that, we might start getting somewhere.”
For a second something passed across her face, almost as if she’d been hurt by what he’d said but then she stood straighter. “I’ve told you, I’m not interested. I’ll pay the contract break fee and be done with it. And please don’t call me Mrs. Hart.”
“You’ll renege on the contract and just wait for everything to go up in a smoke of debts? All the things you’ve worked so hard and so long for?”
The skewer clanged as she dropped it on the counter top. “People have been taking from me since my husband died, Mr. Matthews.” Her lip trembled before she cleared her throat. “In fact, since well before that and right up to the present day. I’m used to it, but I’m not going to let you do it, too.”
This wasn’t hurt, it was cold-blooded anger and he knew where it was coming from. “You mean Trent Bray.”
Blood drained from her face and her eyes glistened. “You know about that?”
He crossed his arms. “Female CEOs being sued for the sexual harassment of their younger male employees aren’t that common, Kirin. You want Bray to win? For everything you worked for before he came along to be worth nothing?”
“He’s already won,” she murmured and looked up at him. Her shoulders had slumped and the defeated look on her face stirred something deep inside. For the shortest second, her cultivated control was replaced with soft vulnerability, and the contrast was mesmerizing. She lifted her chin and whispered, “Hell, no.”
“Then let me help you.”
She picked up a knife and stabbed it through a piece of butter. “I’ve been relying on people for too long. It’s time I took charge.”
He swallowed, his heart throwing in an extra beat for her vulnerability. “I’m the best there is at turning around public images, Kirin. Come back on board and I’ll have journalists phoning you for interviews, invitations to talk shows and A-list parties. I can have your image back on track, brighter than you ever thought possible, in no time.”
She reached behind her for a small copper pot and put the butter in. “And what makes you so sure you can achieve this magic? Is a superhero outfit lurking under that smart suit?” Her first real smile flitted across her face and it dazzled. “A pair of underpants over the tights beneath? I don’t need rescuing by you or anyone else, Mr. Matthews.”
He didn’t usually have to spell out his experience. Most people he dealt with had been on a waiting list for his services for months and knew every last detail. “I’ve been in the image industry for fourteen years. I started work at sixteen as an international model and quickly learned that the way you portray yourself can make, or cost you, millions. The image the public currently has of you, if I may be so blunt, is a seductress who’s betrayed her roots. They bought that original, homely image of you hook, line, and sinker and now they feel cheated. Turning your situation around isn’t going to be easy, and you certainly won’t achieve it alone.”
She was quiet for a moment then shook her head. “Thanks for your interest but I’m going to do this on my own. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a hundred cupcakes to frost.”
Blake reached into his pocket, pulled out his smart phone and pressed a button before sliding it across the counter to her. “How’s this ‘doing it on your own’ working out for you?”
She looked down at the picture on the screen and a flush swept up her neck. “Not one of my finest moments.”
“You flipped the bird at twenty-five photographers and the image was spread across nationwide news channels for a week. If this is part of your strategy to go it alone, can I quietly suggest you’re making a dog’s breakfast of it? Giving the middle finger salute doesn’t quite fit with your current image.”
The tongue came out and swept across her lip again and in an unbidden flash, his pulse spiked. How would it feel against his own mouth? Would she be so self-assured when she kissed, or would she take the submissive role and wait until he kissed her back? He suffocated the rogue reaction and focused.
“How much do you know about cooking, Mr. Matthews, and how much about my career?”
“It’s Blake,” he said. “I know that you and your husband started young and built a multi-million dollar business. People saw your shows, your cookbooks, your grocery products, the whole, ‘Cooking with Hart’ brand as defining integrity, reflecting traditional values and wholesome living. I also know that you dropped from the radar a little after your husband died but that your comeback was eagerly awaited and when you did emerge again, it was with the same down-home goodness that you’d delivered before.”
Kirin had switched off the stoves and fans and leaned against the counter. A connection was growing. “And the rest of it?”
“I know that the next thing the public knew, you were being sued for sexual harassment by one of your junior staffers and that he settled out of court with you for an undisclosed sum.”
Her eyes rounded and she stood motionless. “And do you believe I sexually harassed an employee? That at age thirty-four I’d jeopardize all that for a cheap thrill with a younger man?”
He shrugged and pinned his gaze to hers. “What I believe is irrelevant. What the public currently sees is a woman who’s still trying to present an image of sweet innocence, when they’re imagining all sorts of titillating things going on in her private life. In fact, their hunger for that side of you is feeding the paparazzi interest, the tell-all stories from friends, the paparazzi shots of you with anyone in trousers, and it’s taken the focus right away from what you’re best at—your cooking business. Not only will all that go away if you agree to my plan, but we can harness that new image of you to build a whole new brand.”
“And what would your strategy be? To tell me to change the way I dress, the way I speak, like Angela did?”
“There would be some of that,” he admitted. “And a few lessons in what not to say.”
She reached across to a pile of linen and pulled out a fresh apron and hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Matthews. I appreciate your interest and concern, but part of what’s wrong in my life is that I’ve put too much of my trust in people—especially pushy men—who’ve only wanted to use me for their own gains. You’re not going to be another of those people, so I thank you for your time. Please close the door behind you.” And with that, she turned her back and walked away.
Chapter Two
Three days later Kirin burst through the double glass doors of the TV station, did a swift sidestep towards a bunch of schoolgirls huddled at a bus stop, then took a quick right to where she’d left her car parked in a side alley.
Slinging her shoulder bag further onto her back she started to run, the clump, clump of her dark brown shoes echoing the thump of her heart. The embarrassment—no, the body-aching, mind-numbing shame of the television interview she’d just endured was enough to make her want to throw up here and now.
They’d sold the interview to her as an opportunity to start fresh with her public, to explain the pressure she’d been under, talk about the bad choices she’d made, but instead they’d told her about some sort of sex tape that they had exclusive access to. And in that horrifying moment she’d ripped the microphone from her blouse, stumbled over a camera cable, and run from the building.
If she wasn’t so angry she might cry the hot, hard tears that stung behind her nose. But she was angry. Blood-boiling, head-spinning angry. Waking up every day in this nightmare wouldn’t be so bad if there was some chance of things getting better, but she could see the bottom of the hole she’d fallen into rushing towards her and it was going to hurt like hell when she hit it. The tears clouded her vision and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t try to hold them back.
As she got closer to her car, the fear of what might be chasing her was overshadowed by the sight of someone lounging on her hood.
Blake Matthews. The man who’d been haunting her thoughts since she’d asked him to leave her kitchen a few days ago, was here in perfect profile and looking like he owned the road. He was so ruggedly gorgeous, so effortlessly handsome that she had to pull in an extra breath in case she swooned on the spot. Hurriedly, she blinked away the tears.
Casting a look over her shoulder and seeing only two photographers and a reporter in high heels making a dash toward her, she made a final push to the car.
“Need to get away!” she called as Blake eased himself from the car and strolled to the driver’s door.
Hand casually slung in a pocket, he tipped his sunglasses up. “Keys. Give them to me.”
“No! What—?”
“They’re coming after you.” His intense gaze didn’t move from her face. “And you’re in no state to drive. Keys.”
“Kirin, Kirin!” a reporter with an English accent shouted. “What about the sex tape? What sort of things can we expect to see on it? The full monty or just a bit of slap and tickle?”
She crumpled against the side of the car.
“Keys. Now.”
Mindless, she tossed them in his direction and as soon as he had the door unlocked, threw herself into the passenger seat. In a second, he’d gunned the engine and they were shooting down the alley toward the main road.
“That was like a bad movie,” she finally managed, as she rearranged her skirt and blouse and fought to regain her breath.
“You mean a good movie.” Blake’s broad hands gripped her steering wheel, the bright white of his shirt cuff contrasting with the warm tan of his fingers. For a minute she had to think twice about what he’d just said.
“How in all hell could my life resemble a good movie?”
Sleek designer shades covered his eyes, but the quirk at his mouth suggested he was teasing. “In the bad movies, the girl runs screaming from the building and is either knocked down by a Number Ten bus, or the buff guy waiting at her car turns out to be the exact same guy she’s been trying to get away from.” He flicked the turn signal and Kirin sat mesmerized by the tiny dimple in his cheek each time he smiled, and the perfectly crafted stubble she’d only seen on movie stars. “In the good movies the guy waiting at the car’s the hero, the one who’s going to solve the problem she was running from.”
She reached down into her bag and switched off her phone to stop it from buzzing constantly with new text messages. Her pulse started to slow. “And the woman can’t just get into her car and remove herself from the problem on her own no matter which situation she’s in, right? She’ll always need a man.”
He turned the wheel and they swung around a corner. “Hell, no. I wouldn’t pay to see a movie like that. No fun at all.” He grinned, all mischief and suggestion. “Unless there was a sex tape in it.”
She dropped her head and the same hot horror from five minutes ago came surging back but this time it didn’t hurt quite so bad. She could feel Blake’s smile still warming her.
“Is there a sex tape?” He took a quick look in the rearview mirror and seemingly satisfied, finally turned toward her.
The strong, confident profile she’d spent the last three days dreaming about was even more stunning without a counter top between them. Rugged jaw, a smile that split his face, and white teeth that dazzled—it was screamingly obvious why he’d been an international model. Those sort of looks were one in a million. She’d never met a man—anyone—as naturally stunning and she couldn’t stop looking at him.
Suddenly she remembered his question. “A tape? No, of course there isn’t. Not a movie of anything, anyway. It’s possible he taped a conversation…Nothing physical happened between Trent and me. Ever.” She chewed the inside of her lip, the old swirl of panic taking hold again. “Knowing what he’s capable of, he could’ve engineered the whole thing to look like something else though… Shit.”
Blake blew air through his teeth. “I have a goddaughter who was harassed by a guy in college and while my first instinct was to take him out, the best way I could help her was by giving her tools to help herself. I can offer you the same. They didn’t play any of the tape on ‘The Williams Show,’ did they?”
“I didn’t give them a chance. As soon as he started to ask me about it I panicked and ran.” Without thinking, she clutched his arm. “Oh, God, you don’t think they’d have played it after I left? When I settled with Trent it was under the strict condition neither of us would speak about what had happened or the agreement we came to, so why is this coming up now?”
He glanced down to where her fingers lay on his forearm and his lips lifted in a sexy smile. She drew back with a start, the memory of his warm, hard body, imprinted on her fingertips.
“It’s not Bray talking about it, that’s why.” He looked out the windshield again. “He’s leaked this so it can be kept in the public eye longer. Destroy your reputation even further. He sure as hell has a vendetta against you.”
“That’s because he didn’t get the position he was after in my company.” She blew out a long breath, strangely calmed by Blake’s soothing voice and his commanding presence beside her. “I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence that you were leaning against my car. That you knew I was at the taping. And, by the way, where are we going?”
“I found out from a contact that you were going to do the Larry Williams show and guessed the result. Larry’s ratings haven’t been that great lately and he’s in for the shock factor. If you’d asked me, which you didn’t because you don’t have an image consultant anymore, I’d have told you to stay well clear of him. And I’m taking you home. Right now you need to feel safe.”
Tears threatened again at his caring tone but she placed her palms together and squeezed them between her knees, trying to keep it together. She was so out of her depth it felt like she was drowning, watching everything she’d worked so hard and long for disappear into the mist. “You think I’m naive, don’t you?”
They stopped at a traffic light and he lifted his glasses onto his head, turning his full attention to her. “Naive? No. You’re a chef and a businesswoman who doesn’t have the required skill set to combat the likes of Larry Williams or Trent Bray. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but there’s plenty you can do about it.”
The warm, inquiring look in his eyes sent heat rushing to her cheeks. It had been such a long time since anyone had said something so caring to her, and even though he was only doing it to get her to re-sign with him, it sent a warm clutch to her chest. “You really think so?”
He pulled into the traffic again and she was relieved to not be under his bone-melting stare any longer. “Look, Kirin, I wouldn’t know a squash from a sweet potato and couldn’t care if I ever did. Food holds no interest for me whatsoever. But if my life and my reputation depended on me knowing that stuff I’d hire someone who could take care of it for me while I focused on what I do best.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hell, no. I’d hire a chef or—”
“No, I mean, you’re kidding about having no interest in food.”
He shrugged powerful shoulders beneath the white shirt. “Never understood the whole hype. I mean, it’s science. Eat enough to give you energy but not so much to make you fat. Not too much of any one thing so you’re getting the right nutrients. I don’t buy all this fiddling around and agonizing over whether something’s got Omega 3 or which herb to put on groundhog. Just don’t see the point.”
She let out an unexpected laugh and her whole body hummed with the relief. “Can’t say I’ve ever had to think about which herb goes with groundhog.”
He moved onto the freeway and the car leapt to life. “My point is, you’re in a whole pile of trouble and with the threat of this tape it’s only going to get worse. Let me look after your image for the next two weeks and if by that time I haven’t turned everything completely on its head, not only will D and D pay back every cent of the contract fee, we’ll triple it.”
The possibility of having someone—especially someone as take charge and sure of himself as Blake Matthews—sharing some of this burden caused her to sigh softly as every part of her relaxed. Having to look at him every few days wouldn’t be a hardship either. “To be honest, I don’t have any energy left. I should be in TV studios talking about my new ice cream brand, not dealing with this. I thought that in settling out of court as we did, it’d be the last I heard of the whole lie that I sexually harassed Trent.”
“Then someone gave you bad advice. Sex sells, and when there’s a hint of sexual misconduct from someone as well-known as you, it’s like a license to print money for TV shows and magazines for years after the event.” He shot her an ironic smile. “Interest in your sex life will follow you around like toilet tissue stuck to your shoe for a long time yet, Kirin. And don’t get me wrong, attention is exactly what your business is going to need in the coming months. The good kind, not the destructive kind.”
Her sex life? God, if he only knew how long it had been.
Blake held a hand out, palm up as if he spoke the obvious truth. “The fact you settled with Trent gave people the feeling that because there was smoke there must be fire. That you were hiding a secret, sexy side. Trying to deny that by reinforcing, or even playing up, your current conservative image would not only take too long, it’s not what your public wants. If we play to their image of you as a sexy, take charge thirty-something business woman, they’ll feel you’re finally being honest.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “We could even find the sex tape and expose it.”
She nearly shot out of her seat as she swung her body toward him. “What!? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s the last thing we’ll do. Absolutely, unequivocally, no way are we looking for that tape, let alone exposing it! I’m not going to play Trent’s game anymore.”
For a beat, then two, he was silent. “Excellent. Just the sort of passion we need from you. So, you’ve decided to let me turn your public image around?”
She sighed and focused on the windshield as she shook her head. “I really don’t see how you can fix me after this news. And I don’t see how playing into the public’s image of me as a secret sex fiend would do anything but harm my reputation more.”
“That’s because you’re a chef and I’m an image expert.”
She twisted toward him. “I don’t want this dragging on, Blake.” Her voice quavered. “I can’t face this day after day with things popping up out of the woodwork.”
“Give me two weeks.”
She swung her gaze back to his face and blinked the dampness away. “You think you can make a difference in two weeks?”
“What would you most like to happen? If you could turn anything around, what would you do?”
She didn’t need to think. “I’d like to stop getting abusive phone calls and emails.”
“And?”
She breathed slowly, the prospect that he could make all this go away, almost too good to believe. “I’d like to put my side of the story properly to someone who cares about the truth, someone who the public respects and who’ll tell the real story.”
“More.”
Although it sounded impossible, it felt good to say all this out loud and her heart beat stronger. “I want to cater a major function in town and have everyone rave about my food again. I want to have my publisher return my calls, my debts to stop mounting. I want to give back to all those people who’ve believed me but who’ve suffered through this whole nightmare too.”
“That’s quite a list for a superhero in two weeks, let alone a PR guru. I’d need my outside undies on for that.”
The corner of her mouth tugged in a wobbly grin. “You think it’s asking too much?”
“Not at all. But if we’re to pull it off you’ll have to give me your full cooperation, and by that I mean no arguing with me about clothing choices, appearances, tweaks I might make to your presentation in all areas of your life. I’ll own your image for two weeks and you’ll put your trust in the understanding that you’re the expert on eggplants and I’m the expert on image.”
Kirin leaned back against the seat again, as a strange mix of relief and trepidation cycled through her. Could he really do that for her? “And what if we’ve achieved none of those things at the end of two weeks?”
Blake turned to her, his perfect lips quirking in a half-smile. “With me in your corner? Not a chance of that happening.”