Hot and Bothered (Hot in the Kitchen) (19 page)

“Oh, okay. Be careful,” she said, concerned.

With a blink-or-you’d-miss-it incline of his head, he brushed his lips across hers. Warm and dry. No tingles, but not bad. “I’d like to take you out sometime, Jules. Can I give you a ring?”

“Sure,” she said, because if something was to happen to him on his call tonight, at least he went off thinking he might have a date in his future. But his viability as the future Mr. Juliet Kilroy had shrunk to a big fat zero. As much as she admired a man who did such important work, the thought of waiting around at home with her heart permanently in her mouth did not sit well.

There she went finding faults again.

With a big smile, he walked away, leaving her to ponder the curious problem of how her dating life had suddenly become very promising, yet she still felt ridiculously hollow inside.

Damn Tad DeLuca.

She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know he was enjoying himself immensely with that food magazine journalist. Perhaps they were making arrangements for a special set of interviews later that involved a shirtless Tad. The woman was smart enough to undo shirt buttons and Jules bet she had graduated with a double first in pulling down zippers.

This should not bother her. He was her friend and yes, she had let her mind wander to wicked, wanton thoughts about her friend, but those were just fantasies. He had to kiss her, didn’t he? So what if she had kissed him first all those months ago. They had overcome that.
The Incident.
They had got the train back on track and were doing just fine until he had some sort of brain malfunction and made his offer.

That woman’s husky laugh reverberated off her skull, seizing Jules’s heart in a vise. Tad must be in fine form tonight. She couldn’t listen to him ply his Mediterranean charm on another woman. Not anymore.

She had to get out of here. Tottering like a toddler in her too-high heels, she threaded her way through the hip crowd with the restroom as her goal.

“Hey.” Cara lay a slender hand on her arm. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Just need the little girl’s room.”

Cara zeroed those ice blue eyes in on her and moved the weapon—her baby bump—into a block. “You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. Just TBS. Tiny bladder syndrome.”

Cara shot her a shadowy look.

“I’m fine,” Jules said with a strained patience, every cell poised for a meltdown that might relieve her throat, thick with tears.

Cara waddled aside. Okay, Jules wished she did. Rather, she sidestepped Jules with more grace than a woman with that much baggage should be allowed. Her superpower was to look radiant while carrying fifty extra pounds. Jules finally got to the restroom, crashed in, and locked the door once she had determined she was alone.

This thing with Tad had to stop. She could no longer allow herself the luxury of soul-sucking jealousy. Indulging in negative energy while she imagined him with other women, imagined him doing things to them that she wanted done to her. Time to snap out of it.

Dr. Darian was a viable option and how handy would that be to have a pediatrician in the house? She spent a couple of minutes practicing her game face in the mirror. She had found non-Tad and now she needed to reel him in.

As she left the Ladies, her phone chirped and she looked down, expecting to see Sylvia’s battle axe face with an Evan check-in but it was that strange number again. The one from London.

Him.

She couldn’t put it off any longer.

“Hello,” she said, trying to keep the shake from her voice. She could already feel his vibes through the phone line.

“Hi, Jules.”

A million memories rose to the surface, far too many for so short an acquaintance, but of course she had invented ones to fill the gaps. Desperate imaginings of what might have been. The timbre of his voice hadn’t changed; if anything, he sounded more lethally dangerous than ever. Needing air, she headed to the back door that exited onto the alley.

“Hiya, Simon,” she said in a singsong. She hadn’t lost her accent since moving to Chicago, though it had become tempered somewhat. Now, it came out of her mouth strong and clear.
Rule Bloody Britannia.

She stepped into the alley and tried to catch her breath. The stench of rotting rubbish rose to sting her nostrils like a bad case of smelling salts.

“What do you want?”

“No small talk, Jules?” An ocean between them and he sounded like a gentle whisper in her ear.

“Never our forte, was it?”

“Suppose not. I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately,” he continued. “Wondering how you’ve been. I heard you moved to Chicago with Jack.”

“Yeah, a couple of years now.”
What do you want?

“Things are going well here,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. “I’m on my third restaurant and I’ve got a chance at a pilot for a TV show on the BBC.”

During their time together, Simon had done a remarkably poor job masking his envy of Jack’s success. Even now, she could hear his voice lurching on the edge of bitterness, despite the fact he was doing well for himself. Some people are never satisfied.

If Jack knew who Evan’s father was, he would lose the plot in a major way. Knocked up by one of her brother’s closest friends back in London—she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for the greyness that would descend over his face if he knew. He would blame Simon and he would paint Jules as the victim, when that wasn’t the case at all.

After all, she had more or less seduced him.

“Why are you calling after such a long time?”

“You were always a cynical one, Jules.”

Tears welled behind her eyelids at his accusation. That was so unfair. She might have a smart mouth and a jaded manner about certain things, but she had never been cynical about
them
.

“Maybe I miss you,” he said quietly into the pause, so soft that she almost believed him before the words registered fully. Qualifying it with “maybe” was a typical Simon move, especially in their final days together, when he’d parsed out the affection as if he were using a tincture dropper.

“I really need to go,” she said, knowing she would break down any moment now if she let him continue his devil whispers in her ear.

“I want to see my son, Jules. You can’t keep him from—”

She hung up and slammed the phone against the nearest Dumpster.

Chapter Eleven

If your life at night is good, you think you have everything.
—Italian proverb Aristotle might have labeled man a social animal but Tad was feeling far from it tonight, which made it difficult to be charming with his guests and critics.

“Nice turnout,” La Grayson said, her sharp eyes assessing the room before turning sharper still in assessing him. “Very nice.”

“Hopefully they come back when the drinks are no longer free.”

“A good review can do wonders.”

He reached for his good humor, something that seemed to be in short supply these days. “You’ll have to visit us for a full meal. When it’s not so crazy.”

She smiled but it didn’t quite reach her astonishing gray eyes. Little crow’s feet shot out from the corners and it occurred to him that Monica was probably older than he had first thought. Maybe early forties.

“Perhaps we can open a bottle in private?”

“Smacks of bribery.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” She sipped on her Prosecco, letting her eyelashes lift provocatively in a flutter over the rim of the glass. Quite the performance.

“I’d best see to my guests.”

She lifted a slender shoulder in a half shrug, though it was clear his resistance bugged her.

It felt like it was going well, except for the weird Monica situation. Sexy lounge music flowed like mead from the speakers, the crowd was relaxed, the vibe was brimming with potential. Why then did he feel like his internal organs were in a cage match in his chest and his lungs were taking a pounding?

It might have something to do with the fact Jules was catnip and all the big felines were circling her, looking for a rub.

A quick scan of the room revealed Doctor Dreamboat chatting with Cara and no sign of Jules. At least she wasn’t with Conor, who had left on a call to duty. Neither of them were right for her. Sure, he knew dick about the doc and Conor was a decent guy but hell if he was good enough for Jules.

Now he sounded just like Jack, speaking of which.

“Well done,” Jack said, sidling up to him. “You didn’t screw up once.”

“Don’t get all mushy, Jack.”

They shared a knowing stare down. Jack’s crash into their lives a couple of years ago had not exactly been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. While it took Tad less than five minutes to figure out that Jack’s intentions toward Lili were honorable, the street didn’t run both ways. Jack’s protective streak where Jules was concerned was as wide as it was long, with good reason.

Jack watched the bubbling crowd in that lord-of-all-he-surveys way he had. “You seem tense.”

“Critics.”

“Fuck ’em. I learned a long time ago that you can’t please them all so don’t even start trying. Just keep doing what you’re good at—what you should be doing—and the rest will take care of itself.”

Wasn’t that the crux of the problem? He loved wine and yes, he was good at it but he wasn’t sure it was what he
should
be doing. It certainly wasn’t what Dad wanted and as for Vivi… he had told Jules that his mother was a great admirer of bravery, yet every day he felt like he was stuck on pause. Too much of a coward to grab what he truly wanted. This was supposed to be his dream, the way back to himself, but he still felt as empty as ever.

He needed air.

A few moments of man-to-man trash talk later, he escaped Jack and the hip-as-shit crowd. Heading for the back office, his gaze snagged on the door to the alley, curiously ajar. Just as he was about to curse one of the staff, the heavy door was wrenched open and Jules stumbled inside.

She looked like he felt. Disheveled, brain-tangled, not quite present.

“Jules, what’s wrong?”

Her vacant stare passed right through him. Around her phone, impossibly slender fingers clenched like talons. Something—or someone—had happened to her.

“Is it Evan?” He grasped her shoulders, barely registering the silky slide of her skin above the fact she was cold as ice. A knot of panic unraveled in his chest. “Jules, has something happened to Evan?”

She blinked and came back to him. “No, Evan’s fine.” And then with determination, “He
will
be fine.”

Whatever that meant. Under his touch she shook, instantly belying those resolute words. Gathering her close was the only course of action open to him. He couldn’t
not
do it.

“
Mio tesoro
, I’m here.” He wrapped her in his arms, sheathed in that stiff armor crafted by Armani, and felt his whole body relax as it found its place in the cradle of hers.

She shuddered against him, finally letting go of whatever she had been holding onto.

“Oh, Tad.” Her voice was husky, desperate, and he felt it right in his groin. His body clenched at the possibilities. Frantically, he searched for common sense and a smidgen of whatever decency he might have left. She was upset and she needed him to be her friend, not to paw all over her like some animal.

“Did somebody touch you, Jules? One of those guys in there?”

If Doctor Perfect or that Conor asshole had so much as laid a finger on her—with or without her permission—he was going to deal a heavy dose of deliverance with his hands.

“No—nobody touched me.” The words came out wheezy, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen to support them. She was rattled about something but he knew her well enough to know she’d need time to get it out.

His gaze dipped to her breasts, her creamy flesh abundantly spilling over her dress’s neckline like ripe, golden-white peaches.
Neckline.
A misnomer if ever he’d heard one judging by how distant it was from her actual neck. Up close for the first time this evening, he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. Generous curves pulled against the folds of her dress, mesmerizing him. Last week’s kiss had allowed him to get up close and personal with the shockingly soft pillows of flesh but tonight, in his arms, she felt more exposed to him than ever before. Just… more.

Stop ogling her, you damn dirty ape.

“I just needed some air,” she said, unaware that he was devouring her like she was his last meal on death row.

The door was still open, the aromatic scent of a Chicago alley stealing into the hallway.

“You’ve picked the right place for it.” He sniffed. “Hints of rotten vegetables and”—he paused, reaching for a word—“eau de pee.”

She wanted to smile. He could see the effort in every muscle on her face, but it wouldn’t come.

“I need to go home but…” Stepping out of his greedy embrace, she cast a wary glance over his shoulder. He took the hint.

“I’ll walk you back.” Closing the door behind him, he moved into the alley, the sounds of the bar now replaced with different sounds. City life. His own breathing. And the cogs of Jules’s brain as she mulled over whatever had bitten her.