This was a huge pet peeve, and Dimi wondered when the powers that be would get a clue. Probably after the show was canceled. Damn them. Didn’t they know that since she’d given up men, all she had left was the show?

“Ritchie isn’t here yet.” Suzie lowered her voice, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one of importance could overhear her. “They say he’s been…fired.”

There was a collective gasp.

“They said,” Suzie continued, “that we’re getting a new producer.”

“Who?” everyone asked together, in the same reverent tone.

“Mitchell Knight.”

Everyone but Dimi, who hadn’t heard of him, groaned.

“Ooh, he’s wicked,” Grace whispered.

“He’s gorgeous,” Leo murmured, fanning himself.

“Gorgeous, but mean. Real mean.” Ted looked terrified. “He likes to fire people, man.”

“He’s a troubleshooter type,” Suzie explained to clueless Dimi. “Called in by our parent company when a show is on its last legs. He axes everyone, then starts from scratch.”

“Yeah.” Leo fanned his face. “He’s bad, baby. Bad to the bone.”

“He’s a holy terror, is what he is,” Suzie corrected. “And they say he’s coming here. Today.”

“That would be correct.”

The very male voice came from behind their huddled group, and when they all turned, there stood the Harley rider. He was built in a way that suggested maybe he beat up cooking show crews for a living, all big and rugged and edgy. His dark wind-mussed hair fell to his shoulders, and a diamond stud winked at them from his ear. His aviator sunglasses gleamed back their own startled reflections. Beneath his open leather bomber jacket he wore a black shirt and even blacker pants. As a package, and definitely as a producer-their producer-he seemed…dangerous.

Dimi couldn’t speak for the others, but looking at this man gave her a funny feeling deep down, like maybe she was sinking.

Fast.

At their utter lack of response, Mr. Harley Rider lifted a hand and waggled his fingers at them. “Anyone awake?”

Everyone but Dimi took several steps back, then separated, as if they’d never been talking to one another. Guilty expressions abounded.

The man nodded at Dimi, since she alone stood there, like Bambi caught in the headlights. Dimi wished she was wearing reflector sunglasses, because she felt the need to hide the fact that her eyes had all but devoured him. She couldn’t seem to help herself. His jacket spread across wide shoulders. His pants, dark and soft looking, covered what appeared to be very not-so-soft, powerful, long legs. Despite his motorcycle ride, there wasn’t a spec of dirt on that body, not anywhere.

She looked.

Everything about him screamed attitude. Confidence. Danger. Funny, but she’d never really gone for the I’m-a-rebel look, and yet she was going for it now.

Or at least her hormones were.

Bad timing, since she’d given up on the male species as a whole, but she consoled herself with Suzie’s mantra-most gorgeous men were poor lovers, anyway.

Then he slowly tugged off the sunglasses. Dark eyes stared right at her. His face was lean, tanned. Lived-in. Gorgeous.

And he didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Mitch Knight,” he said. “Your new producer.” He glanced at Ted. “I liked the nude show idea. Probably wouldn’t fly with the FCC, though.”

Ted beamed.

Dimi fumed. This was not a joke!

“Keep trying,” Mitch suggested.

“What happened to Ritchie?” Dimi asked bluntly.

He cocked his head at her and still didn’t smile. “Do you really want to know?”

Probably not, she decided. Ritchie had yelled a lot and thrown his weight around-which at two hundred plus pounds on a five-foot frame had been considerable-but at least what you saw with Ritchie was what you got.

Her new producer slipped his sunglasses into his chest pocket. He stood there with legs spread wide, hands on his hips, looking like he owned the world.

And he did. Her world.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in low-fat California cuisine?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m interested in ratings.” His voice was low and direct and full of authority. “What do you know about getting good ratings?”

“Apparently not much.” She sent daggers to her so-called staff, who were slinking off like worms, every last one of them.

“Well, then, we have a lot to discuss. The show needs some serious spicing up.”

She turned her attention back to Mr. Producer. “Spicing?”

“I thought we’d try humor, among other things.”

“I don’t do humor.”

“You did yesterday when you announced your impending shriveled-up-old-maid status.”

Dimi felt the blush creep up her face. “You said humor ‘among other things.’ What things?”

“Sex.”

She felt her eyes bug out of her head. “Excuse me?”

“Humor and sex. That’s what you need.”

Dimi didn’t gape often, but she did now. “That’s what I need?”

“On the show,” he clarified, his mouth quirking slightly.

The bastard.

He glanced at his watch. “See you in my office in, say, five?”

As if he was really asking her! Nope, this was a definite demand. A subtle one, but a demand nevertheless. “Are you going to fire me?”

He lifted a brow. “I don’t usually discuss business in the parking lot.”

Oh, definitely. She was toast. Burnt toast.

2

MITCH WALKED down the hall of the busy television studio toward his newly assigned office, ignoring the stares he received from every corner high and low. He was familiar with being the outsider. His job called for it, as well as for instilling a good amount of fear in his subordinates.

He knew that it wasn’t exactly politically correct, terrifying the people who worked for him, but he’d found fear an incredible motivator.

He wasn’t going to make friends, that was a foregone conclusion, and quite honestly, no big deal. Friends had always been rare, given that he’d come from a military family who’d moved around at the drop of a hat. Besides, until two years ago he hadn’t needed friends. He’d had his brother.

He didn’t have Daniel now. But friends were out of the question. He was temporary here. All he had to do was turn Food Time into the success the owners knew it could be. Once he did that, and accepted his large bonus for doing so, he could return to southern California.

Or wherever suited him.

“He’s scary,” he heard one clerk whisper to another as he strode down the hall.

“Yeah, but so sexy.” The reply was hushed.

Mitch bit back a grin. Scary and sexy. Not bad for his first day. He’d been called worse, much worse.

Shame that he only had one minute before his scheduled meeting with Ms. Anderson, so he couldn’t loiter and scare some more people into actually doing their jobs. Because if he knew Dimi’s type- Ah, yes, there she was, standing in front of his office, staring at the door as if she were his sacrificial lamb, poor baby. Early, too. Being late would go against the grain for a serious workaholic such as her.

So intense. Obviously she hadn’t learned what he had, to live each day-hell, each moment as if it were his last.

Work wasn’t everything, not even close, and he’d learned that the hard way, after Daniel had died. As a result, he’d vowed to never work harder than he played, but he did play pretty hard. And yet, he believed in being the best, and that meant concentrating on Food Time, at least for now.

Which also meant he needed to decide if he was going to fire the far-too-serious chef in order to get the direction for the show he wanted.

Dimi still stood before his closed office door, hand raised as if to knock, staring at the wood. Her full bottom lip was being tortured by her teeth, indecision dancing across her beautiful face.

And she was beautiful, stunningly so. Tall, blond and curvy. Serious pinup status. Most men would be rendered stupid by just looking at her, unless of course a man was one who’d spent much of his life surrounded by the Hollywood starlet type.

But Dimi was no typical blond bombshell willing to sleep with him for a scrap of a part. Not even close. He’d caught her show. She had the basic looks, all right, but not the humor or natural grace with which to pull the entire package off.

Not to mention, despite that incredible, mouthwatering body, she was the antithesis of sexy. Take her outfit, for example-a full-blown navy power suit that barely showed her calves and covered every other inch of her except her face.

She definitely needed work.

Fortunately, Mitch specialized in such work. He could fix the show, and her, if he so chose. The question was, did he so choose?

In what appeared to be a sudden panic, Dimi dropped her hand to her side.

“God, what if he fires me?” she muttered, then, just as suddenly, she thrust her chin up. “Well then, I’ll get another job, that’s what.” She brought up her hand again, then made a disparaging sound and dropped her head to the door. “So all you can do is cook,” she told the wood. “There’s plenty of opportunities out there. A restaurant, for one.”

Fascinated by this picture of misery, and greatly amused, Mitch settled against the opposite wall to watch.

“Or I could become a wife,” she said, resigned.

“But then you’d have to retract your whole giving-up-men thing,” he noted.

Letting out a little squeal, she whirled around, hand to her chest. When she saw him, her eyes narrowed and she pointed. “You were eavesdropping.”

“On the conversation you were having with yourself?” When she blushed, he pushed away from the wall. “You know, my office door works better if you actually open it.”

She didn’t so much as crack a smile, and he sighed. Just as he’d thought-no sense of humor. That was going to have to change if she wanted to stay.

“I was going to knock,” she said.

“Before or after you finished talking to yourself?”

“Look, if you’re going to fire me, I’d like to know right now.”

“Right this second?”

Some of her resolve faltered, and she swallowed. “Y-yes.”

“Out here in the hallway, where no less than five different crew members are lingering, waiting for the word on what happens to you?”

Dimi’s gaze darted to the plants that lined the hallway, giving away her workmates. Not that he hadn’t noticed hot pink go-go boots behind the giant creeping charlie, or neon green vinyl pants behind the miniature palm, and since the hibiscus was currently shaking like crazy, he knew damn well there were at least three more people hidden behind that, too.

Odd, since not one of them had appeared to give Richard a second thought. They obviously cared about Dimi, though, on whom he turned to give another long look.

She was still all bombshell body and blond hair and incredible expression. It’d be a shame to let her go. If she’d lose half her clothing, at least, and maybe try smiling, she’d bowl people over.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and regarded him seriously. “They’re hiding because they’re worried. They’re not used to a producer like you.”

“Like me?”

“Let’s just say Ritchie had a different technique.”

“I hope so.”

“No, I mean…” Her gaze ran down the front of him, and he had to figure he only imagined that flare of awareness in her eyes, because he was pretty sure he knew what she thought of him.

“Ritchie wore jeans,” she said. “Every day. His idea of dressing up was to tuck in his T-shirt. He never once wore leather, and since he fainted if he had to so much as trim his nails, I’m quite positive he had nothing pierced.”

“It’s just an earring.”

She gave him a long look, and nothing about it was flattering, which made him want to laugh because women usually found him fairly irresistible. He leaned past her, past the soft, silky blond hair, past the oddly intoxicating scent of her shampoo, past the body so tall she could almost look at him eye to eye.

Hell of a time to realize how arousing that could be.

Opening the office door, he gestured her inside. “You get to go first. The plants, and the crew in them, can have the next meeting.”

“First to the guillotine, what an honor. Thanks.”

He widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Was that wit I just heard?”

He grinned at her back as she stalked into his office. “Hey, wait a minute. Tell another joke. Maybe there’s a chance for the show, after all.”

She whirled around, hope lighting her eyes…until she realized he was still teasing her. Then her face once again became carefully measured.