Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen)

chapter Seven


Jack should have been on his way to DeLuca’s to start testing his dishes, but he felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot, so he took some time out after Lili left to clean up his phone messages. Today’s special was schadenfreude. Evidently, news of the impending contract had made the rounds because most of the calls were dripping with malignant joy. Former cooking colleagues who considered him a sellout checking in to see if he was okay. Text messages with sad faces. Hushed voices with barely suppressed glee. Even Ashley had called, her breathy, Daytime Emmy–nominated gush letting him know she was here for him. He almost threw the phone at the wall.

At least he hadn’t heard from him, and he offered up a moment of thanks that John Sullivan had heeded Jack’s warning and stayed out of his son’s life. Though once the man Jack preferred to call his sperm donor heard about the multimillion-dollar network deal, Jack expected he’d turn up again with his hand out. It would be far too good an opportunity to miss.

He wished Lili had stayed, but as soon as Cara dropped that Twitter bomb, she had shut down. All her sass and flirt stowed away as she drew a fireguard over her quick mouth. There had been an ease between them while they shared breakfast, like they had leapfrogged the getting-to-know-you phase and were hovering on the edge of comfortable. Flirting with trust. Which, given his experience scrabbling around the hamster wheel of fame, did not come easy.

Oh, and he was balls-deep in lust with her. Can’t forget that.

Last night, those soothing tones and her fingers cooling his forehead made all his blood rush south. Never mind the ache in his head, it was a wonder he could answer anything she asked when all he wanted to do was pull her astride him and relieve the ache in his dick. Instead, he forced himself to watch her lush sway as she padded away from him. In his Black Sabbath T-shirt, no less. She had stood in the doorway, that banging body of hers silhouetted by a corona of light from the outer suite, and he had bit back a moan. During all three visits.

Abstinence was a multihorned bitch.

The call he expected wasn’t forthcoming, so he took the initiative. Two p.m. in London, but it still took his sister five rings to pick up.

“Why don’t you answer any of my texts?” he asked sharply.

“You know I don’t text. It’s better to ring.” Jules was the only person he knew under the age of thirty who hated texting. When she bothered to answer his messages, it was with meaningless emoticons. When she bothered to answer his calls, it was usually obvious she’d just woken up. Like now. She worried him greatly.

“Saw you made the news again,” she said around a yawn. “You really need to keep it in your pants, Jack.”

“Less of that, you cheeky mare. Tell me about the interview.” Deafening silence broken by a sniff and a cough greeted him. “Jules, tell me you at least called Corin. He promised to keep the job open for you.” And Jack had promised his old friend at Ecogrand, the hot new organic food eatery in London, that his sister would be perfect for hostess. Jules’s fresh-faced, willowy blondness screamed salad-eater, and Jack was sure she’d make a great addition to Ecogrand’s front of house.

“Jack, I’ve told you a million times pub work suits me better.”

“But it’s so—” Beneath you, he wanted to say. Like him, his sister had dropped out of high school at fourteen, but she was smart, astute, and funny. Where her professional talents lay was a mystery to all and she didn’t seem interested in finding out. Bored with everything was her motto.

“Degrading? Lowborn? Working class?” she finished archly. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I was going to say dangerous. I’ve worked in bars. They’re filled with drunk people.” Sometimes, amorous drunk people, but more often belligerent dickwads.

She ignored this, but then she always did. It was a regular game between them with ever-shifting goalposts. Years ago, he had abandoned her to the care of her aunt and uncle on her father’s side after his death. At the time, he hadn’t thought of it as abandonment; he’d been too excited about his big chance to work in Paris with Claude Marchon, who had spotted Jack during a visit to the restaurant of one of Claude’s former students. That apprenticeship had started everything for Jack but sent his relationship with Jules on a downward trajectory with no course correction in sight. Now his guilt over his sorry lack of involvement in her upbringing turned him into an overbearing busybody.

Knew it. Owned it. Not changing it.

“When are you coming to London?” she asked after a long pause. “Or can you not pull yourself away from your latest floozy?”

Jules knew exactly how to poke him, though he usually found it easier to ignore her jibes about the women he dated. It was good practice for all the tabloid crap. His head had started throbbing again, matching the hastening uptick of his pulse.

“She’s not a floozy,” he snapped, knowing Jules had meant it in jest but feeling an irrational rush to blow it out of proportion. “She happens to be an amazing woman.”

“All right, calm down, Cro-Mag. I’m sure she’s out of this world.”

Slowly, he counted to five. “I’ll be in London the day after tomorrow and I’m taking you somewhere nice for dinner, not some fish-’n’-chips shop. A real place with tablecloths and stainless-steel cutlery. And we’re going to discuss your future.” Young lady, he may as well have added. Talking to his sister aged him ten years each time.

“Right, ’cause that went so well the last time. I’ve got to go.”

Grimacing at the memory of their last fine-dining experience four months ago, he tried to breathe himself to calm. When she didn’t hang up immediately, he asked, “Is everything all right, Jules? You seem out of sorts.” Or more out of sorts than usual. Another elongated pause followed and familiar worry soaked his chest.

“I just woke up this minute, that’s all. Next time, don’t call so early.” She clicked off.

He barely had time to process that before the call he’d been dreading flashed ominously on his screen. He got as far as “Hell—”

“You couldn’t do as you were told, Jack,” said Evie, his agent. Her smoker’s voice scraped across his bruised brain like a rusty rake. “What did I say?”

“I know, I know. It just sort of happened.” Jack picked up his Black Sabbath tee, the one Lili had filled out very nicely, and sniffed it. He’d gotten an uncommon thrill out of her wearing his clothes. Her scent was faint, but it was enough to tap into his sensory system and revive delicious memories of holding her. And kissing her. And running his hands—

His fantasy was interrupted by a lung-hacking cough and replaced by a Komodo dragon with red lipstick and pearls, lustily dragging on a cigarette. It was in no way a fair trade.

“Is there anything else I need to know about?” Evie choked out.

“No.” He decided against telling her about collapsing on the street, his visit to the emergency room, or the fact that Lili spent the night playing sexy nurse. She might not appreciate the finer points.

“So who is she?”

“Didn’t catch her name.”

Evie cackled like a Shakespearean witch. She’d be rubbing her hands in glee if she could ever relinquish the ciggie. “It’s a little late for chivalry, Jack. I already talked to Cara. She doesn’t look one bit like her, by the way. Been pigging out on the penne, has she?”

A red haze blurred his vision, and when he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “She’s a very nice girl.”

“Nice girls don’t do that with their hands, though the Catholics are always dark horses.”

“Give it a rest, will you?”

“Oh, God, you like her.” His agent was one sharp cookie. “She’s the daughter of the Italian chef, right? The competition.”

“There’s nothing doing here, Evie. Don’t even bother.”

Seamlessly, she switched to spin mode. “The opposition. Food feuds. Good old Italian American family values meets British arrogance and decadence. Falling for a nice, plump, regular gal might do wonders for your image. Stone Carter at NBN will love that garbage.”

At the mention of NBN’s veep of programming, Jack could feel the fear of failure fading. Stone Carter was a grade A dick of the Highest Order of Dicks but he had taken a liking to Jack and wanted him on the network, a steamy barroom grope notwithstanding.

“But, Jack?” Evie asked on a smoky sigh.

“Yes?”

“Tell your girl to stop being so handsy in public.”

* * *

Walking into the kitchen of her parents’ house, Lili exhaled a noisy sigh of relief at finding her mother alone at the table, her fork hovering over an Ann Sather cinnamon roll. She dropped a kiss on Francesca’s head and feathered the wispy, baby blond growth at her temples.

“It’s starting to come in thicker.” Lili stashed her cheese purchases from the farmers’ market in the fridge and poured herself a cup of coffee. Sitting, she carved out a sweet roll from the six-pack in the box, making sure she got an extra thick slice of icing. Still warm. Only after she’d let a healing bite of doughy goodness pass her lips did she look at her mother directly. Her bright blue eyes sparkled. Of course.

“So, how is Jack?” her mother asked with an impish grin to match the eyes. No beating around the bush with her, just a straight chop with a machete.

Lili pushed out a cautious, “Okay.”

“Hmm, I had hoped a man as good-looking as that would be better than okay.”

Clunk. That was the sound of Lili’s jaw unhinging to the slate floor.

Her mother’s grin pulled into a wide crescent. “I am glad you are having some fun with Jack. He is a very handsome man.”

“Mom, you need to stop right there.” Before Lili was forced to place her hands over her ears and repeat la-la-la over and over to block out the horror.

“All I am saying is that he is like the dolci for the eyes, and if I were twenty years younger, I would be very interested. Perhaps I should trade in your father for a younger model now that I have the new bosoms.” Francesca arched a barely there brow. Those were starting to grow in as well.

Lili could feel a smile tugging at her lips at the sight of that inner glow lighting up her mother’s translucent skin, stretched over still-pronounced cheekbones. The last eighteen months had been hell for Francesca. The surgeries and chemotherapy and radiation. The loss of her beautiful, fair hair. The days when she was so weak she couldn’t raise a glass to her dry, cracked lips.

It was so gratifying to see her cheerful. Lili’s imaginary sex life, entertainment for cancer survivors everywhere.

“It was just a kiss, Mom. Nothing more.”

“I had hoped you might have met someone worthy of you.” Her mother tolerated Marco insofar as he was her husband’s business partner, but that was where her appreciation ended. “You have missed out on so much lately, Lili. I haven’t told you often enough how grateful I am.” The swallow in her mother’s throat contracted Lili’s heart.

Casting a sideways glance, because a direct one would result in a complete breakdown, Lili placed her hand over her mother’s. “Mom, I’m glad I could be here for you. And don’t forget I got plenty out of it, too. When else would I have had the time to watch the entire filmography of Johnny Depp?”

Francesca pushed Lili’s impossible hair behind her ears. “You have always bottled things up, just like your father. Instead of talking, you make jokes and spend all your time behind the camera. That is all well and good, but there are other ways to express yourself.”

Jeez, was her mother still talking about sex? “He’s not interested, Mom. And I’m certainly not interested in him.” Liar, liar, thong on fire. She left out the part where he’d asked her for a date. Best to attribute that to the brain injury.

Lili sipped her coffee and looked about the kitchen. Having run out of space in the living room, her mother had turned every available patch of wall into a display of her daughters’ most embarrassing school-era memories. Cara sporting a retainer, reminding Lili that perfection took work. The two of them like oil and water at a family get-together. One in particular stood out now—Lili’s tenth-grade portrait, still taunting her from on high above the back door.

It wasn’t just the hair—not much had changed there—but the bloat, which no one could ever term as adorably chubby. Several thousand laps of the pool later, she had come to terms with her body and the fact she would never measure up to the media’s ideal of feminine beauty. Only in the last couple of years had she dared to enjoy her curvier silhouette and how her love of food manifested in her shapely hips and voluptuous figure. But last night’s events had pitched her back into that maelstrom of teenage torment. School had been a nightmare, and today she had felt like she was in Casimir Pulaski High’s cafeteria all over again, ducking low and dodging mean-girl zingers.

“He looked very interested in that video,” her mother continued, undeterred by Lili’s protests. “And Taddeo said Jack could not take his eyes off you the entire night.”

Francesca, the incurable romantic, believed there was someone for everyone. Her parents’ marriage was the envy of all, a love story started on a playground in Tuscany and consummated with a teenage wedding as soon as they were of age. Their happiness was both an inspiration and a curse to their daughters, who could only dream of being that content in their choices.

“I can’t believe you watched it, Mom. I’m so embarrassed.”

“It came through very well on the new phone your sister bought for me.” She held up the latest gadget de jour, an extremely fancy example of communications wizardry. “And I’ve had your aunt Sylvia calling me every hour to tell me how many times it has been viewed. It is quite the hit.”

Lili’s sigh encompassed everything that was wrong with her mother’s statements. Cara, the video, Cara…

“Now, Lili.” Francesca placed a cool-skinned hand over hers.

“Now, Lili, what?”

“There is no need to get upset with Cara.”

Mom was on fire this morning. “I don’t mean to be—I just wish she wasn’t always copping out.”

Francesca looked thoughtful. “Do not judge her so harshly. Not everyone has your strength.”

Lili would happily swap her much-admired stoicism for a day in Cara’s Manolos. She stood, feeling wearier than ever. She really needed to lay off the morning carbs, especially now that she required all her wits about her for the coming hell days and the countdown to Jack Kilroy’s departure.

“Where is he?” Getting it over with sooner was best all round.

“Where he always is on Sunday mornings.”

* * *

She left her Vespa parked outside her parents’ house in the hope that the short, usually pleasant stroll to Andersonville Park, feet from the gray-blue Lake Michigan, might will her pulse from a gallop to trot. No such luck. On arrival, Lili watched as her father stooped into the familiar huddle and carefully rolled the ball. When it landed at the far end of the boccie court, about ten feet away from its intended target, she winced. Tony’s concentration was clearly off and she knew why.

His youngest daughter had let him down.

Unbending to just shy of six feet, her father scrutinized the arrangement of the balls. Lili shuddered to think what was going through his mind, though the fact that the target of the game was a little ball known as a jack gave her a pretty good idea. Likely, her father wanted to take that jack and dash it against the closest tree.

“Dad,” she called out. He hesitated for a moment, then came over to greet her with a stroke of her unruly hair. He wasn’t about to disown her in front of his boccie buddies no matter how shameful her behavior. The Italians had a code about this kind of thing. She’d hear it later.

“I thought I’d walk home with you when you’re done.”

“I’m done now,” he said quietly, turning to signal his good-bye to the crew. A couple of the old codgers in tweeds snickered, and Lili felt that adolescent gloom all over again. Except instead of the high school elite poking fun at her turkey-thigh legs, her sexy hijinks were the talk of the assisted-living set over Jell-O surprise. She supposed that could be called progress.

They cut from the park onto Sheridan, and Lili took the change of scenery as her cue. “How mad are you?”

No response. Not even a sigh. So, as mad as all that.

She braved a look, noting the strain etched on his handsome face and the worry-crafted grooves around his mouth that hadn’t existed two years ago. Instead of gratitude for her mother’s survival, her father chose to see every passing day as a test of the family’s fortitude, and Lili usually came up short. He studied the ground, taking each step with a careful calculation.

“I’m not angry, Liliana. I’m disappointed.”

Oh, not that. She would rather he rant and call her out, but lately, his communication with her had devolved to cold silences interspersed with clipped expressions of censure. They had been close once, a love of cooking helping to forge a bond between them, and she knew he’d hoped she’d take over the restaurant. But those hopes faded when she had taken an after-school photography class in the eighth grade. As soon as she held that camera in her hands and felt its weight, it didn’t matter that she was Lili the Lump—ha, she’d forgotten that one! In front of a camera, people changed into subjects, their focus turning to their own hair and smiles. Their visibility. Behind a camera, Lili became invisible.

She became free.

Her father hadn’t liked it; photography was fine as a hobby but its practicality as a career was null. Never mind the strange types of people it attracted—deviants and misfits, with their elaborate body art and seedy, unhygienic piercings. Even getting her photos on the restaurant’s walls had been a titanic battle, and he had only relented when she produced conservative portraits dripping in family values instead of the edgier explorations of beauty that had become her hallmark. Good girls don’t take photos of naked people, he had said.

Good girls don’t molest strange men in bars, either.

“It wasn’t planned, Dad,” she said. Not entirely. Sure, she had planned to seduce notorious man whore Jack Kilroy, and she had expected he would be a good kisser, a better-than-good kisser. What she hadn’t planned on was the heat and the need, or how off balance she felt around him. She certainly hadn’t planned on liking him.

“I hope not, Liliana. DeLuca’s is a family establishment and that kind of behavior is bad for business.”

“You’d be surprised but this is the kind of thing that’s actually good for business. Along with the cooking show,” she added quickly.

“My daughter acting like—” He carved his hands through the air, grasping for an appropriate descriptor. It didn’t come. “In public is not good for business, no matter what you think.” He stopped and finally looked her straight in the eye. “And I’m not sure this Jack Kilroy is good for anything.”

She could take the unspoken hussy jibe like the hussy she was, but she didn’t like the sound of his dig at Jack. As much as she’d like to blame him for that toe-curling kiss and its fallout, she was just as guilty. More so. She had challenged him to match her and he had stepped up, in more ways than one. For a few moments while they teased and flirted, while he spoke about his sister, there had been a spark of possibility. Someone worthy of you, her mom had said.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she steeled herself for an argument. The family’s livelihood was on the precipice. They desperately needed Jack’s show, and her father would have to put aside his disapproval for the sake of the greater good—namely, saving their pancetta.

“Dad, the show is going to be a boost. It’ll open us up to a whole new audience—young professionals, foodies. I have friends who could help spruce the place up, and Tad’s got some great ideas for a new cocktail menu. We can jump-start a new, more modern DeLuca’s.”

“And what about our regular customers? Are we to abandon the people who have been with us from the start just to become fashionable?” A tired sigh slipped his lips, matching the slump of his shoulders. “I will see you for dinner tonight, and do not be late.”

He stalked off into the house, his disappointment chilling her every cell despite the muggy heat. She tried to call on the moments when they had been simpatico—most of them involved the kitchen and a ball of dough—but the image of fear marring her father’s face when he gazed on her mother during chemotherapy trumped the good times.

Fear had a habit of trumping everything.