Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) Read Online Free PDF Page B

naughty, girly giggle that sounded so good on her. “Well, maybe not. But I think you’re a good match for someone I know. Nothing serious, just a hot and sweaty one-night stand.” One eyelid dipped in a lascivious wink. “And I’m sure Jack would love if you snapped a photo of his coq—”
    “Cara!” Lili had missed her sister’s filthy-minded take on everything. Truth be told, she had missed her sister.
    The idea of a hot and sweaty one-night stand with Jack Kilroy made her…well, hot and sweaty. What would Wonder Woman do? She’d take charge and kick some ass, that’s what.
    And given half a chance, she’d rip off Batman’s cape and ride him senseless.
    *  *  *
     
    It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that, at 9:00 p.m. DeLuca’s Ristorante, in the usually hipster-sodden Wicker Park, wasn’t exactly packed to the gills. More like a third full, if even. So far, the clientele had consisted of an older Italian crowd, most of whom looked like they’d caught a group ride in from central casting. Special-occasion diners or once-a-monthers, judging by how they were all dressed up in their Sunday best on a Saturday, complete with heirloom bling. That customer base might be good enough to keep things ticking over in a smaller place, but it couldn’t possibly sustain an establishment this size in an area where overhead was high and competition was higher. Hard to fathom the night ending with seventy-five covers, never mind the one hundred fifty Cara’s sister had boasted.
    Still, the nostalgia he felt earlier about the well-worn countertops and equipment had stayed with him now that he was front of house. A snob to the toes of her designer shoes, Cara had implied her family’s business was some sort of down-market, red-sauce emporium with plastic checkered tablecloths, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a fairly stereotypical design as far as neighborhood eateries went—two dining rooms separated by a large arch, cherrywood tables covered with pristine white linens, chocolate leather banquettes, a fifty-foot bar, and the ubiquitous frescoed ceiling. A touch stodgy, reminiscent of a bygone era. Or maybe it was Dean Martin crooning in the background that left Jack feeling like he was stuck in a Rat Pack movie. Music for Italian Americans to conceive by.
    The artsy photos dotting the walls might have kicked the old-world ambiance into modern if the subject matter had been a tad less run-of-the-mill. There was something arresting about the picture compositions, though. Off-kilter with strange angles of Italian types doing Italian things. Overhead shots of old men playing something like boules . Children having fun with wooden hoops and roller skates, with only glimpses of legs and arms showing. Jack didn’t know much about art except what he liked, and while the portraits whispered of comfort and familiarity, he recognized a quantum of quirky yearning to break free of the frames. Cara had told him her sister was an amateur photographer, but this work didn’t really fit the image he had formed. Following that fiery display this morning, he would have expected something with more edge.
    Speaking of edge, he looked up at the fidgeting server with the big eyes and even bigger hair who appeared to be perched on it. Either she was pleased to see him or she needed to pee.
    “All right, sweetheart?”
    Jack’s drawl sent Italian Smurfette into a frenzy of hair twirling. A quick scan of the room confirmed half of the other servers went to the same salon. And they all looked alike. It was as if he’d been drop-shipped into the nickel slots aisle at Caesar’s in Atlantic City.
    “I just wanted to say how excited we are you’re here, doing the show and everything,” she gushed. “We’re all big fans. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”
    Jack found it hard to believe there was anyone left he hadn’t already met. For the last twenty minutes, his table had been inundated with DeLuca cousins who were