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“Come here,” he said, pulling her back into the reality of hot male at close quarters. At the stove, he tested a pan with a few drops of water then a couple of shards of butter, eyeing it carefully while the fat melted and bubbled. His hands shaved garlic, working fast, and she imagined they would do wonderful things to her body. When he threw in the slivers, the aroma exploded, dragging her closer. By the time he’d added a chopped chili pepper and dropped in several jumbo shrimp, tails still on, she was practically on top of the stove.
Down, girl.
The shrimp pinked up perfectly, and he held one by the tail and bit into it. “Hmm, that’s the stuff,” he murmured as he offered the remainder to her.
“No, you’re okay. Remember, I’m trying to cut out bad influences and that includes death foods like butter.” And you, she thought, keenly mindful that letting him feed her would stir up all sorts of sultry sensation deep south.
He muttered something in French. She responded with her blankest, least-turned-on look, and silently congratulated herself. Mistress of her domain.
“Butter. Give me butter. Always butter,” he translated. “That was the mantra of Fernand Point, a great French chef who died about fifty years ago.”
“Let me guess. He keeled over after a madeleine binge.”
The shrimp still beckoned so she surrendered, placing her hand over his while she bit down on the chili and garlic-encrusted crescent of joy. God, so good. A trickle of melted butter drooled from the corner of her mouth and his thumb was immediately there, sneaky-fast, wiping it away. He dawdled, dragging her bottom lip down gently. A wild yet insistent pulse started deep within her.
His eyes bored into her and she pulled away, but her retreat was only physical. Riveted, she stared, hunger gnawing at her that was completely unrelated to food. He licked the butter from his thumb. The same thumb she wished was jammed inside her mouth this very minute.
“It’s okay to admit it, you know,” he said quietly. Her breath caught. “Admit what?”
“That you like my food,” though they both knew that wasn’t what he meant.
She held his molten gaze. “We’re in a contest tomorrow night and I can’t be seen giving comfort to the enemy. It’s best we keep this on a professional level, don’t you think?”
“So, no flirting.” He stepped in. Pretty damn flirty. She backpedaled.
“No flirting.”
Two more steps to make up for her withdrawal, and he cupped her jaw. The spread of his warm fingers along the curve of her neck was unbelievably sensual.
“Or kissing,” he said.
Her body acted fairly predictably to his provocation before what was left of her brain took over and insisted that her hormones would not be the boss of her. Little suckers refused to play ball but she talked up her best game.
“Especially not kissing.” She moved out of his reach. “Haven’t you heard? You’re bad news, Jack Kilroy. It’s all over the Internet.”
Discomfort brushed across his features. Her stomach pitched in guilt but she made her back a titanium rod and steeled her resolve. Better a little upset now than a bellyful of heartache later.
Sixteen
Jack was living in a world of hurt. With each swallow beneath the golden skin at Lili’s throat, a corresponding beat kicked up at every pulse point of his body. With every whimper of approval, he had become unbearably aroused. Lili was so turned on by food, was so turned on by his food, it was driving him insane. When a woman moaned like that and his fingers, tongue or anything else wasn't already buried inside her, it got his attention. It got his dick’s attention.
And he was finding it impossible to hide, salivating all over her like a dog tethered six inches from a T-bone. He needed to dial it down. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He’d already cocked up royally when he lost all control and mauled her in that bar, bringing shame on her family and probably some gypsy curse on himself. Now she’d made it clear his advances were as welcome as sand in Bluepoint oysters.
Hastily, he targeted a more neutral topic. “So, do you cook yourself?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes, but when you have a bossy master chef around, it’s usually best to let him do his thing.”
“Tony’s a bit of tyrant in the kitchen?”
“Aren’t all head chefs? Their way or the highway?”
“Not me. I’m more the nurturing type.”
One of her eyebrows flew up, and he laughed. “Nah, I’m a tyrant too, though it’s been a while.”
He wondered how the brigade at Thyme was getting on and felt that twinge of guilt in his gut, a far too common feeling these days. Clarence, his garde manger who made the best duck liver pâté Jack had ever tasted. Derry, his poissonier, telling dirty jokes while he filleted a trout in thirty seconds flat. Marguerite, his pâtissier, who’d just had her first child. She’d asked Laurent to be godfather and while every irreligious bone in Jack’s body should have been fine with that, his heart keened at being passed over for his sous chef. His kitchen crews were as close to family as any man could ask for, but lately, those relationships had been tested as his life became increasingly centered around the TV shows and all the crap they entailed.
“I miss it,” he said under his breath. He chanced a glance and found Lili staring at him. “I could do with your help,” he tacked on quickly.
