The Glass Kitchen (12 page)

At least that’s what she thought until he wrenched open the window, grabbed her arms, and pulled her inside.

She wasn’t a big woman, but still. Gabriel lifted her with the ease of a bodybuilder lifting a can of peas. “What the hell are you doing out there?”

He was angry, she realized. Really angry.

“You could have killed yourself on that thing.”

She remembered him giving her that glass of water and making her drink. Now this. The man seemed oddly protective for a guy who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.

The fire in his eyes made Portia feel alive and reckless. “But I didn’t!” She gave him a sunny Texas smile. “More than that, I thought about your offer. Of a job.”

She watched as he visibly reined in his anger. “That was fast.”

She cocked her head. “That’s me. Fast, decisive.” In her dreams, sure, but he didn’t have to know that. “Are you impressed?”

“I’m impressed you didn’t fall and break your neck.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been climbing that fire escape since I was in grade school.”

“You’re certainly acting like you’re in grade school.”

“Sheesh, Portia,” she said out loud. “You handed him that one.”

He looked at her as if he hadn’t a clue what to make of her. “Who are you?”

She laughed, delighted. “Have you noticed that every time you see me, you wonder who I am?”

Gabriel ground his teeth.

“But that isn’t what you meant.”

His narrowed eyes showed he still wasn’t amused.

“All right. If you want the truth of it, then I’ve come to tell you that I officially accept the position as the Kane Family Cook.”

It all made sense. It would give her an income while she and her sisters got the business going. The job wasn’t full-time, and there wasn’t much in the way of commuting, so she’d have plenty of time to work on The Glass Kitchen.

Gabriel stared at her long and hard, not uttering a word.

Portia glanced around the room and noticed that everything about her aunt’s library was gone. The books, the bookshelves, the paintings. “You’ve ruined this room, too!”

“I didn’t ruin it.”

Her head shot around. “You did too—”

He didn’t let her finish. “You make me forget I’m a man who doesn’t do things without knowing every possible consequence,” he said, then pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

Of all the responses Portia had expected, kissing wasn’t one of them. She tensed, her hands coming up to his chest to push him away, though she didn’t do it. Instead, her body melted and she opened her mouth to him.

“God, you drive me insane,” he said raggedly.

“Same page,” she answered, her arms circling his neck as she leaned into him. His muffled groan sent heat through her. She wanted him, even though nothing good could come from getting involved with a neighbor—a neighbor who had offered her a job. Would he take back his offer?

Right then, she didn’t care.

Gabriel’s hands ran down either side of her spine. Her breath caught when he cupped her hips, pressing her to him. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was demanding, his tongue tangling with hers, and she gave up all hope of breaking away.

He backed her against the wall, his hands flattened on either side of her head. In the past, with Robert, she had always wanted more, wanted some deeper connection, but she had contented herself with a white-picket-fence sense of normalcy. Nothing about the way Gabriel Kane made her feel had anything to do with white-picket fences.

“You have driven me mad since the day I walked up to the steps and found you sitting there,” Gabriel said, his lips trailing down her neck.

“You with the compliments.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Her head fell back, her eyes closed. “Of course not,” she breathed.

Portia felt the strength of his muscles beneath his button-down shirt. At his waist, she hardly believed it when she tugged up the material. She wanted to feel skin, feel heat. When his shirttail came free, she slipped her hands underneath to his abdomen, her palms sliding up over warm, taut skin, the single line of hair from his navel to his chest.

She felt his breath shudder before he reclaimed control of her body, and she did nothing to stop him. Portia wanted more, moaning as he gave it to her, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, his thumb dipping into her navel. Their kiss grew wilder, a kind of craving that she’d never experienced, and certainly never succumbed to. But right then, she would have given him anything.

The tips of his fingers brushed against her hip, then slid back, cupping her hips and pulling her to him.

“God, you taste good,” he murmured against her lips. “Like honey.”

He tasted like nothing so tame as honey. He was a decadent, caramelized brandy that made her press against him like a madwoman. Those clever fingers found her lacy boy-short panties, sliding his palm under the elastic, his foot nudging her legs wider.

She trembled, her breath catching in her throat. He deepened their kiss, turning it fierce, just as he brought his hand around and his fingers slid low.

“Dad?”

A paralyzed moment passed before Portia realized Ariel was headed their way.

“Fuck!” Gabriel ground out.

Right this second,
she wished.

Instead, she sagged against the wall, trying to steady herself.

“Dad? Where are you?”

Portia could hear footsteps coming down the hall now, and she pushed him away so she could straighten her clothes. Gabriel shoved in his shirttail, turning to the closed door, ready to face his daughter. Portia, on the other hand, chose the coward’s way out and slipped back out onto the fire escape.

He pivoted back to her. “Don’t leave,” he commanded, his voice low and fierce.

“I’ll start work in the morning,” she said, throwing herself down the stairs, her heart pounding.

Back in her own kitchen, she looked around, as if the room would have changed. But everything looked the same, despite the fact that her world had just been rocked.

Twelve

A
RIEL WAS ALMOST CERTAIN
that her dad had been messing around on the fire escape.

That, of course, was totally impossible, since he had forbidden her and Miranda from going anywhere near the escape, even after he’d had workmen practically rebuild the thing.

Ariel had no problem obeying. While she wasn’t about to admit it, even the thought of having to go up or down the narrow metal stairs and landings terrified her. But Dad’s laying down the law had sent Miranda into one of her fits.

“So, what are we supposed to do if there’s, like, a fire?”
Miranda had snapped in the tone of voice that never failed to get a rise out of their dad.

Tit for tat,
Ariel thought.

Whatever. There was no reason why her dad would have been doing anything anywhere near the fire escape.

“What are you doing?” she asked, coming over to look past him. The garden below was dark. “Is Portia down there?”

She glanced sideways at him, thinking he would scoff at her, but there was a strange look on his face. Almost a guilty look. “You’ve been peeking!” She went right up to the glass and peered out. “You know, Dad, that’s, like, a crime or something.”

“I was not peeking out the window.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine Portia out in that garden dancing or something.

“I read
Harriet the Spy,
” she said, craning her neck. “I know what people get up to in New York. Next thing I know, you’ll get yourself a pair of binoculars. I’d better warn Portia.”

“Ariel.”
Even she knew better than to keep going when he had that tone. It meant business.

“Good night!” she said cheerily, running back out of the room before he could launch into some sort of lecture.

But the next morning, if the possibility of her dad doing something on the fire escape was a surprise, breakfast was a real Lollapalooza of surprises.

“Good morning!”

Ariel blinked at the sight of Portia standing in their kitchen, wearing another pair of her whackjob high-waisted, wide-bottomed pants, a white T-shirt, and an old-fashioned apron tied around her waist.

“What are you doing here?” Ariel asked, still frozen in the doorway.

“Believe me,” Portia said, “I’m as surprised as you by this turn of events.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m your new head cook and chief bottle washer.”

“Seriously? Dad hired you?”

“He did.” Portia got a weird look on her face, then shook it away.

Ariel came over and peered inside the pot on the stove. “Sheez, what are you making?”

“Doughnuts.”

“Dad actually took my advice, amazing. And does anyone other than Dunkin’ make doughnuts?”

“Your advice? Then thank you. I guess. And funny.”

“I thought you didn’t cook anymore.”

“I wasn’t.” Portia gave the big spoon a swirl around the pot of boiling oil. “But sometimes we have to be brave in order to dig deep and find answers. Even if we’re not sure we’re going to like the answers.”

“I don’t want to be mean, but you sound like a really bad infomercial.”

Portia laughed, and started extracting golden-brown fried balls. After placing them on a paper towel–covered plate, she tossed them into a brown paper bag and started shaking.

Ariel’s mouth started watering. “Powdered-sugar doughnuts!”

Footsteps stopped in the doorway. “My favorite.”

Ariel and Portia turned; Ariel blinked. “Uncle Anthony.”

“None other.” He sauntered into the kitchen. “And look who else is here,” he added, winking at Ariel, then smiling big and wide at Portia.

Ariel liked her uncle well enough, though she probably would have liked him better if Miranda didn’t act like an airheaded nitwit whenever he showed up. It was the same with their grandmother. Nana was totally mean to Ariel’s dad, but she gushed like a demented schoolgirl when her younger son came to town. Ariel figured Nana was in hog’s heaven now that Uncle Anthony was staying with her.

Thankfully, Dad wasn’t like Nana. Ariel was pretty sure he loved both her and Miranda the same. And if she was ever a mom—not that she was going to be, because it was a seriously awful job, as far as she could tell—she’d love all her kids the same. Even if one of them was as mean as Miranda.

Uncle Anthony walked over the stove, never taking his eyes off their neighbor. “Portia, right?” he asked.

“Yes, Portia Cuthcart.”

“From downstairs,” he added.

“Right again.”

Just in case Portia and her dad were getting something going, the last thing Ariel needed was her uncle getting in the way. You only had to be around Anthony for five minutes to realize that grown ladies turned into mush the minute they saw him. Which made no sense since he was like a math equation with only one answer: He never committed. So how come she, twelve-nearly-thirteen-year-old Ariel Kane, had figured this out when full-grown women hadn’t?

Anthony picked up a doughnut and popped it into his mouth. “Amazing,” he said, licking his fingers. He actually sounded surprised. “So amazing that I’d like to take you out to dinner to show my appreciation.”

Portia laughed, swatting his fingers away. “No thanks. Hands off my doughnuts.”

He stole another, anyway.

“You’re like a ten-year-old who’s used to getting his way.”

“You’ve pegged my little brother so quickly.”

Dad to the rescue!
Ariel gave him a big grin.

“Gabriel,” Anthony said, minus the big grin. He looked at Portia. “Even as a kid, he was a wet blanket.”

“Not everyone can make it through life on the largess of others.”

If Ariel wasn’t mistaken, something weird was happening with Uncle Anthony’s jaw, sort of like a spasm. A definite sign that he was mad. But then her uncle just laughed, making her think she’d imagined it.

“Ms. Cuthcart,” her dad said in clipped tones.

The two of them exchanged a massively weird glance, and for half a second Ariel thought her dad was going to fire Portia on the spot. That, or Portia was going to up and quit.

Instead, Dad glanced at the doughnuts on the counter. “This is what you’ve chosen to feed my children for breakfast?”

“No.” Portia opened the oven door and pulled out a platter. “For the girls, eggs, turkey bacon, whole wheat toast.” From another pot on the stove, she whipped off the lid. “Oatmeal.” Then, like some crazed hostess on a game show, she walked over to the refrigerator, from which she produced a bowl of cut-up fruit and some orange juice.

“Covering all bases, I see,” Dad said.

“Yep, that’s me.” She threw him a look, kind of sideways under her lashes. “Though now that I think about it, not so unlike you last night covering a few of your own.”

Dad’s jaw dropped, then snapped closed. There was that weird look in his eyes again, though.

Portia turned away, like she had surprised herself.

“Isn’t this interesting,” Uncle Anthony said in a kind of sour voice. Which was even weirder.

Miranda walked in just then. She scowled at their dad, for whatever reason, this time. Then she saw Uncle Anthony. “Hi!” she said with a big smile.

“Hi, yourself,” Anthony said, grinning back.

Her dad got that frustrated look about him, but instead of saying something mean, he just asked, “Anthony, what are you doing here?”

Ariel could feel tension in the room like she felt heat coming from the oven. It made her stomach clench and worry come up in her throat, a worry that was always there these days.

She didn’t dare tell the Shrink about the worry, because he would tell her dad, and then there would be hell to pay. Dad would watch her like a hawk, just like he watched Miranda. As it stood now, Ariel knew her dad felt pretty certain she was under control with the whole journal and Shrink thing. She wanted to keep it that way.

Miranda glanced at Portia, seemed surprised, though not in a good away, then sat down.

Ariel focused on serving a plate. She really hated all this weird family mess that, even as smart as she was, she hardly understood.

It took a second before something occurred to her. “How did you know what our favorite stuff was?”