Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (10 page)

She stepped around to the other side of the humungous bed where beauty of a different variety hid beneath swathes of luxurious Egyptian cotton.

“Is that your final answer, then?” she asked cheerfully.

Jack poked his dark head above the sheet, shading his eyes. “Why is it so bright in here?”

“Oh, sorry.” She hastily grasped at the curtains until just a chink of sun infiltrated. The doctor had said he might be sensitive to light and sound for a while. She sat at the end of the bed. “So, who’s the president of the United States?”

One eye, shadowed by eyelashes most women would give their firstborn for, peered at her. “These questions are stupid.”

“I know, I know,” she said soothingly.

“And that sounds patronizing.”

“If only you’d do as you’re told, it’d be a lot less painful.” She cocked an eyebrow. “The president?”

“Woodrow bloody Wilson.” He propped himself up and swiped the sleep from his eyes. After two hours in the ER, a battery of tests, and a boatload of painkillers, they had finally made it back to Jack’s hotel. Per the doctor’s instructions, she had woken him every couple of hours to pose interrogatory gems like
What’s your name?
and
What city are you in?

Now he looked crumpled and grumpy and panties-melting hot.

“Where did you sleep, Mrs. Kilroy?” he asked around a yawn. He even yawned sexily.

“On the sofa in the other room,” she murmured, his casual reference to their faux marital status making her light-headed. Last night, the doctor had mistaken her for Jack’s wife, a conclusion Jack found incredibly amusing. Lili hadn’t had time to be amused—she was too busy having a mini-series of heart attacks, deathly worried she had caused him brain damage and deprived the culinary world of its leading light. After his dramatic collapse outside her door, he came to in less than a minute. It had only been the worst minute of her life.

“You should have slept in here with me, my blushing bride. This bed is huge. We could have gone days without finding each other.”

“I hear people with brain injuries often have problems with impulse control,” she said. Along with women who haven’t had any in months. “Though I suppose I would have been safe with you, now that you’re a born-again virgin and all.”

“It would have been hard—I mean, difficult,” he said, grinning. “But I think I would have managed.”

He stretched and the sheet fell down to his waist, revealing a rather monumental chest with a pleasant ratio of hair to skin. Her mouth watered at his defined pecs and ridged abs, so tight she could bounce a British pound coin off them.
Absolutely ab-ulous
, she could hear Gina leering like a little devil on her shoulder. He was tan—not overly so, but enough to debunk the stereotype of the pasty Englishman. How she wished she had her camera.

“Do you…do you work out?” she asked, her voice as taut as the muscles on show.

“I have to. I’m a French chef. Mostly running, swimming, and—” He chuckled. “Hey, my face is up here.”

Grabbing a pillow that had strayed to the end of the bed during his restless sleep, she lobbed it at his perfect face. “Maybe I’m just sick of looking at it.”

He threw the pillow back at her. “You could always look at something else. That usually leads to my other form of exercise.” His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sheet.

“Keep that to yourself. I might swoon and then you’d have to take me to the emergency room.”

Laughing, he stretched again, knowing full well the effect it had. Cocky bastard. “I’m absolutely starving. Please say you ordered room service.”

“Of course I did. It’s already here.” As someone else was paying, she had taken the liberty of ordering one of everything. This was too much of an opportunity for a breakfast lover to resist.

“All right, be a good wife, then. Feed me.”

Wife.
Her stupid heart cranked out a few more beats than was safe, and she swallowed to calm it the hell down.

“No chance, Kilroy. I’ve already filed for an annulment.” She walked toward the door, tugging down the Black Sabbath tee she had borrowed and spent the night inhaling. When she turned back, he was regarding her with glassy eyes.
Still got it, girl.

“If you have problems standing up, I can always call Laurent in to help.” If the dipso Frenchman wasn’t having problems standing up himself. She had put in a quick phone call to his room ten minutes ago and confirmed that while not upright, Pepé Le Pew was at least conscious.

Five minutes later, she had redressed in her tank top and cargo pants, and they were enjoying breakfast in friendly silence. To Lili’s regret, Jack had covered up with jeans and a Who T-shirt, the red, white, and blue target on his chest drawing her sharp focus.

I’ve got you in my crosshairs, Jack Kilroy.
“How are you feeling?”

“All right. My head’s still a bit fuzzy, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. Painkillers are doing the trick.” He sipped his coffee and slumped back onto the sofa. “Thanks for staying. It went above and beyond the duties of even a fake wife.”

“I suppose I bear some responsibility with my frying pan—”

“Suppose? Oh, I’d say you bear the brunt, but don’t feel you have to apologize or anything.”

“I’m so sorry. When you hit the pavement, my heart just about stopped.”

“Ah, you
do
care.”

He shot her a smile so infectious it should be quarantined, and her stomach flipped, reminding her of the first time she had been favored with that slice of sun. Since then, she had thrown herself at the hottest chef in the country—the hottest guy in the country—and she should feel like an idiot, but she didn’t. An incongruent mix of giddy and comfortable settled over her. What would Cara say if she saw her now?

“Oh, Cara,” she said. “I need to call her and let her know you’re still alive.” Unsurprisingly, her sister had returned none of her messages. Cara was a big proponent of pill-assisted sleep, otherwise Lili was sure she’d be knocking Jack’s door off its hinges demanding to know how her star was faring.

He groaned. “Please don’t bring Cara into this. I’ve already got the DeLuca sister who knows what she’s doing. I certainly don’t need the one who’s going to go into a tailspin at the mention of the word
concussion
.” Rolling his tongue around his mouth, his gaze drifted over the smorgasbord before them. “I take it you like breakfast?”

“I like food,” she said around bites of her second waffle. “Marco’s fond of telling me the restaurant will never make any money because I eat all the profits.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

No, it wasn’t, but she was used to laughing off digs about her weight. Spending most of her teenage years as the butt of fat jokes in high school had built up her defenses to the point that she’d come full circle to making excuses for how others felt about her abundant curves. Or maybe she was just used to making excuses for Marco. “He doesn’t mean anything by it. I’m not exactly svelte.”

Jack was studying her in a way that made her self-conscious. She tried to chew slower.

“You shouldn’t listen to that tosser. You have a beautiful figure.”

There he went again.
You taste good. You’re a gorgeous woman. You have a beautiful figure.
And with the way his gaze branded her on every pass, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the heady newness of feeling sinfully sexy. The nicest thing Marco had ever said was that her body felt “comfortable.” Like she was a floor pillow.

Her skin had heated at his compliment, but acknowledging it with aplomb wasn’t in her makeup. “Is a tosser the same as a wanker?”

“It is, but I find it has more of a ring to it.” He was still staring. “You’re very different from Cara.”

She gave a rather unladylike snort. “You’ve got that right. No one ever believes we’re sisters.”

He looked thoughtful. “You seem like a very tight family.”

“We’re Italian,” she said like that explained everything. It occurred to her that, courtesy of the rag mags, she knew everything and nothing about Jack Kilroy. “Do you have family across the pond?”

“Yeah, I have a sister. She’s about your age and, like you, drives me batty.”

She rather enjoyed the thrill of how comfortable it felt to be teased after such a short acquaintance. “Prerogative of the younger sibling. We must annoy our elders. What does she do?”

“She works in pubs for the most part,” he said, his expression turning dark and disapproving in an instant. “Picking up glasses. I’ve tried to get her better jobs but she’s not interested.”

The steel underlying his words reminded her of her father when he sported his disappointed hat. On Il Duce’s head, it was well worn and comfortable.

“Not everyone aspires to greatness. Maybe she’s happy with what she’s doing.”

He stared at her like she had spoken Sanskrit. “How could she be?”

“You mean, how could she be related to you and not have the Kilroy imperative to vanquish everything in her path?”

“You know what I mean. She’s smart but she doesn’t try. She floats.”

“And you hate floaters?”

“I love my sister.” The slight break in his voice punched her in the gut. He took a sip of coffee and waited a moment. “I wasn’t around much when she was growing up, and I don’t think she got what she needed.” He shook his head like he had given it some thought but the conclusion refused to tally with his expectations. “We don’t really talk about the important stuff. I just worry about her.”

Her heart squeezed. “She might not show it but I’m sure she appreciates it. Not everyone is good at the touchy-feely stuff.”

He remained silent, his gaze on the plate-strewn coffee table, the air now heavy with his thoughts. With hers, too. She longed to comfort him, to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead like she had last night when she tended to his medical needs. It was a role she fell into easily—Lili the caregiver, the comforter, the unstinting support.

Her fingers twitched; his phone chirped.

“That’s probably Cara now,” Jack said. He gave a couple of taps, then scrutinized the screen for a long moment. Finally he jumped up, shaking his head like a dog coming out of water.

“Shit, shit, shit. This is not happening.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, worry spiking her pulse.

He paced the room, glowering at his phone. “I’ll tell you what’s bloody well going on. Somebody filmed us in that bar and now last night’s snog is today’s big news.”

Hell to the no. Someone had posted that kiss? A skitter did the rounds in her stomach and she braced for full-scale panic. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Still relatively calm. Three, one thousand, four. By now, dread that her parents and everyone she knew would see that kiss should have set in, but oddly the flutter wasn’t mutating into the flapping she expected. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for the other party to the proceedings.

Jack Kilroy was wigging out.

“Do I have one of your Muppet-haired cousins to thank for this?”

“What? No…” She considered it a moment before affirming her previous denial. “No one I know would do something like that. That’s just…no.”

“This is a complete disaster.” He punctuated his conclusion with a violent hair rake and another scowl. It looked good on him, of course.

“I can see how it might be,” she said, not seeing it at all. Though she was starting to appreciate what Cara meant when she called her boss a divo.

His jaw bunched so tight a simple touch might break it. “I’m supposed to be keeping it clean, playing it safe until I sign this contract.”

“What contract?”

He waved his hand as if she should know what the hell he was talking about. “This new show I have in the works. It gets me off cable and onto network. It’s huge and I’m not supposed to do anything to jeopardize it.”

“And kissing a woman in a bar jeopardizes it? This isn’t the 1950s.”

“No one cares what you do when you’re on cable, but network is another ball of wax entirely. All that drama with Ashley was fine back then, but this show is family friendly and I’m not supposed to be drawing any negative attention.”

“But it can’t be as bad as all that. We didn’t do anything X-rated.” Her memory rewound to the kiss. It had been hot—it had been Madras curry hot—but that was about all.

Jack still stomped, his eyes fiercely glued to the phone. Except for that explosion of heat when he dragged her into the bar corridor to show her his cave paintings and kiss her senseless, he had only ever projected a hazy sense of cool. Now he was acting so…Italian.

A couple of moments later, he took a time-out from his hissy fit and looked up. “I’m overreacting, aren’t I?”

“Just a smidge, but it’s very entertaining.”

He plopped down next to her, flattening the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Take a look.”

The recording started about halfway through, and if she hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have recognized the participants. Jack’s hand was already all over her butt—the small screen totally worked in her favor there—and her own hand gripped his silky hair. The distant soundtrack was provided courtesy of the boys from U2, and as the video played, her body anticipated the syncopated backbeat of moans and whimpers.

His thigh currently pressed against hers and she tensed while sexual awareness raced through her On screen, it was a hot display of hands, mouths, and—
gulp
—other body parts all grasping and sucking and grinding. Idly, it occurred to her that kissing was rumored to burn calories and tone facial muscles. The Kilroy Kissing Workout. Finally, an exercise regimen she could get on board with.