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came running in here, about to hyperventilate because the man handed her a hundred-dollar bill. For espresso!”
    Gina pulled her cell phone out of her pocketbook and stared at the call log. A total of six missed calls from Scott. She scrolled down to the last message, which had been left less than half an hour earlier, and pressed the play button.
    “Gina,” Scott said, his voice near a whisper. “Stop screwing around and get in here. Barry Adelman, the vice president of programming at The Cooking Channel, is here. And I mean right here, at Morningstar Studios. I sent him your tapes last week. He’s in town today to take a look at another cooking show, and he decided to come by and check us out. The show, I mean. Dammit, Gina, pick up the phone. Talk to me.”
    Slowly, Gina put the phone down on the counter. “You’re right,” she told D’John. “I thought Scott was calling to apologize. But he was trying to tell me about The Cooking Channel guys.”
    “And?” D’John coaxed.
    “Scott sent them tapes of the show, without telling me. He never said a word! Now these guys are in town to see somebody else, and they came by to see us. Me, I mean. That is, the show.”
    “See?”
    “I’m screwed,” Gina said glumly. “You said it yourself. I look like crap. My face is all splotchy, my eyes are swollen from crying—”
    “Don’t worry,” D’John said, patting her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Better than fine. You’ll kill. Just put yourself in D’John’s hands now. We don’t have time for your color this morning. I’ve got somebody coming in as soon as I’m done with you. But tonight, when you’re through shooting, I want you to come over to my place. I’ll mixup your new color, and we’ll send out for Chinese and play beauty parlor.”
    “Nothing too radical, right?” Gina said. “You know how my fans are. They never want me to change anything. I got two dozen e-mails after last season’s first show, just because I got my ears pierced.”
    “Screw the viewers,” D’John said airily. “You were born to be a blonde. And I’m the man who’s going to take you there. Think Jean Harlow. Carole Lombard. Think bombshell, baby!”
    “You’re making me nervous,” Gina told him, smoothing moisturizer over her face.
    “Scott says we have to take your whole presentation up a notch if you’re going national,” D’John said. He bent down and looked at her face, clucking in disapproval. “And you have got to start getting more sleep. There’s only so much concealer can do, you know.”
    “I’ll try,” Gina agreed. She closed her eyes and tried to relax as D’John began applying her makeup.
    He hummed as he worked, and the featherlike strokes of sponge, brush, and powder puff made her sleepy. She had nearly dozed off when she heard the door of the room open.
    “Oh,” a male voice said. “Sorry.”
    Regina opened her eyes. The intruder was tall, but not as tall as D’John. Maybe a shade over six feet. His brown hair was wavy and needed combing. He was deeply tanned, with a nose that was too big for his face, and starting to peel. Intense blue eyes under bushy eyebrows a shade darker than his hair. He wore faded blue jeans, a short-sleeved turquoise golf shirt, and scuffed-up boat shoes with no socks.
    “Uh,” he said, looking from Regina to D’John. “Sorry. I didn’t know anybody else was in here. I’ll come back.”
    “Wait!” D’John said sharply. “Who were you looking for?”
    “Uh, D’John?”
    “You found him,” D’John said crisply. “And you are?”
    “Tate Moody. My producer, Val Foster, said you’d be expecting me.”
    “Oh yes,” D’John said. “You’re the fisher boy, right?”
    Moody laughed. “Sorta.”
    D’John waved toward the other seat in the makeup room.
    “Never mind. Sit. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m done here.”
    “You sure?” the visitor asked, squirming in the chair and glancing down at his watch. “I’ve gotta be on set pretty