Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (14 page)

“Want some?”

The rabbit? Yes, let’s pretend they were talking about the rabbit. Her mouth watering, she dipped the spoon and pulled out a couple of chunks of meat with the thick sauce. She allowed the morsels to lie on her tongue for a few wonderful, anticipatory seconds, the liquid coating the inside of her cheeks. A single swallow. A satisfied moan. It tasted like the best Tuscan food should—rich, gamey, comforting. Life-affirming.

“You approve?”

“Not bad,” she said evenly, then threw a light jab: “Although it’s more of a winter dish.”

She caught him smiling at the feeble attempt to dampen her enthusiasm and inwardly kicked herself for not doing a better job. Minimizing the mouthgasms would be a good start.

From the oven, he extracted a tray of what looked like mini-pizzas and moved them to a cooling rack.
Mini-pizzas? Really?
Any self-respecting Italian would be all over that, but she’d lost all self-respect last night when she goaded him in that bar and woke up to find herself clogging the Twittersphere. Besides, they looked oniony and cheesy, two of her favorite flavors.

He poured her a glass of wine, a Chianti she didn’t recognize from their list. Humph. So DeLuca’s cellar wasn’t good enough for Lord Kilroy. There was something a little decadent about drinking wine at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday, a twisted take on morning Mass without the sermons and smoky incense.

“What should we toast to?” he asked.

“The supremacy of Italian cuisine over all others?”

His lips parted on a sigh. “Must you be so competitive? I was thinking something more pleasant…like new friendships.”

Ah, the friend speech. The final breadstick in the basket. After all the drama of the past twenty-four hours, she knew it was for the best. But she couldn’t help feeling that she had missed out on something special, and not just the potential of hold-on-to-the-light-fixtures sex.

Suppressing a sigh of her own, she clinked her glass against his. “To new friends…and may the best chef win tomorrow night.” She sipped her wine and let it roll around her mouth like her father had taught her. It tasted thick and fruity.

Sparkling assessment, DeLuca.

“Where’s Laurent? Shouldn’t he be helping you prepare?”

“Couldn’t get his sorry arse out of bed. He claims someone slipped him a Mickey at the bar.” He added a curly leaf of arugula atop each of the little pizzas.

“Bowing to the porcelain god all night, was he?”

“Yep. And I heard the doorman at the InterContinental needs a new uniform.”

Squashing a giggle at the thought of Laurent barfing all over some unfortunate hotel employee, she was about to offer up a witty riposte when she felt the ground fall away beneath her feet. Jack lifted her onto the counter, and shock, he didn’t even grunt.

How ridiculous! Here she was melting in a girlish puddle because a big strong man lifted her a couple of feet off the ground.

Okay, she was thrilled.

His hands lingered lightly on her waist. “Now I’m going to feed you,” he said in a rumble so low and sexy that her body translated it as,
Now I’m going to make love to you.
The cool, stainless-steel surface against her thighs did little to counteract the wildfire racing through her blood. Slowly he moved his palms down her hips and she parted her thighs in readiness.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his green-gold gaze locked on hers.

Her nod was a barefaced lie; she was the opposite of comfortable, but years of hiding had taught her how to train her expressions. He stepped away, taking his warmth and the scent of lemon-spiced skin.

Anticipation mounted even as the herby, heat-infused aroma of the cooling pizza diminished. Jack held the pizzette up, an invitation to eat from his outstretched hand.
Not a chance, mister.
She took it from him, anxious to avoid contact, anxious to suppress the memory of his talented hands. A memory still warm and present from last night’s kiss and this morning’s near miss.

A light bloom of flour on the underside of the crust coated her fingers and heat seeped from the mini disk into her skin. Little specks of green sprouted above the snowy, tan-freckled surface. It was just a squiggle of golden-brown onion topped with melted cheese, but right now she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Jack’s gorgeous mug finally had competition.

She bit down, listening for the juice-crunch, that familiar sound of crust and squish. The dough base was perfect. Chewy in the middle, crispy around the edges. The candied tang of sautéed onions assaulted her taste buds, invoking all sorts of happy.

“What do you taste?” he asked.

“Hmm, caramelized Vidalias?” she ventured. He was standing too close to her, his eyes searching her face for signs of yea or nay.

“And?”

“Oregano, for sure. Goat cheese?” He might have been sneaky and used feta, but she didn’t think so. Not salty or tangy enough, and feta didn’t look the same when it melted. She stroked her teeth with her tongue, relishing the creamy richness. “Definitely goat.”

“
Oui, le chevre.
Anything else?”

That little trill of French sent a quake of pleasure barreling down her spine. Not even Laurent’s dulcet tones had such a devastating effect on her. Although, Jack could be talking about cleaning out the kitchen grease traps in English, French, or Klingon and she’d be drooling like a St. Bernard within seconds.

“Lili, are you still with me?”

She blinked to find him staring at her, the corners of his mouth tipped up.

“I can’t work out that other flavor,” she murmured thoughtfully, trying to cover her drift off to Jacklandia.

“Sarriette. It’s called
santoreggia
in Italian. We use it in French cooking a lot, but it goes well with the oregano, don’t you think?” He pronounced it ori-
gahn
-oh, and yes, that got her worked up all over again.
Get a grip.
“Actually, you should tell me if you think it goes well.”

“It’s good,” she said, though he didn’t need to hear it from her.

The assembly line of tastes continued, each more delicious than the last. A tomato consommé with plump, ocean-kissed crab, reminding her of summer visits to the Cinque Terre. Chicken liver crostini slathered in a fig marmalade that melted down her throat. A decadent, lush bruschetta with lobster crème fraîche and prosciutto. Turkey meatballs in a tomato cream sauce so divine she wished she could inject it straight into her veins.

All the while, he talked. Nonstop. About cooking and his favorite dishes and that spark he felt when he created something new. She usually disliked guys who gabbed constantly—heaven knows, she had dated enough of them—but this was different. It wasn’t so much about him, but about his worldview and his quest to make haute cuisine accessible to everyone. He drew her in, asking her questions about flavors that resonated with her and ones that didn’t (there weren’t a whole lot in the latter category). At the hotel, she’d told Jack she liked food, which was a lie. She
loved
it, and talking about it was the next best thing to eating it.

Correction. Talking about it with Jack. Because she loved talking to him, more than any other guy she could recall.

A frisson of excitement fizzed through her, like the anticipation felt at the beginning of something new, which made no sense because it was coming to an end. Once the show was done, he’d be out of her life and regular programming would resume. Perhaps he’d pay a courtesy visit to her father when his Chicago restaurant opened, but the intimacy they had shared, the intimacy they were sharing right this minute, would be nothing more than an ancient memory. An all-encompassing taste that overwhelmed at first and lingered after swallowing but would fade as time passed.

He made her laugh, he made her feel sexy, and she would miss that.

It seemed incredibly unfair that she would
have
to miss that.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her back into the reality of hot male at close quarters. At the stove, he tested a pan with a few drops of water, then a couple of shards of butter, eyeing it carefully while the fat melted and bubbled. His hands shaved garlic, working fast, and she imagined they would do wonderful things to her body. When he threw in the slivers, the aroma exploded, dragging her closer. By the time he’d added a chopped chili pepper and dropped in several jumbo shrimp, tails still on, she was practically on top of the stove.

Down, girl.

The shrimp pinked up perfectly, and he held one by the tail and bit into it. “Mmm, that’s the stuff,” he murmured as he offered the remainder to her.

“No, you’re okay. Remember, I’m trying to cut out bad influences and that includes death foods like butter.”
And you,
she thought, keenly mindful that letting him feed her would stir up all sorts of sultry sensations in the deep south.

He muttered something in French. She responded with her blankest, least-turned-on look, and silently congratulated herself. Mistress of her domain.

“Butter. Give me butter. Always butter,” he translated. “That was the mantra of Fernand Point, a great French chef who died about fifty years ago.”

“Let me guess. He keeled over after a madeleine binge.”

The shrimp still beckoned, so she surrendered, placing her hand over his while she bit down on the chili-and-garlic-encrusted crescent of joy. God, so good. A trickle of melted butter drooled from the corner of her mouth and his thumb was immediately there, sneaky-fast, wiping it away. He dawdled, dragging her bottom lip down gently. A wild yet insistent pulse started deep within her.

His eyes bored into her and she pulled away, but her retreat was only physical. Riveted, she stared, hunger gnawing at her that was completely unrelated to food. He licked the butter from his thumb. The same thumb she wished was jammed inside her mouth this very minute.

“It’s okay to admit it, you know,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught. “Admit what?”

“That you like my food.” They both knew that wasn’t what he meant.

She held his molten gaze. “We’re in a contest tomorrow night and I can’t be seen giving comfort to the enemy. It’s best we keep this on a professional level, don’t you think?”

“So, no flirting.” He stepped in. Pretty damn flirty.

She backpedaled. “No flirting.”

Two more steps to make up for her withdrawal, and he cupped her jaw. The spread of his warm fingers along the curve of her neck was unbelievably sensual.

“Or kissing,” he said.

Her body acted fairly predictably to his provocation before what was left of her brain took over and insisted that her hormones would not be the boss of her. Little suckers refused to play ball but she talked up her best game.

“Especially not kissing.” She moved out of his reach. “Haven’t you heard? You’re bad news, Jack Kilroy. It’s all over the Internet.”

Discomfort brushed across his features. Her stomach pitched in guilt, but she made her back a titanium rod and steeled her resolve. Better a little upset now than a bellyful of heartache later.

Chapter Nine

Jack was living in a world of hurt. With each swallow beneath the golden skin at Lili’s throat, a corresponding beat kicked up at every pulse point of his body. With every whimper of approval, he had become unbearably aroused. Lili was so turned on by food, was so turned on by
his
food, it was driving him insane. When a woman moaned like that and his fingers, tongue, or anything else wasn’t already buried inside her, it got his attention. It got his dick’s attention.

And he was finding it impossible to hide, salivating all over her like a dog tethered six inches from a T-bone. He needed to dial it down. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He’d already cocked up royally when he lost all control and mauled her in that bar, bringing shame on her family and probably some gypsy curse on himself. Now she’d made it clear his advances were as welcome as sand in Blue Point oysters.

Hastily, he targeted a more neutral topic. “So, do you cook yourself?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, but when you have a bossy master chef around, it’s usually best to let him do his thing.”

“Tony’s a bit of tyrant in the kitchen?”

“Aren’t all head chefs? Their way or the highway?”

“Not me. I’m more the nurturing type.”

One of her eyebrows flew up, and he laughed. “Nah, I’m a tyrant, too, though it’s been a while.”

He wondered how the brigade at Thyme was getting on and felt that twinge of guilt in his gut, a far too common feeling these days. Clarence, his garde-manager who made the best duck-liver pâté Jack had ever tasted. Derry, his poissonier, telling dirty jokes while he filleted a trout in thirty seconds flat. Marguerite, his pâtissier, who’d just had her first child. She’d asked Laurent to be godfather, and while every irreligious bone in Jack’s body should have been fine with that, his heart keened at being passed over for his sous-chef. His kitchen crews were as close to family as any man could ask for, but lately, those relationships had been tested as his life became increasingly centered around the TV shows and all the crap they entailed.

“I miss it,” he said under his breath. He chanced a glance and found Lili staring at him. “I could do with your help,” he tacked on quickly.

“Oh?” She tried to smile but it was as if the effort might do her some injury.