Some Like It Hot

by Louisa Edwards

  “Do you?” He leaned back and studied her. It was gratifying to be able to so thoroughly discombobulate her. He’d bet it didn’t happen often.

  “I’m not some innocent little virgin,” she said, digging through her huge purse—how the hell did she find anything in there?—and coming up with a tube of lipstick. “I know all about sex, and pleasure, and what two consenting adults can do together.”

  While she efficiently reapplied the slick red lacquer he’d—oh man—kissed off her, Danny struggled to maintain his cool.

  “No virgin kisses the way you do.” His voice came out on the hoarse, growly side, and Danny swallowed hard. “Besides,” he went on. “Can you honestly still be in the mood for nooky when you just got off the phone with your father?”

  She stiffened, but he pretended not to notice. “Because I have to say, even thinking about my parents … well, that pretty much puts my sex drive in neutral every time.”

  Eva smiled, as he hoped she would, and relaxed a bit. “I guess you couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “It’s a nice car,” Danny said, “I’ve never been in a backseat that actually has one of those privacy shields like in the movies. But it’s not quite big enough that I can pretend I didn’t catch the gist of your conversation.”

  “My father founded this competition almost twenty years ago,” Eva said. “I guess you probably know that already. Actually, though, it wasn’t his idea. It was my mom’s.”

  Now, that was interesting. Danny racked his brain for what he knew about Eva’s parents.

  Theo Jansen was a legend in the restaurant world—his empire stretched from upscale French places in New York City to glitzy celebrity chef outposts in Las Vegas. Pretty much everything the man touched turned to caviar and champagne.

  But his legend extended beyond the dining room. Theo Jansen was reputed to be the consummate ladies’ man. He showed up at restaurant and club openings with a different socialite or supermodel or Broadway starlet every night of the week, and the stories about what he got up to with those ladies … well, Danny had never thought about what it would be like to hear salacious gossip starring his own father, but he didn’t see how it could fail to fuck a kid up.

  When he considered it from that angle, it wasn’t any wonder that, according to the culinary gossip hotline, Eva was doing her level best to follow in her father’s footsteps—both in business and in pleasure.

  But try as he might, Danny couldn’t remember a single story about whatever had happened to Eva’s mother. He couldn’t even think of the woman’s name.

  If he’d been asked to guess, Danny would probably imagine she’d been a trophy wife, or something, and was living out her generous alimony settlement in some Italian villa.

  At least, that would’ve been his default before this moment, in the close, intimate confines of this car’s backseat, across from Eva Jansen—who still looked recently ravished, and smelled like sweet, satisfied woman. Something about the way Eva hunched in on herself, so different from her usual brash confidence, told Danny there was more to it than that.

  “Oh yeah?” seemed like the safest response he could give.

  “She loved to cook, the skill and technique and artistry of it, and she thought it was horribly unfair that there was no venue for chefs to hone their talents by competing against one another, and be recognized by the entire nation for their accomplishments.”

  Loved. Past tense.

  Oh, Eva.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Danny said, “She was right. There are so many chefs in cities across America, doing good work, putting out fantastic food. The RSC does a great job of showcasing those people and giving them a place to shine.”

  “And a chance at an even bigger future,” Eva said, conviction brightening her eyes and making them sparkle. “That’s what I want to do—make my mother’s dream a reality.”

  Danny had no idea why it surprised him to find out that Eva was a true believer under all her glitz, glamour, and ruthless maneuvering; he already knew she was a living, breathing contradiction in terms.

  “For what it’s worth,” he told her, “I think you’re doing a pretty good job. So far.”

  Shit. Good thing that wasn’t awkward, or anything.

  But Eva gave him a small smile. “Actually, it’s worth a lot. Thanks. I know you wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean it.”

  Danny had about two seconds to wonder how she knew that about him before he registered the fact that the car was slowing to a stop in front of a giant Fresh Foods grocery store.

  “Looks like we’re here,” he said, unnecessarily, but damn it. The atmosphere in the car was still pretty thick with embarrassment, overlaid by the taunting aroma of sex and hunger, and Danny wasn’t exactly functioning at his best.

  This was why he was supposed to keep his distance from Eva Jansen, he reminded himself. She was the world’s most dangerous distraction.

  Shaking his head in self-disgust, Danny popped the lock on the door and started to get out, only to be stopped by a slim hand gripping his elbow.

  “Wait … before you go.” Eva glanced down, then up at him through her sooty lashes. It was a very pretty picture she made, softer and more vulnerable than he was used to seeing her. “I just wanted to say … thanks. For everything. And if you could keep this whole thing to yourself, I’d really appreciate it.”

  A ball of nausea coiled in his belly. He’d never been treated like a disposable sex toy before.

  It wasn’t as much fun as he would’ve imagined.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said curtly. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Her head came up, silvery cat eyes widening in what looked like shock. “Oh! No, not about the kissing. I don’t care, tell the whole world. I meant about the call. With my father.” She glanced to the side, fingers fidgeting with the clasp of her shiny watch. “I’d rather keep it quiet, that he has his doubts about me taking over the competition. That’s just. Well, it’s very personal.”

  This had to be one of the strangest encounters of Danny’s life. Nothing ever seemed to go the way he expected when Eva Jansen was involved.

  What kind of woman didn’t regard her own sexual exploits as “personal”?

  Reeling a little, Danny nodded at her and escaped from the car. The sick feeling was gone, but it had been replaced by the much scarier sensation of falling through space—and the expectation of a hard landing.

  Somewhere between the Gold Coast Arms and the Fresh Foods parking lot, Danny was afraid he’d lost any ability to keep his distance from Eva Jansen.

  The grocery expedition was more like full-on battle than a shopping trip. The butcher counter was mobbed immediately by three separate teams, which made Danny extra glad they had decided not to go that route.

  Beck didn’t even need to use his considerable bulk and intimidation factor to get up to the fish counter, so that saved them some time. Jules and Winslow hit the produce section, while Max and Danny ran for the baking aisle. They hadn’t had a chance to really inventory the hotel kitchen’s stores, but Danny was assuming they had basics like bread flour and yeast. He needed buttermilk and dark brown sugar, among other things.

  Periodically, when the fierce current of the action, fighting the crowds and racing around the store looking for the best product took him past the checkout lanes, Danny caught a glimpse of Eva.

  She had one arm up, her gaze on her watch, as she counted down the minutes of their timed shopping trip. Hair immaculate, lipstick as red and unsmudged as ever; no one looking at her would guess that not forty minutes before this, she’d been in the throes of a gorgeous, moaning, head-thrashing climax in the back of a limo.

  But Danny knew. The image was imprinted on his brain as if it had been carved there like an etching in granite, right alongside the vision of Eva, momentarily downcast and unsure, her lashes dark moons against the fairness of her cheeks.

  Danny had seen the real Eva Jansen, the one behind the elegant predator.
And the bitch of it was, even if he could, Danny wouldn’t go back and unsee it.

  She fascinated him, in a way that nothing had fascinated him since he first discovered the magic alchemy that turned flour, butter, and sugar into cookies.

  He wanted her. And an innocent, oh-so-reasonable voice kept repeating in his head: Is it really so bad to want something for yourself?

  Chapter 11

  The throb of pleasure still thrummed through Kane’s body like the backbeat rhythm of a song—something slow and intense, pulsing with meaning and joy. Heavy on the high hat.

  He’d collapsed to the side in an effort not to crush Claire’s trim, small frame—Kane wasn’t tall, but he was compact, with more lean muscle mass than it maybe seemed like. Or so that Cosmo interview had said.

  Anyway, Claire was safe and uncrushed next to him, the sheen of sweat still drying on her skin. Every shallow, panting breath brushed her high, perfect breasts against Kane’s arm where he’d curled it around her rib cage to keep her close.

  “Mon dieu,” she breathed. “What are we doing?”

  They were the first words either of them had spoken since Kane knocked on the door of her suite and Claire hauled him inside, pressed him back against the wall, and kissed him.

  They weren’t exactly the words Kane had been hoping for, either.

  “Whatever feels good,” he said firmly. “Wait. It felt better than good to me, but did you not, um…”

  She opened her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. “My God. How young you are. Yes, Kane. I ummed. Thank you for that.”

  In a single instant Kane went from totally irresistible stud to knock-kneed virgin fumbling after his prom date.

  Confusion and hurt curdled together in his stomach, leaching the warmth of his orgasm from his skin. Kane shivered and pulled his arm away from Claire’s body.

  So much for afterglow.

  “You’re welcome,” he said shortly. “I guess this means you’re kicking me out, now that the lion’s been fed, huh?”

  He moved to get off the bed, maybe find his pants so he didn’t have to finish this conversation with his bare ass hanging out in the breeze. Some part of him hoped for Claire to clasp a hand to his forearm and tug him back down beside her, but she didn’t.

  “And now you’re angry. Should I not mention your age? But you are young.”

  “In years, maybe,” Kane allowed, stretching to pluck his jeans from the top of the dresser where they’d been tossed. “But not in experience.”

  Back when he was seeing that double-jointed fashion model, he’d done the entire Kama Sutra. Twice! Somehow, though, that memory didn’t give him the good, wicked tickle of satisfaction it usually did.

  This thing with Claire—it was as if it overshadowed everything, made him rewrite every song he’d ever sung to try and make sense of the new things she showed him about himself. It wasn’t an altogether comfortable sensation, but then, if Kane wanted comfortable, he would’ve stayed put in Austin, playing gigs in dive bars for free beer and barbecue.

  If Kane wanted comfortable, he wouldn’t have gone on that skydiving trip last year, or bar-hopping with that crazy coked-up socialite in San Sebastian, or on his most recent, intensely grueling international tour, and he certainly wouldn’t give his mother his new cell number every time he changed it.

  Comfort was overrated.

  “Put those pants down and come back to bed.”

  Claire’s slow, exquisitely accented voice jolted Kane back into his body—which, he realized, was standing motionless and naked in the middle of her hotel suite, with a sock in one hand and a pair of inside-out jeans in the other.

  Dropping both, Kane turned to face her. The quick flare of desire in her deep brown eyes reminded him of the power of the human form, of how strong it felt to stand there in front of her, bare and unashamed, secure and present in his compact, muscular body.

  Kane looked damn good with no clothes on, and he knew it.

  But if desire were all he saw on Claire’s flushed, dewy face, he would’ve snatched up his pants and gotten the hell out of Dodge, because Kane Slater was nobody’s blow-up doll.

  Sex symbol of an entire generation? Sure. But to Claire, he was beginning to realize, he wanted to be more.

  And that indefinable more was exactly what he saw in the trembling of her kiss-swollen mouth and the flicker of uncertainty in the downward sweep of her long, coppery lashes.

  Even still, Kane had to force his seized-up lungs and vocal cords to do his bidding.

  “I came up here today, even though I knew you wanted us to cool things off. And I’m not sorry. I want to be with you—and I’m pretty sure you want to be with me, too. So … how about it? You positive you want me to stay?”

  He tilted his head to one side and held his breath.

  Her soft, French-accented tones were as perfect, pure, as the opening notes of his favorite piano solo.

  “Yes. Stay. But, Kane, this doesn’t mean I’m prepared to be completely open about our … thing, as you call it.”

  All he heard was yes.

  Warmth bloomed under Kane’s breastbone as if he’d swallowed a star. Or a shot of good tequila.

  The sheets were cold against his skin as he slid between them, but they heated up fast once he rolled to his back and pulled Claire over him.

  “Mmm, better than any blanket,” he said, relishing the way the soft, slight weight of her pressed his legs apart, pushing their hips together.

  She squirmed against him and smiled. Kane loved that every one of her rare, reluctant smiles felt like an accomplishment, like winning a prize.

  “You understand, yes?” she murmured, running one slim thigh between his. Her voice was slightly muffled where her mouth nuzzled into the curve of his neck. “The idea of people talking about my intimate, private business, what should be only between you and me…”

  “I totally get it.” Kane petted at the silky fall of her hair and smothered the jaw-cracking yawn that took him by surprise as all his muscles seemed to melt into the mattress. “No worries.”

  The last thing he was conscious of before sleep dragged him under was the quiet sigh of Claire’s breath against his shoulder.

  There was something energizing about the frantic bustle of a competition kitchen, Eva mused, even if you weren’t one of the chefs cooking your heart out and cursing the temperamental stovetops and slipping in spilled olive oil.

  She mostly tried to stay out of the way, of both the chefs and the range of Bernard Cheney and his camera in the front left corner of the kitchen, while her heart performed an aggressive series of kickboxing moves against her rib cage.

  It was hard to breathe, although that could’ve been the heat. When her father designed the Limestone kitchen for the Gold Coast hotel, he must’ve skimped on the ventilation.

  Really, though, Eva had never been in a fully functioning professional kitchen that didn’t feel like the inside of an active volcano an hour into dinner service.

  The combination of roasting ovens, salamander broilers blasting heat, fryolators spitting hot oil, grills throwing flames at the ceiling, and a lot of intense, stressed-out chefs made for a toasty working environment.

  She’d already done the rounds of the different groups of chefs, trailed by the surly cameraman, to find out what each team planned to serve the judges.

  The Southwest Team was stuffing sausages for their spin on hot dogs; the Southern Team was playing with soul food. Danny’s guys—the East Coast Team, she corrected herself; it wouldn’t be good to start slipping up and referring to them as “Danny’s guys” on camera—had a whole riff on the Chicagoans’ love of brunch that sounded like fun. If they managed to pull it off, it would probably be a stunner.

  Good food made for good TV, and that was all she was hoping to serve up today. But Eva’s hopes for a clean, classy challenge appeared to be in some danger when it came to the teams from the Midwest and the West Coast.

  Biting her lip, she watched as Skye Gladw
ell and Ryan Larousse collided in front of the walk-in pantry for about the fifth time, both having run there in search of ingredients for pizza dough.

  Both teams planned to present pizzas—and the sparks were already flying.

  “Out of my way,” Ryan snarled, scrambling to catch his balance and haul himself into the pantry with one hand on the doorjamb.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s enough yeast for everyone,” Skye retorted, hurrying in after him. “Or don’t you keep this place well stocked?”

  That was rough stuff, coming from her. At the beginning of the prep period, every time Ryan challenged her for an ingredient or shoved her out of his path, she’d smiled a tense little smile and let it go.

  By this point in the afternoon, however, three hours and counting down, even hippie-crunchy-granola Skye had clearly reached some sort of limit with Ryan’s behavior.

  If Eva had to guess, she’d bet it was the malicious gleam of frustrated anger in Ryan’s eyes that had started to get to his competitor. The guy was infamous for being able to hold a grudge—people still told stories about the lengths he’d gone to in order to revenge himself on his first boss, an old-school chef who dished out a lot of abuse in the kitchen.

  And after suffering such ignominious defeat at the hands of the East Coast Team yesterday, Ryan was out for blood.

  However, he also wasn’t an idiot. Which made him more dangerous, because as she’d been warned when she’d hired him to run Limestone, Ryan Larousse could be subtle and sly when he was after something. He wasn’t always a hot-tempered brawler.

  No, Ryan was a schemer. A planner. And today, his plans seemed to include driving Beck crazy by tormenting Skye Gladwell.

  As a special bonus, the storm clouds gathering around Beck’s head appeared to be driving Danny to distraction, as well. His concerned gaze darted from Beck to Skye, and back to Ryan, even as his hands swiftly and methodically peeled the dusky purple skin from a pile of damson plums.

  Beside Eva, Bernard Cheney stuck his pencil behind his ear and leaned over his camera to get a shot of Danny’s jaw clenching down tight, his furious glance in Ryan’s direction.