Chapter Three

Standing before a glass-covered case of studio Oscar statuettes, Greg hadn’t felt this bedazzled since his sixth-grade field trip to the Tech Museum in downtown San Jose. Powering through the interactive exhibits, he’d felt as though a new world were opening up for him—and he’d been right.

The two-hour tour having ended, next up was lunch. Following the group inside a side room marked as Holding, he saw several white-clothed buffet tables set with serving platters and dishes. Greg’s stomach growled. His fast-track metabolism required frequent feedings, and the health-conscious breakfast of fruit, granola, and yogurt they’d been served had worn off a while ago. He walked over to the nearest food station, a pasta bar, and got in line, piling his paper plate with servings from each hot and cold dish.

Brittany joined him at the end, her plate covered with salad drowning in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with bacon bits and croutons.

“Is that all you’re having?” he asked, swallowing a mouthful of lasagna.

“I’m a closet eater,” she confessed, slipping her fork into the slush.

Contestant XY4, Hadley Jones, ambled up to them. A sleeveless wifebeater sweatshirt and baggy low-rise jeans showed off his rangy build as well as the better part of his boxers. “Nice spread,” he said, dunking a wedge of bread in marinara sauce. “But I was really hoping we’d get to try some California Dungeness crab, see how it stacks up against good ole Maryland blue.”

“Steamed crab is more of a dietary staple of San Francisco,” Greg interjected. “Excuse me, I’m going to grab a soda,” he added, eager to put some distance between himself and the group.

Ordinarily he took his meals at his computer while he coded, too caught up to care what he ate—or how lonely he was. A little loneliness, or at least alone time, would be really welcome about now. Beyond that, he wanted to make sure he met as many coaches and production people as possible before the press conference.

Brittany followed him with a frazzled look. “You won’t be late, will you, Greg? Amber told us to meet ten minutes before so she can line us up in the correct order.”

So not soul mate material! “Thanks for the reminder, Brittany, but I’ll be back in plenty of time,” he assured her, backing out of range.

Beverage service was set up on the far side of the room. He made his way toward it, forking his food as he canvassed the room for the coaches. Having viewed their online publicity photos, he should be able to easily pick them out. He took another step…and smashed into something—someone—soft and silken.

The brunette leapt back but not in time. His paper plate upturned, plastering to her front.

“Mind where you’re walking!”

Greg ground to a halt. Holy fucking cow. That British accent…those livid green eyes…those luscious red-painted lips pulled into a frown! Standing before him dripping with his lunch was Francesca St. James, the ballsy bossy-pants photographer he’d butted heads with a little more than a year ago, the one whom he thought of as Medusa based on the freezing stare she’d sent him when he’d thrown her out. What the hell was she doing here?

He scraped a hand through his hair. “Jesus, are you stalking me or what?”

“Stalking you!” Her slanted cat’s eyes looked as though they could freeze water and cut glass. “You’re the very last person I’d ever want to lay eyes on again.” She peeled the plate from her chest—her very nicely shaped chest, or so Greg suddenly noticed.

A strand of fettuccine held fast to her left breast. Pinned just above it was a name badge, the black lettering visible despite the splatter. “Francesca St. James, Project Cinderella. Coach.”

Coach?

Her gaze slid over him as well. Snagging on his badge, her green eyes popped. “You’re a…contestant!”

She wasn’t faking it. She really hadn’t known he would be there. “Contestant XY6,” he confirmed, thinking it promised to be a long eight weeks.

Her lip curled. “What became of your legendary camera-shyness?”

She was as frustrating as he remembered, he thought, folding his arms. “I decided to cure myself by coming on the show, sort of like going parachuting to get over being afraid of heights.”

Holding the plate away, she said, “Now that you’ve bloody ruined my outfit, might you at least help me, fetch some club soda or…something?”

Gaze skimming the splattered silk, he wasn’t sure where it was okay to touch.

“Okay, chill out, I’m on it.” He felt in his pocket for the paper napkins he’d stashed there earlier and pulled out the crumpled but clean wad.

A slender man with spiked blond hair and a black silk shirt tucked into his skinny jeans hurried up to them. “Bollocks!” he said, sparing Greg a brief glance before focusing on Medusa.

Greg recognized him from his publicity photo on the show’s website. The British-born Manhattan stylist, Franc Whiting. So much for first impressions…

Whiting looked between them, shaking his head. “I don’t think this is what the producers meant by mingling.”

Francesca stabbed a manicured fingernail in the vicinity of Greg’s chest. “I was on my way to the sushi station when he barreled into me.”

Of course she would pin the blame on him. Pissed off, Greg answered, “Actually, you bumped into me, but I’m willing to split the difference and say we walked into each other.”

“Then why am I the one of us wearing a pasta bar?” she shot back.

Greg didn’t have a reply for that, not one that wasn’t at least R-rated. The fact was, she looked totally hot wearing his lunch. She probably looked great in pretty much anything she put on. A bedsheet came to mind. So did shower gel.

“Children, please,” Franc intervened, a smile pulling at his mouth. He reached out and gingerly withdrew the sagging paper plate from Medusa’s white-knuckled clutch. “Hold steady, and I’ll see about getting some club soda and more napkins—lots.”

“Brilliant, thanks,” she answered, sending her fellow coach a relieved look.

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg echoed. Watching Franc walk away to find a trash can, he turned back to Francesca. “We can start with these.” He held out the balled-up napkins.

She stepped to the side as though he were offering her a snake. “I’ll go find the loo or…something.”

He turned with her, his body mirroring hers, and a really weird rush ran through him. Though they’d met before, back then he’d been too focused on fending off the camera she’d tried shoving in his face to give her much notice. Now that she had his full attention, he saw that her skin was satiny, her cheekbones high, her face an almost perfect oval. Her wavy dark brown hair was pinned up in what he was pretty sure was called a chignon, not in the messy ponytail he remembered. Wearing heels, she was almost as tall as him, and the facing stance brought them eye to eye. Hers, upswept at the corners, weren’t just any random green, they were emerald, the same as the stone in the engagement ring he’d inherited from his mother. Greg drew in a deep breath, feeling as though he was being sucked into a sinkhole of brilliant, bottomless green.

“Either step aside or help me, but do something beyond gawking like some sort of demented gargoyle!”

The admonishment worked like a slap, bringing Greg back to the reality of what she was—a ball-busting bitch. “Fine, but first we need to wipe off your shoes so you don’t trail vodka sauce everywhere.”

“We?”

“Okay, me.” Talk about a princess complex. He wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t expect him to lick them, too.

Not giving her a second chance to refuse, he dropped down on one knee, careful to avoid the spots of spillage.

“Not kneeling!” She darted her gaze about the room. Following her, Greg saw they’d definitely attracted attention. Turning back to him, she dropped her voice. “Get up this minute before you make a spectacle of us both.”

“I’d say it’s too late to worry about that.” Maybe it was the mojo of her British accent getting inside his head or the fact that his face was a hairbreadth from the space between her thighs, but whatever the reason, hot thoughts rushed him. “Sorry about the spectacle, but unless marinara is the new black, wiping you down definitely needs to happen.”

The look she gave him was Gorgon-worthy. “If you’re thinking of performing a comedic sketch for the talent portion of this program, I offer you this advice—don’t.”

Greg hadn’t felt this jazzed since they’d butted heads a year ago in his office. “Cheer up. If it doesn’t clean off, I’ll buy you a new pair. We passed a Kmart on the drive over,” he added, knowing that every stitch covering her must be couture. Tomato sauce probably never made it on her menu, only now she was wearing it—and vodka and Bolognese sauces too.

She shuddered. “You’re quite a colorful character, aren’t you? Is it real or an act?”

Greg stopped mopping the spillage from the tops of her feet and looked up. “Oh, I’m for real, all right. What you see is what you get. Ever think maybe you could use a little color—the kind not imprinted on textiles?” His gaze connected with hers again and, for the following few breath cycles, he forgot what a bitch she was being.

“You’re staring,” she accused, though her tone had lost its edge. “Other than the obvious, that I’m wearing your lunch, exactly what do you find so mesmerizing?”

As usual, he blurted out the first thought that came to mind. It also happened to be the absolute truth. “You. You’re a lot prettier than I remember.”

Her mouth parted and for a fleeting few seconds he found himself fantasizing about what it might be like to kiss her. Would her full lips feel as soft as they looked? Would she taste anything close to the lusciousness that her cherry-colored lipstick promised?

One delicate dark brow arched. “Yes, well, given that you could barely be bothered to unglue your gaze from your computer screen, I shan’t let your forward remark go to my head.”

The reference to their previous meeting had Greg stiffening. He hadn’t set out to compliment her but, given that he had, she could be at least a little gracious about it. Her haughty attitude really chapped his ass—and got his adrenaline pumping.

“Great, then don’t. I’m betting your head’s plenty big already.” He finished and stood. “You’re good to go.”

She looked down at her shoes, wiped as clean as he could get them without water, and nodded as if they met her approval. “I suppose I should thank you?”

He shrugged. “Don’t bother. If this tech CEO gig doesn’t work out, I’m thinking about setting up a shoeshine business at the airport.”

Improbably, her lips twitched. “There’s always that, I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, sorry if I’m babbling. We colorful characters don’t have much of a filter.”

“Apparently not.” She took a step back and turned to go. “Meeting you is always…memorable, Mr. Knickerbocker, but I really must find the loo before the press conference.”

Shit, the press conference! Caught up in damage control, he’d as good as forgotten it. Watching her whisk off toward the nearest exit, Greg cursed beneath his breath.

Way to go, Knickerbocker. Your fairy god-bitch fucking hates your guts.

He probably should have dialed down the sarcasm. Okay, not probably—definitely. Francesca St. James—Medusa—seemed to have a talent for bringing out the worst in him.

Beautiful enough to be a Bond girl, she was too hot to handle—and too bitchy to trust.

He’d gotten that much a year ago when she’d barged into his office. At least then he’d been in the power position. Not so now. He couldn’t kick her off the show, nor could he afford to risk her blackballing him among the other coaches. As much as he hated the thought, for the next eight weeks he was going to have to suck it up and play nice—at least pseudo-nice. Because like it or not, like her or not, he needed her help.

He needed her help to win.

…

Gregory Knickerbocker here on set—as a contestant!

Still reeling from the shock, Francesca pulled back the lavatory door marked Lucy, apparently a tradition commemorating the late comedienne Lucille Ball, and walked in. She moved to the sink and stared into the wall mirror. Cold water wasn’t going to suffice, but she had to start somewhere. Fortunately her shoes were patent leather and already wiped clean. The dress, a black-and-beige-striped Lanvin sheath, was ruined, likely the jacket as well, although the latter’s solid black hue might render it salvageable by a savvy dry cleaner.

Along with looking as though she’d fallen into a vat of tomato sauce, she smelled like the inside of a pizzeria. The reek of garlic had entirely defeated the Ralph Lauren Notorious she’d dabbed on earlier.

Gregory Knickerbocker had doused himself in another strongly recognizable scent—not exactly skunk but near enough, more along the lines of insect repellent. She’d wager her contribution to Sam’s college fund it was Old Spice. Francesca hadn’t realized they manufactured it anymore.

She dampened a paper towel and set to work, blotting at the stains. Being slimed with his pasta lunch had been bad enough, but having Mr. Knickerbocker go down on his knees at her feet, his blue eyes boring into her and his hot breath striking low on her belly, had been altogether mortifying.

A knock on the door sent her starting. “Come in,” she called out, though it felt odd to give permission to enter a public lavatory.

“Miss St. James, it’s Cindy. I saw what happened out there, and I am sooo sorry.”

“Thanks, but it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault, really, only an accident.”

“If you’d like, I can send someone back to your hotel to pick up a change of clothes. Or better yet, I have a car here. I can go myself.”

Francesca paused, thinking. “I just got in a few hours ago and there wasn’t time to properly unpack. Likely I can find what I need faster than anyone.”

“Gotcha.” Cindy already had her car keys in hand. “I know a shortcut. How about I drive you?”

Resolved to leave off further thoughts of Mr. Knickerbocker until later, much later, Francesca released a relieved breath. “Fantastic, you’re a lifesaver. Let’s go, shall we?”