Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (3 page)

Jack followed Laurent’s gaze to the swing doors through which Cara and her sister had just exited. A sudden image of brushing his lips against Lili’s and watching the pupils of those lovely eyes magnify in passion flitted pleasantly through his mind. It wasn’t long before his imagination had wandered to stroking her inner thigh and inching below the hem of those tight, blue, shiny shorts.

Things were just getting interesting when the crash of a dropped serving pan knocked him back to the present. While Laurent muttered his apologies, Jack blinked to quell his overactive brain, the pain in his head briefly forgotten. Maybe he should apply that ice pack to his crotch.

Evie, his dragon-lady agent, had been clear.
Think of the contract, Jack.
Keep your head down and your nose clean. And whatever happens, do not engage the local talent.
Right now, that imminent network deal was the rocket that would propel his brand into the stratosphere. No more rinky-dink cable shit. Instead he would spread his message of affordable haute cuisine to as wide an audience as possible and garner fame for all the right reasons.

Which meant grasping women were an unnecessary distraction, even a tasty piece like Cara’s sister. He needed to forget about smart-tart birds with eyes and curves that would lead a good man, or one who was trying to be good, off the straight and narrow. After his last disastrous relationship, he wasn’t looking to screw around with the help, even if she did have the best derrière in the Midwest.

*  *  *

Lili trudged after Cara into the restaurant’s back office, her focus on the platinum-blond cascade that swished from her sister’s ponytail. After three careful swipes of the swivel chair with a tissue from her purse, Cara sat, smoothing her cream silk skirt as she went.

“Nice costume,” she said with a knowing smile. “Jack seemed to like it.”

The absurdity of that statement canceled out the deceitful thrill Lili had felt while pinned by Jack Kilroy’s assessing gaze. She’d been right not to trust it. A man like that—too good-looking, too charming, too
everything
—needed constant female attention to keep his ego afloat. Memories of her ex were still fresh: she’d been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.

Her long sweater hung on a hook inside the door, and she threw it on. “Have you seen Mom yet?”

Cara examined her nails, an avoidance tactic Lili immediately recognized because she was rather fond of using it herself. “I spoke to her on the phone. She sounds in good spirits. I was planning to drop off a gift later.”

Lili bit back a catty response. Cara’s ability to ignore the unpleasant was legendary and lately had become a source of ever-increasing resentment between them. Why bother to visit when nothing says
Congratulations on beating cancer, Mom
better than a fancy gift basket, delivered weekly like clockwork? It was too late, or maybe too early, for a sister-on-sister confrontation. Besides, there was something about all that fragile beauty of hers that made it impossible to hate her properly. Lili needed to change the subject, though it would probably take some sort of power tool to chisel off the sour look she knew was cemented on her face.

“Cara, you could have warned me about the British Invasion.”

Her sister crossed her shapely legs and picked some imaginary fluff from her tulip-shaped skirt. Size 0 or 2, Lili was willing to bet, though she looked a little plumper than she had on visits past. Cara’s thinness was both an object of envy and awe, and Lili wondered how her sister retained such a rigid grip on her self-control. Occasionally, Lili speculated that Cara’s distinctly non-Italian attitude to food could mean just one thing: her sister must have been adopted. If only.

She shrugged in that don’t-hate-me-’cause-I’m-beautiful way of hers. “I talked to Il Duce last night and he’s on board.”

Il Duce
was the nickname for their father, coined to reflect his startling similarity to a certain Italian wartime dictator. Lili might be the de facto manager while her mother recovered, but her father was supreme ruler. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d make an end run on this. Standard operating procedure.

By the way Cara quickly adopted a softer tone, Lili knew she hadn’t hidden her hurt reaction in time. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the restaurant. Remember I told you we had Serafina’s on Randolph lined up for the taping next week? Well, yesterday we find out they’ve had to close for health code violations. Rats!” She waved her hands in the air as if she’d seen the vermin with her own innocent eyes. “We were scrambling to find an alternative and I suggested our place to Jack. To be honest, Jack’s really grateful Dad can help out.”

In the five minutes Lili had spent with Jack Kilroy, gratitude was nowhere in evidence. In fact, he had acted like he was doing
them
the favor, though in reality, that wasn’t too far from the truth. Her earlier braggadocio about DeLuca’s healthy numbers couldn’t disguise the trouble they were in, a perfect storm of external pressures and internal entrenchment. They were lucky to boast eighty covers on a Saturday, never mind the buck and a half she’d tossed out back in the kitchen. Weeknights were practically a ghost town. Classical Italian dining wasn’t quite in vogue anymore, and as amazing as her father’s food was, it was getting harder to compete with the hipper, trendier eateries that had popped up all over Wicker Park. Lili had ideas for taking their game to the next level. Lots of ideas. But her autocratic father refused to play ball.

“What do you think of him?” Cara asked, dragging Lili’s thoughts reluctantly back to Jack Kilroy. “He gives good handsome, right?”

Lili gave a noncommittal shrug that did little to divest her of worry. Her sister had been drinking Jack Kilroy’s Kool-Aid ever since her New York company, Foodie Productions, began handling his show back in January. It had been a real coup for Cara to get the gig, and to hear her sister speak, the future of mankind was riding on it. Though, how someone who despised food made her living producing food television was one of life’s great mysteries.

In the interests of sisterly peace, Lili decided to feign some interest. “So why is he cooking in someone else’s restaurant and not in a studio like the other hack chefs you see on TV? I’m surprised Lord Studly would be caught dead in a place like this.”

“On occasion, Lord Studly is happy to lower himself to the level of the great unwashed.” That accented voice swept over her like cut crystal. It really should come with a government health warning.

She turned and got the full blast. Wow, if he wasn’t the incarnation of sin on a stick.
Focus on the face,
she told herself as her photographer eye drank in more details. A smattering of freckles dotted across his nose. A scar on his chin that was probably airbrushed out of magazine covers. And beautiful eyelashes, like silken, inky strands fringing his green eyes. Live-and-up-close Jack was much more impressive than small-screen Jack. She wondered how he might fare under her camera’s gaze. Very well, she suspected.

Too late, she realized she was gawking, but funnily enough, he was gawking right back. Braining someone with cast-iron cookware was starting to look like a viable pickup strategy. She drew the edges of her sweater closer together. The scratchy brush of the wool heightened the new sensitivity of her skin, which felt like sunburn under Jack’s ferocious gaze.

He blinked and held out her Vespa helmet. “Yours, I presume?”

She took it with a shaky hand, relieved to see her camera and phone were still safe inside. “Thanks,” she muttered, wishing he didn’t turn her into such a gloopy mess.

“You rode a motor bike in that getup?”

“A scooter, actually. What of it?”

“Just building a picture in my head.”

Oh, for…never mind.
She swiped all expression from her face. “The show?”

“Well,” Cara said. “Here’s the premise.” She leaned forward as if she were making a pitch to a Hollywood producer. “It’s a cooking contest pitting Jack against a host chef in a cuisine he’s not so familiar with. Jack’s specialty, of course, is French, so he’s going up against other cuisines, preparing a brand-new menu and serving it to real restaurant customers. He’ll be competing against Dad, and whoever gets the most votes wins. Simple, right? The show’s brand-new. It’s called
Jack of All Trades
and DeLuca’s is going to be on the premiere episode!”

Lili settled in against the desk and switched her attention to Jack, who lounged against the door frame with an easy, devil-be-damned grace that said he was above it all.

Her father had won awards—
Chicago
magazine’s Best Italian, two years running, albeit over ten years ago—and chefs came from far and wide to learn the secrets of his gnocchi. He was the true kitchen genius, not this walking ego who coasted on charm and cheekbones. Time to get her game face on. Never too early to start the trash talking.

“So, not so hot at
la cucina Italiana
,
then?”

He appeared to be thinking hard about that, so Cara jumped into the pause. “There’s also a twist. Jack gets to pick his own appetizers and dessert, but Dad chooses the pastas and the entrées for both chefs. And doesn’t tell Jack until the day of the contest.”

Better and better. Lili could think of several dishes that could pose last-minute problems. This might be fun. Her gaze traveled the long, lean body of British Beefcake. This might be a whole lot of fun.

“Oh, you’re going down,” Lili said, then winced as she realized that could be interpreted as flirty. So not her intention, especially as she sucked soccer balls at flirty.

Evidently he hadn’t got the memo because his face lit up with a traffic-stopping smile. He probably had a million risqué comebacks on tap but he let that killer smile do all the work. Seeing it in person made a girl feel incredibly lucky.

He moved into the cramped office, inching closer like a jungle cat stalking something small and defenseless. While she was in no way defenseless, and no one would ever have characterized her as small, there was still something rather daunting about how he filled a space. Especially a confined space. A flushing tingle spread through her body and her nipples tightened. Although he couldn’t possibly have seen
that
, he cocked his head and considered her as if he had. As if her body’s reaction to him was the only possible response to a smile that dangerous.

“You think I have something to worry about?” he said in a tone that made it clear he had this one covered, honey.

Irritation over her hormonal meltdown turned her surly. “Oh, yeah. My father’s going to take you to the woodshed, Brit Boy.”

A slight twitch appeared like an errant comma at the corner of his no-longer-smiling mouth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I think Brit Boy can cook a bowl of linguine and melt some mozzarella over a slab of veal. Italian’s not the most challenging of cuisines, no offense to your father, and any restaurant would kill to be featured on my show. It’s a guaranteed seat-filler for the next six months.”

Apparently she didn’t just suck soccer balls at flirty; she sucked spectacularly. The great Jack Kilroy had just dismissed Italian cooking as barely worthy of his inestimable attention and, boy, did that stick in her craw.

“If you think it’s that easy, perhaps you should stop by for dinner tonight. I think you’ll find my father can melt cheese to rival any idiot box chef. Oh, a hotshot like you probably won’t learn anything about food, but you might learn some manners.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Good call.

Stepping around her, he thrust a piece of paper at Cara. “Here’s what I need. I’ll start testing dishes tomorrow.” Pronouncement made, he stalked out of the office with all the flourish of a Shakespearean actor marching offstage.

Lili shook her head in disbelief. “I know he’s your boss, Cara, but that guy’s got some nerve walking in here and proclaiming Italian cuisine is easy. And you should have heard him dissing the kitchen and our equipment. Just who does he think he is?”

Cara picked a speck of invisible dust off her low-cut blouse and tousled her perfect, platinum-blond hair. “That, baby sister, is your birthday and Christmas presents all rolled up into one sexy, hunk-shaped package.”

Chapter Two

Lili grasped her sweater so tight it was starting to resemble the Baby Jesus’ swaddling. Quietly, she pressed the office door shut, the hushed snick a marked contrast to her thunderous pulse.

“Hunk-shaped package? Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it does.”

“All that snarky back-and-forth, the sexual tension dripping in the air…” Cara fanned herself. “I’ve got goose bumps over here. I just knew you two would hit it off.”

Hit it off? Well, she certainly had the “hit” part right. Jack Kilroy was the most arrogant, superior, arrogant—wait, she’d already said that—guy Lili had ever met, and she worked in the restaurant business where that personality type was as common as tiramisu on an Italian dessert menu. He also happened to be the hottest streak of male she had ever clapped eyes on, and unfortunately her nipples and her other body parts agreed wholeheartedly.

Bad body.

Take away the glittering green eyes, the scimitar-curved cheekbones, and the accent that made her knock-kneed, and he’d be nothing. Nada. Just a slab of beefy charisma with a few well-appointed muscles and a so-so smile. Okay, a gorgeous smile that hinted at good humor behind the amateur dramatics. Oh, hell, there was something about Jack Kilroy that turned her crank. If her life wasn’t so complicated, if her family’s business wasn’t a breath away from collapse—if she wasn’t such a coward—she’d be tearing open the wrapping on that hunk-shaped package before you could say “Happy Birthday, Lili.”