Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (42 page)

Cara wouldn’t be needing that dream wedding anytime soon—maybe never, if she bought into everyone’s view of her. Career girl, destroyer of pastry chefs, a woman apart. But she was perfectly happy to let Lili borrow it—even if her sister didn’t know she wanted it yet.

After all, managing was what Cara did best.

*  *  *

If Shane were to look up “pissed off” in
Roget’s
, he had a feeling Cara DeLuca would be one of the synonyms.

He wished that didn’t turn him on so much.

Every time he so much as dared a glance in her direction, he got dismissive ignoring or the brittle blond stink eye. Exactly how long could she stay mad at him?

She’s a woman, Doyle.
There’s no expiration date on female fury.

The ballroom of this swanky hotel was filled with everyone in their Sunday best, apart from the horrific bridesmaids’ garb, but Cara stood elegant head and shoulders above the crowd in a classy black number that exposed one of those beautiful shoulders to the world. That same shoulder his lips had grazed when he’d wrapped his body around her a week ago and slept the sleep of the tired, drunk, and stupid.

Scout’s honor, his lips were only resting on her silken skin. Lying beside her in that Vegas hotel room, he hadn’t dared to kiss any part of her, beautifully curved shoulder or otherwise. Well, he was far too plastered to make a decent job of it, and there was no sense in ruining the moment, not when there would be plenty of time for that later. The morning after had a tendency to throw the brilliant decisions of the night before into sharp, rueful relief.

Instead of returning to Cara’s table at the end of the Chicken Dance, he beelined for the bar. Not to order a drink, mind you. After a childhood spent with a constantly wasted father, he’d vowed not to fall into that cycle or become the stereotype of the Irish drunk. So much for his vow of moderation. One night in Nevada had kicked his principles out the window, leaving in their wake a night of idiotic mistakes, a throbbing head, and the wrath of a beautiful woman.

He really should have kissed that shoulder.

At least then he might feel justified in his role as the fall guy, because the way Lemon Tart was carrying on, you’d swear it was all his fault. For the past week, she had known exactly where to find him—elbow-deep in pastry dough at the restaurant where they
both
worked—but not a whit of effort had been put forth by those killer gams. She’d been avoiding him since Vegas, click-clacking in to pick up something from her office and click-clacking right out again before he could catch her. And now she had the nerve to look down her nose and make him feel like rubbish? Hell, he had enjoyed wiping that pinched look off her face when he’d asked Lili to dance. Let her stew awhile.

Which would give Shane time to stew on Jack giving him the royal nod on his wedding cake. Shane was a great pastry chef—a stellar, award-winning pastry chef—and there was no doubt he could create something jaw-dropping with both hands tied to his feet, but he had still felt blindsided by Jack’s request. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? To prove himself, to show the arrogant, Limey prick that he was worthy. A woman’s fury might have no expiration date, but this job as pâtissier at Sariette did. Two months max, then back to London to open his own pastry shop. More than enough time to satisfy his curiosity about the great Jack Kilroy. There was no room in the plan to take pleasure in Jack’s compliment. There was no room for any pleasant thoughts where the man was concerned at all.

He needed to stop thinking so much. Stop being so maudlin, so melancholy.
So Irish.
Time to hit the head for a slash.

A strong hand on his shoulder arrested his progress.

“You’re going to miss the best bit,” Jack said, bowing to an all-female congregation now forming in the middle of the ballroom. Shane had attended and catered enough weddings to be well attuned to the signs, and today the ramp-up was as quick as he’d ever seen. Gentle nudges swiftly turned to less-than-subtle jabs as the ladies jockeyed for position.

“Now, girls, no need for violence,” Cara said in a firm yet seductive cajole that sent a ripple to every nerve ending in his body. Silky with hints of bossy. Bet she used it in bed, or she would if she wasn’t passed out in a drunken stupor. “But if you really hope to be next in line down the aisle at St. Jude’s, remember your weapons. Nails, elbows, and, of course, heels.”

She turned to her cousin Gina, or the munchkin bride as Jack called her, usually to her face. Gina clutched the purple and white posey bouquet, a remarkably classy floral arrangement considering the bride’s proclivities toward the tacky. Shane’s mind slipped back to that night and recalled sharing several laughs about Gina’s “special requirements.” Cara must have slipped the sophisticated bouquet under the wire.

“Ready, bitches?” Gina called out, and twisted away from the madding crowd, whose nostrils flared and feet pawed the hardwood floor like the bulls behind the gate at Pamplona. The dark-haired throng of DeLuca women was broken by Jack’s blond half sister, Jules. She’d wisely elected to hover on the edges with one eye on her six-month-old, Evan, now cradled in the arms of Cara’s mother, Francesca. But like all women in thrall to the marriage scent, she inclined her body to the crowd in readiness for the prize. Even cute-as-a-button Maisey with her purple-streaked hair was getting in on the act. Serious business, this.

An amused snort from Jack let it be known the fun was only beginning. Cara’s aunt, the one with the bouffant that added a foot and change to her height, manhandled Cara from her role on the sidelines and placed her directly in the line of fire. Just as Gina’s bouquet arced over her head and landed in a shocked Cara’s hands.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Jack said. And not for the first time in the last couple of weeks, Shane wanted to work over that
GQ
magazine-cover face of his. Because he agreed, and Shane disliked being in agreement with Jack on anything.

There was no way Cara could have known Shane’s position, about thirty feet kitty-corner from the main action, but somehow her ice-blue gaze found him like a heat-seeking missile, binding his chest in knots tighter than the hold she had on that bouquet.

No, not good at all.

The ladies groaned, a rather mean-spirited response to a supposedly fun end to the wedding festivities. Cara’s expression changed from pissed to pondering as she turned the flowers over in her hand, her chilled gaze no longer on Shane. A gaze he now missed.

Gina placed her hands on her hips, all bridezilla spunk. “Probably wasted on you, Cara. Should I throw it again?”

The shadow that crossed Cara’s face was impossible to miss, but it was immediately displaced by a slice of sun. Cara had a gorgeous smile, even when it was forced.

“Sure, cuz. Go for it. Though there’s probably some bad luck associated with throwing it twice.” She crushed the bouquet into Gina’s hands and stalked off. Looked like a case of bad blood, bygones that were never gone. Cara’s connection to her family had struck him as being a little crooked, not that Shane could claim bragging rights in that area. His own history was proof enough that families were fundamentally untrustworthy.

“Christ, these women. Weddings turn them into crazy people,” Jack muttered, which was amusing considering how gung ho Jack was about joining the ranks of the smugly married.

“What’s that about?” Shane asked. “Cara not big on marriage?”

“Cara’s not big on relationships.” Jack leaned against the bar and rubbed the weathered grain before meeting Shane’s eyes, his expression flinty. “She’s very career-focused,” he added, as if that explained everything.

Shane kept his peace. Silence usually got better results.

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m very fond of her,” Jack continued. “But she’s so tightly wound that I pity the guy who takes her on, even for a short-term thing.” There was steel behind his words, sharp as a blade in that accent that made everything sound like an order. His eyes softened slightly, once he decided his message had made an impression on Shane.

The message had been received all right, but not in the least bit understood.

He found her in the foyer near a large potted plant, her back diagonally bisected by that classy dress, her shoulders shaking. Shit, she was crying.

Before he could touch her, she spun on her killer heels and the look she speared him with said she’d been expecting him. No tears, just frost turned to fire. Not crying, just pissed.

“You took your time, Paddy.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, which plumped them up from B to double DDs, or that was his best guess.

“Are you all right?” The morning after their night together, she’d been more embarrassed than annoyed. Too busy calling for a cab despite the never-ending train of taxis outside the hotel. Too busy looking for her shoes so she could put as much distance between them as possible. Now the anger shimmered off her in waves, leaving a mottled swatch of pink across the exposed skin of her chest. Two furious disks of color resided high on her cheeks.

“No, I’m not all right,” she hissed. “I suppose you think it’s funny.”

He shook his head. “No, not at all. I’m as upset about this as you are.”

That garnered him a growl, a response on the highly upset end of the spectrum. So she had him beat for vexed. “We have to fix it. It’s bad enough Jack thinks I’m some sort of man-eater with my claws embedded in your hot Irish ass. If my family finds out about this, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hot Irish ass? Huh, he kind of liked that. He opened his mouth to make a joke, then closed it because it didn’t seem to be the wisest course of action. Besides, she was right. They did have to fix it. Put it behind them and return to normal or whatever the hell passed as normal in his lately complicated life. The animosity prickling the air around them sizzled, making a nice counterpoint to a distant, low-rumbled rendering of “I Am…I Said,” one of Neil’s schmaltziest numbers. Guilt that he had dismissed her so cavalierly ten minutes ago tightened his chest, because now he wanted nothing more than to lead her to the dance floor and hold her tight.

Jesus, Doyle. Get your head out of your hot Irish ass and focus.

Taking a tentative step forward, he placed his palms on her golden shoulders. Might have let his hands wander over a few inches of her soft, sleek skin. Just to stop her trembling. The angry rash on her chest was fading now along with the wild-eyed fury, but her eyes were still as big as headlights. He gathered her close, willing her stiff, slender frame to soften.

“Cara,” he said. Quiet. Soothing. As if dialing the volume down might keep her from bolting like a wounded doe. “It’s going to be all right.”

She lifted her head and those sapphire blues knocked his heart out of his stomach and into his mouth.

“Yes, it is,” she said, her chin strong and proud. “As soon as we get a divorce.”

About the Author

Kate Meader writes contemporary romance that serves up delicious food, to-die-for heroes, and heroines with a dash of sass. Originally from Ireland, she cut her romance reader teeth on Catherine Cookson and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Mills & Boons thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron, and she’s there. Her stories are set in her adopted home town of Chicago, a city made for food, romance, and laughter—and where she met her own sexy hero. For news, excerpts, and recipes, check out her website at http://www.katemeader.com.

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