Neil cleared his throat. “So, what d’you call this sh”uh, stuff again?”
The taller Indian lady beamed. “It is our Top Secret Very Special Kesar Kheer. Try it. You will like it.”
The shorter Indian lady snorted. She sat across the table from Neil with Neil Junior in her lap. She was spooning the milky soup into his son’s mouth, and Neil Junior was leaning forward to demand more. The baby obviously liked it, but then again, Neil had seen his son eat a worm once and like that, too.
“Yeah, well, I ought to get on the road soon,” Neil said, but not very convincingly, since there was a blizzard raging outside at the moment.
The smaller Indian lady must’ve thought so, too. She scowled at him. “You cannot take this child into a snowstorm. Even a criminal such as yourself must see this is so.”
“Listen, you—” Neil started, and the kids and the woman in the kitchen all looked around. Even Neil Junior frowned at him, a smudge of milk on his cheek. Neil felt his face go hot.
The taller lady started talking fast. “This is our very best dish, our top-secret Very Special Kesar Kheer. It will be the centerpiece of our restaurant. It will bring people from all over Chicago to come and eat at our restaurant.”
“The restaurant you vandalized,” the shorter lady snarled.
The taller lady shot the shorter one a look and she shut her mouth abruptly.
“Try it,” said the taller lady.
And figuring that he couldn’t stall anymore and since there really was a fucking snowstorm howling outside, Neil sighed and spooned up greeny-yellow rice pudding. It entered his mouth and he froze. He tasted something wonderful. Something high and sweet that made him think of hot, sunny summer days as a boy and the first time he’d hit Billy Johnson and broken his nose.
Neil opened his mouth in wonder. “This is good!”
Saturday, 4:32 p.m.
I
n the end, Dante had to break a window to get into the cabin.
Zoey sat, trying to control her shivers, and watched as he built a fire in the huge fieldstone fireplace. His friend’s cabin was lovely. She’d been expecting a little shack on a lake, the kind with an ancient screened-in porch and maybe a ceiling fan to combat the heat in summer. Instead, the “cabin” was worthy of a home in the Alps. The walls were some kind of hardwood, polished to a high shine. They were in a huge great room that took up most of the first floor. The central ceiling was vaulted, with an overhanging upper master bedroom. Lush multicolored rugs decorated the weathered tile floor, and the brown and red sofas where she sat in front of the fireplace were huge and comfy. Apparently they were close to the Ohio River, too, although she hadn’t been able to see it with the snowstorm.
It was a perfect place for a relaxing vacation if only there was a speck of heat. Because right now the inside was only a little warmer than the blizzard raging outside the building. Zoey shuddered and cuddled a sleeping Pete closer.
Dante must’ve seen her shiver, even though she’d tried to hide it.
He looked up, frowning. “I’ve got the furnace going, but it may be a couple of hours before it’s able to heat up this space.”
He glanced at the cavernous ceiling overhead.
Zoey nodded, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. “What about the water heater?”
“It’s lit, but again, it’ll take a couple of hours for the tank to get hot.” He bent over the wood piled in the fireplace, carefully stacking pinecones against the bigger pieces.
“At least we have a furnace and a water heater,” Zoey said as she watched him. “I’m so glad you found this place.”
She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Shelter of any kind was far superior to having to spend a night in the car. She shuddered. Every now and again, there’d be an article in the newspaper about some poor soul dying because their car had gotten stuck in a blizzard. It seemed to happen less often with the advent of cell phones, but even when the highway patrol knew about someone stuck on the road, they still had to get to them. Zoey glanced at the dark picture window, half covered with snow, frozen on the glass. The roads were pretty much impassable at the moment. It occurred to her that even though she’d been unable to put her trust in Dante, he’d come through for her anyway. He’d found shelter and warmth for her and Pete when they needed it most.
“There we go,” Dante muttered.
Zoey looked over. There was a tiny flame flickering against the bigger logs. As she watched, the pile of pinecones caught and the fire leapt up. Dante crouched on his heels in front of the fireplace, watching the fire, his black leather trench coat pooled around his feet. One arm leaned against a knee. His hair was a little matted and his shoulders slumped with fatigue, but the firelight glowing on his face cast his eyes into shadows, brought the planes of his face into elegant relief. Zoey looked away, aware that her breath had caught from the sheer impact of his masculinity. Dear God, he was sexy.
“I think that’ll do,” he said now. He rose and replaced a box of matches on the long fieldstone fireplace mantel. Then he stretched, completely oblivious to her arousal.
Or maybe not. His eyes caught hers and he stilled for a moment, his arms raised behind his head. Something seemed to flare in their bitter-chocolate depths. But perhaps it was the reflection of the flames.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’m going to have a look at the stores. Tom might’ve left some canned food.”
He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen area—open like the rest of the house. There was a big stainless-steel refrigerator, the door propped open to keep it fresh while not in use. Beside it, the huge stove was also stainless steel—and a little intimidating, to tell the truth. A long black granite countertop divided the kitchen area from the great room. Several stools stood under the counter, so that it could double as a breakfast bar. To one side of the kitchen was a door with what must be a walk-in pantry. Dante disappeared inside.
Zoey sighed and rested her cheek on Pete’s soft curls. She’d just about kill for a bath right now. She’d taken a shower last night, but that had been two gunfights and a chase before. She eyed the fire. Maybe if they set a kettle on top of the coals . . .
Dante reappeared with a can in each hand. “We’ve got a choice. Chicken noodle soup or baked beans.”
“Oh, soup, definitely.” If he could be cool about all the sexual tension flying through the air, so could she.
Of course, that was assuming he even felt any sexual tension. Wouldn’t that just be a bummer? If all the heat was on her side? He’d think she was some kind of desperate single chick if he knew. Just the impression she wanted to make.
Some of her thoughts must’ve shown on her face.
His head reared back. “You sure?”
“Yep,” she chirped like a lunatic chipmunk.
“Uh, okay.” He started to say something else, but Pete twitched and woke up at that moment.
Zoey glanced down at the grimacing baby. “I really ought to change her. And she needs a bath. Can we heat a little water, do you think? Can you find a kettle or pot to put on the fire?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” He began rummaging in the kitchen.
Pete let out a squawk.
“Come on, stinky.” Zoey knelt on the rug in front of the fire and began unwrapping Pete. Even through the layers of clothes she could tell this was going to be a major diaper change.
Ten minutes later, Pete was naked and trying to get away.
“It’s cold in the rest of the cabin, can’t you tell that?” Zoey muttered as she grasped a leg.
“Gah!” Pete shouted.
“Here.” A hand appeared over her shoulder with a big metal spoon. Pete immediately grabbed for it. “I’ve got some water heated on the fire.”
“Thanks,” Zoey panted.
She snatched up Pete, spoon and all, and plopped her in a huge soup pot placed on the floor beside the fire. Dante poured a little warm water into the pot. Pete immediately hit the water with her spoon, splashing it all over the place.
“Hey,” Zoey muttered and wiped water out of her eye.
Pete giggled.
“Can you hand me the dish soap?” she asked Dante.
He gave her the blue bottle. “Aren’t you supposed to use baby soap on babies?”
“Yeah,” Zoey grunted, soaping a wiggling arm. “But I think in this case, filth wins out over delicate skin.”
“But what if it gets in her eyes?” Dante persisted. Who knew a man could be so concerned over a baby’s bath?
“I won’t let it get in her eyes.”
An epic struggle later, and Pete was cruising a brown and red sofa, one hand holding on for balance, one hand still clutching her spoon. She wore a diaper and a white adult T-shirt Dante had found. The T-shirt was down to her toes and she looked like a little angel in a robe.
“She looks adorable,” Dante said. He sounded perplexed.
“Yeah, adorable.” Zoey pulled her soaked sweatshirt away from her chest. “It’s either perfectly adorable or child of Satan. There’s no in between.”
She shivered. Pete seemed to be oblivious to the chill that hung in the rest of the room, starting only feet from the fire, but Zoey wasn’t. Especially with her sweatshirt now sopping wet.
“God, I wish I could take a bath, too,” she muttered.
“Why don’t you?” Dante asked. “Pete and me can try out the chicken noodle soup. The fire should’ve warmed it by now.” He gestured to the small pot sitting on the edge of the coals.
She glanced at him. “I think I might freeze.”
“Ah.” He looked at the fireplace and then Pete. “Well, ah, we—
I
—can turn my back. You can stay in front of the fire. Really, it’s okay. The baby will keep me occupied.”
“Well . . .”
“I think I saw some clothes in the upstairs bedroom. Let me get you something.” And he dashed up the stairs before she could say anything.
Zoey looked at Pete.
Pete grinned and blew a spit bubble.
If only the rest of the house was as warm as it was by the fire. But the heat had hardly made a dent in the bone-deep chill of the room, and the only hot water was what they heated over the fire. She’d have to take a sponge bath with the kettle of water if she wanted to get clean.
Dante came back down the stairs with a bundle of clothes in his arms. “See if any of this will fit.”
Zoey picked out a red cotton T-shirt, a Nordic cardigan, and a pair of silk long john bottoms. “If you’re sure.”
“Sure I’m sure,” Dante said. He was watching Pete and didn’t seem to be worried about Zoey at all.
“Okay.” Zoey turned to the fireplace and pulled her damp sweatshirt over her head.
Saturday, 5:13 p.m.
S
o, apparently he was trying to nominate himself for the Martyr of the Year award.
Dante sat on the floor facing the couch. He watched Pete sidestep down the couch. He watched the baby, but his entire attention—his entire focus—was on the small, quiet sounds going on behind him. The rustle of cloth against skin. The sigh as she drew something over her head. The sounds of Zoey undressing.
The baby sidestepped over to him, grinning, and he held out a spoonful of noodles. “Want some soup, kid?”
She gurgled and snatched a chubby fistful of noodles, which she then smashed into her mouth. The baby moved away from him along the couch, chanting, “Mm. Mm. Mm.” as she went.
“Guess she likes soup,” Zoey said from behind him.
“Sure looks like it.” Could he be any more lame? “There’s some more in the pantry. I’ll heat up another can when you’re done.”
“Thanks. Hot soup would be wonderful.”
“Too bad we can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches, too.”
“Ooo! With tomatoes? That would make it perfect.”
She gasped a little and he heard a splash. Was she washing her face? Smoothing the cloth over her shoulders? Soaping her bare breasts? And could he just keep his mind from conjuring up the images?
He cleared his throat. “Is the water warm enough?”
“Yep.” A sigh. “It’s warm, but not hot, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, God, I wish,” Dante said.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He scooped up some broth and a piece of chicken for Pete, who had cruised near again. The baby opened her mouth wide like a baby bird and then chomped down on the spoon. She grinned up at him, a dribble of soup at the corner of her mouth. He dabbed at it with the spoon.
“You’re good with her,” Zoey said.
“Thanks.”
“I thought you said you didn’t spend much time with your nephews and nieces.”
“I don’t.” He stared down into the cooling pot of chicken noodle soup.
“Then you must be a natural with kids.”
“I guess.”
“I don’t think Ricky knows what to do with her. He gets impatient that she doesn’t have a real long attention span at the moment. He’ll try to tickle her right before bedtime and get her all worked up. It’s like he doesn’t know how to play with her.”
“There are a lot of guys who aren’t too sure what to do with a kid.” Jesus, he wasn’t defending Ricky Spinoza, was he?
“Actually most of the time he just ignores her.”
He frowned. What kind of an asshole ignored his own kid? He wasn’t too sure what to do with a kid himself, but if he fathered a child, he damn well would learn. “What does your sister see in him, anyway?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Nikki has always been a magnet for guys who aren’t good for her.”
“Yeah?”
“She used to run around with the biggest losers when Mom was taking care of her.”
“What about you? Were you wild as a teenager?”
Behind him he could hear the sound of trickling water as she squeezed the washcloth over the kettle. He stared up at the ceiling. There was a stain around the fan, indicating water damage. Probably a leak from the roof. He’d only been in the cabin once before—a guys’ boating weekend two years before. He hadn’t noticed the water damage at that time, but then again, he hadn’t spent a whole lot of time gazing at the ceiling, trying not to hear the sounds of a beautiful naked woman taking a sponge bath right behind him.
Not that trying not to hear was working out all that well.
“Not really. I guess I kind of felt that Nikki had the wild-child act covered for both of us. Mostly I went out with artsy guys or the computer geeks at school.”