Accidental Cinderella. Nancy Robards Thompson

      Improvised brilliance? A solid lump formed in Lindsay’s throat, then it dropped like a lead ball into the pit of her stomach. Improvising had never been her strong suit. She’d learned late in the game that it was one of the things she hated about news reporting. Improvising meant saying the wrong thing. Embarrassing herself. She thought she’d outgrow the fear with a little experience under her belt. Her career had never made it to that point.

      Paula lifted her gaze from the page and glowered at Sam. “Do you have a better idea?”

      She didn’t call him a moron, but her tone implied it. The tension between them was nearly palpable.

      Sam arched a brow. “Last time I checked, I was the cameraman and you were the producer.”

      Sam gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink that implied he was choosing sides. While it was good to have an ally in Sam, she didn’t want the team to be divided. They had to work together or they’d go nowhere fast.

      Paula tucked her pen behind her ear. “Quit heckling me and make yourselves useful.”

      She nodded at Lindsay. “Come on, let’s go have a look around and see if we can come up with something better. Sam, you go scout locations.”

      Unsmiling, Sam stared at Paula long enough to raise the possibility of a showdown. But then he broke the standoff.

      “This is your show,” he said to Lindsay. “Don’t let her push you around.”

      Paula frowned and looked as if she might spit nails. She hissed, “Meet back here at 5:30 p.m., Sam. We have a dinner meeting with Chandler.”

      Then Paula muttered under her breath as he walked away. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s why you don’t sleep with your coworkers.”

      Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “You and Sam?” The words fell out before she could stop them.

      Paula turned her wary gaze on Lindsay and seemed to sum her up for a moment. Then, to Lindsay’s surprise, Paula nodded. “Yeah. It was sort of messy. We were the inspiration behind Chandler Guide’s Gunn-English policy.”

      “What?” Why was Paula telling her this?

      “The Gunn-English policy.” There was no warmth in her expression. “A no fraternizing policy.”

      Was this Paula’s not-so-subtle way of saying hands off? Because it sure didn’t feel like girl talk.

      “Ah, thanks for the heads up,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Sam.

      No way. No how.

      She’d been through that before—she and her ex-fiancé, Joe, had worked at the television station—he’d been an up-and-coming anchor. She’d been a general assignment reporter. Their problems started when she confided in him about the uncomfortable advances their boss, Gerard Webb, was making when they were alone. After all, if you can’t trust your fiancé, who can you trust?

      But Joe shocked her by getting mad at her, saying “Don’t blow it out of proportion, Lindsay, and most important, don’t do anything stupid that will jeopardize our jobs.”

      How could she not say anything? How could he not stand up for her? But when it all hit the fan, Joe proved whose side he was on. When she filed the complaint against Webb, Joe broke off their engagement, claiming she must have been leading Webb on, doing something to give him the wrong impression. In other words, she “must have asked for it.”

      “There’s no sense in the two of us staying here,” Paula said. “I’m going to go talk to the festival coordinator. You stay here.” She gestured to a table full of literature on the far side of the tent. “See if you can find something better for the show in the press kits.”

      Then without so much as a goodbye, Paula turned and walked away, leaving Lindsay on her own.

      It was make-it-or-fall-flat-on-her-face time. Since the latter wasn’t an option, she had to get her rear in gear. The best place to start was to find a knockout idea for the first show, proving that she could pull her weight.

      Dodging a team of men hauling a stack of boxes, she made her way to the publicity table. She scanned the various brochures, press kits and photos stacked neatly on the cloth-covered rectangular table. A familiar face snagged her gaze. Smiling up at her from a photo pasted on the cover of a blue folder was none other than Carlos Montigo.

      Lindsay’s stomach performed an erratic somersault that drew a defensive hand to her belly.

      With her free hand, she reached for the folder.

      The press kit was printed on glossy paper. No expenses spared. Impressive. It had all the makings of a staged comeback.

      Lindsay opened the folder and pulled out a bio, which gave the general who—Carlos Montigo; what—self-taught chef; when—he’d been cooking all his life; where—born in Madrid, raised in Paris, and subsequently made his mark after he moved to Miami; and why—because food was his passion, yada yada yada. But no mention of his hiatus.

      Of course not.

      Behind the bio was one of his signature recipes for beef bourguignonne and several eight-by-ten glossy black-and-whites: Montigo working in a restaurant kitchen; Montigo on the set of a cooking show; Montigo smiling warmly and toasting the camera with a glass of wine. Good photos of a gorgeous man—longish, glossy dark hair. Great bones that the camera loved. The trademark dark stubble on his jaw that made him look ruggedly handsome, but there was something about his crooked nose and the look in his eyes that promised danger. Good lord, the man made her squirm, and if there was one thing she couldn’t resist it was a man who made…a good subject for the third Diva Dishes segment.

      Lindsay had been out of the television business for several years, but despite advances in technology, one truth remained: a good reporter did her research before an interview.

      She had a lot to learn about Carlos Montigo, and what she learned this afternoon—without letting his sexy smile and rugged good looks cloud her judgment—would tell her whether she’d pitch the story to Carson, Paula and Sam.

      Sure, The Diva Dishes wasn’t 60 Minutes, but her gut told her there was a story here, and she was bound and determined to have a meaty idea to present to them at five-thirty.

      So, she went back to the hotel and booted up the MacBook Chandler had given her when she accepted the job.

      Leaning back against a stack of pillows, she performed a Google search of Montigo’s name. One hundred fifty thousand matches came up.

      The first listing was a Wikipedia entry. She clicked on it and the page opened, revealing a color photograph of Carlos that made her bite her bottom lip. Underneath the photo it said:

      Carlos Montigo is a restaurateur and celebrity chef. The former owner of South Miami Beach’s Prima Bella Donna starred in one season of Food TV’s You Want A Piece of Me?

      He was born in 1972 in Madrid, Spain and raised in Paris, France. He moved to Miami, Florida after meeting Donna Lewis and together, the two opened Prima Bella Donna. The couple divorced in 2006 citing irreconcilable differences. Lewis is now sole owner of the restaurant and has employed three different chefs in the two years since Montigo has been gone.

      Montigo was the center of controversy when a reporter for the Miami Herald initially set out to write a story about Montigo’s refusal of a Michelin star and in the process discovered that the chef had lied about his credentials.

      Following the exposé, Food TV terminated Montigo’s contract on the show You Want A Piece of Me.

      Lindsay blinked. He lied? Why on earth would a man who was seemingly sitting on top of the world fake his credentials?

      She scrolled down to a list of resources the author used for the story. She found a link to the Miami Herald story and clicked on it.

      Miami Herald February 10, 2006

      Celebrity