All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (23 page)

“I told you how it was, Shane. You agreed.” She headed to the bedroom and busied her trembling hands—the ones that had already proved themselves tricky little turncoats—with picking up his clothes and boots. She might have taken a moment to inhale his shirt’s rich, clean scent.

In the kitchen, he stood with hat on head and hands on hips. The hips she wanted to lick.

Stop. It.

“I screwed up, didn’t I? With my demands for food?” His mouth turned down in regret. “It slipped my mind, or more likely you screwed it out of my brain. You’re going to have to tell me more about this anorexia business.”

That he had forgotten was the most wonderful thing he could have said but now he remembered and everything was weird again. She was no good at this. There were too many mines to navigate.

“It’s not verboten, Shane. Of course you can talk about food. That’s not the problem.” The problem was the expectation underlying a full fridge, that she could feed and nurture others, or more to the point, that she couldn’t.

“I thought we were having a good time here.”

“We are.” She shook her head, correcting herself. “We were. Now you go.”

Her gaze fell to his towel, tented so high she could hang that sexy Stetson on it. The sight made her maddeningly moist, a word she hated with a passion but that was unfortunately apt. , She stumbled toward the front door and, on legs like swaying reeds, waited for him to follow.

“Cara, are you seriously telling me that a woman such as yourself is going to be satisfied with just a couple of orgasms? I refuse to believe it.”

Five orgasms, actually, but who was counting? She fumbled with the door. “Believe, Shane.”

“Can’t say I approve of this behavior, which is clearly against your self-interest.”

Acting against her self-interest was old Cara. New, healthy,
sane
Cara had to eliminate anything and anyone who threatened her mental well-being. Shane Doyle was enemy number one as far as her rationality was concerned. So what if he claimed interest in her problems or made her feel good in ways she could never have imagined? Before long, he would bore of her weird habits and neediness, and by then, she would be in too deep. She was already half in love with him.

She threw open the door and held out his clothes. When he crossed his arms defiantly, she deposited them in the hallway. The memory of Shane hanging her clothes with kindness tried to take hold but she shoved it to the back of her mind’s closet like a cashmere turtleneck in July.

“It’s been great,” she said sweetly to the man responsible for the most wonderful experience of her life.

He wore the least sweet expression possible. She would venture to say he was glowering except Shane didn’t, as a rule, glower. Expecting further verbal resistance, he surprised her by laying one on her and leaving her scrounging for air.

“When’s your next night off?” he tossed out like they had just finished a few rounds of gin rummy instead of…well, what they had done.

That confirmed it.
Out, damn Shane, out.

With a wobbly hand, she pointed to his door. Sighing dramatically, he crossed her threshold and turned to say something else. Ah-ah, Mr. Gift of the Gab. She closed up shop.

Oh, wait. She opened up to find him standing in profile, keys in hand, apartment door ajar. His mouth formed a grim seal matching the stiff line of his body but lifted in a curve when he saw her. The lump of ragged fluff, that could only be called a cat if one were in a charitable mood, had escaped into the hallway.

“Vegas, get back inside,” he ordered the cat.

He called the cat Vegas? The man was clearly determined to drive her over the edge.

No.

More.

He shot her a wry grin. “Come to your senses?”

From behind the door, she pulled out a manila envelope and shoved it at him. “Sure have. Sign, and get them back to me as soon as you can.”

As his hand curled around the envelope, recognition dawned on his face closely followed by discomfort. Just enough to make her stomach turn over with guilt. Vegas, that opportunistic fur ball, saw the writing on the wall and slipped by her legs.

Shane speared a look of disgust at the ragged feline. “Traitor.”

And because she was Cara DeLuca—ballbuster, Lemon Tart, and damn proud of her luxury hotel bath collection—she whipped that very expensive towel from his hips, and indulged in one last look at all that hard glory.

Then she hardened every part of herself and shut the door once more.

Chapter 11

Shane, you’re up.”

Jack threw a lazy look at Shane that still managed to appear pointed, letting him know it was his turn to preview tonight’s desserts to the crew during family meal. Most of them were still nose-deep in the boss’s King Edward mussels in saffron and white wine broth. That wouldn’t last for long.

From behind his perch at the Sarriette bar, Shane pulled out the special sweet and laid it on the center table around which most of the crew had gathered in the main dining room. He offered an intact one for presentation’s sake, a helping of devilry the size of a hockey puck, and another one that was already segmented into bite-sized morsels.

“Chocolate ganache cake with a lemon-basil filling. I call it Bella Donna.”

It was definitely a thing of beauty. For a while he’d been experimenting with cream fillings and this one was his best yet—a citrus-herbal combination that might be just as well suited to an Italian chicken dinner. But with the decadent richness of the Valrhona chocolate, new dimensions of flavor were released. This filling made the chocolate taste better, which was a feat in itself.

The crew agreed.

“Amazing,” Aaron gushed, then clashed forks with Maisey as they both went in for another bite.

Mona shook her head despondently. “I may as well just give up. I’m never going to be this good.”

The rest of the brigade muttered curses of appreciation interspersed with orgasmic moans. Mission successful.

“Looks like another winner,” Jack said evenly. He was the only one not to have tried it, which irked Shane more than it should have. “But we don’t give our desserts names. And isn’t belladonna a poisonous herb?”

“A plant actually. It also means—”

“Beautiful woman,” Jack finished, just as Cara swayed in wearing nosebleed heels and a skirt so tight Shane would need a crowbar to pry her out of it.

All turned to the perfect wave of her, their eyes filled with jealousy and admiration that most women as attractive as Cara would see as their due. But after last night, Shane was beginning to wonder about Cara’s expectations and that tough-girl varnish she wore because when he held her in his arms, he had seen her fear and uncertainty. She hadn’t wanted him to stay because it was easier to draw a line under it. Draw a line under them.

The memory of how she had come apart for him over and over was all the more special because she had trusted him with something so fundamental. He still couldn’t believe she hadn’t told anyone about her anorexia. He still couldn’t believe she had told
him
.

And then he fucked it up by demanding sandwiches.

Their gazes fused, just like their bodies had last night, and color fired her cheeks. Usually she would walk right by, parsing out that cool smile like a miser parts with pennies, leaving the crew to their assumptions. Lemon Tart, lesbian, stuck up. She didn’t seem to care. But today she halted, her eyes shuttering in the face of his stare. He drank in those dark blonde eyelashes that fanned her cheeks like feathery crescent-shaped Madeleines.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, easy-like, as if she shot the shit with the gang all the time. She picked up a crust of garlic toast, dipped it in the fragrant mussel broth, and raised it to her mouth. “Hm, you’ve outdone yourself with this, Jack,” she murmured around her chewing.

“Pleased you could join us,” Jack said, his expression curiously paternal. Strange, but that was the first word that popped into Shane’s head.

Shane stood and gestured to his seat, at which Cara raised a perfectly plucked, or perhaps it was waxed, eyebrow of
Not this again, idiot
. She ducked her head as she sat and picked up a fork, her lips’ upward tilt a private joke between them.

The crew had resumed their ribbing about some nonsense to which Shane was no longer paying attention. He couldn’t hear or see anything else, not while Cara was slicing through his dessert and passing it between her lips.

He held his breath. She swallowed. He let it go.

“Nice filling, Irish.”

“I aim to please.”

“Color this girl a fan of your work.” Her tongue swiped the corner of her mouth, a dainty little dip that made him smile and harden at the same time. “Nice to see someone doing something different with Italian flavors. Thinking outside the box.”

“I’ve never been one for rules.” He emphasized the last word. “I like to push the limits. See where it takes me.”

There was a flash in those blue eyes, a warm-up from Arctic to Mediterranean. He gripped the back of her chair and watched the knuckle-white play of his hand. What would she do if he reached out and palmed the graceful curve of her neck, so bare and inviting? As bare and inviting as her sweet, pink—
don’t torture yourself, man.

Bending, he brushed his lips close to her ear. “One bite’s not going to be enough.”

In her tilted-up eyes, he read a startling determination. “You might like to push the limits, Shane, but some of us are all too aware of ours.”

This morning he had done some online research about anorexia and learned that, while body image and self-esteem played a part, the need for control was just as important. Lately Cara had indulged in a few things outside her comfort zone: motorcycle rides, line dancing, sexy cooking lessons, marriage to a complete stranger. Framing this with rules was her way of taking charge. Moderation in all things—food, sex, life—kept her on the straight and narrow. But if she was going to overindulge, binge, or lose her grip, by God, it should be with him.

She floated to a stand and again all eyes rested on her. “Have a good service, everyone.”

“Enjoy girls’ night,” Jack said. “And try not to leave my fiancée catatonic on the sofa.”

“Aww, Jack,” Cara purred. “Sounds like you’re worried the vino will loosen her lips and we’ll end up talking about you and your huge…talent. Let me assure you, Lili and I exhausted that topic within thirty seconds of your hooking up. Now all we talk about are your shortcomings.”

On that final poke, she was five long strides to the door while the crew hooted, more in disbelief than anything else. High and mighty Cara joking around. With a grin and a head shake, Jack clapped his hands and ordered everyone to places.

Shane scooped up a couple of stray plates at the bar and tried to calm his organs the hell down. Pissed off, confused, and horny about summed it up. A one-off she had said, but then she walked in wearing that second-skin skirt—which she knew he loved!—and had the audacity to flirt with him while eating his dessert. The one she had inspired. Rich and decadent. Citrus Italian. His
bella donna
.

Was she feeling lighter of heart because she’d had an awesome night of hot lovin’ from Yours Truly or was her improved mood down to something else more unsettling? Maybe the fact that she had seized control of a tricky situation—again, Yours Truly—and put it behind her. Not just drawn a line under the problem, but struck it through. All he had to do was sign those annulment papers and make her Shane-free dreams a reality.

Looked like one of them had this separating-it-out thing down pat, and it sure as hell wasn’t him.

*  *  *

Cara slipped into a seat at the island in Lili’s kitchen, her olfactory glands pumped and primed. Was it really possible that food smelled more appetizing now that she’d finally had a decent orgasm? If only she had known.

“What are we eating?”

Lili popped the cork from the red and grabbed a couple of wine glasses from the rack above the island. “One of Jules’s pizza experiments. Roasted summer squash, thyme, and buffalo mozzarella. Some of her stuff is amazing. I swear she could give Jack a run for his money.”

“Jack would take all the credit. The Kilroy genes.”

Lili snickered. “You know it.”

She poured a healthy measure of Montepulciano and slid the glass in Cara’s direction. It had been a while since they’d had a girls’ night in or out. Not since…sigh, Vegas. Acutely conscious of what had happened the last time she went off the sobersides reservation, she held off on taking a sip in case she let slip any of her secrets, specifically her matrimonial ones.

Pulling out her binder, Cara let the soothing power of a nicely organized set of papers wash over her and set her straight.
My precious.
Some people had odd sexual fetishes; Cara had office supplies.

“So, I’ve got the city permit for the photographs at Buckingham Fountain. And I’m still waiting on a quote from one of the carriage providers, but this is what I’m thinking.” She flipped open to the transportation section, where she had printouts of the antique coaches. Several printouts.

“Now, we could go with something Jane Austen style.” She pointed at the open-topped carriages that all screamed
Masterpiece Theatre
. “Jack would probably look good in a topcoat and Mr. Darcy sideburns.”