All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (19 page)

“Oh, he was good, just not up to your standard.” She gave a crafty smile and took another sip of her scotch.

Not up to your standard.
He couldn’t let it go but he took back the fork first. If he couldn’t grab her hips and grind his body into hers, then it was best to have something else to hold onto. “So he was a bit of a wash then?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He was just a little too…tentative.” She stole the fork from him before he had a chance to take his turn. Her tongue slid across her lips, catching a hint of lemon cream at the corner. Knowing too well how those plump lips tasted was torture, and tonight they wouldn’t just be tart and sweet. They’d also have that smoky imprint from the scotch.

His heart hammered, the pulse finding full expression in his throbbing dick. He grabbed the fork back. “No one’s ever accused me of being tentative,” he said, then shoved in another mouthful so he wouldn’t be tempted to embellish.

She downed the rest of her drink, and her eyes watered. A couple of blinks later, she had the fork out of his hand and was scooping up another bite of the lemon topping. Jesus, all that crust—

“No, you’re about as sure as anyone I’ve ever met, Shane.” She held his gaze, bold as brass. “Who taught you to cook?”

“My aunt Josephine. Well, she wasn’t really my aunt, just a neighbor of my mother’s.” As a kid, he’d hung onto her apron strings in her warm, homey kitchen, begging her to teach him how to make soda bread and fruit cake even when his father had derided him as a sissy for taking an interest. She’d taught him all she knew and when she couldn’t teach him anymore, he got a job after school at O’Connell’s Bakery on Tullamore Street, and when he couldn’t learn anything else from them, he’d gone to culinary school. “She was there for me after my mother died when I was a kid.”

Compassion filled her big blue eyes. “What about your dad?”

“He was around in fits. Spent most of his time in the local pub or the bookie’s betting on the gee gees.” At her blank look, he translated. “The horses.”

Thinking about his father shouldn’t have hurt anymore, but he’d found himself engulfed by his memory these last few weeks. How could he not when faced with evidence of the man’s fecundity in Jack? Those high cheekbones, the strong brow, the hard, angular jaw. Jack was John Sullivan’s son through and through while Shane had taken on his mother’s likeness. Not dark or brooding, it was easy for his father to reject a kid he claimed didn’t look one bit like him.

Cara’s slender finger traced the edge of the countertop, mesmerizing him.

“Is your father still around?”

He spoke around the knot like a dumpling in his throat. “No, he’s dead now. About eighteen months. Early onset Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand over his. It felt warmer than he expected.

“Don’t be. He was a prick.”

When she looked shocked, he realized he had been trying to get a reaction from her. “It’s just…” He squeezed her hand. “John Sullivan was a difficult man to be around.”

“You don’t have the same name as him?”

Damn it, big mouth.
If that got back to Jack…He took a long, hard look at Cara. Her eyes glowed warm and sympathetic, a repository of secrets. She wouldn’t talk about this to anyone.

“He never married my mother. Wouldn’t even admit paternity until after she died and Jo came after him with a rolling pin and the threat of the courts.” Sometimes Shane wished she’d stayed out of it because his father’s manner of claiming came with a price. He may not look like him, but Shane had the scars that branded him as a son of John Sullivan.

Jo thought raising Shane would be the making of Packy, the feckless town drunk. That a child might soften and fine-tune him into a responsible citizen. Irish women of a certain generation still looked on men with indulgence.
Sure, wasn’t the drink to blame? Wasn’t he a demon when he’d had a few bevvies? He can’t be held accountable.
And so on.

He had loved the woman and mourned her death three years back but there was only so much he could take of the apologia for the species known as
Irish homo sapiens drunkus
. And that he had allowed himself to lose control in Vegas was the ultimate insult. He was more like the old man than he wanted to think. All Jo’s nurture couldn’t overcome the nature.

Cara’s soft voice brought him back. “It sounds like you had a hard time of it.”

Releasing her hand, he balled his fist to stop the automatic reflex to rub his scar. “He was a small-minded, nasty drunk who didn’t think much of a son who wanted to bake for a living. Women’s work. Definitely not manly enough for my father.”

“But you wanted to make it your life—it really speaks to you, doesn’t it? Food.”

He looked up, surprised at her question, but also not really. Cara was sharp. She saw things other people didn’t notice. “Yes, it does. Food means a lot to me.”

Cooking and eating with Jo and her big, noisy family had got him through the tougher times, though he would probably never have thought to make it a career until he found out about Jack. Knowing about his brother deepened Shane’s commitment to food and created an invisible connection to a man he had never met. It seemed silly when he put it like that, but there it was. Only later did the resentment toward Jack set in bone-deep. Resentment he knew was downright absurd—how can you blame a man for not being around to save you if he doesn’t even know you exist?

Cara’s smile was a little crooked. “You sound like a DeLuca. They’re all food-obsessed.”

Interesting how she set herself apart from her family. “But not you?”

“With the DeLucas, it’s expected that you glorify the gnocchi, bow down to the bucatini.” She made a supplicant’s gesture with both hands. “People who don’t cook or bake are considered highly suspect in the Italian culture, especially if you’re a woman. As for whether it’s manly or not…A piece of your cake can hit a woman’s sweet spot and take her to a higher plane. For some women, it’s better than sex. If that’s not the definition of what it means to be a man, then we need to find a better dictionary.”

Shit, that booze must have gone straight to her head. Too late, he remembered that mixing morels with alcohol could have weird effects.

“I’d be the first to tell you my desserts have taken women to places unimaginable—sure, every night, I can hear the moans in the dining room from in here—but if you think a piece of cake is better than sex, then you’ve not met the right man.”

Color suffused her cheeks, looking so pretty on her he ached to run the backs of his fingers against her skin to catch her warmth. The air was so thick with the sex and need sparking between them that he expected he might combust any minute. Or his jeans would.

Slipping off the stool, she treaded carefully to the sink with her fork in hand. Something about her bare feet tugged sharply at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her senseless and hold her tight against his raging body.

But she was buzzed and she needed air. They both did.

“Come on, Cara. Time to go home.”

*  *  *

You haven’t met the right man.
It had sounded like an invitation but then he followed it up with a stop-her-dead glare and an order to go home. Had they not just done a spot of sexy cooking-cum-sharing? How could she have completely misread the signals again?

“I’ll just grab my purse and car keys,” she murmured, keeping her head down while she futzed with her shoes. Craptastic, now her feet had swollen too large to fit back into their cages.

“Okay to the purse but you won’t need your keys. You’re on the bike with me.”

Her breath caught, and she was unsure whether she should credit his steel-voiced presumption or the excitement of knowing what her thighs would be gripping for the next twenty minutes. She jerked her mind away from that thought and let another slide in to take its place.

This doofus thought she was drunk.

“I’m perfectly sober,” she said, meaning it. So she might have taken an indecent slug of her grappa stash earlier to calm her Shane-frazzled nerves, and a couple spoonfuls of scotch had since branded her throat. But after eating, she actually felt clearer headed than she had in some time, which was saying something considering the tumult her entire body was undergoing.

“Go get your stuff,” he said firmly. Bad-cop Shane was back on the case.

A cloudless, moon-bright sky greeted her when she stepped outside to the empty street, the night air pleasantly cool against her skin. While she waited for Shane to set the alarm and lock up, she allowed a lazy gaze down her body. Damn, she was popping out of her blouse and her skirt was hitched so high spectators could skip the sights in France and go straight to her underwear. Hastily, she grasped at her undone buttons but froze when an agreeable weight fell on her shoulders. The scent of Shane’s leather jacket, now warming her skin, reached her nostrils. How could a piece of clothing smell that good?

Not the clothing. Just the man.

“Put this on, it’ll keep you warm,” he said softly against her ear.

Maybe, but she knew what she’d rather be wearing.
Eau de Shane
, drenched all over her body.
Cut it out
, she told her brain, while her other body parts got the mutiny underway by appointing union reps to stand up to the management.

Obediently, she slipped into the jacket with his help. He spun her around and zipped her up slowly. Slow enough that there was no missing how his gaze lingered like a kiss on her half-exposed breasts. It was sexual but, as always with Shane, it was more. Every look held infinite promise.

Then he put that stupid helmet on her head and she knew the pain of all those extras who had played Stormtroopers.

“Do I have to wear it?” she whined.

“Your head is precious to me.”

Oh, that was so…

“Lame.” Not the politest reaction but when doubts as to whether you’re getting lucky take over, one’s mood tends to sour.

“I know, but it’s true. I’m going to have to get you your own helmet.” His licentious gaze traveled down her body. “Need help with your skirt?”

“Excuse me?”

His grin was a wicked, slow burn, the first since he had trampled the sexy vibe back in Sarriette’s kitchen. “Need help turning it into straddle mode?”

She stared but the charmingly crooked grin remained fixed on his face. Maybe he couldn’t see her stabby eyes with the headgear. She shot a condemning look at the death machine, then hitched up her skirt a couple more inches with a what-the-hell. At this rate, she was fast on her way to a new career on the pole.

He threw a long leg over. She did likewise but a lot less gracefully, and then it was,
Ladies, start your engines
. A long, pulsing shiver coursed through her. She found herself excited, nervous. Horny.

Oh God.

“Hold on.” He waited until she slid her arms around his waist and settled her body against his. Why did she have to wear the helmet? While the wafting leather-and-man scent was divine, she had a notion it might be better times infinity if she could lay her cheek against the snugly woven muscles of his back.

To her surprise, he headed east toward the city instead of taking one of the major arteries north to home. Though she had seen the Chicago skyline a million times before, this viewpoint gave it a new vibrancy, making it bold and bright, grandly epic, impossibly romantic. The wind lashed through his overlong hair and she wished she was brave enough to let go one hand to touch it.

Moments later, they were speeding along Lower Wacker Drive through the underworld beneath the city. The sounds of the bike echoed off the walls around them, the street above, the body that didn’t feel like it belonged to her. They emerged onto Columbus heading for Lake Shore and the liberation of returning to aboveground shook her mind free, sprinkling her thoughts on the breeze whipping against her legs. Barely an inch of a breath separated her body from Shane’s. She gripped her thighs tighter and thought she felt his stomach strain taut beneath her hands.

This intimacy should have scared her, but in truth it was a fakery. She was holding on for dear life so she wouldn’t, well, die. Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in the moment and imagined what it might be like. Her real husband. Her real lover. Her reality.

They came to a smooth stop. Home at last and it was far too soon.

He didn’t appear to be in a hurry to get off the motorcycle and she went with the flow, holding on but not as tight as before because that would have been weird. He laced his fingers through hers.

“Cold?” It came out gruff.

She shook her head, brushing the helmet across his back. In unspoken agreement, their joined hands moved over his rigid abs and his hard chest. As for who was leading the tour, she couldn’t say. Okay, it was all her, but she held onto the illusion of a spirit forcing the play of her hands on the Ouija board of his body. When they reached his pecs, he expelled a sharp hiss that shot spears of want to her sex.

Reluctantly, she pulled her hands away from his warmth and removed the helmet. With ramshackle legs, she climbed off the bike. Would he take control like he had the night of the line dancing? Would she wrest it back? Would she want to?

He snaked an arm around her waist and drew her into his hard side. Dipping his hand to the curve of her butt, he gave a gentle squeeze and propelled her forward. In his eyes, she saw hazy lust that sent her bones on an unauthorized leave of absence. The helmet slipped from her shaking fingers.
Thud.