Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (8 page)

That little exchange told him two things.

It had been far too long since he’d had sex.

And he was officially in trouble.

The silence drew between them like a piñata poised to be hacked down, and he hesitated, knowing he was sending her mixed signals. When you devour a woman with every look, it’s understandable she might have certain expectations. He wanted her, but he also wanted something he couldn’t put a label on. Not yet.

Several thudding heartbeats later, she slid off the stool and pressed her body against his, her soft breasts teasing his ribs and prompting every nerve to revolt. With her hand flat on his chest, she tilted her face up and gave him the full benefit of those baby blues.

“Okay, I’m out,” she said.

“You’re what?”

“I’m out.” Drawing back, she crossed her arms, which plumped up her cleavage to hazmat levels. “Jack, I’m not one for playing games.”

“Neither am I.”

She cocked a generous hip, projecting the don’t-fuck-with-me thing perfectly. “Have you or have you not been staring the bejesus out of me since I brained you with that frying pan?”

“Well, yes—”

“And wouldn’t any girl in my position interpret that as an indication of your interest?”

“I suppose so, but—”

“So you’re all hat, no cattle. Or maybe we got our signals crossed.”

“I thought we were having a nice chat,” he said, sounding like a little old biddy in a tea shop.
A nice chat?

She’d already checked out of their nice chat and was now surveying the crowd.

“Is Laurent still here?” she asked, her gaze taking inventory of the bar.

“Yes, he is but—” His heart stuttered. “Are you taking the piss?”

She fanned her waist with both hands. “Take a good look, Kilroy.”

He took.

“I owe it all to spaghetti.”

“Good line.”

“Sophia Loren,” she said, then added, “She’s an Italian actress,” in case he’d been living under a rock for the last thirty years, he supposed. She gave a wobbly, likely tipsy, pirouette, delivering a taste of all the angles. It was a very, very pleasant view.

“You had your chance, but you blew it. I think your sexy French minion will be more than willing to tap this.” She turned and it took every iota of his strength not to reach out and stroke her very tappable arse. Cup it and squeeze it. Slap it so she cried out in surprise.

“Au revoir,” she said with a racy smile over her shoulder, taking another step away from him and his raging hard-on. Then two more steps and she was out of his immediate orbit on her way toward the jukebox and…shit. Laurent.

That had
not
just happened.

A knot of negativity unraveled within him but he wasn’t ready to call it jealousy. Laurent would be too drunk to know what to do with her, anyway. He followed that bobbing cloud of hair, plowing his way through the wall of bodies that opened and closed behind her like quicksand.

Her little exclamation of disbelief when he grabbed her hand sent warmth spreading through his gut. Without looking at her, he dragged her toward the dim corridor near the restrooms and caged her against the wall, his hand still locked in hers. Not as private as he would have liked but he’d worked with worse. Much worse.

“Now, listen up, caveman,” she panted. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the bloke you do not want to mess with, sweetheart.”

In his head, he had a whole raft of things to tell her, starting with how her cleavage was a menace and how she had better think twice the next time she pulled a stunt like that, but the sight—damn, the experience—of her glowing in the hallway’s shadowy light checked his speech hard.

Breasts heaving, warm, womanly scent filling his mouth and nostrils so he could hardly breathe. Those already moist lips of hers parted and quivered, a microcosm of the shake now pulsing through her entire body.

“Don’t do that again,” he growled, ostensibly a continuation of his mission to reassert control. Sure it was. Somewhere along the way, their joined hands had interlaced and were now pinned to the wall by her cheek. Her hand seemed so small in his and when she squeezed, it felt like the most intimate of pleas. A plea answered when he squeezed back, drawing a spark of relief in her big eyes. And relief was catching because just the knowledge that she wanted him, not Laurent, not some random dick, did it for him right there.

Something caught in his throat as he claimed her mouth. Her name perhaps, more likely a swear. Lips explored, tongues tangled, creating a chemical explosion of sweet that startled his body to glittering life, as if it had been waiting for this moment to wake up. She let out a rough sound that spurred him on, and he redoubled his efforts and kissed her harder.

He coasted his free hand along her hip before, finally, he cupped her magnificent arse, enjoying the flawless fit in his palm. Her body unfurled for him and he hiked her up, then slipped between her legs, filling in the concave space of her sex with his own hardness. He reveled in the sensuous friction of her breasts against his chest. Another guttural sound escaped her, a sound of pure pleasure.

She hooked her leg behind his thigh for leverage and stroked that highly sensitive part of his body with the side of her foot. He moaned against her mouth. Loudly. Dazed, he broke away but didn’t get far because she had a death grip on his hair.

“God, you taste good,” he said, wishing she’d release his hair because his head still hurt from this morning.

She blinked rapidly. “I know—I mean, you too. You taste good, too.”

He ran his tongue along his lips, confirming his findings. It had been so long since a woman had tasted this amazing. Hell, no woman had ever tasted this amazing.

“More,” he grunted.

“God, yes—” But he had already gone in before she could get the words out, because he wasn’t really asking permission. He would never have thought it possible, but the kiss became even more intense as it flowed through his body, buzzing his skin. She must have felt it, too, because she jerked her foot against the back of his leg, dragging another loud moan from him. The slanting pressure of her lips ratcheted up the tightness in his jeans.

He felt the heated trail of her hand between their bodies, down his chest, his abs, to places onward. The kiss expanded to harder, deeper, hotter. Her hand inched below his waistband, tickling his zipper, and Christ on the cross, if that wasn’t amazing. She hovered there, so close to heaven, and his brain and dick cheered her on.
Lower, sweetheart.
Touch me, baby, please
. His erection turned excruciating, and he swallowed a budding groan.

This had to stop.

At last they came up for air and hopefully a splash of cold-faced common sense. Unfortunately, sense had left the building towing any remaining oxygen in its wake. They both stared, hauling air like marathon runners.

“Let’s go back to my place,” she said, low and druggy. “I live over the restaurant.”

Yes.

But.

That’s when the niggle kicked in, not in his jeans where there was no niggle room whatsoever, but in the limbic centers of his brain. The parts that were in charge of lust, sadness, joy, and fear. He wanted her—every inch of him was in agreement on that score—but he had made some promises to himself these last few months, and a fuck-and-forget wasn’t part of the plan. He needed more information.

“Maybe we should slow down. Talk a little first.” She looked befuddled. He tried again. “What happened to getting to know someone?”

She cracked a sexy smile with a side of condescension. “Jack, I’m not looking to know you.”

No, she wasn’t, unless you counted biblically. She was looking for the guy who indiscriminately dated and bedded famous women. A guy whose life could be reduced to adjectives, most of them unflattering.
That
guy.

Really he should be applauding the novelty of meeting a woman unimpressed by his fame, only to find she just wanted him for sex. It sure made for a nice twist on the usual “what can you do for me?” refrain. His gut churned in disappointment. There was some anger folded in there, though he couldn’t be sure if it was directed at her or his own sorry self.

“Lili, this isn’t a good idea.”

She released his hand and it felt all wrong. “It’s not?”

He shook his head and that felt all wrong, too.

“Are you…are you turning me down?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

Her lips formed a soundless O that sent a shiver of dread through him. She raised her hand to her forehead. He agreed wholeheartedly. It was a real face-palm moment, for sure.

“But I thought—” She looked like she’d just found out Santa Claus didn’t exist. Her fingertips stroked feverishly across her collarbone, as though the action might work to spirit her away from here. “Am I not good enough? Am I not…hot enough?”

At the tremor in her voice, he felt an answering lurch in his chest. “Sweetheart, that’s not it. Maybe we could—”

“Don’t sweetheart me.” All the earlier promise of the evening lay closed and shuttered in her tightly held stance. She palmed a light pressure to his shoulder to push him aside. He went easy.

“Lili, you’re a very beautiful woman. This is just moving a little fast.”

“Forget it.” She rubbed a hint of moisture from her kiss-swollen bottom lip, wiping the taste of him from her. It was going to take much more than that to get the sweet memory of her out of his mouth.

Angling around him, she strode back into the bar, and not even her harried gait could disguise that sexy tilt to her hips or the pride with which she carried herself. He could go after her, tell her she’d had a lucky escape and wouldn’t become part of the three-ring circus that was his life. He could tell her the truth, that he was tired of using and being used and he would like to get to know her better. Not that she’d believe him.

He didn’t quite believe it himself.

Chapter Five

Lili was still shaking.

Fifteen minutes ago, she’d experienced both the hottest and most humiliating moments of her life. One right after the other. She jammed the toothbrush into her mouth with such vehemence that she grunted at the abrasive pain.

What in the name of all things good and holy had just happened with Jack Kilroy?

So she wasn’t the brightest spark when it came to men. Exhibit A, Marco Rossi, the man she had mooned over for six pathetic months. She had known it was a lost cause, but at one time the slightest glance from him had been enough to send her into a tizzy of anticipation, which usually fizzled quicker than a damp squib. Thankfully, she was cured of Marco.

Next up, Exhibit B, Jack Kilroy, with his epic chest and his hot mouth. No vaccine available against that. He had walked out of that fridge and into her flat-lining life, dazzling her with that easy smile and stupid accent. Cara and Tad had egged her on, and like an idiot, she had played into their rom-com script.

How could she have mistaken the nuclear heat rolling off the man in waves? The looks that promised he was picturing her naked. The appraisal of her body, first with his eyes, then with his hands. That mouth…that mouth that could do anything and have her begging for more. Begging for him to feast on her neck, her breasts, her belly, her—

The harsh blast of the intercom slashed through her pathetic fantasy. She rinsed the mouth that had just been kissed stupid. No, she could still taste him.
Essence de Kilroy.

She had played a little, teased a lot, added in the empty threat of Laurent, and it had worked. He had followed the sure thing and then proceeded to blindside her. Even if he had been affected by their clinch—and she had definitely felt the affection when he ground his body into her like she was the mortar to his pestle—he clearly had a different agenda.

She hated guys with agendas.

The buzzer sounded again. Living in a neighborhood filled with bars usually guaranteed a few late-night visitors. No one she knew, just idiots who liked to press buzzers on a drunken dare and stumble onto the next target.

A few seconds ticked by. Another buzz. She knew who it was before she’d even pushed the Talk button.

“Yeah?”

“Lili, I need to see you.” Jack’s voice filled the room, crisp, British, and not in the least bit apologetic. Following a moment of silence on her end, he buzzed again. She pressed the button and listened to the ominous crackle.

“Lili, let me in so I can explain.”

She bit down on her lip, praying that might work to stop her from screaming at him. Her finger depressed the Talk button again and caught him midsentence.

“—down and shut up,” he said, followed by incomprehensible muttering.

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” she asked, incensed.

“No, not you.” He sounded distant, like he was underwater; then his voice came in again so clearly that it startled her.

“Sweetheart, I can hear you breathing.” She stopped. Breathing was overrated anyway. “Why don’t you let me come up and we can talk about this like adults?”

Adults? She had wanted to do some very adult things with him and now he wanted to talk. Like adults. That suppressed scream yearned to break free of her throat. She caught muddled snatches of what he said next. Something about Laurent, then a torrent of French gibberish.