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“What do you think of him?” Cara asked, dragging Lili’s thoughts reluctantly back to Jack Kilroy. “He gives good handsome, right?”
Lili gave a noncommittal shrug that did little to divest her shoulders of worry. Her sister had been drinking Jack Kilroy’s Kool-Aid ever since her New York company, Foodie Productions, began handling his show back in January. It had been a real coup for Cara to get the gig and to hear her sister speak, the future of mankind was riding on it. Though, how someone who despised food made her living producing food television was one of life’s great mysteries.
In the interests of sisterly peace, Lili decided to feign some interest. “So why is he cooking in someone else's restaurant and not in a studio like the other hack chefs you see on TV? I'm surprised Lord Studly would be caught dead in a place like this.”
“On occasion, Lord Studly is happy to lower himself to the level of the great unwashed.” That accented voice swept over her like cut crystal. It really should come with a government health warning.
She turned and got the full blast. Wow, if he wasn’t the incarnation of sin-on-a-stick.
Focus on the face, she told herself as her photographer eye drank in more details. A smattering of freckles dotted across his nose. A scar on his chin that was probably airbrushed out of magazine covers. And beautiful eyelashes, like silken, inky strands fringing his green eyes. Live-and-up-close Jack was much more impressive than small-screen Jack. She wondered how he might fare under her camera’s gaze. Very well, she suspected.
Too late, she realized she was gawping, but funnily enough, he was gawping right back.
Braining someone with cast iron cookware was starting to look like a viable pick-up strategy. She drew the edges of her sweater closer together. The scratchy brush of the wool heightened the new sensitivity of her skin, which felt like sunburn under Jack’s ferocious gaze.
He blinked and held out her Vespa helmet. “Yours, I presume?”
She took it with a shaky hand, relieved to see her camera and phone were still safe inside. “Thanks,” she muttered, wishing he didn’t turn her into such a gloopy mess.
“You rode a motor bike in that get-up?”
“A scooter, actually. What of it?”
“Just building a picture in my head.”
Oh, for... never mind. She swiped all expression from her face. “The show?”
“Well,” Cara said. “Here's the premise.” She leaned forward as if she was making a pitch to a Hollywood producer. “It's a cooking contest pitting Jack against a host chef in a cuisine he's not so familiar with. Jack's specialty, of course, is French, so he's going up against other cuisines,
preparing a brand new menu and serving it to real restaurant customers. He'll be competing against Dad, and whoever gets the most votes wins. Simple, right? The show's brand new. It's called Jack of All Trades and DeLuca’s is going to be on the premiere episode!”
Lili settled in against the desk and switched her attention to Jack, who lounged against the doorframe with an easy, devil-be-damned grace that said he was above it all.
Her father had won awards—Chicago Magazine’s Best Italian, two years running, albeit over ten years ago—and chefs came from far and wide to learn the secrets of his gnocchi. He was the true kitchen genius, not this jumped up Limey who coasted on his charm and cheek bones. Time to get her game face on. Never too early to start the trash talking.
“So, not so hot at la cucina Italiana, then?”
He appeared to be thinking hard about that, so Cara jumped into the pause. “There’s also a twist. Jack gets to pick his own appetizers and dessert, but Dad chooses the pastas and the entrées for both chefs. And doesn’t tell Jack until the day of the contest.”
Better and better. Lili could think of several dishes that could pose last-minute problems.
This might be fun. Her gaze traveled the long, lean body of British Beefcake.
This might be a whole lot of fun.
“Oh, you’re going down,” Lili said, then winced as she realized that could be interpreted as flirty. So not her intention, especially as she sucked soccer balls at flirty.
Evidently he hadn’t got the memo because his face lit up with a traffic-stopping smile. He probably had a million risqué comebacks on tap but he let that killer smile do all the work.
Seeing it in person made a girl feel incredibly lucky.
He moved into the cramped office, inching closer like a jungle cat stalking something small and defenseless. While she was in no way defenseless, and no one would ever have characterized her as small, there was still something rather daunting about how he filled a space. Especially a confined space. A flushing tingle spread through her body and her nipples tightened. Although he couldn’t possibly have seen that, he cocked his head and considered her as if he had. As if her body’s reaction to him was the only possible response to a smile that dangerous.
“You think I have something to worry about?” he said in a tone that made it clear he had this one covered, honey.
Irritation over her hormonal meltdown turned her surly. “Oh, yeah. My father’s going to take you to the woodshed, Britboy.”
A slight twitch appeared like an errant comma at the corner of his no-longer-smiling mouth. “Don't worry, sweetheart, I think Britboy can cook a bowl of linguine and melt some mozzarella over a slab of veal. Italian's not the most challenging of cuisines, no offense to your father, and any restaurant would kill to be featured on my show. It's a guaranteed seat-filler for the next six months.”
