Grill Me, Baby (17 page)

She slapped his arm. “Those teeny martinis? I don’t even feel a buzz.”

“I have to leave and get ready for tomorrow’s competition.” Paolo glanced at his watch. It was close to nine o’clock, damn it.

“Oh, all right.” She pouted dejectedly. “But can we meet again tomorrow afternoon to finalize the plans? Say, after you tape the show?” 

Paolo opened the door and motioned for her to exit before him. “Uh, let’s make it Wednesday. Tomorrow’s going to be a little difficult…”

“Wednesday it is then. Confirmed!”

“
Ciao
, Bernice. Until Wednesday.”

Sliding her hands up and down his biceps, Bernice squeezed his flesh along the way and then kissed him on both cheeks, one wet kiss landing on the corner of his mouth. “
Ciao, churro
.”

It was all Paolo could do not to roll his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to encourage the producer’s wife, especially after her warning about Edwin’s possessiveness. As if he even wanted a romp with the sly old vixen, but he couldn’t be rude to her either.

Wiggling her hips, Bernice teetered off toward her silver Jag and turned with a jaunty wave before getting inside. She rolled down the window and blew him another kiss before driving off, leaving Paolo with a bad taste in his mouth. He had not liked her tacky attempt at seduction. But mostly, her cattiness toward Maki had really bugged him. He had kept his cool because the stakes were high.

Paolo had dealt with women like Bernice Blumenthal before—bored, matronly socialites who chased after younger men and thought they could lead them around by the
cojones
. He tamped down his annoyance and decided to bide his time until he won
Miami Spice
. He could handle Bernice. He was most concerned about Maki. There would be hell to pay if they didn’t get a rehearsal in before the taping tomorrow morning.

Chapter Twelve

Michaela could barely see straight, she was so furious with Paolo for standing her up again last night. When he finally showed up, she had to force herself to keep her voice low not to wake up Mikey and Claudia as she hissed, “You have no concept of time. You’re irresponsible and inconsiderate and I never want to see you again after tomorrow. Thanks to you, we’ll have to wing it without a proper rehearsal!” After her blistering tirade, she had run out of his apartment, ignoring his lame explanation about a flat tire. Paolo had chased after her in the dark parking lot, but she tore out of there before he could say another word.

She hadn’t gotten back to her apartment until past midnight and then had tossed and turned in bed, wishing him all kinds of evil. She still could not believe he’d had the nerve to blame a flat tire on his lateness—especially with the unmistakable smell of a woman’s perfume lingering on him. She wished she didn’t have to see Paolo’s face today, let alone cook with him. 

But she couldn’t dwell on it now; she had to concentrate on the taping ahead. As she drove down I95 on her way to Key Biscayne, she took deep breaths and tried to assuage her nerves, but they were stretched to the breaking point. Aunt Willow’s encouraging phone call this morning had managed to bolster her confidence, in spite of her annoyance at not being prepared. 

She arrived at the Rickenbacker Causeway and paid the toll. This was a fortunate route, she realized, as her thoughts drifted to happy childhood memories of weekend beach outings with her Aunt Willow. A free-spirited hippie at heart, Willow had mysteriously changed her name from Nadine after attending Woodstock in 1969. She and the love of her life, Stephen, had been as different as two people could be, but they had been happily married for eighteen years until he died young of a heart attack, leaving her a widow at thirty-eight. She had never remarried nor had any children and dearly loved Michaela and Tiffany as if they were her own daughters.

Michaela remembered the countless times she and Tiffany had made this trek as children. They had crammed inside Aunt Willow’s red Volkswagen bug and headed for the palm-fringed beaches of Crandon Park in Key Biscayne where they lolled until sundown, grilling burgers, collecting seashells, playing volleyball and feasting on ripe mangos and watermelon. Aunt Willow had always worn her multi-colored macramé bikini, which she had proudly made herself. 

As she drove along the Rickenbacker Causeway, the sun was beginning to rise slowly over the horizon, glistening on the silvery blue water with specks of gold. Along the bridge, weathered fishermen were already casting their reels, joggers were sweating, and a trio of cyclists were attempting the steep ascent. Ahead, the thirty-eight acre Seaquarium was ready for busloads of tourists that would soon be coming to visit Lolita the Killer Whale. Perhaps she could interest some hungry shark in Paolo as a tasty treat… 

She arrived at Key Biscayne, turned right on Crandon Boulevard, and followed it down to Mashta Island. A CREW sign pointed left and she followed it to a huge ornate iron gate with a man standing guard outside. The number on the concrete wall matched the one on the email.

“Good morning, I’m Michaela Willoughby,” she said. 

The guard pushed the remote in his hand and waved her in. Michaela followed the winding path of sea grape bushes that led to the Bahamian style mansion. Chalk-white with blue-shuttered windows and flowering bougainvilleas in fuchsias and pinks, the house had a lush, vacation feel. She wondered who were the lucky ones who lived there. 

Michaela’s iPhone rang just as she parked her car on the crushed oyster shell driveway, alongside two trucks. She answered it right away when she saw it was Lisa. “Hi, Lisa.”

“Hey, just wanted to wish you luck,” Lisa said. “Break a leg or an egg or whatever they say in TV land.”

“Yeah, I need all the help I can get,” Michaela muttered.

“Why? What happened?”

“Paolo blew it last night. He arrived too late for a run-through and by the time he got there, I was so mad at him, we had a fight.” 

“Oh, no,” Lisa groaned. 

“I am beyond furious with him. We’re taping today and we haven’t even had
one
rehearsal together!”

“That’s unforgivable, but don’t fret, you’ll do great anyway. Much better than Paolo. Remember, he’s not nearly as organized as you are,” Lisa said loyally. 

“Thanks, I hope you’re right. Last night I babysat his nephew so his sister could get some rest while Paolo was at a so-called business meeting.” She paused and drew in a sharp breath. “He had the nerve to show up reeking of a flowery, sweet perfume.”

“Ew, I hate Bernice’s perfume, don’t you?” Lisa said, surprising her.

“How do you know it was Bernice’s perfume?” Michaela’s stomach took a nosedive as her suspicions climbed. 

“Yesterday, I drove by the Bella Luna parking lot and saw Bernice with Paolo while he was opening the restaurant door.”

“What?” So that’s where he’d been—schmoozing it up with the producer’s wife! Just when Michaela had begun to let down her guard and trust Paolo, he pulled a fast one. “Are you sure it was Bernice?”

“Yes. She was draped all over him with her hands over his eyes, giggling and whispering in his ear.”

Michaela’s ire went from simmer to full boil. It was a miracle steam didn’t shoot out of her ears. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths before she choked out, “Thanks for the heads up, Lisa. I’m here now. Gotta go.” 

“Knock ’em dead, honey. You deserve to win. I know you’ll beat Paolo.”

“
Beat
doesn’t even describe what I’d like to do to him right now,” Michaela said grimly before hanging up. She got out of her car and slammed the door. How would she deal with Paolo—roast, broil or barbeque? At the moment, a slow roast sounded the most torturous and it was exactly what he deserved! Squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment, she told herself not to let her red-hot temper get the best of her—not today. There was too much at stake and she, not Paolo, would be the one to suffer if she didn’t rein in her temper.

She pasted a courteous smile on her face as she greeted the uniformed valet who opened the door before she knocked. As soon as Michaela entered the mansion, the full waterfront view overlooking an infinity pool made her gasp. She felt as if she had stepped onto the pages of Every detail was luxurious and expensive looking. It even smelled rich, she thought, momentarily amused before she turned her thoughts to today’s taping.
Architectural Digest
.  

How would her family behave? Tiffany had tried to talk Dad out of bringing his new trophy girlfriend, but he hadn’t agreed not to. If he did show up with her, her mother would be livid. Aunt Magda would be there too. She had been raving about gorgeous Paolo to the whole family. According to Tiff, Aunt Magda had decided Paolo was the perfect match for her niece, contest or no. Aunt Willow had also promised to be there. Thank God, Willow would provide emotional support; she always did. And that left Tiffany, who would be cheering her on, but Tiff tended to run late… 

This was the most important event in her career. She had to focus and stay on top of her game. Today was the clincher, it was now or never to shine. She was not going to let Paolo’s dalliances with the producer’s wife rob her of this dream come true. 

Breathe deeply. Stop stressing over what you can’t control
, she told herself.
Think of the opportunities. You can finish repaying Mom and Dad. The cookbook will be a hit and you’ll get brand endorsements and appearances at the Wine and Food festivals in South Beach and NYC.
Michaela ended her personal pep talk with a fervent prayer filled with all kinds of well-intentioned promises if she nailed the audition.

She paused for a moment to visualize herself as the winner as she patted her pants’ side pocket where she hid a secret. Today was war and Paolo would be in for a surprise if he thought he could distract her from winning with any of his “gimmicks”. The gloves were off. She’d distract the hell out of him with her own gimmick!

Paolo arrived a few minutes late for the pre-taping session, but it wasn’t his fault. The spare tire he’d replaced his flat tire with last night had taken a nail on his way to Key Biscayne. Luckily, he passed a tire store en route to the Rickenbacker Causeway, and within thirty minutes, he’d bought a new one, had it aligned, and was on his way. He felt ready to take on the world, despite very little sleep last night thanks to Mikey, who kept waking up every two hours. 

He had Señora Fuentes, the elderly Cuban widow two doors down from his apartment, to thank for his peace of mind this morning. She had stepped out to pick up her newspaper just as Paolo was leaving. When she heard Mikey crying and learned that Claudia was alone after giving birth, the kind woman insisted on staying with her until Paolo returned. With that huge concern taken care of, Paolo felt relaxed and ready to wow the audience today. After their argument last night, Maki would probably still be in a snit, but he would deal with her later. Today, he was on a mission and nobody, not even delectable Maki, would stand in his way. With growing excitement, he made a mental list of all the benefits he would gain from winning today’s taping. 

I’ll be able to pay for Claudia and Mikey’s bills, send money to Mamá, launch my new grill pan idea and become a celebrity chef. This taping will be such a success, even Maki will benefit. She will have to concede defeat, but she’ll get good exposure from it.

From the look on Michaela’s face when he strolled into the pool patio, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had been the one to leave a spike beneath his tire last night. But there was no way that he’d let the little
rabiosa
ruin his chances today! Underneath her icy façade, she was probably simmering with resentment. Somehow, he had to get her to relax enough for their segment to be fun and entertaining for the audience gathered there. With a friendly wave, Paolo breezed by the group of fifty or so audience members who were listening carefully to the young production assistant’s instructions on applause and enthusiasm. 

Paolo approved of the cooking set-up that consisted of a long, tile-covered island, complete with a wood-burning oven on one end, gas burners on the other end and ample prep space in between, including a deep, stainless steel sink. Behind the island was a spacious, oblong pool with a cascading waterfall and Jacuzzi and behind that, a panoramic expanse of the inviting ocean, topped by a blue, cloudless sky. 

He smiled at the audience, took his place behind the counter and greeted the tech crew. Beside him, Michaela looked rigidly composed in an aqua top and tan slacks. She gave him a curt nod that spoke volumes. He raised an eyebrow at her hands, noticing how tightly they clutched the counter in front of her. Maybe she wasn’t as composed as he thought. Small wonder they weren’t curled into fists ready to take aim at him.

Ignoring Michaela’s biting stare, he gave her a wink. “Ready,
nena
?”

“Don’t you
nena
me,” she hissed beneath a frozen-in-place smile. “Look at the first row, lover boy, your girlfriend’s there.”

Paolo’s eyebrows shot up when he noticed Bernice sitting in the front row making eyes at him. She gave him a fluttery little wave with her long fingernails and blew a kiss. Bernice’s toothy, flirtatious grin was turning his stomach sour. That and the fact that Mr. Blumenthal was watching him like a shrewd hawk made him wish he could pop an antacid.

Paolo and Michaela acted in forced camaraderie for Mr. Blumenthal and the audience’s sake as they went through the motions of a run-through. Once their positions were marked, the director, a goateed, stocky man in faded jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, gave them specific notes. As soon as everything was clarified, the cameras began to roll. 

Ten minutes into their presentation, it was clear Michaela was incensed with him. Despite Paolo’s attempts to lighten the mood with a few jokes, she was not buying any of it. The more he clowned around and had the audience laughing, the more daggers she sent his way when the camera was on him and not her. He completed a dance move to show how easy it was to prepare the gnocchi and ended it with a flourish, which drew another enthusiastic round of applause.