All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (39 page)

He drew her into him and enveloped her in his strong, safe arms. “Do you feel it, LT?”

“Yes,” she whispered against the sensual curve of his lips. “I do.” There she went again with marriage on the brain.

He raised her chin with his fingertips and stared into her eyes, all intense and romantic. “How drunk are you?”

“Absolutely hammered.” On lust, on love, on life. She hooked her hand behind his neck and let her fingers play through his overlong hair. “I love you, Shane.”

“Ah, sure don’t I love you, gorgeous?”

His kiss turned her bones to jelly and she thanked her stars he was holding her fast through her pleasure-drunk haze. Once he had let her come up for air, he tipped an imaginary hat brim and delivered a cowboy squint.

“I do believe it’s time to take a stroll with my good lady and see all the purty lights.”

His American accent was terrible, but that was okay. Underneath it all, he had an even sexier one and a heart bigger than anyone she knew.

Epilogue

It was the most beautiful wedding cake Shane had ever seen—and tasted. After all, he had made it and he was a damn fine pastry chef.

He turned to the blonde bombshell by his side, who was doing a poor job of pretending she wasn’t interested in the slice of sweetness adorning the fine china plate before him.

“LT, if you want some, just say so.” Predictably, she had skipped the pasta course, but the chicken entrée, not plain but seasoned with a white wine and caper sauce, had met with her approval. Baby steps.

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “Oh, okay then. Just a bite.”

With almost ritualistic care, he cut into the triangle of pineapple mascarpone and only when he was satisfied he had an appropriate frosting-to-cake ratio did he raise it to her mouth. Those lush lips parted, and she swiped her pretty pink tongue over them. Slowly.

“Stop it,” he murmured.

“Stop what?”

She was determined to kill him. “You know what. Now do you want the cake or not?”

She opened that pert, sensuous mouth, accepted his offering, and licked her full, pink lips. He groaned. Shane went back and forth about his favorite Cara body parts, but her lips were definitely top three today.

“Whatcha think? Does it meet your exacting standards?”

“Not bad,” she said around her chewing. “Should have gone with the Bella Donna, though.”

Of course she would want the masterpiece inspired by her. He looked over to his brother, who was leading his bride in a spin around the dance floor, having just narrowly avoided Maisey and Dennis-the-extern. Jack danced better than he sang, which wasn’t saying much.

“Unfortunately, the clients get to have some say in the matter, woman. You’re going to have to get used to that.”

“Freaking clients. Always gumming up the works.” Leaning in, she swiped at his lip and dipped her thumb in her mouth. Jesus, that mouth. “At least I’ll have you on hand to charm our future clients’ socks off with that sexy brogue.”

He grinned. “I’m supposed to be making orgasm-producing cakes, but if I must be trotted out like a sex puppet to sweet talk Chicago’s cougar matriarchs and hot brides, I suppose I can suffer under those work conditions.”

The details were still being sketched out, but DeLuca Doyle Special Events was expected to be up and running by the end of the summer. Working with his ex-wife, a marital status he hoped to rectify very soon, was more than he could ever have hoped for and he’d have the best of both worlds as he planned to stay on at Sarriette part-time.

“Centerpieces turned out well,” Cara said, gesturing with her fork to his sugar sculpture of an Amazonian brunette clad in red, blue, and gold, capturing a man with her lasso. The happy couple had enjoyed that reference to their first meet immensely. Neither had it escaped Shane’s notice that a couple of the pieces were already missing from other tables. Well, he’d won awards.

“That reminds me…don’t move an inch.” He hopped up and strode purposefully to the bar. Once back at the table, he placed a large white cardboard box before his puzzled woman. “Planner’s got to have some perks.”

With an abundance of caution, she flipped up the lid while he unhooked the interlocked side flaps so she wouldn’t have to take it out and risk destroying the delicate work. He wanted to ensure no breakage so she got the full effect.

She turned to him, her eyes shiny. “Shane, it’s beautiful.”

“I thought you might like a souvenir of the last couple months, apart from the Vegas souvenir of a hot ex-husband.” He gestured to the first figure on the sugary carousel: a man lying prostrate with a cool, elegant blonde standing over him in victory, her gravity-mocking heel flat on his chest. “Our wedding.”

Her lips twitched. “This makes me look like a big game hunter and you look like the spoils.”

“Shot through the heart, LT.” The next set portrayed a line-dancing couple complete with boots and cowboy hats. “Our first date.”

She sighed. “Funny how you’re standing tall and proud and I’m hunched over like I might fall down any minute.”

“Reality bites, Cara. If you want to prove me wrong, I can always chat with the DJ and get some country going. You can show us your killer moves.”

She giggled. “These people aren’t ready for the likes of me.”

The rest of the sculptures covered further momentous chapters in their story so far: the motorcycle ride that night she told him about her anorexia and they made love for the first time, Shane’s painful conversation with a muddy field, the cover of Jack and Tony’s cookbook (the detail for that one was a bitch). He had also created a strikingly close rendition of Vegas the cat.

“You’ve even got little Evan,” she said, her finger gingerly touching the infant cradled in the arms of a blonde beauty.

“Not Evan. That’s a memory we haven’t made yet.”

She blinked and looked at him, then back at the sculpture.

His heart expanded in his chest, pumping blood to everywhere that needed it. “I meant what I said, Cara. I want a child with you. In fact, I want a whole brood of little Paddys and Colleens and I’d rather not wait.”

He hoped he hadn’t overstepped the mark. He’d gladly hop on the next flight to Vegas but he knew Cara would need time to plan something she had been jonesing for since she was a little girl. At least she wouldn’t have to buy a new dress; Lili had vowed that once she hit the honeymoon suite upstairs, she would pack up their mother’s gown carefully to pass on to her sister. A new DeLuca tradition. Waiting a year to call Cara his wife—again—would be excruciating but if he had his child on the way, he might just about manage to bear up.

“With the new business…” She hesitated and looked at the sculpture again. “How would we find the time?”

“Come here to me, darlin’,” he said and pulled her into his lap. She curled into the crook of his neck, fitting him so well he sighed at the perfection of it all.

“Have I told you how much I love these shoulders?” He lay soft, feathery kisses along the round of one of her gorgeous, creamy-gold shoulders.

Her expression was skeptical, but patient. By now, she was used to his winding way of explaining things. “You might have mentioned it.”

“How they curve and slope and drive me crazy with lust?”

“You’re lusting after my shoulders?”

“I am, but almost as important as being the objects of my crazed lust, they’re also the strongest shoulders I’ve ever seen,” he said. “You could lift sacks of potatoes on those shoulders.”

“Shane…”

“No, listen up. They have to be strong because you’re carrying the weight of the world on them. I’m here to tell you to let them just be beautiful once in a while.” He kissed her slow and sweet, only unlocking his lips when she answered with a throaty moan.

“Now, look around you.”

She scanned the ballroom, and he followed her gaze, drinking in the sight of his new family cutting loose. Tony and Francesca, Sylvia and Tad, Jules and Evan, Jack and Lili, even Uncle Aldo, who had flown in from Florence and got busy pinching as many plump arse cheeks as he could find. Two days ago, Shane had held Cara’s hand while she shared with her parents the CliffNotes version of what she had suffered as a teen and a young woman. There had been waterworks and hugs and not one scintilla of judgment. The DeLucas were top people.

But his girl would always be hardest on herself, letting doubts about her suitability for motherhood beat her down. He was here to tell her she was Cara DeLuca, soon to be Doyle, and she had this.

“You’re going to make an amazing mum, Cara, and remember, you don’t have to do it on your own. You’re a daughter, a sister, a niece, an aunt. Everyone loves you and will bend over backward to support you. Be my partner, my wife, the mother of my children, the love of my life. Let’s take care of each other and build the life we always dreamed of.”

She sniffed and her sapphire-blue eyes filled with teary love. “You’re far too young to be so wise, Shane Doyle.”

He thought about everything he had gone through, some of it his fault and some of it not. How they had both preferred silent endurance to sharing their pain with the people they loved. His girl wasn’t easy, but she was amazing and if she wasn’t ready for this, he’d wait. He wouldn’t give up because she was worth it, and not giving up made him worthy of her love. That last line of Bob Marley’s quote had come to him in the shower this morning, the one that had eluded him for a while.

Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.

Opposing arguments fought the good fight on her face. Cara thought too much but that was one of the things he loved about her. The small crease between her brows vanished with a deep breath, and he imagined it affirming her decision and pushing away her doubts.

“On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“We start now.” Those kissable lips curved up and she jumped to a stand. “We’ve got to beat Jack and Lili to the baptism font.”

“Competitive? I like the way you think.”

“And the kids will have Italian names. Giancarlo, if it’s a boy. Sophia, if it’s a girl. You’re a DeLuca now.”

Not just a DeLuca, but a Kilroy, too. Man, he was one lucky son-of-a-bitch. He stood and held out his hand. “Come on, then. Sylvia already told me those eggs of yours aren’t getting any younger.”

Whether her disapproving head shake was directed at his insolence or the crassness of her indiscreet aunt, he couldn’t be sure. Grasping the waistband of his new monkey suit, she pulled him toward her. He had only agreed to wear it if he could also rock the Lucchese “Mad Dog” Iguana Lizard cowboy boots she had bought for him as an annulment gift. His ex-wife had marvelous taste.

Her gaze dipped to the slit that split the ankle-length dress to her thigh. Hot in pink, sexy as hell, every inch of her his.

“Good thing I chose the bridesmaids’ dresses. Ready-made straddle mode should make the bike ride easier.”

Drawing her flush to his rapidly hardening body, he extracted a hotel key card from his pocket. “Can’t wait that long.”

She rubbed her hip against him, exacerbating an already tricky situation. If he didn’t get her between crisp, cool sheets
tout de suite
, this wedding would be remembered for more than the stunning centerpieces.

“Always ready to go, aren’t you?” she asked in that serene tone he knew masked one fiery, passionate woman.

“Always ready for you, gorgeous.”

About the Author

Kate Meader writes contemporary romance that serves up delicious food, sexy heroes, and heroines with a dash of sass. Originally from Ireland, she now makes her home in Chicago, a city made for food, romance, and laughter—and where she met her own sexy hero. When not writing about men who cook and the women who drool over them, she works in an academic library. For updates, excerpts, and recipes, visit her website at http://katemeader.com.

See the next page for a preview of
Feel the Heat
by Kate Meader.

Chapter 1

She should have been safely ensconced in the apartment above her family’s restaurant, scarfing down leftover pasta and catching up on the reality show glut bursting her DVR. Instead, Lili DeLuca was considering a three A.M. stealth mission down a dark alley, wearing shiny, blue Lycra hot pants and a star-bangled bustier. As ideas went, this one was as smart as bait.

Peeling off her Vespa helmet, she sent a longing look up to her bedroom window, then peered once more into the alley leading to the kitchen entrance of DeLuca’s Ristorante. The door was still propped open. Light still streamed out into the night. Brightness had never looked so wrong.

A busy Damen Avenue could usually be relied upon to assure an unaccompanied woman that she was not alone. Wicker Park, formerly a low-income haven for underfed artists and actors-slash-baristas, had grown into a dense jungle of expensive lofts, chic eateries, and chichi wine bars. Between those, O’Casey’s Tap on the corner, and the regular influx of suburbanite good-timers, the streets were always full and safe.

But not tonight.

The bars had dribbled out their last drunks an hour ago and by now, the 708ers were snoring soundly on their sleep number beds back in the ’burbs. Despite the stifling ninety-degree June heat, her neighborhood had never appeared so stark and cold. Living so close to work might have its perks, such as a thirty-second commute and the best Italian food in Chicago, but it was hard to see the upside in the face of that damn kitchen door, open like a gaping maw.