All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (41 page)

“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 takeout 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 who 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. “
Enchanté,
” 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.

Jack’s head still hurt and weariness had set in bone-deep. He was sure he had lost consciousness for a few seconds in the fridge and now he battled the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. Coffee. That’s what he needed. Coffee and something to focus on. Something that wasn’t curvy and soft-looking and radiating man-killer vibes.

“Any chance we can get on with what we were doing?” he sniped at Cara, more brusquely than he’d intended.

“Of course, Jack, babe. We’ll let you continue.” Dragging her sister by the arm, Cara marched her out of the kitchen with a portentous, “Liliana Sophia DeLuca, a word in the office, if you please.”

Laurent stood with arms crossed, staring at the scene of departing female beauty. Jack eyed his friend.
Here it comes.

“I think I’m in love,” Laurent groaned. “Is she not the cutest
chérie
you have ever seen?”

A laugh rumbled in Jack’s chest. “That’s the fourth time you’ve fallen in love this year and it’s only June.”

“But did you not see her cute little nose wrinkle up when I offered her my hand? And that lovely
derrière
. What I wouldn’t do for a piece of that.”

“She might have ‘zee lovely
derrière
,’ but she’s got a dangerous bowling arm.” His fingers returned to the spot where the frying pan had connected. A bump was definitely forming.

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-blonde 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 over 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 zero or two, 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.