Kitabı oku: «The Naked Truth»
Six winners. Six fantasies.
SIX MILLION DOLLAR SECRETS…
Plain Jane Kurtz is going to use her winnings to discover her inner vixen. But what’s it really going to cost her?
She Did a Bad, Bad Thing by Stephanie Bond Available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in July 2008
* * *
New girl in town Nicole Reavis is on a journey to find herself. But what else will she discover along the way?
Underneath It All by Lori Borrill Available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in August 2008
* * *
Risk taker Eve Best is on the verge of having everything she’s ever wanted. But can she take it?
The Naked Truth by Shannon Hollis Available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in September 2008
* * *
Young, cocky Zach Haas loves his instant popularity, especially with the women. But can he trust it?
For Lust or Money by Kate Hoffmann Available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in October 2008
* * *
Solid, dependable Cole Crawford is ready to shake things up. But how “shook up” is he prepared to handle?
Tall, Dark and Filthy Rich by Jill Monroe Available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in November 2008
* * *
Wild child Liza has always just wanted to belong. But how far will she go to get it?
What She Really Wants for Christmas by Debbi Rawlins Available in the M&B™ collection Her Christmas Temptation in December 2008
Dear Reader,
With reality TV all the rage these days, it seems everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame. Imagine what it would be like to be in the spotlight five days a week with your own TV show…and get paid to talk about sex and relationships! What’s not to like?
For my heroine, Eve Best, this is the world she knows and loves. The only problem is, she’s all talk and getting no action – until a sexy network scout shows up and everything turns upside down. While writing this book I considered TV stars and the difficulty they have in maintaining a private life – not to mention balancing ambition with love. Find out how Eve does it in The Naked Truth.
For more, be sure to visit my website,
www.shannonhollis.com.
Warmly,
Shannon
THE NAKED TRUTH
BY
SHANNON HOLLIS
For Meline and Russ with gratitude
1
“SO WHAT’S IT going to be? Sexy secrets? The best lies lovers tell? Or should we find someone with a confession to make?”
Eve Best looked into the faces of the production team for Just Between Us, the afternoon cable show she hosted on CATL-TV. The show that had just been profiled in Vanity Fair. The show that was rocketing up the ratings and making the dreams of everyone in this room come true.
Every Monday at five, they got together in this conference room to hammer out the roster for the following week, with the exception of Fridays, when she invited a panel to take questions in a town-hall meeting format, or she simply did it herself. But for four twenty-two-minute segments, Monday through Thursday at three o’clock, they had to come up with the best in sexy, cutting-edge topics and guests. The funny thing was, no matter how many shows they did, they never seemed to run out of material.
They were, after all, talking about human behavior, in all its wonderful forms and mutations.
Lainie Kaye, the junior of their two segment producers, waved a sheaf of clippings. “If we go for a guest, I got a commitment from Dawn Penney. She’s the actress, remember, who turned a part in that awful horror movie about the beach resort into a career character. Now she writes that column for the Register, ‘Perfect Dates.’ Sex and the City, Atlanta style.”
Eve made some notes in her planner. “Get her. See if she can do Thursday.”
Cole Crawford, their executive producer, looked up from the binder that went everywhere with him. Eve had asked him once if he slept with it under his pillow, and had been immediately sorry. Since his wife had up and left him, the topic of sleeping with anything or anyone was a sore one. Cole had made his kids and his career his whole life—to the benefit of the show and the detriment of any hope of a love life for the poor guy.
“Wednesday would be better,” he said. “Hump day and all. Get people past the middle of the week, right?”
Eve shook her head. Technically he had the last word on programming, but this was her show. And the more popular it got, the more clout she had and the more it was likely she’d get the programming she thought audiences would respond to best.
Not a bad place to be, considering Cole was one of the few who remembered she’d started out as junior weathergirl back in the day.
“Thursday,” she repeated firmly. “When Thursday hits, people start thinking about plans for the weekend. It’s the perfect time to hear about the perfect date.” She sat back, satisfied, as Cole nodded and gave in. Lainie left the room at a jog, as if Dawn Penney would give away the space they needed on her calendar if she didn’t get to the phone this second.
“Okay, three down, one to go,” Eve said. “What are the possibilities for Wednesday?”
Nicole Reavis, their primary segment producer, had her own sheaf of clippings. “I had an idea the other night about male-female communication,” she said. “What if we get someone like Dr. Deborah Tannen, the linguistics expert? She could talk about the differences in communication styles, and how what we say isn’t always what the other person understands.”
“I’m liking this,” Eve said. Cole leaned forward. A good sign. “Go on.”
“We could focus on subtext,” Nicole said. “You know, what I’m saying isn’t really what I’m talking about, and how that gets us into trouble in relationships.”
“Trying to read the other party,” Cole said. “How to find out if they mean what they say. Maybe even negotiation tactics and how that works in relationships.”
He would know. But Eve kept that to herself.
“Let’s do it. Nicole, get one of the coordinators to find the guest—someone local, if you can—and you and I will work on the script. And how about we carry over the theme to the Friday town-hall meeting? I bet everyone in the audience has a miscommunication story. We’ll pull three or four out to give advice from a male and female point of view.”
“Consider it done.” Nicole scribbled frantically in her notebook.
Just then, Zach Haas, the youngest crew member but the most experienced cameraman, poked his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, guys. Cole, those camera tests are ready whenever you need them.”
“Thanks, Zach,” Cole replied, and the twentysomething kid disappeared.
“So are we finished?” Eve looked around the table. “Yes? Good job, everyone. See y’all tomorrow.”
As the noise level rose with people pushing in chairs and collecting their stacks, Eve’s assistant pushed through the rush for the door. “Eve—”
“Hey, Dylan.”
Dylan Moore was six feet tall and thin as a licorice whip. With the ink still fresh on his communications degree and dirt from the family farm in south Georgia scrubbed off his toes, he was determined to have a career in television and didn’t care how humbly he started. Eve was sure to lose him to Cole one of these days. She’d resigned herself to that. But in the meantime, he was the one who kept her functioning from minute to minute. He’d probably learned project management by default from all those years of being the eldest of all the sibs in the picture on his desk.
“He’s here,” Dylan said in a low voice, tugging on her elbow to draw her away from the door and, presumably, the foyer where guests at the station waited.
“Who?”
But she already knew. Had been dreading his arrival from the moment Cole had told her about him the previous week.
“Him. The exec from CWB.” Dylan glanced at the door, but the room had emptied. At the confirmation of her fears, Eve felt a trickle of dread settle in her stomach. “Mitchell Hayes. The guy who wants to eat you up and have the rest of us on a plate for dessert.”
UNDER THE CUSTOM-TAILORED suit, Mitchell Hayes tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders. Every muscle seemed locked in place, which made it tough to look relaxed and confident.
In this business, appearances were everything—it was bad enough in New York, but that rule had probably been invented right here in Atlanta. This afternoon, it was vital that he look confident without being arrogant. Not to mention friendly and trustworthy and sincere without looking like a suck-up.
“If we can get Just Between Us, we’ll have the female demographic locked up,” Nelson Berg, his boss at CWB, had said two days ago. “You get this Eve Best to sign with the network and you’ll be golden.”
“And if it doesn’t work out?”
Nelson had given him a long look and tented his fingers over his stomach in a way that meant bad news was coming. “We asked you to sign Jah-Redd Jones and NBC got him. We needed—not just wanted, mind, needed—Alastair McCall’s Animal Mind-Hunter. And what happened there?”
“OLN had a mole in the station,” Mitch had protested. “McCall was signed up before I even got on the plane.”
“Well, they don’t have a mole at CATL-TV,” Nelson had snapped, “but it’s only a matter of time. Eve Best is ripe for the picking, and this money she and her friends have won in the lottery is a ratings gold mine. You get down there, romance the socks off her and her staff and get them signed up.”
“Or?” Mitch had said before his brain had a chance to catch up with his mouth.
“Or I’m going to have to replace you.” Nelson’s face had been kind, but the words were brutal. “Not much point in keeping a scout who can’t bring home the bacon, is there?”
No, there wasn’t.
On trips such as these Mitch often wondered why he did this. Why he put up with Nelson’s crap. Nobody on the guy’s staff had a life—they were so busy bringing home the bacon they didn’t have homes to go to. Apartments, yes. Places to keep their stuff, sure. But homes? Nope.
Something moved behind the soundproof glass wall that backed the receptionist’s desk, and the card-secured door clicked open. An African-American guy who could have made a career in college basketball stepped out.
“Mr. Hayes, I’m Dylan Moore, Eve Best’s personal assistant.” Mitch shook his hand. “Right this way.”
Mitch followed him into the rabbit warren of corridors, taping booths and offices that made up TV stations all over the country. This one boasted three studios—one for news, one for network linkups and a huge one for the exclusive use of Just Between Us.
As he passed behind the backdrop that somehow managed to convey a sense of home along with big-city glitz (who was their set designer?) he had to smile. Because of course the studio was all about appearances, too. Behind the set, where the camera never went, the walls were naked board and batten, with schedules and notes stapled all over them. Tie wraps secured wrist-sized bundles of electrical wiring and cables to the studs, along with Ethernet and T1 lines.
It looked so like the studios at CWB that he felt right at home. Or at least, as much as a guy could feel at home when he was living in a pressure cooker.
At the top of a set of stairs, he passed a conference room, where, from the debris, it looked as if a production meeting had just ended. Moore paused at the door of an office next to it, and Mitch resisted the urge to stretch his neck muscles one more time and straighten his tie.
He nodded at Moore and walked into Eve Best’s office with a smile and an outstretched hand.
One of their affiliates in Atlanta had sent him a box full of DVDs of the last three months of the show. But even watching forty hours of Eve Best hadn’t prepared him for the reality.
She pushed her chair back and came around the desk to meet him—and his entire body went on alert. It was as if his pheromones met hers in the space between them, and exploded in a chemical reaction. The small screen simply didn’t do justice to the curves and the healthy glow of her skin. Her baby-doll top was cut just low enough to show a tempting swell of cleavage but not enough to be in bad taste. He’d expected that triangular, girl-next-door smile that knocked viewers off their chairs, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he got the full effect of those wide, long-lashed green eyes.
And they weren’t particularly glad to see him.
“Eve, this is Mitchell Hayes from CWB,” Moore said from the door. “Mr. Hayes, Eve Best.”
“Thank you, Dylan.” Her voice, which was husky and playful when she spoke to her guests, was merely husky now. Subdued or not, it stroked some pleasure point deep inside Mitch’s chest. In fact, the whole package seemed to be custom-made to stroke every pleasure point he had—and when had been the last time he’d experienced that?
What had Nelson said? He was here to romance the socks off this woman and get her to say yes.
To the contract.
He needed to focus on his goal, and soon, or he’d be in the deepest trouble of his career.
“Please sit down, Mr. Hayes.”
Belatedly, he realized he needed to say something to take control of this interview and stop drinking her in like a teenage boy staring at the head cheerleader.
“Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Best,” he said. “I know your schedule is probably packed.”
“You’re right there. The only place I could fit you in was at the end of the day, and even at that I need to keep it short. I appreciate you’ve come a long way to have this conversation, but I’m going to a benefit this evening. I’m afraid I’ll need to leave in about half an hour.”
What an amazing voice. What charisma. No wonder the viewers were flocking to Just Between Us. He could watch this woman all day. “That will be plenty of time.” Once again, he tried to convince his body to relax. But his body was far more interested in hers than it was in getting her commitment to the network.
And then she smiled. It wasn’t an I’m-glad-to-see-you smile, or a come-on-over smile. It was an I’m-going-to-break-this-to-you-in-the-nicest-possible-way smile and his concentration went straight to hell anyway.
“It doesn’t take long to say no, does it?” she agreed sweetly.
Get it together. Your job depends on the next half hour. “I’m hoping I can convince you otherwise, Ms. Best. Communications and Wireless Broadcasting is prepared to make you a very generous offer in hopes that you’ll sign on with us, a national network, and bring your talents to our wider viewership.”
“Please call me Eve. Everyone does.”
He smiled. For a fraction of a second, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and a tiny spurt of gratification deep inside him celebrated it. “And I’m Mitch.”
“How long have you been with CWB, Mitch?”
His rational brain recognized that she was dodging a reply. His irrational brain was happy to make small talk as long as she wanted to, if he could keep listening to that voice.
“Coming up on five years. I started out in production, but then realized I was better at the business side. I was always tripping over cables and walking in front of the wrong cameras.”
There was that smile again. A little warmer, this time. “Do you like being a scout?”
“Yes.” I used to. Now I’m not so sure. “I like bringing people who deserve it to the attention of people who will love them. Like you, for instance.” Neatly, he brought the conversation back around to the reason he was there. “If you’ll bring your show to our network, we’re prepared to offer you six million for the first year, eight for the second and ten for the third if you’ll agree to sign with us.”
A slow blink was her only reaction. For a woman whose openness and frankness were her trademark, she evidently knew how to be as cagey as a poker player. “That’s very generous.”
“You won’t find a better deal, even with the big guns like NBC or SBN. Have they approached you?”
“If they had, I’d hardly say so, would I?”
Of course not. CWB had its spies, and they’d have been careful to brief him beforehand. But that didn’t mean the bigger networks wouldn’t be hot on his heels once they heard CWB was courting Eve. Television fed on itself, after all.
“Maybe not, but you know how it is. Everyone knows everyone, and word gets around.”
“Well, the word around here is no.” With a glance at the clock, she rose. Mitch got to his feet as she again came around the desk and held out a hand. “Thank you for taking the time to come and make the offer, Mitch. It’s very flattering, but the answer is still no.”
He took her hand, and two things registered. First, that her fingers were slender and warm in his. And second, that she was taller than he’d thought. He stood six foot three in his socks, and with the strappy heels she wore, the top of her head came almost to his eye level.
Then a third thing registered. She smelled delicious. A combination of vanilla and spice and the clean scent of warm skin. Involuntarily, he drew in a breath, and she looked into his eyes.
“Mitch?”
His brain went blank. He murmured some vague words of thanks for her time and then beat feet out of there, finding himself in the driver’s seat of his rental car before he knew quite how he’d gotten there.
And a good thing, too.
Because if he’d stayed one second more, he’d have pushed Eve Best up against the wall of her office and breathed that scent from the side of her neck. Then he’d have kissed her senseless.
He could only imagine what that would have done to his chances for getting her to say yes to him.
He shook his head as if to clear it. To CWB. Not him. To CWB and their offer.
Yeah. That’s what he meant.
2
“WAS THAT HIM?”
Jane Kurtz leaned in Eve’s office doorway and, when she saw that Eve was alone, slipped inside and shut the door.
“Yes, that was him.” Eve gave up on trying to organize her desk for the following day and leaned back in her chair as Jane sat in the one reserved for guests.
The one he’d just vacated.
“His name is Mitchell Hayes, and he’s with CWB.”
“Oh, I like them. I watch Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive every week.”
“Jane, we are not Daylily Drive. And we are not signing with them. I told him so and he vanished like a puff of smoke. But he’ll be back.”
“How do you know?”
“By the pricking of my thumbs.” And the humming in her ears. Not to mention the tingle of possibility deep in her belly, where it had no business being at all.
“Just how accurate are your thumbs?” Jane straightened a pile of research clippings on the corner of Eve’s desk. When Was the Last Time You Got Some? the headline on top wanted to know.
Eve resisted the urge to throw the latest issue of People on top of it. She didn’t want to think about that. She spent sixteen hours a day thinking about relationships, and men and women, and who was getting what and why, and whether they’d come on the show to talk about it. It covered up the uncomfortable fact—which she devoutly hoped no one else noticed—that she, Atlanta’s relationship expert, did not have one.
She bet Mitchell Hayes had one. Two. More. In fact, he probably had every eligible model and aspiring actress in New York lining up at his door. Well, she wished them luck. Mitchell Hayes wasn’t getting her show—or anything else, for that matter.
“Eve?”
She blinked and focused on Jane. “What?”
“I said, how accurate are your thumbs? Is this Hayes guy going to take you at your word, or are we going to have to get Jenna to take out another restraining order?”
Jenna Hamilton was the station’s attorney, and after the recent announcement about their $38-million lottery win, she’d already had to take out two restraining orders because things had gotten out of hand with an unruly fan and an angry truck driver with a nonwinning number. Once the news had gotten out about the protectiveness of the legal team, the number of nasty letters in the daily mail had dropped. Thank goodness.
Even yet, two months after the win and the press conference and all the hoopla, Eve still had a hard time believing that there could be seven or eight million bucks in her future. With that kind of money, she could buy some property outside of town. Travel. Do more than dabble in philanthropy. The only real problem they had was the lawsuit against the five of them, filed by her and Jane’s former best friend, Liza Skinner, demanding her fair share of the loot since they’d played her number. The whole subject caused Eve so much pain that she did her best not to think about it.
Again, she focused on answering Jane. What was the matter with her? Her mind was jumping around like a bean on a hot stove. “He’s on a mission. The network has tasked him to poach me away from here, and he’s going to do his best to do it. He won’t take no for an answer at first. I can tell.”
“He looked like a player, all right.”
For some reason, this rubbed Eve the wrong way. “I wouldn’t say he was a player. Not in the sense you mean. But he’s got a stubborn chin and there’s no dummy behind those eyes. He’s serious about this. The network’s talking big money.”
Jane waved away the thought. “Who needs it? We’re going to be set up for life. And what are you doing looking at his chin?” As soon as Eve saw Jane’s gaze narrow on her, she realized her mistake.
She shrugged with a pretty good imitation of nonchalance. “You know me. Always sizing people up. Reading them. Trying to figure them out.”
Not looking at lips and wondering what they’d feel like in a deep, hot kiss. Not sneaking peeks at long-fingered hands and wondering how they’d feel on skin. Nuh-uh. Nope.
For once Jane took her at her word and got up. She must be a better actress than she thought. “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him, then. You can always make yourself unavailable and sic Jenna on him.”
“I already did.” Eve got up, too, and collected her briefcase. “Make myself unavailable, I mean. I have the Atlanta Reads benefit tonight, remember? I just hope nobody remembers I wore my green dress to the Women of Power fund-raiser, as well.”
“Put some peacock feathers on it like Nicole Kidman,” Jane suggested over her shoulder, already on her way back to her own office. “Or heck, zip downtown and get yourself a new one. By the time you get the bill, we’ll have settled the suit and you can buy a different dress for every night of the year.”
Eve laughed and shook her head as she pushed open the employee exit door and headed for her car. That would be the day.
Lottery winner or not, she couldn’t see herself shaking the careful habits of someone who had grown up with not much more than the basic necessities of life. Isabel Calvert, her maternal grandmother, who had taken in a traumatized eleven-year-old after the death of her parents in a car accident, had still been working as a Realtor. Though they lived in Coral Gables in a tiny stucco house with an orange tree, money was tight and Eve had learned to be practical along with how to turn out a decent meal and do her own laundry.
Not that those were skills to scoff at. They’d stood her in good stead through university and during her move from Florida back to the city her father’s family had called home for generations. And during the early years, when getting the job as associate senior meteorologist—aka junior weathergirl—had seemed like the apex of her life, she’d discovered she not only had a knack for throwing dinner parties on the cheap, but for digging out and retaining all kinds of information about people.
A great skill to have in this business. But it didn’t help her with a dress for tonight.
With careful investments, she’d managed to save enough for a down payment on a little house in the Vinings district. Nana would be proud. It wasn’t very big—in fact, it had once been a carriage house on a much larger estate—but it certainly had a good address, and in Atlanta, that was half the battle. With the worst of the rush hour traffic clearing, she made it home in record time. Which, of course, left her lots of time to shower, do her hair and contemplate her closet.
She had all kinds of things to wear on the set, some courtesy of Jane’s wardrobe budget and some of her own. She had jeans and camis to wear on weekends. But a couple of black dresses and the green one could only go so far. Now that she was starting to make the society pages, maybe she should take Jane’s advice and run up her credit card on a couple of evening dresses. If what Cole predicted came true, she was going to be spending even more time in the spotlight. Thank goodness for the lottery—because she’d bet her winnings the station wouldn’t be picking up the tab for her updated wardrobe.
The green one would have to do. It fit like a glove—though she watched her weight like a predatory bird, her hourglass figure would pack on a pound in a heartbeat. And everyone knew the camera packed on twenty in less than that.
A final spritz of hair mist and her grandmother’s diamond chandelier earrings, and she was good to go.
The benefit for Atlanta Reads was being held at the Ashmere mansion. The property had recently been made the headquarters of the Ashmere Trust with the hopes that it could become a moneymaking venture while it retained its Old South beauty. As far as Eve could tell, they’d succeeded in a big way. She stepped out of the cab and the soft, warm evening air caressed her bare shoulders. She draped the green chiffon wrap over one arm and breathed in the scent of ferns and mulch and eucalyptus from the gardens.
Straightening her shoulders, she mounted the fan of steps and swam into the crowd, turning to greet society belles and financiers alike with the grace of a dancer and the confidence of three years in the spotlight.
“Eve. Glad you could make it.”
Eve turned to see Dan Phillips, owner of both the station and the production company that produced Just Between Us, at her elbow. “Hey, Dan. I had to come. Who wouldn’t want to support helping people learn to read?”
“People in television,” he said, so deadpan she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Which was par for the course. “My wife forced me into my tux and out the door at the point of a nail file.”
“Maya’s a smart cookie,” Eve told him. “You won’t regret it. I hear Ambience is catering.”
“Really?” He brightened. “Then I guess I should start schmoozing. I do like to hear people talking about you behind your back, anyway.”
Eve held up a hand. “Just don’t tell me if it’s negative.”
“It won’t be. Everyone in Atlanta loves you.” He paused. “And a few people up north, too, from what I hear.”
Eve didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m going to assume you spoke with Mitchell Hayes.”
“I did.”
“And?” She prodded when he took a sip of his martini and didn’t go into detail.
“And nothing. It’s not my decision, it’s yours. Though I made it clear that the show belongs to Driver Productions and if he managed to get you, it would be only at the end of your contract. The show stays here, though what it would do without its host is another headache.”
“You won’t have to worry about that. I told him no.”
Phillips looked her full in the face for the first time. “Did you, now?”
“Of course. We’re doing just fine right where we are. We have great facilities, happy advertisers, and we’re building the viewership in leaps and bounds. Why should I upset the applecart and risk everything on a young network that’s still trying to prove itself?”
“Because it might be the right thing for your career?”
Now it was Eve’s turn to stare at him. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say that.”
He shrugged. “I’ve known for at least a year that the big boys would come knocking. It’s what every regional host wants, Eve—a shot at the national level. CWB is handing you that on a platter. I wouldn’t blame you for jumping at it—though it might be best to wait for more of the networks to offer. Make the station an affiliate as part of the deal.”
Maybe he wouldn’t blame her, but how could she? They’d built a terrific team here, from Jane in makeup to Cole in production. If she agreed to go with any network, what would happen to all of them? They were practically family. The new organization would probably bring in all its own people and move her somewhere else. She’d get national exposure but she’d never see her friends again. She’d already experienced being the one who was left behind. No way would she do that to someone else if she could help it.
“You won’t have to worry about it, Dan,” she said. “I told Mr. Hayes no, and I meant it.”
“I’m sure you did.” His gaze caught on something over her shoulder. “But I think he means to make you change your mind.”
Something in his tone warned her, and she turned just in time to see Mitchell Hayes pause on the stairway. He had one hand casually on the polished banister, the other in his pocket, hitching up the jacket of his tux in a way that turned formality on its ear and made it sexy.
What in the world…?
He scanned the crowd lazily, and two seconds too late, she understood what he was doing.
He was looking for someone—and she had no doubt whatsoever who it was.
THE MOST DIFFICULT THING any of these people had to read was probably their bank statement.
Mitch knew he was being a reverse snob. His own paycheck was pretty generous, considering he hardly ever had time to spend any of it, but his annual salary was probably what some of these folks paid in income tax.
His gaze moved from one part of the vast marble foyer to the next, noting a thumb-sized emerald here, a designer suit there, a pair of skyscraper stilettos somewhere else. One thing was for sure—he needed to move to a room where the acoustics were better, or his head was going to split from the sound of high-pitched laughter and conversation shattering on the stone all around him.
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