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“And your dad? Did he give you a hard time about the video? He seems to be...” He paused in the act of measuring his words. “A total hard ass. Pardon my French.”
“It’s not the dream most guys have for their daughters. Millions watching her get busy with a stranger. All class.”
He grimaced. “Right, I can understand that. I’m sorry—”
“But you’re not.” She could hear his lack of remorse slicing clear through the unresolved sexual tension.
“I’m sorry you feel embarrassed and it’s put you in the doghouse with your father. But I’m not sorry it happened.” He waited a couple of beats, so she could absorb that declaration, or kneel in gratitude, perhaps. “So what else is going on with your dad?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He folded his arms like he was in for the interrogation long haul, and his sleeve hems pulled tight against his biceps. He really should cover those things up.
“That stuff about atheist artists. Il Duce not a fan of naked women?”
Il Duce wasn’t a fan of Lili. “He has that old country, immigrant mentality. Art’s for recreation not for real life.” She waved her hand in explanation but really to calm her rising emotions. “He doesn’t understand how something so intangible can be worthwhile. How it can put bread on the table.”
“But producing food television rates highly?”
The derision in his tone made her bristle. He didn’t get to mock. “Cara’s done well. My parents are very proud of her.”
Those green-gold eyes, all knowing and sharp as a cat’s, softened. “I’m sure they’re proud of you, too.”
Her mother was grateful for Lili’s help, but proud? That wasn’t a word she heard often, not in a house where duty was a given and her father’s precise definition of success colored everything. Cara’s glamorous career represented the pinnacle of achievement in her family’s eyes and all that go-getting and high-flying put Lili’s ambitions in the shade. Not that she could expect someone like Jack Kilroy, with his far-reaching empire, to understand. Her father might not be as successful as Lord Sexpot, but they were cut from the same dough. Arrogant, bossy, and terrifyingly certain.
But right now those certain Kilroy eyes were drilling into her, loaded with compassion.
She hated how he made her feel, that potent mix of vulnerable, hopeful, aroused. His chest looked so strong, his shoulders so welcoming, falling away to strong arms that could banish her problems in one fell sweep. Last night, she had wanted a one-way pleasure ride with a modern-era rake. She’d wanted to get so lost she wouldn’t know where she ended and he began. Now she wanted to be held and soothed.
This was not good. Not good at all.
He picked up a shopping bag near his feet, one she recognized by the red thread twist on the handles as being from the doggie-bag stash at the restaurant, and pulled out a Tupperware container.
“I come bearing gifts. Gelato.”
Did he think she was that easy? Through the container, she spied something creamy shot through with what looked like caramel swirls. Okay, so she was that easy.
“Do you keep an ice box in your trunk for occasions such as this?” she asked.
“No, but I usually scope out the freezers of local restaurants so I can have something sweet on hand. For when I need to impress a girl.”
Laughing, she took the bag from him, careful to avoid his skin.
“Thanks,” she said, and gave her jauntiest swivel away to her front door.
Quickly, he relieved her of the bag. His fingers lingered over hers. “Not so fast.”
Freeing her most bored sigh, she aimed for nonchalance though all the heat in her body was focused on that slight touch. She needed to take control of her emotions and she had the perfect solution. Something she had wanted the moment she’d looked up from her flat-on-her-butt position on the DeLuca kitchen floor and locked eyes with six-foot-two of rock-hard sin.
“Okay, you can come up. On one condition.”
An arrogant smile touched his lips. “What’s that then?”
“Let me photograph you.”
He hadn’t expected that, which was evidenced by how thoughts chased each other across his face. He looked as though he would have preferred another skillet to the head and his reticence, if that’s what it was, suddenly made him fascinating. Dangerously so.
He’s a glazed doughnut, a bundle of empty calories, a walking tabloid, she told her weakening resolve. Think of the models and actresses—and photographers!—scattered like human rubble in his wake. She could treat him like any other subject. Cool, clinical, dispassionate.
