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Authors: Shane Bolks

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BOOK: Reality TV Bites
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Then he folds the paper and passes it over his shoulder to Parma. The Japanese guy beside Josh frowns, but Josh gives him a don't-even-think-about-messing-with-me-because-I'll-bitch-slap-you-without-a-second-thought look, and the guy turns back to the discussion. Meanwhile, Parma takes the
note absently, opens it, and then nods at us, as though to say he's up for the challenge.

That's what he thinks.

Mr. Kinjo, wonder of wonders, finally stops talking, and the translator asks, “Then we are in agreement?”

“Perfectly,” Miranda says. “Interiors by M will make
Kamikaze Makeover!
an absolute television sensation.”

The anticipatory warmth pooling in my belly at the thought of a cocktail or two with Parma grows cold, and I shuffle the papers before me in confusion. “Excuse me, Miranda. Did you say television?” My heart is beating fast now. Is this what Natalie meant when she said I might be on TV sooner than I thought?

But maybe it's like the time we remodeled Oprah's studio. We'll be decorating the set for Kinjo's show.

Miranda shoots me an annoyed frown but answers in a sugary tone that fools no one. “Oh, Allison, I forgot that you came in late. This is Mr. Kinjo and his business associates, Mister—”

The translator comes to the rescue. “Hai.” He bows, and not sure if I'm supposed to do the same, I bow back. He smiles, which either means I'm a stupid American trying too hard or that my bowing was the right thing.

Then he says, “I am Peter Yamamoto, this Mr. Watanabe.” He gestures to a flashy guy with long straight hair and a garish red tie.

“He the director,” Yamamoto says. “This is Mr. Fukui.” The man to the right of Watanabe waves at me with four fingers. He's wearing a lavender shirt and matching tie.

“Mr. Fukui is top designer. And so is Mr. Takahashi.” Takahashi is the frowning man sitting next to Josh.

“And this”—Miranda interrupts, pointing at Parma—“is
Nicolo Parma. He's a major investor from—where is it again, Nicolo?”

He smiles. “My family lives in Roskilde, but I travel so much, I consider myself a resident of the world.”

“He can be a resident of my world any day,” Josh whispers.

“Sorry,” I whisper back. “I've got dibs.”

“Nicolo,” Miranda continues, “is the man who referred Mr. Kinjo to us.”

Nicolo smiles at Miranda, and she blushes. Miranda is at least forty-five, thin as a rail, with platinum-blonde hair pulled tight into a jeweled clip. She wears power red almost every day and has a tendency to tap her sharp hellfire-red nails on the glass conference table. She's as hard as the three-karat rock on her finger. But when Nicolo smiles at her, she turns pink from her neck all the way to the dark roots of her blonde hair. Miranda, diamond-hard, cold as a meat locker, and, I often suspect, the spawn of Satan, is blushing. Now I have seen everything.

Since Miranda still hasn't answered my question—and that's not an accident, by the way—I say, “And what is it that Mr. Kinjo has contracted us for? Is he planning to buy property in Chicago?”

Oh, I hope so. Even though it would be great to design another television studio, I prefer residential work. Maybe Kinjo's going to buy a section of Gold Coast and build luxury town homes, and maybe he's hired Miranda—which really means the associate designers, me and Josh, and maybe Mia, but she just had a baby and has been working at home most of the time—to come up with a design for the interiors. Window treatments, color schemes, pewter knobs on the kitchen cabinets, pewter faucets and clear glass bowls in the sinks. And carpet—or would Persian rugs be better? Yes, but
only if Kinjo uses hardwood floors. Oh, but then it would be such a shame to cover that gorgeous wood.

“No, Mr. Kinjo is not buying property,” Miranda says, shattering my design concept. “Mr. Kinjo is an assistant to Ramosu Kobayashi, the owner of Dai Hoshi, Japan's largest media conglomerate. He's here to fill us in on the details for the new show.”

I glance at Josh, but he appears almost as clueless as I am. Almost. His expression is grim—not a good sign.

“What new show?”

Miranda smiles, if you can call what a snake does smiling. “Allison, the one we discussed last week. Honestly, where is your head today?”

Right on my shoulders, where it always is. What is Miranda up to now? We never discussed a TV show. Miranda never even so much as mentioned Dai Hoshi or Kinjo or a European hottie. I would have remembered the hottie part.

“Oh, you know me, Miranda.” And she does, which is why she didn't mention any of this until now. When it's too late.


Kamikaze Makeover!,
Allison, dear. You're going to be on the next number-one reality TV show.”

“Okay, but Josh, don't kamikazes kill themselves?” I say, lifting my half-full
martini glass from the bar. “They crash their planes into aircraft carriers or something.”

Josh rubs his bald black head, checking himself out in the mirror behind the bar. “I look good,” he says.

“Yes, your head is very shiny.”

“It's a fashion statement, sweetie. Black lacquer, like this place.” And his shiny head does sort of remind me of the decor at the Lacquer Lounge. But the rest of him looks like Mekhi Phifer.

Great. I'm sitting on a bar stool next to a bald Mekhi Phifer, admiring himself in the mirror behind the lacquer bar.

“Josh, kamikazes?”

“Allison, World War Two is so over. This is the twenty-first century.”

“Well, fiddle-dee-dee,” I say in a pretty good Southern belle accent. “This corset squeezes all the air out of my head, and I simply cannot think. Why, I'm woozy at the very thought that a foreigner was in the same room as my very own self.” I sip my vodka martini.

Josh glances behind him. It's a little after six, but Nicolo has yet to make an appearance. “Frankly, Scarlett, I don't think the man gives a damn.”

I roll my eyes at the bad joke. “He wasn't coming to see you anyway.”

“That's what you think,” Josh says. “My gaydar went off the moment I saw him.”

“You should take it in for a tune-up.”

“We'll see. I haven't filled his spot on my team roster yet. I'm holding a place.” He leans close and whispers. “In the starting lineup.”

“Get ready to trade him to me, coach. But before we start negotiations, tell me about this show. Is it like
Trading Spaces? Queer Eye? Extreme Makeover?

“No, my reality show queen.” Josh samples his Cosmo. “Think
Extreme Makeover
meets
The Iron Chef.

I bolt forward in horror. “There's cooking?”

“Not unless you feel adventurous,” says a low male voice, tinged with an accent I don't recognize right away. A warm hand slides over my shoulder as Nicolo materializes out of the ambience.

“How adventurous are we talking?” I say, looking into his stunning blue eyes.

“That is up to you,” he murmurs. He takes my hand and kisses all four fingers, slowly and deliberately. “Are you
a—what is it you Americans say?—ah, daredevil. Are you a daredevil?”

I raise a brow and reply in my Kathleen Turner voice, “I've been known to play a little Truth or Dare.”

“Hel-
loh
? I'm standing right here,” Josh interrupts.

“Sorry, Josh.” I squeeze his arm.

“Nicolo Parma,” the hottie says, holding out a hand.

“Josh Bryant.”

“Allison Holloway.”

Nicolo takes my hand again, turns it palm up, and kisses my wrist. My pulse jumps, and I imagine I can see the vein in my wrist throb. Oh, this guy is too perfect.

“Enchanted, Miss Holloway. You smell divine.”

“I am going to be ill,” Josh mutters.

I'm going to faint. I swallow the rest of my martini, feeling its warmth mingle with the lingering heat of Nicolo's lips on my skin. The vodka is strong, and that's a good thing, especially now that my knees are weak.

“So, you are the American designers. I have studied your work. Impressive but conservative.” His eyes remain locked with mine. Is that a challenge?

“This is the American Midwest. We give the client what he or she wants,” I say. “We aim to please.”

“I see.” He smiles, slow and sexy, then signals to the bartender hovering within eavesdropping distance and she dashes in front of us.

“Brandy. And another vodka martini for Miss Holloway. Josh?”

“I'm fine.”

“So you're from Roskilde?” I say. “Where is that?”

Nicolo smiles. “Denmark, though my family has Italian roots. And you?”

I hold up a lock of red hair. “Irish and English.”

“Me, too,” Josh says, straight-faced.

“This is what I love about America. Strange and interesting, the two of you together,” Nicolo says, looking from Josh to me. “In America, we are all equal.”

“Do you think so?” I say. As fantasies go, I've never met this guy's equal. Handsome, wealthy, sophisticated, and intelligent—where has he been all my life?

He smiles. “I admit, there are exceptional cases. Are you exceptional, Miss Holloway?”

“I'm sorry, that information's classified.”

“I have a security clearance. Will that suffice?”

I shrug. “I suppose I can take a look at it in private.”

Nicolo gives me a sultry smile and hands the bartender a fifty as she returns with the drinks. Wow. That's the fastest service I've ever gotten.

“So, Nicolo,” Josh says, “speaking of the show…”

“We were not, actually.”

Josh sneers. “Little hint there, Hamlet. Enough touchy-feely. Allison wants to know about the show. You're the investor, right?”

“I am one of several,” Nicolo answers, somewhat evasively. “Kinjo is the creative force. But I am the executive producer, and it is I who suggested expansion. And where better to start than this United States, yes? You Americans love the home-decorating shows.”

“I guess that's true,” I say, ignoring Josh's snort, “but don't you think the market's oversaturated?”

“Ah.” Nicolo holds up a finger and his eyes positively gleam. “Not if you have a flashy concept.”

“And you think you have one.”

“Kinjo has one, and I am munificent enough to benefit
from his hard work. I think Josh was saying something about
The Iron Chef.
The concept is similar, but we have the iron decorators.”

I cross my legs and Nicolo follows the movement. I allow my skirt to ride up just a bit. “I've never seen this chef show. What's the premise?”

“You've never seen
The Iron Chef?
” Josh gasps. “I thought you'd seen every reality TV show.”

I give him a tight smile. “Not the cooking ones.”

Josh shakes his head. “Allison, sweetie, sometimes you are so clueless. Okay, so there are three Iron Chefs, and they're like the best chefs in the world. So all these top Japanese chefs want to compete against them, but they have to pick one iron chef.” Josh sets his empty Cosmo glass down. “They compete in a fully stocked kitchen, but they have to use one particular ingredient in everything they cook. Like last time I saw it they were given abalone. Abalone—in dessert! Another time leeks or something. Fucking crazy.”

“I don't even know what a leek is.”

Josh waves a hand. “It's big. It's green. End of story. So they get this crazy ingredient, and they have like an hour to make a ten-course meal or something like that, and then the judges taste the food and usually the winner is the Iron Chef. But sometimes the competing chef beats him.”

I look at Nicolo. His attention is still on my legs. Normally, that would be a good thing, but I'm getting into this whole show concept, and I want his complete attention. “Nicolo.”

He raises his eyes, but he's in no hurry, apparently not in the least concerned that I might not appreciate his ogling me like I'm a chunk of meat. Gorgeous as he is, I don't—but that's not the point. “Please tell me that
Kamikaze Make-over!
isn't all about asking us to compete against some iron
decorators by doing something creative with chartreuse polyester in an hour.”

“That is exactly the idea, but you have more time than an hour.”

“How much?” Josh asks darkly.

“Eight.”

Josh's jaw drops. “Oh, you are trippin'. Even
Trading Spaces
gets two days! Look, we're professionals, not circus animals trained to do tricks. Why would I want to decorate a house in eight hours with some ugly-ass chartreuse polyester?”

“Ah, chartreuse polyester.” Nicolo nods. “I will have to remember that. But polyester or not, you want to play because the prize, should you win, is one million dollars.”

Josh squeals, and I gape at Nicolo. “One million for the firm?”

“One million each—you, Josh, and the lovely Miranda.”

“Three million dollars?” Josh wheezes. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke. I am—as you say—the producer.”

This is truly difficult to believe. I mean, it's so totally perfect—well, apart from the chartreuse polyester thing. I am going to be on a reality TV show. I am going to be filmed day in and day out. I'm going to be a celebrity. And all I have to do is be me. Well, not the real me—the fabulous me.

I would have done this for nothing, so a million dollars in addition is just the welting on my footstool. But Nicolo doesn't need to know that. In fact, the writers of the
Reality TV Addict's Guide to What's Real
cautioned aspiring reality TV stars never to trust producers. What if this whole thing is just a trick on me or Josh? Like that one show,
My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé
. I eye Nicolo—if that's really his name—suspiciously.

He merely smiles and offers to buy me another drink. I haven't eaten since this morning—my usual low-fat blueberry
muffin and nonfat, peppermint mocha latte—so I decline. Then, somehow, Nicolo ends up offering to take us to dinner. Josh, smart boy, declines, so it's me and the producer—if that's really his job.

I have to admit it briefly occurs to me that going to dinner with Nicolo might be construed as a date. I've learned from long experience that dating guys I work with is a bad idea. But this is a producer. Everyone knows the normal rules don't apply when reality TV is involved. Nevertheless, best to tread cautiously.

“The Drake,” Nicolo tells the driver when the black Lincoln Town Car pulls up to the curb outside Lacquer Lounge.

“Nice.” I settle in, and Nicolo hands me a flute of champagne from a bottle that's been chilling in a bucket. I tug my skirt down and hide a smile with the glass when Nicolo frowns.

“You have been to the Drake before?”

“Several times. Is that where you're staying?”

“For now. The penthouse Kinjo acquired for me should be ready before the end of the week.”

“Is it decorated? I know a great interior designer.”

“So do I,” he says and leans in for a soft kiss. Okay, this is a little fast for me, but European men are like that. And this guy is gorgeous. He's probably never been told no in his life. Well, there's a first time for everything.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle for a man who was all but devouring me with his eyes ten minutes ago. It's deliberate and seductive, and, oh dear…

Business plus personal equals bad, my besieged brain reminds me. I force myself to pull away, pushing my hair back and taking a large swallow of champagne to cover my unsteadiness. From the corner of my eye, I see Nicolo open his mouth to speak and then close it. That threw him off a bit. Word of advice: Always keep a man guessing.

“The kiss was not to your liking?” Nicolo's voice slides over me through the shadows of the car.

Direct. I like that. “Oh, it was very nice,” I say. “More champagne?”

Nicolo takes my flute without question and refills it. He's not looking terribly pleased about it, though. If I were him, I wouldn't be, either. One minute he's an executive producer, the next a go-to man.

He hands me the champagne I have no intention of drinking, and I smile. “Thank you.”

He leans in for another kiss, but as much as I'd like him to kiss me again, chaster thoughts prevail. I draw back and gesture out the window. “Have you been down to the lake yet?”

“No.” He sits back, seemingly resigned. “Do you recommend it?”

“I do.”

He sits straighter. “Perhaps you would play tour guide on Saturday. I am certain there is much of Chicago I have not seen.” He reaches out and runs a finger lightly over the exposed skin between my knee and the hem of the skirt.

I draw in a slow, shaky breath. Obviously, I should stop him. This guy's got to be handled carefully (i.e., we go no further than that kiss I let slip by earlier). The course of action is clear and smart, and yet I don't stop him. He's already slid his hand deftly between my knees before I'm able to say, “Saturday isn't good for me.”

His hand freezes, then inches farther up my thighs. “I'm confident you can fit me in.”

I stifle a moan and dig my fingernails into the leather seats. Oh, my God. I am so tempted to allow this exploration to continue. But it's a bad, bad,
bad
idea.

Of course, it doesn't
feel
like a bad idea, but when you
take the work thing and the I-just-met-him thing plus the producer thing, that's a lot of things. And all bad.

I bite the inside of my cheek. As much as I want Nicolo's hands on me, I can't give in to my desire. Besides, I think as my cheek starts to hurt, isn't it a bit egotistical to assume that I'd be so willing to…accommodate him? Must wrest control back and keep it this time.

I slam my thighs shut and almost have to stifle a sob at the effort it takes me to resist. “Oh, I wouldn't think of canceling at this late date.”

He scowls—yes,
scowls
—I don't think I've actually seen a man do that in real life. “Is there another day more convenient, then?”

I purse my lips, direct my gaze at the ceiling, and pretend to mentally run through my plans for the week. All the while, his hand is warm, solid—and trapped—between my legs. Not that he's trying to escape. Not that I want him to.

“Can't think of a day I'm free—oh, but actually tomorrow night is—oh, no, I'm watching the game with my friend Rory.”

The car slows, and Nicolo bites out, “Drive around again.” His eyes haven't left my face, and I finally turn my gaze toward him, loosening the pressure on his hand a fraction.

BOOK: Reality TV Bites
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