Accidental Cinderella. Nancy Robards Thompson

up at him, frowning. “Do you always ask so many questions, Mr. Chandler?”

      “Only when I’m trying to decide if I’ll invite someone to interview for a job.”

      A job?

      The music stopped. Carson Chandler escorted Lindsay off the dance floor.

      Wait! What job?

      As they reached the edge of the parquet, he said. “Thank you for the dance. Miss Bingham, er, Lindsay, Chandler Guides produces a three-minute segment that airs on Food TV between full-length shows. It’s called The Diva Dishes. The spots highlight travel, food and festivities of various destinations. Have you seen the spots?”

      Lindsay nodded. She was addicted to Food TV.

      “The mini-sodes, if you will, have the potential to boost the sales of our travel guides. But in the first year, increases didn’t live up to our expectations. Because of that we let the host go. She didn’t have that diva spark I was looking for. That je ne sais quoi that captivates.”

      He paused and put a hand to Lindsay’s chin, looking her over appraisingly. “You really do have the most exquisite eyes, my dear. I’m sure everyone tells you so.”

      Lindsay’s guard went up again like steel trapdoors. She was just about to pull away, a split second before Chandler dropped his hand.

      “I digress,” he continued. “Monday, right here in St. Michel, we will conclude auditions for the new host. The person we choose will start right away because we’re taping this weekend at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival. I’m inviting you to audition.”

      Every nerve in Lindsay’s body went on hyperalert. The St. Michel Food and Wine Festival? Wasn’t that the event Carlos mentioned?

      But…but she couldn’t audition. She was flying out tomorrow. Mary was expecting her back at work bright and early Monday morning. Plus, Chandler made her uncomfortable. Brought back too many bad memories.

      He must have read the hesitancy in her expression, or perhaps she didn’t return a properly enthusiastic response.

      “Hundreds have auditioned, Lindsay. To be quite honest, you will be the only one we see Monday. I’m sure I needn’t remind you that you have a fabulous friend in the princess. She was quite generous with her praise of you, and quite convincing that you are the diva for whom I’ve been searching.”

      An awkward pause followed this unexpected compliment. Boy, Sophie wasn’t kidding when she said she had a surprise.

      As Lindsay searched for how to respond to Chandler, the clock in the castle tower tolled midnight. Out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay glimpsed Carlos walk through the doorway that led in from the terrace, but then she lost sight of him as he was swallowed up by the crowd.

      Chandler reached inside his breast pocket and produced a business card. In the style of a magician weaving a coin through his fingers, he presented it to her with a flourish.

      “Call my assistant for the location of the audition. It will be a very nice, lucrative opportunity.”

      She took a deep breath, glancing around, trying to locate Carlos as she gathered the words she needed to nip Chandler’s wild idea in the bud.

      “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Chandler. I’m flattered, really I am. But it’s been several years since I was in front of a camera. As tempting as the opportunity sounds, I’m afraid I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

      “Oh, but I believe you are. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not offering you the job on the spot.” He smiled. “We’ll have to see how you look on camera, but as I said earlier, I have a hunch the camera will love your face. And, Miss Bingham, my hunches are always right.”

      Chapter Two

      “You left?” The vein in Max Standridge’s forehead pulsed like it might explode. Normally, Carlos Montigo would rib him about it, but better judgment warned, not today.

      Instead he settled into the hotel suite’s couch, shrugged and pierced Max with his best what of it? stare.

      Max pounded his fist once on the desktop. “You know the hoops I jumped through to wrangle you an invite to that wedding, Montigo. It was an opportunity, man. Why’d you leave? You could’ve at least made contact with the minister of art and education. We talked about how important that was.”

      “Why did I leave?” Montigo stood and grabbed the La St. Michel social page off the coffee table, took a few steps and flung it onto the desk. It careened across the glossy surface until Max stopped it with a slap of his palm.

      “That’s why I left.”

      He gestured to a front-page photo of Lindsay Bingham in her sexy red dress, wearing that drive-a-man-to-madness smile.

      In the photo her arms were outstretched, the bridal bouquet was in midair, poised to fall gracefully into her elegant hands.

      Max sneered. “You have something against brides tossing flowers?”

      “Yeah, I’m a conscientious objector to weddings in general.” Carlos rolled his eyes. “Especially when they toss the damn flowers eight times to get the right photo to con the world into buying the fairy tale wedding bull. What a crock of sh—”

      “What does that have to do with anything?”

      Max looked perplexed.

      Carlos stared at the photo, into the eyes that had captivated him last night…at the face that had danced through his restless dreams making sleep fitful and his mood edgy because he was so damn tired today.

      Max was his best friend, but there was no way Carlos could tell him that he’d narrowly escaped letting the woman get under his skin. But she’d ditched him while he went to get drinks, for a media mogul who could’ve bought and sold most of Europe.

      Why should he be surprised that yet another woman followed the scent of money? Didn’t they all?

      If he told Max that, the guy would have license to mock him for a year, ribbing him about his bruised ego and poor choice of woman. So instead of fessing up, he improvised.

      “It’s fake,” Carlos said. “The first toss hit her in the head. Nearly put her eye out. Since that wasn’t the perfect fairy tale outcome, they did it again. And again. Eight. Times. It wasn’t a wedding. It was a three-ring circus full of barracudas, phonies and opportunists.”

      Max pressed his hands to his eyes, then raked his fingers through his hair, pulling so tight that for a moment his eyes were drawn into slits. Carlos couldn’t bear to look at him. So he turned around and reclaimed his spot on the sofa. The wedding had been closed to the paparazzi. The royal image makers were, no doubt, doling out the photos and video clips they wanted the world to see. How long would it take for the press to dig up the real deal? A rogue video or an embarrassing picture taken with a camera smuggled in by some opportunistic schmuck hungry to sell secrets?

      “I’m your manager, Montigo, not a miracle worker. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

      Help me? He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

      “I’m not a charity case, Max.”

      “I didn’t say you were, but you have to lose that chip on your shoulder if we’re going to make this work.”

      For the love of God, the guy nagged more than Montigo’s ex-wife, Donna.

      The ornate hotel room with its frilly pink cabbage rose wallpaper was closing in on him. Just like the ballroom had last night. The only reason he didn’t walk out right now was because Max, unlike Donna, hadn’t walked out on him when the chips were down.

      They needed one more good run.

      Get in. Make money. Get out.

      This cookbook needed to sell. Then Carlos could repay Max and use the rest for a