Too Hot for TV Page 2

“Karen, have you seen Keith?” Raymond asked as Mrs. Wentworth walked out the door.

  “He’s eating lunch in the doctor’s lounge,” she replied. “But what about these orders?” She placed her hand on his sculpted arm, preventing him from leaving the front desk.

  Raymond picked up the chart. “Discharge Loretta, give her meds for the pain, and have her come back in a month. What’s the question?”

  “Sorry, doc, I’m not fluent in chicken scratch.”

  Raymond playfully sneered at her and then broke out laughing. “Watch the door and phones for me. Five minutes, okay?” She nodded, and then Raymond took off for the doctor’s lounge, which was more like a storage closet with a dingy window.

  Keith was sitting at the small table, more akin to a TV tray, eating a salad and a roast chicken sandwich. “What’s up, Ray?” Keith asked, catching his partner’s stare.

  “You tell me, brother.”

  Keith stood up, stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth. “The only time you call me ‘brother’ is when you’re pissed off. What did I do now?”

  Raymond raised his eyebrow. “You’re going to stand here and pretend that you don’t know what you did? I got a call that I’m sure you know all about. Some TV producer called me about the show Let’s Get Married.”

  “Finally! I’m glad they got to my letter,” Keith said excitedly. “I thought all of my writing had been in vain.”

  Raymond was tempted to grab his best friend by the throat and choke him like a chicken ready to be plucked and fried.

  “Keith, have you lost your mind? First of all, I don’t want to get married, and second of all, I’m not reality TV material.”

  “Think about it Ray. This show guarantees people will hear of the Marion G. Palmer Free Clinic over and over again. And I’m sure the ladies will swoon over tall, muscular Dr. Ray-Ray, just like they did in college. We can’t pay for this kind of publicity. It’s not as if we can afford it anyway. Bro, we’re in trouble. At this point, we need to do anything to keep these doors open.”

  Raymond shook his head. “Why don’t you go on the show?” he snapped.

  “Number one, Celeste would kill me; she’s been trying to get me to marry her for three years. Number two, I know the limitations of my charm. I’d be voted off the first show. And number three, I don’t want my momma to see me on TV like that.”

  “I don’t want to do it,” Raymond said, “and I’m not going to do it. Besides, do you actually think you can run this place without me? Do you know how busy we’ve been today? There’s no way we can afford to have either one of us out of pocket for any amount of time.”

  “It’s fifteen thousand just to do it. That doesn’t even include the prize money, should you win,” Keith said. “This is a great way for us to get some free publicity. I know one thing for sure. If we don’t start getting some income coming in, the doors aren’t going to be open much longer.”

  Raymond rubbed his chin, thinking about the clinic’s finances. The books were in the red. Medicare was slow to pay for the services the clinic provided, but that didn’t stop Keith and Raymond from providing quality health care to the people in the community who wouldn’t otherwise be able to get the help that they needed. The clinic had never been about the two of them getting rich. They wanted to help the people who reminded them of the women who’d help raise them. Keith’s grandmother could’ve been Mrs. Wentworth, a hardworking woman who as she aged needed help managing her health but couldn’t afford health insurance.

  “That’s a lot of money for a one-time gig. Maybe I can make myself get voted off after two episodes,” Raymond said as he fingered his goatee.

  Keith nodded. “See, that’s the spirit. But don’t be evil or anything like that. Just make yourself seem pitiful. You have to win them over if we plan to milk donations from people who watch the show.”

  Raymond looked at himself in the reflective material on the side of the file cabinet. He was hardly a vain man, but he knew there was no way he could make himself seem as if he were some pitiful soul who couldn’t find a date. Raymond was the kind of man who made a woman’s breath catch in her chest after she got a look at his creamy caramel skin, dark wavy hair, and shimmering green eyes—which had been known to put a woman in a trance if he looked at her just the right way. People often snagged him for charity fashion shows and bachelor auctions, and asked him to pose for bachelor calendars. Raymond always brought in top dollar when he was auctioned off.

  “I’m going to do it, but I tell you what—you’re going to pay for this,” Raymond said, pointing his index finger at his friend.

  Keith patted his partner on the shoulder. “All right. I knew you would see it my way. Now stop yakking and let’s get to work.”

  Raymond took off his white lab coat. “You work, I’m going to lunch. First thing you need to do is relieve Karen at the front desk.” Then he dashed out the back door.

  Many people who saw Raymond walking down the street would peg him as another New York pretty boy player. Though he enjoyed having fun with the ladies, he was also hoping to experience the love that his parents had shared during their fifty-year marriage. Lorne and Helen Thomas never had much; however, what they lacked in material possessions, they made up for in the love they’d shared. He had memories of seeing his parents hugging and kissing every time either of them entered the room. Lorne had always showed his wife the utmost respect and affection, and if they’d ever argued, Raymond wasn’t around. Until the end, they worked as a team, and that was the kind of life he wanted with the right woman.

  Raymond was beginning to believe his woman wasn’t in New York. He didn’t think he was going to find her on a TV show, either. Marriage wasn’t something to be entered into for the hope of a big payoff. Doing this show was not a good idea, because it made a mockery of marriage—in his opinion. If his parents were alive they wouldn’t approve of him making a joke of marriage on national TV. What am I getting myself into? he asked himself.

  Chapter 2

  Imani sat across from Elize Harrington, producer of Let’s Get Married. She fingered her chemically straightened hair as Elize read over her bio.

  “So, you’re a real actress?” she said.

  Imani nodded and smiled, hoping that her acting experience would work against her. Despite the fact that she needed the money that she’d make from the show, she was still ambivalent about the gig.

  “And I understand if you don’t want me on the show, being that this is reality TV and all,” Imani said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice as she crossed her legs. She knew that there was nothing real about reality TV—except the fact that “reality” was in the title.

  “No, no,” Elize said, standing up. “This is New York City, where every waitress is an actress. Just when, I mean if, you are cast on the show, keep the acting to a minimum. This isn’t a role on a sitcom.”

  Imani was hoping that she had blown the interview and would be sent packing, but the sparkle in Elize’s eyes told her that she was going to make the cut.

  “Let me ask you something,” Imani began. “Are you producers and writers just running out of creativity? Don’t you have a show that needs someone like me for at least a guest starring role?”

  Elize shook her head. “Imani, it’s hard to pitch new shows. But America eats up reality TV like Mc-Donald’s French fries. Big bucks for both the network and the show’s participants. No one is forcing you to do this show and if your career was all of that, you wouldn’t be sitting here, now would you? So don’t get all indignant with me. You got spunk, though. I’ll give you that.”

  Imani stood up and looked at Elize. “So I guess this means that you aren’t going to have me on your show, huh?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re in, Imani. I don’t know how long you’ll last. You might be the new woman America loves to hate. Welcome aboard.” Elize extended her hand to Imani. She shook Elize’s hand, all the while thinking how she should have taken her mother’s advice, majored in
criminal justice and become a lawyer or something else.

  As Imani left, Elize punched the intercom button on her phone. “Who’s next?” she asked her secretary.

  Imani wasn’t paying attention as she headed back into the waiting area where she had left her jacket. As she reached down to pick it up, she collided with a tall, hard body.

  “Jerk,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me?” a bass voice snapped. “I believe you bumped into me.”

  Imani locked eyes with the jewel-eyed man. “If you were a real gentleman, you could have seen you were standing in my way.”

  “And who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba? If you get your head out of your behind you could see that you’re in the way. The world does not revolve around you,” he replied. “Excuse me.” He pushed past her and headed for the producer’s office.

  “He thinks he’s got so much to offer,” she said as she grabbed her jacket from the chair. “I bet he’s getting an audition for a real show. It’s so much easier for men in this industry.”

  Elize smiled when Raymond walked into her office. “Dr. Thomas, it is truly a pleasure to meet you. I had no idea you were so, uh, tall,” she said as she shook his hand, holding on a little longer than she should have.

  “Thank you,” he replied as he pried his hand out of her grip.

  “Your story is so compelling I felt we had to have you on the show.” She never took her eyes off Raymond. He was beginning to feel as if he was a male dancer being stripped. “I’m sure you’re going to be a crowd favorite.”

  Raymond nodded. “If you say so,” he said.

  Elize handed him the show’s waiver forms. “Look over this and sign at the bottom.”

  Raymond read the form. It was a standard contract; he couldn’t talk about the show until he was either voted off or coupled off. “So, when do we receive payment?” Raymond asked after signing the agreement.

  Elize laughed. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  Raymond smiled. “The money isn’t for me; it’s for the clinic I run in Harlem.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s wonderful . . . a doctor with a big heart. I hope you do well on the show. If you win, it would mean a lot to your clinic, wouldn’t it?”

  Raymond stood up. “It would. And seeing that this show is going to be filmed in Hawaii, I’m kind of looking forward to this.” As long as Miss Attitude from the lobby isn’t there, he added silently.

  Raymond headed for the door feeling a lot less apprehensive about doing the show. Maybe he would even try to win the million-dollar prize. Nowhere in the contract did it say he had to stay with the woman. And if the other contestants were like the woman in the lobby, they wouldn’t last two seconds off camera.

  Raymond had run into women like her before. He couldn’t deny she was beautiful. Her skin was creamy like milk chocolate. She had long black hair that reminded him of midnight, moon, and stars. Her eyes were striking, like a tiger’s. But she had an attitude that proved she knew she was beautiful.

  Raymond deplored that kind of woman. He had run into his fair share of Manhattanites whose lives were all about Prada, Cavalli, and Dolce & Gabbana. When a woman like that found out he was a doctor at a free clinic, her interest dried up like a desert in July. He couldn’t stand shallow women, and any woman who was on a reality show to marry a man for money was beyond shallow. At least he was doing it for all the right reasons.

  Raymond walked outside and was surprised to see Miss Attitude standing on the curb. He took a leisurely glance at her long, lean legs. They seemed to stretch from the sidewalk to the sky. She reminded him of a bronzed statue of ultimate womanhood. Her head was cocked to the side as she talked on a small cell phone. Her behind was round like a Vidalia onion.

  Imani turned around and looked at Raymond. She snapped her phone shut and stared at him. “What is it now? You’re stalking me?”

  “You think highly of yourself, don’t you?” Raymond retorted. “It’s a public sidewalk. Or am I walking on your imaginary red carpet?”

  Imani smiled, blinding him with her perfect white teeth. “Okay, maybe I was a little out of line in there, but I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Is that what passes as an apology these days?” he scoffed.

  Imani flung her hair back. “Why would I apologize to you? Maybe I’m not the only one egotripping out here,” she said, then turned to walk down the street.

  As much as he didn’t want to, Raymond watched until Imani’s shapely figure disappeared from view. “Damn,” he mumbled. “Why do the beautiful ones have to have such attitude?”

  Imani’s breathing finally became normal as she got away from Mr. Green Eyes. That man was so fine it was mythical. But he had some nerve! Why would she apologize to him when he ran into her? Imani figured he was an actor or a model. She silently hoped that she wouldn’t see him again until she was a bona fide superstar. Then she would show him a real diva. But on second thought, having a man like that on her arm right about now walking down the red carpet would mean a boatload of publicity for her and would launch her career into the stratosphere. Imani dismissed the thought as she headed for the subway entrance, intending to go see Edward and find out when the show would pay her. She needed the money so that she could save her home. Before she had headed to the network’s office, she received a disconnect notice from Con Edison.

  To make matters worse, when she asked her landlord for an extension, he’d flat-out refused to give her more than thirty days to pay her back rent; instead he had proposed the unthinkable.

  “I’m sure we could work something else out,” he’d said lewdly, pressing Imani against the wall.

  Grasping the doorknob, she shook her head vigorously. “Mr. Harper, I can have the money in about forty-five days.”

  “You can pay all debts just by, well, you know,” he suggested as he ran his thick and dirty index finger down her bare arm.

  “Oh, hell no.” She pushed him into an end table, causing a reproduction Ming vase to fall to the floor and shatter.

  “Thirty days and no excuses, unless you want to take me up on my offer,” he’d replied with a wink.

  The thought of using her body to pay her rent or even to get a plum role on Broadway was offputting, and if she didn’t find something quickly, she’d have to get what people called a real job. And she had to do it pretty damned quickly, unless she wanted to play the real life role of a homeless woman, like a member of the chorus in Rent.

  Looking across the street, Imani saw that the soul food restaurant on the corner had a WAITRESS WANTED sign in the window. She sighed, feeling defeated. The last thing she wanted was to wait tables again, but if that was going to pay the bills . . . Just as she was about to force herself to cross the street to apply for the job, a yellow cab zoomed out of nowhere moving at break-neck speed and aimed right at Imani. Frozen in place, all she could think about was the many mistakes she’d made, the roles she’d been offered and passed on.

  Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the impact of the car against her....

  Then out of nowhere, a body pushed her to the ground, causing the strap on her sundress to break. Imani grabbed the man and hugged him tightly, not caring that her black lace bra was showing. She felt his strong, warm embrace in return.

  “You saved my life,” she exclaimed, terrified. As she focused her eyes and discovered her savior’s identity, she felt nauseous. It was Mr. Green Eyes. “It’s you,” she said caustically.

  “Would you have liked it better if I let the cab hit you?” he asked.

  Imani shook her head as she shivered and clung to him. If her near-death experience showed her anything, it was that she had a lot of life left to live. And she so wanted to live it.

  He picked her up and, with an arm around her, pushed through the crowd that had gathered to gawk.

  “We need room,” he said. He walked Imani into a corner café and sat her down at an empty table. Imani tried to fix her dress while Raymond looked at h
er scraped knee.

  “Do you have any pain in your leg?” he asked, noting her grimace when he touched her knee. He probed her wound with the skill of someone who knew what he was doing.

  Physically, she was fine, but Raymond’s touch sent an electrical charge through her nervous system. “Are you a paramedic or something?” she asked as he began checking the bruise on her forearm.

  “No, a doctor,” he said. “Maybe I should take you to the clinic and clean you up.”

  Imani shook her head frantically because she couldn’t spend another moment around this man without sampling his lips. Gingerly, she rose to her feet. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  Imani shook her head again, her gaze once more focused on his lips. They looked soft, inviting and ready for her to kiss over and over again. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated. “I don’t think my dress will be, though.”

  Raymond stood up and looked at her. “You can get another dress,” he said. “Can I drop you off anywhere? We can share a cab.”

  “Saving my life was enough. And I’m sorry about before,” she said. “Maybe I don’t pay enough attention.” Imani fought the urge to run out of the café. She was overwhelmed by Raymond’s masculinity. And he was a doctor?

  He has to be married, she told herself. There is no way a man that fine can be single, unless he’s gay. That’s probably it. And that would be just my luck. Who am I kidding? I don’t need or want to get involved with anyone until I can at least pay my own way. Imani shook the thoughts out of her head and walked out the door, making sure there were no wayward cabs shooting across the street. Applying for the waitress job at the restaurant was forgotten, and she headed home.

  Raymond tried to get the woman from the street out of his mind as he rode back to Harlem. She was probably married or had a rich Manhattan boyfriend keeping her in the lap of luxury. She wasn’t his kind of woman, if that was the case. A woman like that is nothing but high maintenance, he told himself as the taxi slowed to a crawl in the wall-to-wall traffic. That woman was probably like the last few women he’d been in serious relationships with, women who said he’d worked too much and had precious little to show for it. They’d been expecting a doctor who had money in his pockets, not a doctor who placed most of his profits back into his clinic. I don’t need the headache of a woman, no matter how sexy she is, he thought.