Hot and Bothered (Hot in the Kitchen) (41 page)

Jack Kilroy’s extraordinarily handsome mug was already branded into her brain. Not because she was a fan, heaven forbid, but because her sister, Cara, was constantly babbling about its perfection, usually while nagging everyone she knew to watch the cooking show she produced for him,
Kilroy’s Kitchen
.
(Monday nights at seven on the Cooking Channel—don’t forget, Lili!)
A hot-as-a-griddle Brit, his star had risen in the last year, first with his TV show, then with his bestseller,
French Cooking for the Rest of Us.
And when not assailing the public with the sight of his chiseled good looks on food and lifestyle magazines, he could invariably be found plying his particular brand of brash foodie charm on the daytime talk show circuit. He wasn’t just smokin’ in the kitchen, either. Recently, a contentious break-up with a soap star and a paparazzi punch-up had provided delicious fodder for the tabloids and cable news outlets alike.

The camera might add ten pounds but in the flesh, Jack Kilroy was packing the sexy into a lean six-and-change frame. The matching set of broad shoulders didn’t surprise her, but apparently the tribal tattoo on his right bicep did, judging by the shiver dancing a jig down her spine. It seemed so not British and just a little bit dangerous. Her gaze was drawn to his Black Sabbath t-shirt, which strained to contain what looked like extremely hard, and eminently touchable, chest muscles. Sculpted by years of lugging heavy duty stockpots, no doubt. A pair of long legs, wrapped in blue jeans that looked like old friends, completed the very pleasant image.

Jack Kilroy was proof there was a God—and she was a woman.

“Is that your usual M.O.? Frying pan first, questions later?” he asked after giving her the anticipated once-over. He had used up his ten seconds while she had stretched her assessment to fifteen. Small victories. “Should I hold still and let you use your lasso to extract the truth from me?” He gestured to the coil of gold-colored rope hanging through a loop on her hip. If he expected her to act impressed by his knowledge of the Wonder Woman mythology, he’d be a long time waiting.

Maybe she was a little impressed.

“I thought you were stealing. I was about to call the police.”

“You’re telling me there’s something worth stealing around here?”

Her body heated in outrage at his dismissive tone, though it could just as easily be down to the way his dark emerald eyes held hers. Bold and unwavering.

“Are you kidding? Some of this equipment has been in my family for generations.” Right now, most of it had been pulled out from under the counters and was scattered willy-nilly on every available surface. “Like my
nonna’s
pasta maker.” She pointed to it, sitting all by its dusty lonesome on a countertop behind a rack of spices.

“That rusty old thing in the corner?”

“That’s not rusty, it’s vintage. I thought you Brits appreciated antiques.”

“Sure, but my appreciation doesn’t extend to food-poisoning hazards.”

A protest died on her lips. Her father hadn’t used that pasta maker in over ten years, so a zealous defense was probably unnecessary.

“So either I’m being punked or you’re Cara’s sister. Lilah, right?”

“Yes, Cara’s sister,” she confirmed, “and it’s Lil—”

“I thought you were the hostess,” he cut in. “Are frying pans the new meet-n-greet in Italian restaurants?”

It’s three in the morning,
she almost screamed. Clearly, the blow to his skull had impacted his short-term memory. On cue, he rubbed his head then gripped the side of the countertop with such knuckle-whitening intensity that she worried he might pass out.

“I’m the restaurant’s manager, actually, and I wasn’t expecting you. If I’d known
Le Kilroy
would be gracing us with his exalted presence, I would have rolled out the red carpet we keep on hand for foreign dignitaries.”

She sashayed over to the ice cabinet and glanced back in time to catch him, his gaze fixed to her butt like he was in some sort of trance. Oh, brother, not even a whack to the head could throw this guy off his game. With a couple of twists, she crafted an ice pack with a napkin, and handed it to him. “How’s your head?”

“Fine. How’s your—?” He motioned in the direction of her rear with one hand while gingerly applying the ice pack with the other.

“Fine,” she snapped back.

“I’ll say,” he said, adding a smirk for good measure.
Oh, for crying out loud.

“Is that
your
usual M.O.? I can’t believe you have so much success with the ladies.” The gossip mags devoted pages to his revolving door dating style. Only Hollywood fembots and half-starved models need apply. They clearly weren’t in it for the food.

For her insolence, she got a blade of a look, one of those condescending ones they teach in English private schools, which for some ridiculous reason they called public schools.

“I’ve had no complaints.”

She folded her arms in an effort to project a modicum of gravitas, which was mighty difficult considering what she was wearing. It didn’t help that every breath took effort in her sweat-bonded costume. “So, care to explain?”

“What? Why I’ve had no complaints?”

“I mean, what you’re doing in my family’s restaurant at this ungodly hour.”

“Oh, up to no good. Underhanded misdoings. Waiting for a superhero to take me down.”

Okay, ten points for cute. She battled a smile. Lost the fight. Palms up, she indicated he should continue and it had better be good.

“I’m doing prep and inventory for the show. Didn’t Cara tell you?”

Of course she hadn’t told her. That’s why she was asking, dunderhead. “I haven’t checked my messages,” she lied, trying to cover that she had and her sister hadn’t deigned to fill her in. “I was busy all evening.”

“Saving cats from trees and leaping tall buildings in a single bound, I suppose.”

“Wrong superhero, dummy,” she said, still ticked off that Cara had left her out of the loop. “You haven’t explained why you’re doing this prep and inventory
here
.” It seemed pointless to remind him of the lateness of the hour.

“Because this is where we’ll be taping the show, sweetheart. Jack Kilroy is going to put your little restaurant on the map.”

* * *

Good thing Laurent had stepped out because if he’d caught Jack referring to himself in the third person, he’d laugh his
derrière
off. That shit needed to stop. It was worth it, though, just to get this reaction. Wonder Woman’s mouth fell open, giving her the appearance of an oxygen-deprived goldfish.

“Here? Why would you want to tape your stupid show here?”

Jack let the comment slide, though the snarky dig about his success with women had been irksome enough. Rather hypocritical, too, considering all that hip-swaying and lady leering in his general direction.

“Believe me, it’s not by choice. This place is far too small and some of the equipment is much too…
vintage
for what I need.”

Contrary to his comment about the size and age of the kitchen, Jack felt a fondness bordering on nostalgia. The nearest stainless steel counter was scuffed and cloudy with wear, the brushed patina a testament to the restaurant’s many successful years. He loved these old places. There was something innately comforting about using countertops that had seen so much action.

Returning his gaze to Cara’s sister, he speculated on how enjoyable it might be to hoist her up on the counter and start a little action right here and now. That costume she was poured into had cinched her waist and boosted her breasts like some comic-book feat of structural engineering, creating an hourglass figure the likes of which one usually didn’t see outside of a sixties-style burlesque show. A well-packaged, fine-figured woman with an arse so sweet he was already setting aside fantasy time for later. His head throbbed, but the lovely sight before him was the perfect salve.

As intended, his ‘too small’ and ‘vintage’ comments set her off on another round of fervent indignation. The wild hand gestures, the hastily sought-for jibes, the churning eyes. Beautiful eyes, too, in a shade of blue not unlike curaçao liqueur, and with a humorous glint that had him trying not to smile at her even though he was incredibly pissed off at what she’d done. A woman—a very attractive woman—in an agitated state got him every time.

“This kitchen is not too small. It’s perfect.” She jabbed her finger at the burners and ovens lining the back wall. “We get through one hundred and fifty covers every Saturday night using this
tiny
kitchen, and we don’t need the Kilroy stamp of approval. We’re already on the map.”

“I never said tiny, but I’m full of admiration for how you’ve utilized the limited space.”

That earned him a response somewhere between a grunt and a snort followed by a surprise move toward a heavy stand mixer. Surely, she wasn’t going to start clearing up? He put a placating hand on her arm.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll put everything back the way I found it.”

She glanced down at his hand resting on her golden skin. By the time her eyes had made the return trip, she was shooting sparks.
Back off
. Hooking a stray lock behind her ear, she returned to her task—clean up his mess and make him look like an arse. A cloud of unruly, cocoa brown hair pitched forward, obscuring her heart-shaped face and giving her a distinct lunatic vibe.

It would take more than a death stare and a shock of crazy curls to put him off. Teasing her was too much fun. “I’m pretty fast, love, and if you can move with superhero speed, we’d get it done in a jiffy.”

Another push back of her hair revealed a pitying smile. “Don’t ever claim to be fast, Kilroy. No woman wants to hear that.”

Ouch.

Before he could muster a clever retort, the kitchen doors flew open, revealing Cara DeLuca, his producer in full-on strut. Neither the crazy hour nor the mind-melting heat had stopped her from getting dressed to the hilt in a cream-colored suit and heels. Laurent, his sous chef and trusty sidekick, ambled in behind her with his usual indolence and a tray of take-out coffee.

Cara’s sister grumbled something that sounded like, “Kill me now.”

Sibling drama alert. Unfortunately, with a younger sister determined to drive him around the bend, he was in a position to recognize the signs.

“Lili, what on earth are you wearing?” Cara gave a languid wave. “Oh, never mind.”

Lili.
He had called her ‘Lilah’. Lili was much better. Lilah sounded like someone’s maiden aunt. This woman didn’t look like anyone’s maiden aunt.

Cara’s eyes darted, analyzing the situation. His producer was nothing if not quick, which made her both good at her job and prone to snap judgments. The crew called her Lemon Tart, and not because she was sweet.

“Why are you holding your head like that?”

Jack cast a sideways glance at the sister. He wasn’t planning to rat her out, but to her credit, she confessed immediately. In a manner of speaking.

“I thought it was that gang of classic-rock-loving, yet remarkably tuneless, thieves that have been pillaging Italian kitchens all over Chicago, and as I was already dressed for crime-fighting, instinct just took over, and I tried to lock your star in the fridge.”

Laughter erupted from deep inside him, although he was fairly positive she had just insulted his beautiful singing voice. A muscle twitched near the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but he still felt the warm buzz of victory.

“Lili, you can’t go locking the talent up in a fridge,” Cara chided.

“Or hitting it on the head with a frying pan,” Jack added.

Cara’s head swiveled Exorcist-style back to her sister. “She did what?”

Jack rubbed the back of his head, heightening the drama. “I don’t think she broke the skin, but there’ll be a bump there later.”

Cara caressed his noggin and yelped like a pocketbook pup. “Oh, my God, Lili, do you realize what could have happened if Jack had a concussion and had to go to the emergency room?”

“It might have improved his personality. He could do with a humility transplant,” Lili offered, again with that cute muscle twitch that he suddenly wanted to lick.

Laurent had been suspiciously quiet but now he stepped forward, and Jack braced himself for the Gallic charm offensive. As usual, his wingman looked bed-head disheveled, sandy-colored hair sticking out every which way. His bright blue eyes twinkled in his friendly face as he launched into one of his patented gambits.

“
Bonjour
, I am Laurent Benoit. I work with Jack.” It tripped off his tongue as ‘Zhaque’, sounding lazy and sexy and French. “You must be Cara’s beautiful sister, Lili.” He proffered his hand, and Lili hesitantly took it while the corners of Laurent’s mouth hitched into a seductive grin. “
Enchantée,
” he said, raising her hand to kiss it. This netted a husky laugh, which was a damn sight more than Jack had managed in the five minutes he had been alone with her. Man, that Frenchman was good.

“Now that’s an accent I can get down with,” Lili murmured.

Jack sighed. While his own British voice accounted for much of his success with American women, over the years he had lost more skirt to that French accent than he’d eaten bowls of
bouillabaisse
. Laurent—brilliant sous chef, occasional best friend, and his most rigorous competition for the fairer sex—was the embodiment of the French lover. As good as he was in the kitchen, his talents would be just as well-suited to tourism commercials. All he needed was a beret, a baguette, and a box of condoms.