Turn Up the Heat (2 page)

She followed Markos into the storeroom.

“You messed with my food.”

“I—I—”

“We don’t put fucking onions and parsley in the hamburgers. Or anything fucking else.”

The real rage in his voice surprised her, set her back on her heels despite herself. “I was— Did he not like it?”

Because she knew he had. She’d seen him finish the last bite a moment ago and lick his fingers, which had sent a shiver of lust up her spine.

“That’s not the fucking point. You don’t mess with my food. You don’t try something new. I tell you what to cook, you cook it. Except you don’t, because it’ll be a frigid day in hell before I let you back in this kitchen. Get outta here. Go do what I hired you to do.”

He held out his hand and she shed her apron and hairnet and returned them to him.

She went back to the floor. Tears stung behind her eyes, but she ordered them back.
Be tough.
Show no weakness.

Or as one of her favorite teachers—a woman—had once said,
Pull on your big-girl panties and turn up the heat.

The other two waitresses had temporarily divvied up Lily’s tables between them, but Gina hadn’t come in yet, so Lily retook her tables. She made the rounds, getting back on track with her customers. She brought the redheaded family desserts, refilled water glasses, and took a few more orders. Then she grabbed the coffeepot and headed back to 9.

Getting near him felt like being drawn into some planet’s orbit.

His eyes scraped over her as she poured his coffee. “You cooked this.” He tilted his head at his now empty plate.

She nodded.

“Best burger I’ve had here. By a mile.”

“Thanks.” She couldn’t keep the pleasure off her face.

She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t, only kept those blue eyes on her. His gaze should have felt cool where it touched her face, but it felt hot instead, and it sent heat sloshing through her. She looked down. The book he’d been reading was on the table. A textbook, with a stack of flags and a highlighter beside it.
Abernathy’s Law in the United States.

She rearranged her notions of him around that. Maybe a cop, but a law student, too.
Huh.
“Light reading?”

He grinned.

“You done?” she asked.

“I’ll take a slice of chocolate cake.”

She went back for the cake, cutting an extra-thick piece for him.
God,
the need to feed him was intense. And all mixed up with her other cravings.

Just because he’s big doesn’t mean he’s rough. Doesn’t mean he likes it rough. And it doesn’t matter, because that’s not what you’re here to do.

But the frustration and disappointment of failing at her chance in the kitchen got all wrapped up with her other feelings. The elation she’d experienced when her ex-boyfriend, Fallon, had bound her—the ropes, the tape, the surge of power that powerlessness had given her. The way she’d struggled, the way restraint had poured pleasure into her body.

How Fallon had turned away from it, in distaste and disgust.

How willing she’d been to renounce her newfound self, her newfound joy, for what she
thought
was love. For the trappings that came with love—the apartment she shared with him, the mentoring he’d given freely, the job he could offer her. How deep she’d buried her real self so she could be what he needed her to be and so she could have the life he was offering her.

And most of all, the true shame and hurt—of losing it all, anyway, to lies.

All of that, that tight knot of emotion, needed an outlet. It wanted to work itself raw, shake itself off. It wanted to drown itself.

It wanted this man, rational or not. It wanted to unbury itself for him.
She
wanted to unbury herself for him.

Instead, she set the cake down before him.

“Did you get in trouble with the owner? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just wanted him to know you did good.”

She wanted to shrug it off, but instead was horrified to discover that the tears she’d pushed back were threatening to fall. “It was a rookie mistake,” she said, steadying her voice. “I should have known better. You never mess with the recipes. You don’t question the chef. Ever.”

She’d known, but she’d wanted too desperately to cook this man something he’d love. Her desire to feed him would do her in. She knew it, now, already.

He was shaking his head, the muscles flowing in his thick—and yet somehow finely built—neck. The skin under his tattoo was as smooth as satin, and she realized she was fantasizing about licking it. Biting it.

He rubbed a thumb back and forth over the laminate table, as if cleaning up a spot of something that had spilled. “Rumor is he’s crazy. Should have retired years ago, but has some price in mind and won’t settle for less, even though the place needs a ton of work. Meanwhile, he won’t change anything from his dad’s day—not the recipes, the decor, nothing. It’s not you, kiddo. It’s him.”

The
kiddo
killed her. Slew her dead, right then. It should have felt demeaning, condescending, but it had the same effect on her the rest of him did. Made her want to be a small thing he tossed around, the way his sandpaper voice tossed off that word.
Kiddo.

She needed to walk away from this craving, from this stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger. As if maybe all those locked gazes, the fact of his being there dependably week after week, had built a slow, strange, invisible trust.

She was here in Tierney Bay, love life ruined, career in suspended animation, self-regard shredded, having fled as far as she could from her mistakes, and she had vowed not to make them again. She had vowed not to let anything get between her and rebuilding her life. Because it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, worth it.

But in the end, there were two parts of her. There was the part that wanted to rebuild her life.

And there was the part that just
wanted to live.

In prison, you perfected the art of watching without seeming to watch. You learned to keep an eye on everyone and everything, to monitor subtle shifts, the changes in weather that warned of coming disaster.

You didn’t lose that habit overnight. Kincaid Graves could sit in his booth in the diner, read his book, and see and hear everything. He knew where
she
was, every second. He’d watched when the burly Greek had invited her to cook, seen the way she danced behind the counter, graceful and efficient. He’d monitored the movements of the other cook, too, so he knew the guy had been in her space, had messed with her grill.

He’d watched her scrape the grill and start over, and he’d watched her wield a hot spatula against her oppressor the next time he’d messed with her. She’d eked a smile out of the guy, even—the guy knew toughness when he saw it. She might not be from around here—something Midwestern in her accent said she wasn’t—but she had good pioneer spirit. Build, burn it down, rebuild.

She was beautiful, this close. Huge green eyes, arched eyebrows, pixie face, pointed chin, wide, full mouth. Those eyes. Hadn’t he read that people were programmed to go nuts for big eyes, something to do with the urge to care for young, vulnerable creatures?

This was all apart from how bad he wanted her. She was tall and slim, with small, high breasts and a tiny waist, and he wanted to pick her up and wedge her against the wood paneling and surge into her under that absurd little skirt.

He couldn’t trust those impulses. He’d been the better part of a decade without sex with anything other than his fist. He was hyperaware of all the waitresses, dressed to bring in tips in short skirts and booty shorts and teeny-tiny tops. His cock was decidedly unpicky these days, willing to get hammer hard for any halfway appealing visual.

Her eyes were another thing entirely. Always moving, taking everything in. Sad all the time, sadder still after she’d been booted out of the kitchen. He’d wanted to shake the asshole owner, to make him see:
She’s the only one around here who knows what she’s doing. Listen to her!

Those eyes took people’s measure, were thoughtful without being calculating. She spent time at each table, never seemed rushed, talked earnestly with customers, advising them. Getting to know them.

Those eyes, when they looked at him, held something speculative, something greedy. His cock hardened.
Ever-hopeful idiot.

“I’m Lily,” she said.

He already knew that. The waitresses here didn’t wear name tags, but he’d heard her say it to other customers. Still, it was different, hearing her say it to him. Introducing yourself, that was the beginning of something. A friendship, a relationship.

He didn’t need or want either of those things. For one thing, he had a job to do, a mission. He was going to find a way to get his grandmother’s money back and make sure it went to the kids she’d loved so much. For now, that was where all his energy needed to go. And besides, even if there might at some point in his life—if he could remake it—be room for a woman, it wouldn’t be a woman like Lily. It would be someone less refined, angrier, more worldly, someone who had already set aside bright, innocent dreams. The other waitresses were closer to it. A single mom with a deadbeat ex-husband—Grant had told him—who’d done time for cooking meth. Another, thirty-something, chronically single, her age showing in every line of her face and in her dead eyes. It would be harder to scare away a woman like that. To disappoint her.

This woman, this
Lily,
did not seem like the sort who would be able to assimilate Kincaid’s life story.
In a rage, I held a knife, a knife I’d used to chop onions since I was eight years old, to a man’s throat, and I told him if he hurt my grandmother again, I’d kill him. I cut him. Not deep enough to kill. But deep enough.

“I’ll take the check,” he said, instead of answering her implicit question. “Get out of your way.”

Even though he wanted to stay. Because it was a place to be, because there were people here and that felt like company, even if he didn’t interact with them. Because he was used to constant clamor, to being surrounded by human life and foible, and if he went home now it would be another night in that small, dark, lonely cabin. His P.O.—parole officer—had strongly advised him against spending time in bars (“Shit happens in bars”), which left him only a few options for hangouts. This was his favorite.

“You want to stay? Sit and read?”

It was as if she’d read his mind, and the way those green eyes bored into him, maybe she had.

“He’ll be pissed at you.” He gestured with his head at the tubby Greek owner.

“He’s already pissed at me.” She smiled and shrugged.

Brave girl.
“You’ll lose tips.”

“I’ll live.”

They both knew he’d tip her well. He’d gone out of his way to tip all the waitresses here generously, in hopes of a favor like this one coming his way. The chance to sit a little longer where the noise in his head wasn’t louder than the noise outside.

“But you do have to tell me your name.”

She’d noticed his evasion, then. “Kincaid Graves.”

“Kincaid,” she repeated. “Nice to meet you, Kincaid.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily,” he said.

She set the check carefully on his table. “Stay as long as you want. I’ll let you know when I need to cash out.”

Maybe she’d look him up and find out what he’d done. He wasn’t sure what she’d find if she searched Kincaid Graves. Graves was his grandmother’s name.
You should have something special of mine,
she’d said. It was the name he’d always used—but it wasn’t his legal name, so it wasn’t the name attached to court documents and the legions of newspaper articles that had covered his case.

The next time she came in here, maybe she’d look at him the way the denizens of his hometown did, with suspicion and disgust. Then he wouldn’t be able to fantasize that he saw hunger there, and his own response wouldn’t run rampant.

Either that, or she’d react the other way women did when they found out he was fresh out of prison, like dogs to the smell of fresh meat.

He’d heard stories. One guy said that on the outside, he told every woman he met that he’d gotten out of prison the day before. His hit rate for getting laid was 85 percent.

Kincaid wasn’t sure whether women went nuts for the scent of danger or the idea of a guy pent up, restrained, frustrated for so long. Or maybe they had some nurturing instinct gone mad, some need to save or salve. Whatever it was, though, he didn’t want it. Taking it on those terms felt too much like buying it, and that was something Kincaid had never done and never wanted to do.

He watched her for a while, the sweet way she smiled at her customers, set her notepad down on the table, and leaned into one hip to show she was in no particular hurry. He was pretty sure she didn’t even do it on purpose. He watched the way she asked questions and joined in laughter, the way she leaned over kids and admired their crayon artwork, the way she wrinkled her brow and pursed her lips to think hard about something.

Before, he could have tried to be good enough for her, but those were gone days. If he regretted anything he’d lost, he regretted that.

He picked up his book and pretended to read while part of him always knew where she was.

“Damn it,” said Alma, in response to whatever had made her phone buzz. “My ex flaked again and my kid’s stranded.”

“Go,” said Lily. “I’m almost done.”

“You sure, sweetie?”

“Go.”

Alma grabbed her bag and headed out.

The diner was almost empty, and they were cleaning and closing up. She watched as Kincaid, who was still sitting in the back booth, leaning against the wall, his book propped now on one thick thigh, rose to go. He dropped the book and his other supplies into a messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He’d tipped her 50 percent, to make up for what she’d lose by his sitting there.

She swiped her damp rag over another tabletop, her feet killing her, even in the clunky shoes that were her best defense against the constant ache.

“Have a good night,” he said, in that dark voice, like mahogany, or balsamic vinegar.

Behind her Markos swore loudly. “Goddamn trap,” he said.

“Not ‘It,’ ” said Hadley. He grabbed his hoodie, lowered his head like a battering ram, and slid past Kincaid.

“Clogged?” Kincaid inquired.

“Motherf—” Markos pounded a fist onto the thick pine of the counter.

“I’ve got some experience,” Kincaid said. “Let me.”

She kept up her cleaning, but her ears were tuned to the frequency of the men’s conversation. Markos cursing out the plumbing, Kincaid’s voice sinking floorward as he got down to trap level. The clang of tools on pipe, more cursing, this time low and rough from Kincaid. The sound of it purred in her belly.

Salt, pepper, ketchup, mustard—how much nicer would it be to put a little sea salt in a dish, maybe have some Dijon or stone-ground instead of this cheap yellow stuff? Or both, because some people liked their mustard plain, and she respected that. The point wasn’t to have froofy food; it was to make whatever you served the best it could be. That’s what she wanted to do someday.

Someday.

She’d put off that someday far in the future, and she wanted to draw it back to herself, hand over hand if she had to.

“All set.” That was Kincaid, his voice back to standing height, and no longer tight with the effort of working.

“I can’t pay.” Markos’s voice, grousing. Almost whining. Kincaid had just done him a big favor, probably one he’d be happy to take a thank you for, and that was the best Markos could do.

She reminded herself that the guy desperately wanted to be in Arizona, lying by a pool. That would make anyone a little grumpy.

“Let’s barter,” said Kincaid.

She’d been about to separate two tables, but she paused so the scraping of the table wouldn’t obscure Kincaid’s voice.

“I don’t have much worth bartering for.”

“Tell you what. Plumbing work’s on me, and I’m happy to take a look at it again next time it acts up, too. Long as Lily makes my burgers.”

Startled, she dropped a basket of sugar. She knelt and picked up the packets. She was glowing with the pleasure of what he’d said. Partly because it meant he’d loved her cooking. And partly because he’d stood up for her. Who did that? Who went out of their way like that, especially knowing Markos was pissed about that very thing?

“I don’t want her in my kitchen. Ask me something else. Free french fries every time you set foot in the door. That I can do.”

Kincaid shook his head. “Lily.” Her flower name in his gruff voice.

She got a thrill, picturing them faced off back there—Markos dirty and greasy, sagging with unnecessary flesh, tired and frustrated to the edge of rage, Kincaid as cool as his eyes, and as implacable. Like fire running up against a broad, clear break, or to the edge of a mountain lake.

“She’s too good to wait tables. That woman can
cook,
” Kincaid said. It was a simple statement of fact. She felt it, root deep, his authority.

His authority.

Her body resonated to it, like a struck tuning fork.

“You think you can come in here and tell me how to run my diner?” Markos’s voice rose with outrage.

“Huh,” Kincaid said quietly. “Wasn’t doing that, exactly. Well. You think about it, then. This one’s on me. Maybe next time.”

She loved how he’d done that—pulled back, refused to fight, made an absence of fuel for Markos’s fire. An impenetrable space. So much more powerful than if he’d spat and strutted and lunged.

Her throat was tight with emotion. Lust, much purer and simpler than any she’d ever felt. She
wanted
him. She wanted his power. She wanted it to contain her, and she wanted to contain it.

She made herself busy moving tables and pretended to be surprised when he ambled out of the kitchen. “Done already?”

She was curious whether he’d tell her about the bargain he’d tried to make. With most guys, that kind of thing would be the first step to a come-on. But before he could speak, Markos stormed out of the kitchen and tossed her a key. “You lock up. And I want that back tomorrow.”

She pocketed the key. “Anything left to clean up in back?”

“You have to clean your own grill station.”

She nodded.

When he was gone, Kincaid said, “He’s a bully.”

“He is,” Lily said.

“You don’t have to work for him.”

“I kinda do.” She sighed. “There’s nothing else out there for me right now.”

“With your skills?”

“It’s a tough market. And around here—” But she didn’t want to get into it, why she was here.

What she wanted was to thank him for standing up for her, but she didn’t want him to know she’d been listening.

“I should go. Let you finish up.”

“No,” she said, surprising herself. “Stay. Keep me company while I clean up.”

She felt reckless and edgy. Tired of her boredom and eager for her life to start.

This isn’t the right way,
her brain insisted, but her body flicked the thought away like a mosquito.

“I’ll stay till you’re done and walk you to your car,” he said.

Her internal organs performed a flip-flop of excitement.
It’s nothing,
she told them.
He’s just doing what I asked. Keeping me company.

She shoved it down, the wildness and the glee, gliding around the kitchen, finishing the shutdown that Markos had started. She wiped the cooling surfaces of the grills and did what she could to get things set up for tomorrow morning. She felt Kincaid behind her, watching. It was like having the sun on the back of her neck.

“Why’d you move to Tierney Bay?” There was a rasp in his voice, suggesting disuse.

So much for not talking about why she was here.

Because my Chicago life went down in flames. Because I trusted a man I shouldn’t have trusted and a situation I should have known was unsustainable.

“My sister’s here, and I can stay with her and save rent,” she said, which was true, as far as it went. “I’m not here for good. Just a few months. Just to earn some money. As soon as I save first, last, and security and get a kitchen job in Chicago, I’m heading back there.”

“A kitchen job, like cooking?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” he asked.

“My mom. And I went to cooking school in Chicago.”

“Is cooking school where you learned to burn a man with a spatula if he messes with your station?”

She startled. “You saw that?”

“You’ve got big brass ones.”

“Why is it,” she inquired, with a little twist of anger, “that men don’t think anyone can be brave without having balls?”

He laughed, a hoarse, surprised sound. “Never thought about that.”

“Well, think about it.”

“Where’d you learn to stand up for yourself like that?” There was no mockery in his voice, only admiration.

She almost told him how, exactly, she’d failed to stand up for herself in the way that mattered most. Instead she said, “Kitchens. If you can’t fight back, they’ll cook you up for the next meal. No mercy.”

“Tell me some stories?”

She should say no. She should make him leave.

She wanted to tell him stories, to keep him here, where he shouldn’t be. Because of who he
might
be, because of what he
might
do
to
her and
for
her, even though she wasn’t supposed to go there right now.

Instead of
no,
she handed him a rag, and he helped her clean while she talked.

“One time, one of my classmates deliberately ruined a cream of asparagus soup that was part of my final exam. Because the score on that final exam determined who would get to prepare a special end-of-the-year dinner.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch,” she corrected. “You have to stop making assumptions.”

He lowered his head in mock contrition, and once again she wanted to nip the smooth skin of his neck. Run her tongue over the spaces between the inked shapes, like navigating a maze.

She dragged her mind back from that abyss. “One time I got reamed out in bread-making for putting too much flour on the counter while I was kneading. It was at least a ten-minute lecture, but the only part I remember was, ‘Do you want zat bread to be tough as an ’ag’s ass?’ ”

Kincaid half-smiled. The curl of his full lips softened his face instantly, and it softened something in her, too. As if she needed softening. She had long since melted and was starting to flow, the way the words were flowing out of her now, just because he wanted to listen.

“My first job, I cried. Because it was so hot and they were so harsh, and I burned all the skin off my right hand. I cried in the bathroom. The kitchen bathroom, which was so filthy—you wouldn’t believe…I couldn’t bring myself to even sit on the seat, or touch the walls. I just stood there…”

He pinned her in the intensity of those eyes. He listened with his whole self. She wondered if he knew his hands were fists.

“I came so close to quitting, I was in the manager’s office, my mouth open to say ‘I quit,’ and then…”

She had to think about it, what that feeling had been, in the disordered office in front of that manager with the pinched face. Something in her had bucked up, hard, and she’d felt a stubbornness she didn’t know she possessed come over her.

“I said, ‘You need to tell those assholes in the kitchen to have some respect,’ and I walked out again.”

She’d showed up at work the next day, and even if the fine art of back talk hadn’t come to her as easily as béchamel or roux, she’d learned enough of it to survive. “I never cried in a kitchen again.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“So, Hadley’s bullshit—I can’t say it didn’t bug me, but I’ve learned to be a lot tougher than that.”

She pulled the rag from his hand, threw it and her own into the laundry, and said, “Come on. We’re done.”

She made him forget. He kept surfacing from her to remember who he was, what he had done, and what he still needed to do, and she kept pulling him under again, into those two contradictory aspects of her—the sweetness that had first drawn him, and the toughness that she’d wrapped around it.

He hadn’t meant to say,
Tell me some stories.
He’d meant to stay aloof. But she made him want more. She made him want to unfurl himself, or to probe, as if she were a splinter that had gotten somewhere deep under his skin.

He followed her as she locked the diner’s front door. She bent to pick up a huge plastic drum bag of trash, but he brushed back her efforts and shouldered the bag himself.

She wanted to object. He could see the words on her lips and the protest in her eyes.

“You worked damn hard tonight,” he said. “Let me.”

You don’t always have to be tough,
he wanted to say.
You could let me help you, just a little.

But of course she couldn’t. And he couldn’t.

She had snuck those looks at him as they cleaned up. Curiosity and something more dangerous. A question.
What would it be like?
He could hear it as clearly as if she’d asked it out loud, probably because it was the same question that rattled around his head, that tumbled around his gut. What would he see if he took her question as an invitation? Would she be all toughness or all sweetness, or some mix of the two that would break him to bits?

He couldn’t.

The difference between a convict on parole and an ordinary citizen is basically like the difference between living in a police state and living in the United States.

He’d gotten lucky with his parole officer. A guy who was old enough to have been around but young enough not to be jaded. A guy who still bothered to try to keep Kincaid out of trouble, for Kincaid’s sake and not his own.

Cops get called on an ordinary citizen, there’s a process, right? Questioning, investigation, arrest, arraignment—you know the deal. Cops get called on a parolee, that’s it. Clank.
John, Kincaid’s parole officer, had mimicked the slide and slam of a jail cell.

So you gotta use your gut as a trouble sensor. Your gut says,
Bad idea,
you run the other way as fast as your legs can carry you. Things that aren’t trouble for a regular guy are trouble for you. Listen to that gut.

Kincaid saw that
What would it be like?
look on Lily’s face and his gut said,
Bad idea.

He slung the trash up high, over the lip of the Dumpster, and it smacked wetly into something he didn’t want to contemplate. He got ready to run the other way as fast as his legs could carry him. Far away from Lily and her sweetness and her toughness and
those eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

She took a step closer, rose onto her tiptoes, and put her hands on his shoulders. No one had touched him gently in eight years. He’d been elbowed, shoved, punched, slapped, cut, herded, crowded, kneed, and beaten. You’d think it would have inured him completely, but instead those two hands through a layer of T-shirt lit him up. He felt it all over, his skin tightening and tingling.

Run.

It was only a split second’s thought, too late.

She kissed him.

It was a small kiss, a thank-you kiss, the touch of her wide, pretty mouth against his, but his cock surged against cotton and denim, all desperation.