Romancing Miss Right (7 page)

“And then you can come work with me at ADS
again.”

Miranda snorted. “Because that wouldn’t be a
conflict of interest at all.”

They had met when she was just starting out
as a segment producer on American Dance Star—and she’d left a job
she loved to go to the Marrying Mister Perfect/Romancing Miss Right
franchise when she realized she was having unprofessional feelings
for Bennett. She refused to be that woman who slept her way to the
top. She wasn’t going back on that now.

“We could work that out,” he argued, ever
persuasive.

She tensed, annoyed by the same old argument.
“Bennett. I haven’t slept. I’m busy and I’m tired. Do we have to
discuss this now?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you get some sleep,” he
said, though they both knew she wouldn’t be sleeping when she got
off the phone. “First night go well?”

“Better than I could have dreamed. Though I
may have just jinxed it by saying so.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t.” Her eyes fell back on the monitor
and she frowned. Who was Marcy looking at?

“I just lost you, didn’t I?” Bennett said,
again with that eerie perception.

“Sorry. You caught me in the middle of
something.”

“At least consider taking a night off, all
right? You have months before the first episode airs to make
everything perfect. Let your minions do some of the work for a
change. I want to see you.”

“I’ll think about it.”
When I have
time
.

“I guess that’s all I can ask.”

“G’night, Bennett.”

“It’s morning, Miranda. I’m calling from the
office.”

“Then good morning.”

“Good morning,” he echoed.

She disconnected and set her phone aside,
attention already back on the screens. On them, the room was
crowded. It was hard to tell who Marcy might be looking at, but
someone there had gotten under Miss Right’s skin and Miranda would
find out who. She would find that spark of vulnerability and fan it
into genuine emotion.

This was going to be an unforgettable season.
She would make sure of it.

Chapter Eight

A body hit the ground hard,
sending up a puff of dust from the arena floor. The crowd cheered
wildly and Marcy joined in, waving her banner as Darius surged to
his feet and charged back into the fray, swinging his padded sword.
She didn’t know whose brilliant idea it had been to dress all the
Suitors on the group date up as knights, give them fake swords and
set them loose to whack at one another in the Renaissance Faire
Arena, but she had to admit the spectacle was entertaining—provided
none of them ended up in the hospital.

She was fascinated by the strategies they
employed as they tried to win the prize—twenty precious minutes of
alone time with her. None of them had been told what the criterion
for winning was, but they had to guess it was her decision, so it
was telling what they did to try to impress her, revealing what
they thought she was looking for.

Darius was ruthless, determined to defeat
everyone in his path. Mark L. appeared to have no athletic ability,
but rose laughing every time he got knocked down—she might have to
consider awarding him the alone time just for being such a good
sport. Mark J. and Aidan had taken to working together, teaming up
against the other opponents, which seemed to show a distinct lack
of understanding that there could be only one winner, but also
demonstrated that they could play well with others.

And then there was Craig. All flash and
showmanship. No surprise there. He played to the crowd, earning
more cheers than all the others combined, but he couldn’t have made
many friends at the Suitors’ Mansion because the others kept coming
after him, ganging up on him with single-minded ferocity, as if
they had something to prove.

Did they see him as a threat? She certainly
hadn’t shown him any favoritism. If anyone was the front runner at
this point, it had to be Daniel—though she supposed it was hard for
anyone to dislike Daniel, even his competition.

She’d had her first private date with Daniel
last night—or as private as a date could be with camera crews
capturing every swoon-worthy moment. She’d had a nice time. He was
good company and it was hard not to enjoy herself on a picture
perfect date, but even as they’d swayed in the moonlight to the
strains of their private orchestra, she’d wondered if there was
something wrong with her that she wasn’t swept away by the
romanticism of the moment.

Daniel kept gushing about how “unbelievable”
everything was—the helicopter that whisked them away, the private
viewing of the new Monet exhibit at the Getty Villa, the gourmet
meal served to them beside the fountains of the Villa, the private
orchestra that appeared and began playing just for them, and the
fireworks that exploded above their heads as soon as he finally
manned up and kissed her—a gentle, respectful peck which he’d
declared “perfect”.

Everything was “perfect” and
“unbelievable”—and Marcy couldn’t help but wonder if he’d never
seen the show. How else could he be shocked by the standard generic
romance tactics?

She’d smiled and said all the right
things—she’d written this scene too many times not to know her
lines—but she hadn’t been moved. Wasn’t she supposed to be moved?
She’d thought the reason she hadn’t fallen head over heels for Jack
was because she’d known on some subconscious level that he was in
love with someone else, even before she’d seen him with Louisa, but
now she had to wonder if there was something actually wrong with
her.

A cheer went up and Marcy forced her
attention back to the arena below. Craig and Mark L. had somehow
taken center stage, their swords clashing with muted
thunks
rather than the clang of metal. Mark L. whirled, going for one of
the flourishes the fight choreographer had taught them and Craig
brought his own sword up to counter just a little too slowly—Mark’s
sword thwacked Craig square in the face, eliciting a sympathetic
groan from the audience as he fell to his knees.

“Craig!” Marcy flew to her feet, her banner
falling from her hands. Both Mark and Craig dropped their swords to
the ground—Mark in horror and Craig to bring both hands to his face
where bright red blood began to gush from his nose.

A trumpet sounded and the melee in the arena
stumbled to a halt as Marcy rushed down the steps to the arena
floor. Medics in medieval garb were already kneeling at Craig’s
side. Marcy wove through the other competitors, hearing Aidan
mutter, “Why didn’t I think of that?” as she flew past.

Then she was beside him, where blood was
already turning the dirt of the arena dark.

“I’m so sorry,” Mark L. groaned, hovering
nearby.

“It’s nothing, man,” Craig slurred—or at
least that’s what she thought he said through the towel pressed to
his face. He’d tipped his head down to speak and the medic gripped
his chin, tipping it back up again to staunch the blood. The white
towel was already soaking through.

“That’s a lot of blood for nothing,” Marcy
said. “Is it broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“And leave the date? Hell, no.”

“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” the medic
said. “Just a gusher.”

“See?” Craig said, though it came out as
sthee
. “Nothing.” He pulled away the sopping towel, and the
blood seemed to have finally stopped pouring out of his nose,
though the lower half of his face was caked in red. “So did I
win?”

#

Two hours later, Marcy and a cleaned-up Craig
stood on the battlements in the Renaissance Faire’s Queen’s Castle,
looking out over the lights of the Faire below as the rest of the
men waited in the dungeons below for his awarded private time to
end.

She cocked her head, studying her
slightly-banged-up knight. A bruise was beginning to form beneath
his left eye—he was going to have quite a shiner to go with his
swollen nose—but he somehow managed to make the bruises work for
him, lending him an air of danger. Not that he needed any help in
the sex appeal department. The man only had to look at her to set
her panties on fire.

“I think some of the guys think you took that
hit on purpose.”

He grinned, rakish and unrepentant. “I
did.”

“You risked your pretty face just for some
alone time with me? I’m flattered.”

“I made sure it was Mark L. who hit me.
Figured he wouldn’t have a very strong arm.”

“Very Machiavellian of you.” She realized she
was fighting a grin again. Even when she knew he was trouble, she
felt so alive being with him, like champagne bubbles were fizzing
through her blood. “I suppose I should have expected it would get
violent.”

“Hell yeah, you should have. We’re all
hard-wired to fight for the prize to begin with and you gave us
swords.”

“So I’m the prize, am I?”

“Did you think you were anything else?”

She knew she shouldn’t like the glint of
challenge in his dark eyes, but when he pushed it just made her
want to push back. “I think I’m the one in the driver’s seat and I
can send you home whenever I want.”

“But why would you want to do that? I’m the
only one who’s honest with you.”

“Is that so? Show me some of this honesty.
Tell me something true, Craig. Something real.” She leaned against
the fake-stone wall, surprising herself with how badly she wanted
to scratch the surface of his bullshit and see who he was
underneath.

“Something true?” He braced one arm beside
her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, but not
quite touching. The tease was almost more arousing than a caress.
“You’re going to give me the next private date.”

“I am, am I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And why would I do that?”

He grinned, leaning in so his chest just
brushed the outside of her arm, her shoulder. She’d had no idea
those could be erogenous zones, but she was so aware of him she
felt like she could combust at any moment from the sheer
electricity of his presence.

“Because,” he murmured deep and low, “while
all those guys were fighting over you like dogs over a bone, not
one of them looked up at you to see you were bored out of your
mind.”

A blush rose to her cheeks—and she told
herself she was embarrassed by his perception, not turned on by his
proximity. She had been bored senseless watching the men banging
their chests. But how had he seen that? “I wasn’t bored.”
Deny,
deny, deny
.

He just grinned and tangled one of her curls
around his forefinger. “While we’re being
honest
,” he said,
“I have a question for you.”

“Oh?”

He met her eyes, his own smoky and intense—no
one seared her with a look like Craig. “At the Elimination
Ceremony, why did you hesitate?”

Her already heated cheeks went supernova.
“What?”

“You almost didn’t pick me. Why?” He leaned
forward again until she could feel each expulsion of his breath
warming the skin along her neck and behind her ear. “Do I make you
nervous?”

She struggled for a nonchalant shrug. “You
know how these shows are. We have to create drama for the
viewers.”

“So that’s all it was.”

“Of course.”

Again, he just grinned. That smile calling
her out in the lie.

The man was entirely too perceptive. The
others were all too happy to believe the role she was playing, but
Craig saw through her masks like they were made of glass. He wasn’t
supposed to be that guy. He was supposed to be the villain. The bad
boy. The one all the men hated and she tolerated until it was time
to cull the herd and get down to the favorites. She wasn’t supposed
to be tempted by him and threatened by his ability to see through
her at the same time.

“Marcy, Craig. Time’s up,” the segment
producer called. “Time to hit the dungeons.”

Craig straightened slowly, taking all that
warmth and intense focus with him. She shouldn’t have been relieved
to get away from his all too knowing eyes—any more than she should
have been so disappointed that he hadn’t tried to kiss her
again.

Chapter Nine

Miranda flicked through the
messages on her tablet from producers and camera crews across her
little reality empire as Marcy hitched herself into the Escalade
and yanked at the hem of her skirt.

“Do you think you could make my skirt a
little shorter next time?” Miss Right grumbled, as she buckled in
and the car began to move. “It’s a miracle I didn’t flash anyone
tonight.”

“You’re the fantasy, sweetie. Sometimes that
means uncomfortable clothes.” Miranda said, without looking up from
her tablet. “Statistically speaking, four of the men on your date
tonight were likely to be leg men.”

“For the next date, can I be the fantasy for
men who like to see women in comfy baggy pajamas and flip
flops?”

Miranda acknowledged a message informing her
that the men from the date were now back at the Suitors’ Mansion,
bragging about their triumph at the Ren Faire to the poor schmucks
who’d been left behind. “Sorry, sweetie. Tomorrow’s group date is
Rock n’ Roll Fantasy. Brace yourself for leather corsets and big
hair.”

Marcy groaned and dropped her head back
against the headrest. “Should I be this exhausted three days
in?”

“It’s a marathon,” Miranda said.

The shows would be edited down to the
highlights, but for Miss Right the hours were far longer than the
home audience could suspect. Two hours flirting with twelve guys in
the dungeons of a Renaissance Faire castle and two more hours of
explaining how each and every conversation made her feel translated
into just under fifteen minutes of actual screen time.

And there was no down time. There were no
camera crews in the car with them now—but every vehicle in the
Romancing Miss Right
fleet was wired for video and audio and
recording at all times so they never missed a juicy moment. Marcy’s
privacy had been signed away the second she agreed to be Miss
Right—and for many of their contestants that was as tiring as the
physical demands of the show. The fact that they were always
on
.