kaput. Time to halt the crazy train at this station.
The bartender’s face darkened and he spouted something in Italian that reeked of wisdom and portentousness. Now we’re cooking. Jack lifted an eyebrow and waited to be wowed.
“It means ‘Wine, women, and tobacco reduce one to ashes.’ So my Liliana has made an impression?”
My Liliana? Jack’s body wrenched in sobering alert; then his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he thrust out his hand. “I’m Jack Kilroy. Pleased to meet you.”
The bartender laid down his towel and considered the outstretched hand for a heartbeat before taking it in his firm grasp.
“Tony DeLuca. Cara’s and Liliana’s father.”
For fuck’s sake, that’s just sneaky. Tony’s grip crushed him. Jack let his hand go slack; he might be tipsy, but he wasn’t stupid. He studied the cherrywood bar for five seconds. Ten. When he looked up, he found Tony regarding him closely, his expression unreadable.
“Any chance I can see your kitchen in action?” Jack asked, throwing in a hopeful grin that the code of courtesy among professional chefs might drag this into the draw column. Not only that, but also the craving for action that might break his skin into hives at any moment needed to be assuaged. And if he couldn’t get his fix with a woman, or one particular woman, then he’d take the next best thing—a visit to the kitchen of the man who would be his cooking rival for the next two days.
Tony’s lips curled up into a not-quite-smile. “Si, naturalmente.”
* * *
It seemed everyone and his brother had decided to stop in at O’Casey’s, the after-work hangout for the DeLuca crew. As the smallest Irish bar in Chicago, its cozy dimensions did an admirable job of accelerating intimacy in case the beer wasn’t flowing. Not that it wasn’t flowing tonight. Jack was running a tab for the gang, who were knocking it back like they had to report to Cook County Correctional Center the next day.
Lili glanced over her shoulder to where her ex, Marco, was engrossed in conversation with the man himself, who had the glassy-eyed look of the condemned. She tried not to notice that Jack was a few inches taller than Marco or that he was broader and generally more…space-filling. She also tried not to notice the way a light dusting of chest hair poked above the V of Jack’s shirt or how the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down contrasted scrumptiously with his tanned forearms.
Jack Kilroy had it going on.
Sighing, she returned to the other man of the moment. Laurent had waylaid her the second she stepped through the bar door and was now on his third White Russian. Addled as he was, Lili still felt flattered to have such a quality charmer touching her bare arm and looking down her shirt at every opportunity. Her curiosity about Jack got the better of her, though, so she steered the conversation around to his friend.
“You and Jack have worked together a long time, then?”
“ Oui . We met in Paris many years ago during our apprenticeship, but we didn’t work together again until a few years later when he needed a sous-chef for his first restaurant in London. I have been with him for all his restaurant openings, but I am now based at Thyme on Forty-Seventh in New York.”
“You don’t want to run your own restaurant?” It seemed strange he would be satisfied to remain in Jack’s shadow, but then, that’s what she’d been doing for years with Cara. Some people were just born to play sous-chef.
He hesitated, and while she would usually put it down to the alcohol, there was something faraway in his expression. “I would like to be in charge at Thyme but Jack is not one to give up the reins so easily. He likes to be in control.”
Bet he does. The mere mention of that word in relation to Jack sent a long, shivering pulse through her body.
“But I like working with him,” Laurent continued. “He’s the smartest and most creative guy in the
The bartender’s face darkened and he spouted something in Italian that reeked of wisdom and portentousness. Now we’re cooking. Jack lifted an eyebrow and waited to be wowed.
“It means ‘Wine, women, and tobacco reduce one to ashes.’ So my Liliana has made an impression?”
My Liliana? Jack’s body wrenched in sobering alert; then his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he thrust out his hand. “I’m Jack Kilroy. Pleased to meet you.”
The bartender laid down his towel and considered the outstretched hand for a heartbeat before taking it in his firm grasp.
“Tony DeLuca. Cara’s and Liliana’s father.”
For fuck’s sake, that’s just sneaky. Tony’s grip crushed him. Jack let his hand go slack; he might be tipsy, but he wasn’t stupid. He studied the cherrywood bar for five seconds. Ten. When he looked up, he found Tony regarding him closely, his expression unreadable.
“Any chance I can see your kitchen in action?” Jack asked, throwing in a hopeful grin that the code of courtesy among professional chefs might drag this into the draw column. Not only that, but also the craving for action that might break his skin into hives at any moment needed to be assuaged. And if he couldn’t get his fix with a woman, or one particular woman, then he’d take the next best thing—a visit to the kitchen of the man who would be his cooking rival for the next two days.
Tony’s lips curled up into a not-quite-smile. “Si, naturalmente.”
* * *
It seemed everyone and his brother had decided to stop in at O’Casey’s, the after-work hangout for the DeLuca crew. As the smallest Irish bar in Chicago, its cozy dimensions did an admirable job of accelerating intimacy in case the beer wasn’t flowing. Not that it wasn’t flowing tonight. Jack was running a tab for the gang, who were knocking it back like they had to report to Cook County Correctional Center the next day.
Lili glanced over her shoulder to where her ex, Marco, was engrossed in conversation with the man himself, who had the glassy-eyed look of the condemned. She tried not to notice that Jack was a few inches taller than Marco or that he was broader and generally more…space-filling. She also tried not to notice the way a light dusting of chest hair poked above the V of Jack’s shirt or how the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down contrasted scrumptiously with his tanned forearms.
Jack Kilroy had it going on.
Sighing, she returned to the other man of the moment. Laurent had waylaid her the second she stepped through the bar door and was now on his third White Russian. Addled as he was, Lili still felt flattered to have such a quality charmer touching her bare arm and looking down her shirt at every opportunity. Her curiosity about Jack got the better of her, though, so she steered the conversation around to his friend.
“You and Jack have worked together a long time, then?”
“ Oui . We met in Paris many years ago during our apprenticeship, but we didn’t work together again until a few years later when he needed a sous-chef for his first restaurant in London. I have been with him for all his restaurant openings, but I am now based at Thyme on Forty-Seventh in New York.”
“You don’t want to run your own restaurant?” It seemed strange he would be satisfied to remain in Jack’s shadow, but then, that’s what she’d been doing for years with Cara. Some people were just born to play sous-chef.
He hesitated, and while she would usually put it down to the alcohol, there was something faraway in his expression. “I would like to be in charge at Thyme but Jack is not one to give up the reins so easily. He likes to be in control.”
Bet he does. The mere mention of that word in relation to Jack sent a long, shivering pulse through her body.
“But I like working with him,” Laurent continued. “He’s the smartest and most creative guy in the
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