Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (4 page)

Cara stood to lean against the desk, drawing Lili’s envious gaze. Her sister had great thighs, directly attributable to her diet of coffee, PowerBars, and a borderline manic devotion to the treadmill.

“The show tapes Monday night. Jack has to do a spot-check on the new place he’s opening in Chicago, and then he flies out to London on Tuesday for business. Now, I know you’re out of practice, but I reckon that should give you enough time to get the job done.” She added a conspiratorial wink.

Lili suppressed a compulsion to pop her one in the ovaries. “Cara, are you ill? On drugs?” She pressed her palm to her sister’s forehead. No obvious signs of fever, but her eyes were wide as saucers. Oh yeah, she was high on smugness.

Cara lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lili, in case you haven’t heard, Jack Kilroy is a complete man whore. He’s so freaking needy he’ll jump at any opportunity. Even
you
could manage to hit that.”

Even
her
? So she wasn’t the most adventurous sort when it came to men, but that one hit lower than she expected. “I’m not some charity case, you know. I have options.”

Cara gave a dramatic eye roll, which made her look much younger than her twenty-nine years. “
Riiight
, options. How long has it been since things finished with Marco?”

Lili shifted uneasily. Since Marco had called time on their fling several months ago, her sex life had been on life support. The battery-operated kind. A night with a hot guy might be just the ticket, but Jack Kilroy? No amount of advanced yoga could get her in shape for a guy like that.

“It’s been months, and Jack is more than up to the task,” Cara continued blithely.

“Cara, I’ve seen the type he hooks up with.” Ashley van Patten, soap diva, was enough to strike fear into the nether regions of any woman. Lili might have a voluptuous body type that a lot of guys went for, or claimed they did if she was to believe
Cosmopolitan
, but sex royalty like Jack Kilroy did not usually deign to slum among the little people.

“Lili, you’re real and gorgeous and ten times hotter than the likes of Ashley. Best thing he ever did was dump her, though she got him back good in those interviews.” Her sister chuckled. “‘Naughty Nights with Kilroy.’ He went into DEFCON Divo for that one.”

Other tawdry tabloid headlines popped into Lili’s head.
Duracell Jack. Kinky Kilroy
, and her favorite,
Red Hot Kilroy Peppers
. Headlines that summoned up wicked thoughts of Jack’s hard body wrapped around her like a luscious lick of fire. Quickly, she dowsed that illicit blaze with a sobering wet blanket from her memory bank. He had taken a paparazzo to task with his fists for daring to record Jack with his model-of-the-week.

“I’m sure beating the living daylights out of that poor photographer got him back on track. And the Victoria’s Secret angel he hooked up with the week after would have kissed it all better,” she said, feeling a mite ridiculous that she knew so much about a perfect stranger.

“Listen, who cares about the details? All you need to worry about is crooking your finger and watching how fast he comes running. And you heard what Ashley said. Wizard in the sack,” Cara added, laying it on like a thick layer of cream cheese frosting.

Lili was sure he was the Voldemort of all things down and dirty, but he’d need several more blows to the head before he would take an interest in her. However, just before he dismissed her with that coal-dark look and cool put-down about Italian cuisine, there had been a moment when…

“Wait a second.” Bone-chilling panic sloshed over her. “Does he already know about this brand of crazy you’re selling?”

“Of course not. What do you think I am, some sort of pimp?”

“I think in your case, it would be a madam.”

Cara curled her cupid-bow lips into that
saputa
smile Lili knew so well, the one that said that she was privy to some great wisdom that a pleb like her younger sister could never hope to attain. “Lili, you’re only twenty-four. You should be out clubbing, hooking up with guys, and deleting their filthy text messages the next day.”

Tears stinging her eyelids, Lili twisted away and focused on the great cathedrals of Italy calendar on the bulletin board, pinned next to the clipboard detailing last night’s miserable numbers. Sometimes her sister displayed all the sensitivity of a grizzly on crack. Lili fought for neutral.
Take deep breaths. Think of a calm place. Better yet, think of Mom’s shrimp linguine with lemon caper sauce followed by a slice—no, two slices—of ricotta cheesecake.
Self-pity did not coordinate in any way with the amazing boots she was rocking.

“Maybe I’d spend more time clubbing if I didn’t have to look after Mom every day and then come here to work every night.”

Cara rested her chin on Lili’s shoulder and rubbed her arms, surprising Lili out of her ill humor. The DeLuca sisters weren’t touchy-feely Italians, no cheek-pinching or bosom-clasping for them. Six months of air-kissing with D-listers had turned Cara soft.

“I’m sorry. I know you’ve been a trouper, looking after Mom this last year and a half. But she’s been in remission for almost three months.”

True, but fear, Lili’s overriding emotion these days, still clenched her heart like a fist. If it wasn’t dread that her mother’s illness might return, it was needling anxiety at how rudderless Lili felt with her life stuck in a buffering pause. Neither did it help that her father disapproved of everything his youngest daughter did, from how she managed the restaurant to her impractical dream to make photography her life.

Cara carried on, oblivious. “I just think Jack might be good for you. A sexy rut to get you out of your sorry rut.”

Lili faced her sister, every fiber pissy because she might be right. Traces of pity were etched on Cara’s beautiful, fine-boned face.

“Now that Mom’s better, you can get your life on track. Come to New York, go to graduate school, quit being Il Duce’s lackey.” She brightened. “I can get you a job at my company. We always need talented photographers for our publicity materials.”

Lili managed a watery smile. Graduate school seemed as fuzzy as a Monet landscape now that all her savings had gone to her mother’s medical care, or that was what she had taken to telling herself lately. Of course, if she really wanted it to happen…
Leave that rock alone.
Turning it over would only reveal those creepy-crawlies of self-doubt she went to considerable lengths not to acknowledge.

Cara was making the effort, so Lili tried to front it out. “I don’t think I’m a good match for that kind of work. Shooting plates of coq au vin and crème brûlée…” She shuddered.

Her sister laughed, a naughty, girly giggle that sounded so good on her. “Well, maybe not. But I think you’re a good match for someone I know. Nothing serious, just a hot and sweaty one-night stand.” One eyelid dipped in a lascivious wink. “And I’m sure Jack would love if you snapped a photo of his coq—”

“Cara!” Lili had missed her sister’s filthy-minded take on everything. Truth be told, she had missed her sister.

The idea of a hot and sweaty one-night stand with Jack Kilroy made her…well, hot and sweaty. What would Wonder Woman do? She’d take charge and kick some ass, that’s what.

And given half a chance, she’d rip off Batman’s cape and ride him senseless.

*  *  *

It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that, at 9:00 p.m. DeLuca’s Ristorante, in the usually hipster-sodden Wicker Park, wasn’t exactly packed to the gills. More like a third full, if even. So far, the clientele had consisted of an older Italian crowd, most of whom looked like they’d caught a group ride in from central casting. Special-occasion diners or once-a-monthers, judging by how they were all dressed up in their Sunday best on a Saturday, complete with heirloom bling. That customer base might be good enough to keep things ticking over in a smaller place, but it couldn’t possibly sustain an establishment this size in an area where overhead was high and competition was higher. Hard to fathom the night ending with seventy-five covers, never mind the one hundred fifty Cara’s sister had boasted.

Still, the nostalgia he felt earlier about the well-worn countertops and equipment had stayed with him now that he was front of house. A snob to the toes of her designer shoes, Cara had implied her family’s business was some sort of down-market, red-sauce emporium with plastic checkered tablecloths, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a fairly stereotypical design as far as neighborhood eateries went—two dining rooms separated by a large arch, cherrywood tables covered with pristine white linens, chocolate leather banquettes, a fifty-foot bar, and the ubiquitous frescoed ceiling. A touch stodgy, reminiscent of a bygone era. Or maybe it was Dean Martin crooning in the background that left Jack feeling like he was stuck in a Rat Pack movie. Music for Italian Americans to conceive by.

The artsy photos dotting the walls might have kicked the old-world ambiance into modern if the subject matter had been a tad less run-of-the-mill. There was something arresting about the picture compositions, though. Off-kilter with strange angles of Italian types doing Italian things. Overhead shots of old men playing something like
boules
. Children having fun with wooden hoops and roller skates, with only glimpses of legs and arms showing. Jack didn’t know much about art except what he liked, and while the portraits whispered of comfort and familiarity, he recognized a quantum of quirky yearning to break free of the frames. Cara had told him her sister was an amateur photographer, but this work didn’t really fit the image he had formed. Following that fiery display this morning, he would have expected something with more edge.

Speaking of edge, he looked up at the fidgeting server with the big eyes and even bigger hair who appeared to be perched on it. Either she was pleased to see him or she needed to pee.

“All right, sweetheart?”

Jack’s drawl sent Italian Smurfette into a frenzy of hair twirling. A quick scan of the room confirmed half of the other servers went to the same salon. And they all looked alike. It was as if he’d been drop-shipped into the nickel slots aisle at Caesar’s in Atlantic City.

“I just wanted to say how excited we are you’re here, doing the show and everything,” she gushed. “We’re all big fans. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”

Jack found it hard to believe there was anyone left he hadn’t already met. For the last twenty minutes, his table had been inundated with DeLuca cousins who were dying to meet him. Looking into the lively face of the girl before him, he doled out one of his dazzling smiles, the ones he’d been told made his female fans horny. “I’m thrilled to be here. Really, I am.”

Laurent shook his head and mouthed,
Score
.

Jack grinned and turned back to his fan girl. “What was your name again?”

“Gina. Gina DeLuca. I’m Cara’s cousin.” She motioned to Cara, who stood at the bar talking to her sister. The lovely Lili had covered up her shapely legs and stellar behind in black trousers, but the trade-off was a fitted shirt hugging that figure he’d been fantasizing about all afternoon. Jack would never have considered himself a hair man—was that even a thing?—but there was something about those riotous waves that heated his body like a furnace. She’d made an attempt to tame its nuttiness. While it was still on the big side, it appeared to have gone through some sort of anger management regimen since this morning.

Before the night was out, he would apologize to her about diminishing her father’s cooking and all Italian cuisine. Yes, she had goaded him, but his response had been rude. And off-base. Eighteen months in Umbria had taught him plenty about the beautiful complexities of
la cucina Italiana
. Nevertheless, there was something both touching and exhilarating about her loyalty to her family. A hundred fifty covers, his arse. That little braggart.

“Did you want to hear about the specials?” the cousin asked, vying for his wandering attention. Without waiting for a response, she launched into a recitation of the additions to that night’s menu. “We have two special appetizers tonight—
funghi arrosto
, which are wood-roasted mushrooms with pancetta, and
polpettine arrabbiate
. That’s veal meatballs in a spicy sauce.” She leaned in and pushed her hair back behind her ear, a gesture that reminded him of Lili. Christ, now he was being reminded of her? “The meatballs are spectacular.”

“I’m sure they are,” Jack murmured, indulging in a dutiful gander at her cleavage before diverting his gaze around her to eye Lili.

“Next up for
primi
are two special pastas. First we have ricotta gnocchi with sage and butter sauce.” She pulled a card from her apron and consulted it while Jack tried to silence his inner critic. It was only a neighborhood joint; the staff couldn’t be expected to memorize the specials in their entirety. “We also have
penne strascicate
—that means ‘mixed up.’ It’s fresh penne pasta with sausage, tomatoes, onion, and thyme. It’s a very old recipe from Tuscany. Uncle Tony says his mother used to make it for the family every Friday night back in Fiesole.”

Jack itched to meet Uncle Tony—he especially wanted to see the man’s kitchen at full tilt—but Cara had said her father preferred to wait until they’d been served their entrées. Sounded like some power thing. He was used to games like that when he dined in restaurants at the topmost echelon. It was unexpected in a midscale establishment, miles from Chicago’s Restaurant Row.

The munchkin was gearing up for the homestretch. “Now for the
secondi
.
Bistecca fiorentina
, made with Chianina beef. That’s for two people. And
branzino al forno
—whole sea bass, wood roasted.” She edged closer to the table, bending over to give them another flash. At this rate, he was confident he’d be able to pick her breasts out of a lineup.