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Sparkling assessment, DeLuca.
“Where’s Laurent? Shouldn’t he be helping you prepare?”
“Couldn’t get his sorry arse out of bed. He claims someone slipped him a mickey at the bar.” He added a curly leaf of arugula atop each of the little pizzas.
“Bowing to the porcelain god all night, was he?”
“Yep. And I heard the doorman at the Hotel Intercontinental needs a new uniform.”
Squashing a giggle at the thought of Laurent barfing all over some unfortunate hotel employee, she was about to offer up a witty riposte when she felt the ground fall away beneath her feet. Jack lifted her onto the counter, and shock, he didn’t even grunt.
How ridiculous! Here she was melting in a girlish puddle because a big strong man lifted her a couple of feet off the ground.
Okay, she was thrilled.
His hands lingered lightly on her waist. “Now, I’m going to feed you,” he said in a rumble so low and sexy that her body translated it as, “Now, I’m going to make love to you.” The cool, stainless steel surface against her thighs did little to counteract the wildfire racing through her blood. Slowly, he moved his palms down her hips and she parted her thighs in readiness.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his green-gold gaze locked on hers.
Her nod was a bare-faced lie; she was the opposite of comfortable, but years of hiding had taught her how to train her expressions. He stepped away, taking his warmth and the scent of lemon-spiced skin.
Anticipation mounted even as the herby, heat-infused aroma of the cooling pizza diminished. Jack held the pizzette up, an invitation to eat from his outstretched hand. Not a chance, mister. She took it from him, anxious to avoid contact, anxious to suppress the memory of his talented hands. A memory still warm and present from last night’s kiss and this morning’s near miss.
A light bloom of flour on the underside of the crust coated her fingers and heat seeped from the mini disc into her skin. Little specks of green sprouted above the snowy, tan-freckled surface. It was just a squiggle of golden-brown onion topped with melted cheese, but right now she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Jack’s gorgeous mug finally had competition.
She bit down, listening for the juice-crunch, that familiar sound of crust and squish. The dough base was perfect. Chewy in the middle, crispy around the edges. The candied tang of sautéed onions assaulted her taste buds, invoking all sorts of happy.
“What do you taste?” he asked.
“Hmm, caramelized Vidalias?” she ventured. He was standing too close to her, his eyes searching her face for signs of yea or nay.
“And?”
“Oregano, for sure. Goat’s cheese?” He might have been sneaky and used feta, but she didn’t think so. Not salty or tangy enough, and feta didn’t look the same when it melted. She stroked her teeth with her tongue, relishing the creamy richness. “Definitely goat.”
“Oui, le chevre. Anything else?”
That little trill of French sent a quake of pleasure barreling down her spine. Not even Laurent’s dulcet tones had such a devastating effect on her. Though Jack could be talking about cleaning out the kitchen grease traps in English, French or Klingon and she’d be drooling like a St. Bernard within seconds.
“Lili, are you still with me?”
She blinked to find him staring at her, the corners of his mouth tipped up.
“I can’t work out that other flavor,” she murmured thoughtfully, trying to cover her drift off to Jacklandia.
“Sariette. It’s called santoreggia in Italian. We use it in French cooking a lot, but it goes well with the oregano, don’t you think?” He pronounced it ori-gahn-oh, and yes, that got her worked up all over again. Get a grip. “Actually, you should tell me if you think it goes well.”
“It’s good,” she said, though he didn’t need to hear it from her.
The assembly line of tastes continued, each more delicious than the last. A tomato consommé with plump, ocean-kissed crab, reminding her of summer visits to the Cinque Terre. Chicken liver crostini slathered in a fig marmalade that melted down her throat. A decadent, lush bruschetta with lobster crème fraîche and prosciutto. Turkey meatballs in a tomato cream sauce so divine she wished she could inject it straight into her veins.
All the while, he talked. Nonstop. About cooking and his favorite dishes and that spark he felt when he created something new. She usually disliked guys who gabbed constantly—heaven knows, she had dated enough of them—but this was different. It wasn’t so much about him, but about his worldview and his quest to make haute cuisine accessible to everyone. He drew her in, asking her questions about flavors that resonated with her and ones that didn’t (there weren’t a whole lot in the latter category). At the hotel, she'd told Jack she liked food, which was a lie. She loved it, and talking about it was the next best thing to eating it.
Correction. Talking about it with Jack. Because she loved talking to him, more than any other guy she could recall.
A frisson of excitement fizzed through her, like the anticipation felt at the beginning of something new, which made no sense because it was coming to an end. Once the show was done, he’d be out of her life and regular programming would be resumed. Perhaps he’d pay a courtesy visit to her father when his Chicago restaurant opened, but the intimacy they had shared, the intimacy they were sharing right this minute, would be nothing more than an ancient memory. An all-encompassing taste that overwhelmed at first, lingered after swallowing, but would fade as time passed.
He made her laugh, he made her feel sexy, and she would miss that. It seemed incredibly unfair that she would have to miss that.
