Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen)

chapter Four


The crush at the bar was tight, the sliver of space between them shrinking fast, and Jack’s world was all the better for it.

“I’m sorry about the girls,” Lili said, not sounding sorry at all. “They’re just excited.”

He stole a look back at the kettle of vultures. Excited wasn’t the word—more like ravenous.

“We don’t get a lot of famous visitors,” she added. “You’ve caused quite the stir.”

“I’m not even that famous,” he said, the familiar irritation creeping into his voice.

“They’re easily impressed.”

Evidently she wasn’t, and that turned him on to an unreasonable degree. She pushed one of her dark curls behind her ears while he shoved a twitching hand into his pocket, wishing he could have got there first.

“So, did you enjoy the food?” she asked with a sly smile.

“It was amazing. Your father’s a great chef.” Lip service wasn’t Jack’s style. The pastas were out of this world, especially the fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth pillows of gnocchi. The steak was cooked flawlessly, the fish flaking off the bone. All the same, Jack wasn’t too worried about the contest. He’d been cooking on the right side of perfection for years.

What did worry him was how he’d made an arse of himself in front of her father, and he cursed Cara for neglecting to give him a heads-up. Luckily, Tony had been a gracious host and gave him a tour of the kitchen, in spite of Jack’s half-drunken drooling over his youngest daughter. A little acrimony might make for good TV, but he didn’t want to be on Tony’s shit list. He wasn’t sure why.

“Ready to throw in the towel yet?” Lili asked.

“I never back down from a challenge.”

She laughed, a low throaty chuckle that blossomed into something full and husky and left him scrounging for air. Her mouth was lush and he had to take breaks to stop himself from staring at her. From staring at her mouth and imagining what he’d like to do to it.

On one of his air-grasping sorties away from her mouth, he spied Laurent with a dangerously stacked blonde near the jukebox. So much for love Italian style. Not far off stood that Maximo-Mario guy, glaring in Jack’s direction. Earlier, while he and Laurent waited for the staff to arrive, this loser had tried to lease him a building for Jack’s new restaurant, the one he already had half built in Chicago’s West Loop.

“What’s the deal with him?” he asked, nodding in the loser’s direction.

Lili’s eyes sparkled, and Jack speculated that she might be buzzed.

“Marco? He’s my father’s business partner.”

“My condolences,” Jack muttered.

“And I used to date him.”

A mouthful of beer went down the wrong way. “Jesus, my sincerest condolences.”

Marco was speaking animatedly on his cell, though it had all the hallmarks of a one-sided conversation. He probably had the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth as his ringtone and answered his phone with Yello. Tosspot.

Lili smiled thinly. “He’s not so bad. He’s actually quite sweet.”

Oh no, he wasn’t. Jack knew Marco’s type. With his pinkie ring, his manicure, and his shark eyes, he was the embodiment of a flash geezer. As if that wasn’t enough for Jack to hate him on sight, he sported the one thing no man over the age of twenty-one should ever leave the house with—a ponytail. That Lili had found him date-worthy, and maybe more, unsettled him.

“He can be…” Her voice hummed so low he had to lean in to hear her. Standard bar trick. “He just needs a little support.”

“And that was your job? The great woman behind the little man?” What would it be like to have a woman like this at his back? Pretty damn nice, he was willing to bet. To come home and talk to her, to listen to that beautiful laugh, then bury his tension in her softness.

To come home and talk to her? That whack to the head must have knocked a few screws loose. How else to explain the leap from unbridled animal attraction to choosing china patterns and cozying up on the couch to Law and Order reruns?

For a while now, he’d been hovering on the edge of ready, but every potential relationship was fraught with suspicion about the other party’s motives. After Ashley’s tell-all to the tabloids—and it didn’t matter that most of it was a bald-face lie—he was more careful now. More circumspect. He needed to keep that train of thought on the track and not get derailed with fantasies of waking up with Lili’s soft body curled into his…Jesus.

Her mouth quirked like she could read his thoughts. “Doesn’t every man need a great woman, or a great man, behind him?”

“What about the great woman? Doesn’t she have her own needs?”

“All of us great women have needs.” She wrapped her lips around the opening of her longneck beer and he stifled that groan he’d been fighting all f*cking night. His dick twitched in commiseration.

Just to complete the circle of torture, he grabbed his beer from the bar and snuck a stealthy glance into the shadowy valley of her cleavage. White cotton bra, none too exciting, but those breasts…yes. They plumped up over the edges like succulent, golden peaches. His lips skimmed close to her ear, and he paused to breathe in her hair’s scent as if he could store it for another day. Rosemary and mint.

“What kind of needs do you have, Lili?” he whispered.

“Oh, a guy with all his own teeth who’s good at foot rubs and can give earth-shattering orgasms. Nothing special.”

Ask a stupid question… Drawing back, he responded to her salvo with his most penetrating gaze. She held it for a moment, but then a shiver of doubt crossed her face. Ducking her head, she took a long draught of her beer.

That little exchange told him two things.

It had been far too long since he’d had sex.

And he was officially in trouble.

The silence drew between them like a piñata poised to be hacked down, and he hesitated, knowing he was sending her mixed signals. When you devour a woman with every look, it’s understandable she might have certain expectations. He wanted her, but he also wanted something he couldn’t put a label on. Not yet.

Several thudding heartbeats later, she slid off the stool and pressed her body against his, her soft breasts teasing his ribs and prompting every nerve to revolt. With her hand flat on his chest, she tilted her face up and gave him the full benefit of those baby blues.

“Okay, I’m out,” she said.

“You’re what?”

“I’m out.” Drawing back, she crossed her arms, which plumped up her cleavage to hazmat levels. “Jack, I’m not one for playing games.”

“Neither am I.”

She cocked a generous hip, projecting the don’t-f*ck-with-me thing perfectly. “Have you or have you not been staring the bejesus out of me since I brained you with that frying pan?”

“Well, yes—”

“And wouldn’t any girl in my position interpret that as an indication of your interest?”

“I suppose so, but—”

“So you’re all hat, no cattle. Or maybe we got our signals crossed.”

“I thought we were having a nice chat,” he said, sounding like a little old biddy in a tea shop. A nice chat?

She’d already checked out of their nice chat and was now surveying the crowd.

“Is Laurent still here?” she asked, her gaze taking inventory of the bar.

“Yes, he is but—” His heart stuttered. “Are you taking the piss?”

She fanned her waist with both hands. “Take a good look, Kilroy.”

He took.

“I owe it all to spaghetti.”

“Good line.”

“Sophia Loren,” she said, then added, “She’s an Italian actress,” in case he’d been living under a rock for the last thirty years, he supposed. She gave a wobbly, likely tipsy, pirouette, delivering a taste of all the angles. It was a very, very pleasant view.

“You had your chance, but you blew it. I think your sexy French minion will be more than willing to tap this.” She turned and it took every iota of his strength not to reach out and stroke her very tappable arse. Cup it and squeeze it. Slap it so she cried out in surprise.

“Au revoir,” she said with a racy smile over her shoulder, taking another step away from him and his raging hard-on. Then two more steps and she was out of his immediate orbit on her way toward the jukebox and…shit. Laurent.

That had not just happened.

A knot of negativity unraveled within him but he wasn’t ready to call it jealousy. Laurent would be too drunk to know what to do with her, anyway. He followed that bobbing cloud of hair, plowing his way through the wall of bodies that opened and closed behind her like quicksand.

Her little exclamation of disbelief when he grabbed her hand sent warmth spreading through his gut. Without looking at her, he dragged her toward the dim corridor near the restrooms and caged her against the wall, his hand still locked in hers. Not as private as he would have liked but he’d worked with worse. Much worse.

“Now, listen up, caveman,” she panted. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the bloke you do not want to mess with, sweetheart.”

In his head, he had a whole raft of things to tell her, starting with how her cleavage was a menace and how she had better think twice the next time she pulled a stunt like that, but the sight—damn, the experience—of her glowing in the hallway’s shadowy light checked his speech hard.

Breasts heaving, warm, womanly scent filling his mouth and nostrils so he could hardly breathe. Those already moist lips of hers parted and quivered, a microcosm of the shake now pulsing through her entire body.

“Don’t do that again,” he growled, ostensibly a continuation of his mission to reassert control. Sure it was. Somewhere along the way, their joined hands had interlaced and were now pinned to the wall by her cheek. Her hand seemed so small in his and when she squeezed, it felt like the most intimate of pleas. A plea answered when he squeezed back, drawing a spark of relief in her big eyes. And relief was catching because just the knowledge that she wanted him, not Laurent, not some random dick, did it for him right there.

Something caught in his throat as he claimed her mouth. Her name perhaps, more likely a swear. Lips explored, tongues tangled, creating a chemical explosion of sweet that startled his body to glittering life, as if it had been waiting for this moment to wake up. She let out a rough sound that spurred him on, and he redoubled his efforts and kissed her harder.

He coasted his free hand along her hip before, finally, he cupped her magnificent arse, enjoying the flawless fit in his palm. Her body unfurled for him and he hiked her up, then slipped between her legs, filling in the concave space of her sex with his own hardness. He reveled in the sensuous friction of her breasts against his chest. Another guttural sound escaped her, a sound of pure pleasure.

She hooked her leg behind his thigh for leverage and stroked that highly sensitive part of his body with the side of her foot. He moaned against her mouth. Loudly. Dazed, he broke away but didn’t get far because she had a death grip on his hair.

“God, you taste good,” he said, wishing she’d release his hair because his head still hurt from this morning.

She blinked rapidly. “I know—I mean, you too. You taste good, too.”

He ran his tongue along his lips, confirming his findings. It had been so long since a woman had tasted this amazing. Hell, no woman had ever tasted this amazing.

“More,” he grunted.

“God, yes—” But he had already gone in before she could get the words out, because he wasn’t really asking permission. He would never have thought it possible, but the kiss became even more intense as it flowed through his body, buzzing his skin. She must have felt it, too, because she jerked her foot against the back of his leg, dragging another loud moan from him. The slanting pressure of her lips ratcheted up the tightness in his jeans.

He felt the heated trail of her hand between their bodies, down his chest, his abs, to places onward. The kiss expanded to harder, deeper, hotter. Her hand inched below his waistband, tickling his zipper, and Christ on the cross, if that wasn’t amazing. She hovered there, so close to heaven, and his brain and dick cheered her on. Lower, sweetheart. Touch me, baby, please. His erection turned excruciating, and he swallowed a budding groan.

This had to stop.

At last they came up for air and hopefully a splash of cold-faced common sense. Unfortunately, sense had left the building towing any remaining oxygen in its wake. They both stared, hauling air like marathon runners.

“Let’s go back to my place,” she said, low and druggy. “I live over the restaurant.”

Yes.

But.

That’s when the niggle kicked in, not in his jeans where there was no niggle room whatsoever, but in the limbic centers of his brain. The parts that were in charge of lust, sadness, joy, and fear. He wanted her—every inch of him was in agreement on that score—but he had made some promises to himself these last few months, and a f*ck-and-forget wasn’t part of the plan. He needed more information.

“Maybe we should slow down. Talk a little first.” She looked befuddled. He tried again. “What happened to getting to know someone?”

She cracked a sexy smile with a side of condescension. “Jack, I’m not looking to know you.”

No, she wasn’t, unless you counted biblically. She was looking for the guy who indiscriminately dated and bedded famous women. A guy whose life could be reduced to adjectives, most of them unflattering. That guy.

Really he should be applauding the novelty of meeting a woman unimpressed by his fame, only to find she just wanted him for sex. It sure made for a nice twist on the usual “what can you do for me?” refrain. His gut churned in disappointment. There was some anger folded in there, though he couldn’t be sure if it was directed at her or his own sorry self.

“Lili, this isn’t a good idea.”

She released his hand and it felt all wrong. “It’s not?”

He shook his head and that felt all wrong, too.

“Are you…are you turning me down?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

Her lips formed a soundless O that sent a shiver of dread through him. She raised her hand to her forehead. He agreed wholeheartedly. It was a real face-palm moment, for sure.

“But I thought—” She looked like she’d just found out Santa Claus didn’t exist. Her fingertips stroked feverishly across her collarbone, as though the action might work to spirit her away from here. “Am I not good enough? Am I not…hot enough?”

At the tremor in her voice, he felt an answering lurch in his chest. “Sweetheart, that’s not it. Maybe we could—”

“Don’t sweetheart me.” All the earlier promise of the evening lay closed and shuttered in her tightly held stance. She palmed a light pressure to his shoulder to push him aside. He went easy.

“Lili, you’re a very beautiful woman. This is just moving a little fast.”

“Forget it.” She rubbed a hint of moisture from her kiss-swollen bottom lip, wiping the taste of him from her. It was going to take much more than that to get the sweet memory of her out of his mouth.

Angling around him, she strode back into the bar, and not even her harried gait could disguise that sexy tilt to her hips or the pride with which she carried herself. He could go after her, tell her she’d had a lucky escape and wouldn’t become part of the three-ring circus that was his life. He could tell her the truth, that he was tired of using and being used and he would like to get to know her better. Not that she’d believe him.

He didn’t quite believe it himself.