Accidental Cinderella

Lindsay watched in wonder, trying to imagine how they would pull it off and have everything ready in time. Or, more aptly, tried to imagine how she would be ready for her first show by tomorrow.

She’d seen several of the previous Diva spots that had aired last year with the former host whom, Chandler proclaimed, came across like a cold fish. He was depending on Lindsay to breathe new life into the show, to deliver an edgier, more provocative performance that would boost recognition and sales of Chandler Guides. They were going for a younger, hipper image. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, he wanted her to be the sand in the oyster that produced a pearl. How was she supposed to accomplish that? By simply being herself, Chandler said.

Herself?

Edgy? Provocative? Gritty?

Oh, boy.

Quite frankly, the thought made her head spin. It felt as if she were on a wild ride, hanging on for dear life. She didn’t dare loosen her grip or risk being flung out into the stratosphere. Only, for once in her life, she felt as if she just might be on a ride that would actually take her somewhere.

“There you are. Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Paula English, Diva Dishes segment producer, rushed into the press tent, talking as she scribbled notes on a clipboard. The woman elevated multitasking to a new level. “We can talk with a French vintner or a local cheese maker….”

As her words trailed off, Paula frowned and gnawed her bottom lip, continuing to write notes to herself.

“Those are two of the most boring ideas I can think of,” said cameraman Sam Gunn, who had trailed in behind Paula. Sam rounded out the three-member Diva Dishes team. It was a lean operation, and Paula pulled no punches upon their introduction when unsmiling, she sighed and said, “Oh goody. I get to train another new host.” Then she promptly informed Lindsay that each person, especially Lindsay, was expected to pull his or her weight.

“There’s no room for slacking and no time for learning curves,” she’d said. “You’ll have to hit the ground running if we’re going to make our deadline.”

Lindsay couldn’t tell if Paula’s brusqueness was simply business, or if it was passive-aggressive resentment toward the new girl.

Whatever. The vacation was over, and the pressure was on Lindsay to not only show Chandler he’d made the right choice in hiring her, but to prove to herself she hadn’t made a fatal error by quitting her job back in Trevard.

“So that’s all you’ve got?” Sam shook his head. “I hope to hell Lindsay is good at improvising because it’s going to take a genius to make something brilliant out of that.”

Improvised brilliance? A solid lump formed in Lindsay’s throat, then it dropped like a lead ball into the pit of her stomach. Improvising had never been her strong suit. She’d learned late in the game that it was one of the things she hated about news reporting. Improvising meant saying the wrong thing. Embarrassing herself. She thought she’d outgrow the fear with a little experience under her belt. Her career had never made it to that point.

Paula lifted her gaze from the page and glowered at Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

She didn’t call him a moron, but her tone implied it. The tension between them was nearly palpable.

Sam arched a brow. “Last time I checked, I was the cameraman and you were the producer.”

Sam gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink that implied he was choosing sides. While it was good to have an ally in Sam, she didn’t want the team to be divided. They had to work together or they’d go nowhere fast.

Paula tucked her pen behind her ear. “Quit heckling me and make yourselves useful.”

She nodded at Lindsay. “Come on, let’s go have a look around and see if we can come up with something better. Sam, you go scout locations.”

Unsmiling, Sam stared at Paula long enough to raise the possibility of a showdown. But then he broke the standoff.

“This is your show,” he said to Lindsay. “Don’t let her push you around.”

Paula frowned and looked as if she might spit nails. She hissed, “Meet back here at 5:30 p.m., Sam. We have a dinner meeting with Chandler.”

Then Paula muttered under her breath as he walked away. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s why you don’t sleep with your coworkers.”

Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “You and Sam?” The words fell out before she could stop them.

Paula turned her wary gaze on Lindsay and seemed to sum her up for a moment. Then, to Lindsay’s surprise, Paula nodded. “Yeah. It was sort of messy. We were the inspiration behind Chandler Guide’s Gunn-English policy.”

“What?” Why was Paula telling her this?

“The Gunn-English policy.” There was no warmth in her expression. “A no fraternizing policy.”

Was this Paula’s not-so-subtle way of saying hands off? Because it sure didn’t feel like girl talk.

“Ah, thanks for the heads up,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Sam.

No way. No how.

She’d been through that before—she and her ex-fiancé, Joe, had worked at the television station—he’d been an up-and-coming anchor. She’d been a general assignment reporter. Their problems started when she confided in him about the uncomfortable advances their boss, Gerard Webb, was making when they were alone. After all, if you can’t trust your fiancé, who can you trust?

But Joe shocked her by getting mad at her, saying “Don’t blow it out of proportion, Lindsay, and most important, don’t do anything stupid that will jeopardize our jobs.”

How could she not say anything? How could he not stand up for her? But when it all hit the fan, Joe proved whose side he was on. When she filed the complaint against Webb, Joe broke off their engagement, claiming she must have been leading Webb on, doing something to give him the wrong impression. In other words, she “must have asked for it.”

“There’s no sense in the two of us staying here,” Paula said. “I’m going to go talk to the festival coordinator. You stay here.” She gestured to a table full of literature on the far side of the tent. “See if you can find something better for the show in the press kits.”

Then without so much as a goodbye, Paula turned and walked away, leaving Lindsay on her own.

It was make-it-or-fall-flat-on-her-face time. Since the latter wasn’t an option, she had to get her rear in gear. The best place to start was to find a knockout idea for the first show, proving that she could pull her weight.

Dodging a team of men hauling a stack of boxes, she made her way to the publicity table. She scanned the various brochures, press kits and photos stacked neatly on the cloth-covered rectangular table. A familiar face snagged her gaze. Smiling up at her from a photo pasted on the cover of a blue folder was none other than Carlos Montigo.

Lindsay’s stomach performed an erratic somersault that drew a defensive hand to her belly.

With her free hand, she reached for the folder.

The press kit was printed on glossy paper. No expenses spared. Impressive. It had all the makings of a staged comeback.

Lindsay opened the folder and pulled out a bio, which gave the general who—Carlos Montigo; what—self-taught chef; when—he’d been cooking all his life; where—born in Madrid, raised in Paris, and subsequently made his mark after he moved to Miami; and why—because food was his passion, yada yada yada. But no mention of his hiatus.

Of course not.

Behind the bio was one of his signature recipes for beef bourguignonne and several eight-by-ten glossy black-and-whites: Montigo working in a restaurant kitchen; Montigo on the set of a cooking show; Montigo smiling warmly and toasting the camera with a glass of wine. Good photos of a gorgeous man—longish, glossy dark hair. Great bones that the camera loved. The trademark dark stubble on his jaw that made him look ruggedly handsome, but there was something about his crooked nose and the look in his eyes that promised danger. Good lord, the man made her squirm, and if there was one thing she couldn’t resist it was a man who made…a good subject for the third Diva Dishes segment.

Lindsay had been out of the television business for several years, but despite advances in technology, one truth remained: a good reporter did her research before an interview.

She had a lot to learn about Carlos Montigo, and what she learned this afternoon—without letting his sexy smile and rugged good looks cloud her judgment—would tell her whether she’d pitch the story to Carson, Paula and Sam.

Sure, The Diva Dishes wasn’t 60 Minutes, but her gut told her there was a story here, and she was bound and determined to have a meaty idea to present to them at five-thirty.

So, she went back to the hotel and booted up the MacBook Chandler had given her when she accepted the job.

Leaning back against a stack of pillows, she performed a Google search of Montigo’s name. One hundred fifty thousand matches came up.

The first listing was a Wikipedia entry. She clicked on it and the page opened, revealing a color photograph of Carlos that made her bite her bottom lip. Underneath the photo it said: