Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (34 page)

She frowned, the fun and games of an early morning tumble turning serious again. “Salt?”

Del slipped her panties down her ankles and tossed them aside. He kissed his way up her legs, stopping to sink his teeth lightly into her inner thigh. “What’s the one ingredient a chef would never be without in a kitchen, baby? Sugar or salt?”

Shaye couldn’t breathe, her throat clogged with a wave of emotion. “Salt,” she whispered after a moment. “No chef would give it up for sugar.”

“Yeah.”

He put his mouth at the juncture of her thighs and flicked his tongue over her core. Her hands fisted into the sheet.

“Cupcake, you’re my salt and the taste of you fuels my deepest fantasies. I just can’t seem to give you up.”

You don’t have to give me up
, she wanted to say.
God knows, I don’t want to give you up either.

He lowered his head, and she squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation, his warm breath tickling her skin. Lips circling her core, Del coaxed her slippery flesh to tighten, sending pulses of hot pleasure flooding outward. He swept his tongue down her cleft and up again, torturing her with slow swipes, then faster, harder flickers. Back arching, Shaye felt her control slip farther into chaos.

Del played her with perfect timing, the same instinctive knack he possessed while focused on his work. He knew when to tease with soft, glancing brushes of his lips, when to speed up and drive her mindless with sensation, when to lock her tightly against his mouth and send her sobbing over the edge.

Before she could float down into herself, foil tore, and he drew her arms up over her head, guiding her hands to the metal bars of the bunk’s low headboard.

“Hold on.” He gripped her behind her knees, spreading her wide open to him.

One thrust filled her, took every preconceived notion of what her body could accept and spun it on its head. He stretched and demanded she take him deep inside her body, and so deep inside her heart she’d no hope of ever carving him out again.

Del quivered with tension as he held himself above, their only point of connection his hardness surrounded by her slick heat. He withdrew, the delicious friction making her cry out his name. Sliding between her folds, he rubbed against her then entered her again, taking his time,
every single inch
driving her out of her mind.

Something about the way he studied her in the pale slashes of dawn creeping through the cracks of his bedroom drapes caused her chest to squeeze off her air supply. Time stuttered to a halt, her heart beating a wild tattoo. “Del?”

He blinked, the intensity fading to a hot, raking stare. “Don’t let go.”

He moved inside her, long, sure strokes until his control fractured. His urgency and need triggered an insatiable response inside her. She drove him on with her body, with the cries she couldn’t contain, as damp skin slapped against damp skin.

Hovering just above her lips, Del whispered again. “Don’t let go.”

Dark lashes slipped down over his eyes, masking the endless depths that had turned summer-sky blue.

“I won’t.” She drew a ragged gasp and then another.

He kissed her, mimicking the thrusts of his body. It took him over, this wild connection between them continually gaining strength. She felt it in the pounding of his heartbeat, the surge of his blood, the building pressure promising release for them both.

As he pulled his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck with a hoarse cry, the orgasm slammed into her, spinning every last thought out of her head except one.

I’ll never let go of you, Del Westlake. I can’t.

***

A car door slammed as Del wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower. He scrambled into a pair of board shorts and checked his reflection. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t glance away from the man staring back. The man wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot—look how he’d screwed up talking about stuff with Shaye yesterday morning when he’d had the chance—but the dude in the mirror seemed healthier, more relaxed, and most importantly, sober.

Three sharp knocks sounded on his sliding door, followed by a squawk and flap of wings. Bird-Brain deciding to try his luck with a second breakfast.

“It’s open,” he hollered and ran a hand over his hair, which jutted up in ten different directions.

Del had been up since before six and painting by seven. He’d ended up doing the whole damn house for Walter, instead of just the worst southern wall, but what the hell. Only the window trims left to finish and the house was done.

The sliding door shrieked in its runner—another thing he’d added to his to-do list—and he walked out of the bathroom. Henry stepped inside.

“Ah, your dad thought you’d still be here,” he said by way of greeting, and perched on the couch arm. “I wanted to have a little chat with you before we started filming today.”

A little chat with Henry required another coffee then a gargle with mouthwash. Dealing with Ethan’s director always made Del feel as if he’d eaten something past its best-by date.

Del entered the kitchen and flicked on the gas element under the kettle. “Coffee?”

“Tea. Earl Grey, if you’ve got it.” Henry rested one skate-shoe-covered ankle on his knee.

Skate shoes and fancy tea? Bloody hell. Del swallowed a smartass comment and said mildly, “Sorry. I’ve only got the ordinary stuff.”

Henry winced. “I’ll leave it.”

Del shrugged and rinsed his mug, one printed with the phrase:
Never Trust a Skinny Cook
. Piper had picked it out for West to give Del as a best man gift—much to West’s embarrassment at handing over the gift bag complete with girly bow.

“Why are you here, Henry?”

“Straight to the point. I like that about you.”

Frankly, Del didn’t give a shit whether Henry liked him or not. But on a professional level, he didn’t want to screw with the little man’s good will—and it made him feel as if he
had
swallowed something coated in mold.

“I prefer directness.” Del leaned against the rear kitchen counter, keeping the server between them.

“Brilliant. I’ll be direct then.” Henry laced his hands around a skinny knee cap. “We had a team meeting last night, reviewing some of the footage shot over the past five days. Ethan says you’re one of the most charismatic chefs he’s worked with on camera. You’re a natural. You get into the zone, and not even a bomb scare could break your focus.” Henry beamed at him. The man’s grin radiated so much fake warmth it could’ve turned milk sour. “But…”

Henry’s smile toned down a notch, and Del’s scalp began to prickle.

“The same can’t be said about Shaye—”

Del propelled away from counter and slapped his palms on the server, a flash-fire igniting in his gut. “She’s a solid sous—one of the best chefs I’ve worked with.”

He’d take Shaye over Ethan-fucking-Ward any day—except Ethan could jumpstart Del’s career and get his life back for him…in the US.

Henry held up a placating palm. “We’re not talking about her skills, Del. Just her presence on camera.” His eyes slitted, mouth drawing in tighter than a dog’s ass. “Shaye is as dull as proverbial dishwater. She never looks natural, never gets in the zone, because she’s always aware of the crew, and it shows.”

“She’s not an actress! Shaye didn’t sign up for this shit; she’s doing her job.”

“I understand. But today, you’re going to have a confrontation during lunch service, and you’ll fire her.”

“What?” Del froze, his blood icing when a moment ago it’d run red hot. He stalked out of the kitchen, his fists clenched, itching to plow them into the man’s smug face. “The fuck I will.”

Henry stood, staring him down. “You signed a contract.”

“I don’t give a shit about the contract.” Del forced the words past a locked solid jaw. Henry could run his name into the mud, take him for every dollar in his bank account, but he wouldn’t betray Shaye.

“Well, then. Do you care about Due South? We can pack up now and leave, but our legal team will take action against you, and your father and brother—both of them signed a contract with us.”

His family? The little weasel was threatening Due South and his family? It’d kill his father and brother to lose the hotel in a drawn-out legal battle. Jesus.

Del pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re asking me to screw over the only person who keeps the place going.”

And the woman he cared about far too much. Being a chef at Due South meant everything to Shaye. How could he take that away from her?

Henry rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” He moved out of striking distance, scuttling to the sliding door. “Look—it’s only for the show. Shaye will have a few days off before her sister gets hitched, and once we’ve finished filming, by all means, reinstate her. No harm, no foul.”

“I doubt she’ll see it that way, but I’ll talk to her.”

Henry held up a warning finger. “No. You won’t talk to her about this—not before the shoot today. If you warn her of what’s to happen, it’ll show all over her pretty face. We want her honest reaction, not some farce where she pretends to be shocked and stunned.”

They asked for Del to betray her, to use the trust she’d had in him to do the right thing for Due South against her.

“She’ll be crushed. How can firing Shaye on international television do anything but make me look like a complete asshole?”

“As a
Ward On Fire
contestant, you’re not aiming to be Mr. Nice-Guy.” Henry waved his hand in dismissal. “The viewers need to see you’re tough, to believe you can go from working in a tiny rural shithole, to working in Ethan’s empire. A chef who puts his sous’ tender feelings before business won’t gain any sympathy from the masses. It’s a wolf eat lamb world—show some teeth.”

A month ago, Del would’ve agreed with Henry’s description of his father’s restaurant. But now…

Tying on his apron, the gut twist of apprehension Del felt the first time he’d walked through those kitchen doors had gone. He’d grown accustomed to his father’s system of hand-writing everything down in ledgers, and the way Bill would show up to prep asking for Del’s instructions, as if the man hadn’t done it himself every day for thirty-plus years. He enjoyed swapping kitchen horror stories with Vince, and arguing the merits of rugby versus rugby league with Fraser. Even Shaye’s damn swear jar made Del smile—and yeah, he often deliberately added to it, knowing the local kids needed the extra library books the funds provided.

And today, he’d shit all over what he’d been helping rebuild—not only Due South’s reputation but his fragile relationship with his father and brother—by dismissing the person he believed was Due South’s heart and soul.

But what choice did he have? Say no to Henry, and Del risked the only thing that kept his dad going and potentially removed his brother’s only source of income. So, really, he had no choice. Easier to ask for forgiveness than gain permission. He’d do what Henry asked and make amends to Shaye afterward.

She’d understand.
She had to
.

“Okay. I’ll do it your way.”

“Good.” Henry cocked his head, his dark eyes turning hawk-sharp. “Tell me, is it strictly business between you and Shaye?”

Del dropped his hand from his face, his heart a numb thing still racing far too fast. Like hell would he give the man any more ammunition to use. “Of course. But in two days’ time, I’ve got to stand next to her at my brother’s wedding. She’ll fucking hate my guts.”

Henry tsked. “Family dynamics, eh? Can understand why you moved halfway around the world to avoid them. Still, you’ll be rid of the whole shambling affair in a few weeks. You’re returning to the States, whether you make the finals or not, I take it?”

Was he? Would he just walk away from his dad, leave the old man alone to deal with his health problems? Abandon his mom and now his step-sister Carly—and his brother, who looked at Del as if West were proud they were related?

And Shaye. Who pelted him with cookie dough one moment then touched him with such tenderness that his throat clogged with emotion. The one person who believed in him, who thought him a better man than he was. Would he walk away from her, too?

“Yeah.” The word felt like a grit-covered stone in his mouth. “I’ll be returning to California in a few weeks.”

He had to go. Any decision other than leaving was a stalling tactic. Time for a reality check. He didn’t belong in Due South. He didn’t belong on Stewart Island, period.

Chapter 18

Something was going on with Del.

The man had a burr up his butt all morning, and she couldn’t do a single thing right. If cameras hadn’t been stuck in Shaye’s face, she would’ve socked him in the shoulder and told him to stop being such a bloody asshole—and gladly paid the dollar to do it.

And okay, Del barking orders at her as if she were a first-year student on work experience hurt a teeny bit. This sudden return to
jerktasticness
, she told herself over and over, had nothing to do with the breath-stealing things they did with each other locked away from prying eyes. Maybe on afternoon break she’d sweet-talk him into taking her for a spin on Ford’s bike then ride
him
like a bronco.