Page 17 of Recipe for Temptation

“Good,” Michael said tersely. “I’ll let my producer know you’ve decided to withdraw from the competition. Goodbye, Dr. St. James. Have a nice life.”

“Wait a minute,” Reese snapped. “Where do you get off putting words in my mouth? I never said anything about withdrawing from the competition.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Michael growled. “You just told me that entering the contest was a mistake.”

“It was! But that doesn’t mean I’m about to cavalierly walk away from a chance to win one hundred thousand dollars.” She paused, then couldn’t resist adding spitefully, “You didn’t think I was only interested in being your lowly apprentice, did you?”

“I don’t really give a damn. There’s not a chance in hell you’re winning that contest.”

“Says who?” Reese challenged.

“I say.”

“Is that so? Well, it’s my understanding that the apprentice will be chosen based on who has the strongest audition.”

“And who do you think has the final say on that? Trust me, if I don’t think I can work with you, it’s a no-go. So do yourself a favor and stay home on Friday.”

“I don’t think so. I finaled in that contest fair and square. You have no right?—”

“I have every right. It’s my show, my contest, my rules.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that.”

Reese hung up on him, snatched up the prescription pad where she’d written down the producer’s contact information and quickly punched in the number.

When she got Drew Corbett on the phone, she said sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Corbett. This is Reese St. James.”

“Hello! Thanks for returning my call. First things first. Can you make it to Atlanta for Friday’s audition? I have my assistant on standby to book your flight.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Reese said smoothly. “As luck would have it, I’m already in town.”

Chapter Six

“Three down, two to go.”

Reese smiled at the perky blonde sitting next to her in the television studio’s green room. The woman had been chattering nonstop ever since she and Reese, along with three other apprentice hopefuls, had been herded into the room to await their turn to audition.

“I’m so nervous,” the blonde confided. “I love Michael Wolf. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Reese merely smiled. It wasn’t that long ago she’d felt the same way. Now she knew better. The only reason she’d decided to show up for today’s audition was to spite Michael. She had no interest in sharing a stage with him or winning any money. Her game plan was simple: knock the judges’ socks off. If she won the competition, she’d politely decline the apprenticeship by citing “irreconcilable differences” with Michael, which would put him in the awkward position of having to explain himself to his colleagues.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, Reese thought with wicked satisfaction.

When it was her turn, she followed the production assistant down a long, narrow corridor and through an open doorway that brought them to the set of Howlin’ Good.

Despite her newfound loathing for Michael Wolf, Reese couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement as she started down the aisle toward the kitchen at center stage. With its gleaming white cabinets, granite countertops and high-end stainless steel appliances, the set of Howlin’ Good had become as familiar to her as her own kitchen. To be here in person was surreal.

Her fascinated gaze took in a kaleidoscope of cameras, lights, monitors and microphones. A network of lights hung from the ceiling, facing in various directions and at different angles. There were several technicians milling around, checking lighting, adjusting equipment and giving instructions to one another.

A small group of people stood chatting around a table that had been erected in front of the stage. The judges, Reese realized when she spied another popular chef whose cable show she often watched.

For the first time since her arrival at the studio two hours ago, she began to feel nervous.

The feeling only intensified when she glanced around and saw Michael emerge from a doorway to the right of the stage. He was followed by his executive producer, whom Reese had met that morning, and a man wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.

As Reese watched Michael stride purposefully toward the stage, she wondered how anyone could look so mouthwateringly good in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. The shirt clung enticingly to the ripped muscles in his chest, and the jeans rode wickedly low on his hips and hugged his thick thighs.

As if sensing her hungry appraisal, Michael turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the crowded set before homing in on hers.

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