Definitely Not Mr. Darcy Read Free Page B

clicked off the phone and tossed it on the washstand. She held her hand up toward the video cameras. “Stop the cameras! What the—”
    Another guy materialized with a headset over one ear, an iPhone in one hand, and an iPad in the other. All plugged in, just like her ex-husband. “Great line,” the guy said in a juicy English accent. “What you said about letters. Romance. Could you say that again, please? On camera?”
    Chloe stepped back, from the sheer panic of the moment, the intense spotlights, or possibly his manner of speaking. It couldn’t have been his cropped auburn hair topped with a pair of sunglasses or his snug-fitting jeans. She was, after all, a raging Anglophile who could crush on any guy with an English accent, and this was the first male one she’d heard since she arrived. All this started with Disney’s Christopher Robin when she was what—six?
    The accent threw her, but only for a minute. “Excuse me?! What’s going on?!” She clutched the white gown in front of her. It felt like a fine cheesecloth or voile, and she realized, despite her confusion and rage, that it must be muslin, that delicate Regency fabric she had up until now only read about. She softened her grip, but raised her voice. “Cut the cameras! Can’t you see I’m half naked here?”
    â€œI can see you’re exactly what we’re looking for. Spot-on.” He extended his hand. “George Maxton. Producer. Pleased to meet you, Miss Parker. You can call me George, but once you get on location, everyone’s a ‘mister’ and a ‘miss.’”
    Behind the gown, Chloe buttoned her blouse single-handedly, a skill she’d mastered while breast-feeding nine years ago. She glared at George Maxton and the crew.
    He gave up on the handshake. “Brilliant. You’re gorgeous.”
    Gorgeous? Cute, maybe. Nobody had called her gorgeous since—wait a minute. The nerve! “George, cut the cameras NOW.”
    He eyed her from the top of her disheveled hair to the tips of her unpolished toes. “You do realize, Miss Parker, that this is a reality show?”
    Something plummeted inside her; she struggled to speak. “You mean ‘immersion documentary.’”
    â€œDocumentary?” He laughed. “Now, that’s the stuff I’d love to shoot. No money there.” He pointed to the two cameras as he said, “This, my dear, is a reality dating program, and you’re going to be a brilliant contestant.”
    She couldn’t breathe. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded. Was she hyperventilating? “Dating—what?! There must be some mistake—”
    â€œNo mistake. It’s set in the year 1812. Cameras are on twenty-four /seven. Everything’s historically accurate, Miss Parker, and I do mean everything. You will be pleased with that.”
    The lights blinded her. Her bosom heaved, and not in a good way. Dating show? She didn’t want to date anybody—she hadn’t had a date in four years! No, it was more than four years, because Winthrop, her ex-husband, was out of town so much they never could manage a date night. How could she be on a dating program? Not to mention the fact that she hated those reality dating things. How could this be happening?
    She paced the floor, her gown dragging on the floorboards. She caught her breath and began speaking a mile a minute. “I demand some answers here! What changed between the moment I signed the contract and now?”
    â€œNot much, really; we tweaked the concept a bit to make it more marketable, but relationships and courtship were always part of the equation. You did read the paperwork and contract we sent, correct, Miss Parker?”
    â€œI auditioned for a public-television documentary—I’d never sign up for a dating show—I expected Jane Austen trivia contests—I certainly won’t participate in any antics with