Hot to the Touch

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Sounds like you’re not listening to a thing she’s told you.”

  “She does want to date. You should see her talk about men.”

  “You mean hear her talk?”

  “No, see her.” Marie put down her Prufrock, her favorite Roots specialty drink, and turned on the bar stool, holding herself rigid. “Her whole body goes into terrified-defense mode, like this. Stiff as a board. She’s so afraid to admit what she wants. So afraid someone will figure out she’s human and can be vulnerable. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “And up to you to fix?”

  Grrrr. Even Quinn’s strong resemblance to George Clooney wasn’t helping her like him any better at the moment. “No, not up to me. Only she can fix it. But if I can put a guy in her way who will inspire her to take the necessary steps so she can ultimately be happy, then I’ve done something really wonderful for her.”

  He signaled the dark-eyed bartender, Joe, for another gin martini; he’d gone through his first one much faster than usual. “She’ll be happy paired off because no one can be happy on his or her own? Is that what you believe?”

  “Yes. I do believe that or I couldn’t keep putting this much effort and time into what I do.”

  Quinn drained an invisible final drop from his empty drink and pushed the glass away, then fixed his movie-star gaze on her. “And where do you fit into that, Marie?”

  “What do you mean?” For some reason, maybe because his voice had gentled, Marie felt some of the fight leave her. “In my role as meddling matchmaker?”

  “No. In your role as a woman. A single woman who shows no signs of wanting a man in her own life. Why is that? You don’t want to be ‘happy’?”

  Irritation sparked again. “When it’s time for me to date, I will.”

  “And when will that time be?”

  When she could give up hope that Quinn might someday open his eyes and see her. “You want an exact hour?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Okay, fine.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. They were squabbling like children. This wasn’t what she wanted. But maybe he was pushing her toward something she should be doing anyway. Setting a deadline. Deciding when to give up this pipe dream. “June 23 at 5:03 p.m.”

  He blinked. “How precise.”

  “The exact day and time I turn forty.”

  “I see.” He turned the second drink Joe had brought him in a circle, as if deciding the angle at which to attack, raised the glass halfway to his mouth, then set it down. “So you’re officially on the market as of then.”

  “Yes.” Marie nodded firmly. No, she hadn’t planned to draw that line, but having done so felt like the right and smart thing to do. By that night, newly forty-year-old Marie would either have summoned her courage to confess her feelings to Quinn, or decided there was no point and it was time to move on. Hanging on like this was only going to get harder and harder.

  “And then you’ll, what, sign up with a competitor’s dating website?”

  “I…guess so.” She smiled at him, sick to her toes. How could she even think about dating anyone else feeling this way about Quinn? Obvious answer: she’d have to. “Or I’ll ask friends if they know of anyone. Do you know of anyone?”

  He did drink this time, a substantial gulp. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, is he handsome?” She didn’t care. This was torture.

  “Hmm. I’m not the one to ask about that, Marie. He’s not my type.”

  “Fun to be with?”

  “Yeah, I’d say he’s pretty fun.”

  Somehow she kept smiling with a mouth that felt weighted. “Intelligent?”

  “He is.”

  “In decent shape?”

  “Sure.”

  “Revoltingly wealthy, I hope?” Like she cared…

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Marie scowled comically. “There must be something horribly wrong with him.”

  “Huh?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, obviously, if he’s that perfect and not seeing anyone there’s some ghastly defect you haven’t figured out yet.”

  Quinn chuckled without humor. “Oh, you cynic.”

  “Me? I’m not the one dating a parade of women young enough to be my daughters.” She meant to tease, but bitterness showed through. A lot of bitterness. Bitterness that belonged to her ex-husband and his child-bride, not to Quinn, who’d suffered through a betrayal of his own when his wife left him for another man.

  Quinn’s face darkened. “I gave up that chase, I told you.”

  Marie gathered herself together. Enough. This was horrible, and getting them nowhere.

  “Quinn, something isn’t right tonight. We seem unable to do anything but bicker.”

  He straightened his broad shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m on edge tonight.”

  “Work?” She wondered if something was going wrong with one of the companies he’d invested in. Though he didn’t strike her as the type who’d risk more than he could comfortably afford to lose.

  “Sort of.” He frowned, staring into his gin. “There’s a situation I’ve been counting on working out, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been reading it wrong. It’s not like me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve invested a lot. Time, energy, emotion.”

  “Quinn.” She leaned toward him, heart melting at his distress, put her hand on his forearm and squeezed the strong muscle reassuringly. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, actually.” He took another too-large sip of his martini. “Come to dinner with me at Dream Dance Steakhouse.”

  Marie’s jaw dropped. The restaurant was one of Milwaukee’s finest, and one of its most expensive. Not exactly a buddy date. “Wow. That’s…a little out of my—”

  “I’m inviting you. My treat. We can go dancing afterward.”

  League was how she’d been going to finish her sentence. Now she wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “Dancing.”

  “Swing dancing at the Jazz House. If you’d enjoy that.”

  If? Was she dreaming? Quinn Peters, god among men, was inviting peasant-stock Marie on what sounded like a real man-woman date? She ducked her head to avoid showing her blush and took a solid breath so her voice would come out casually. “That sounds fun. When were you thinking of going?”

  “Next Friday? Our regular night?”

  “Sure.” She was dreaming. If an operator like Quinn wanted her, he would have made that clear on their first meeting. Right? God, this was confusing. She reached instinctively for her drink, suddenly as thirsty for alcohol as he seemed to have been all night, took a big clumsy slug and started coughing.

  “You all right?” He thumped her firmly on the back, a big brother’s touch. He had told her months ago that she reminded him of his sister. Marie had been so humiliated, she’d invented a brother he could remind her of, too. Only he hadn’t looked humiliated at all at the comparison.

  “Fine. I’m fine.” She wiped her streaming eyes. “Just haven’t learned how to swallow yet.”

  “You might want to try.” His hand lingered briefly between her shoulder blades, then slid slowly down her spine before he finally broke the contact.

  Not quite a lover’s touch, but not a brother’s, either.

  Marie reacted as if he’d kissed her, desire running hot for more of the same. Help.

  Next Friday. Dinner and dancing. She’d be in his arms out on the floor, possibly held close against him. If a pat on the back got her this heated, she’d end that night up in flames.

  Still without knowing whether this man she burned for had any interest in putting them out.

  4

  “CHEF?” ACE KNOCKED ON THE door to Darcy’s cramped enclosure—which she optimistically called her “office”—in the back of Gladiolas’s kitchen. “We have a problem
with this morning’s delivery.”

  Darcy turned her chair away from the computer where she’d carefully saved a new recipe into her Chef’s Bible file: one copy there, password protected, and one on the red flash drive she kept hidden in a drawer. The file was sacred; in it she kept all her food creations, past present and future, and all her ideas for Gladiolas’s specials. This was a menu she called Save Calories for Dessert, which featured local bass steamed over a fragrant curried broth, served alongside roasted zucchini and couscous studded with raisins and almonds. A light salad of avocado, grapefruit and endive, and then a killer dessert with layers of white milk and dark chocolate mousses in a bitter chocolate shell.

  “A problem? Oh, goody.” She took in Ace’s unruly red hair and bloodshot eyes. The kid showed promise, but he’d never get anywhere smoking it away 24/7. Half of her wanted to talk to him, to guide him toward the straight and narrow, the way her mentor, Chef Paul, had guided her. The other half told her it was none of her business what he did with his life and career. “What is it?”

  Ace held up a bundle of green stalks. “Celery instead of celeriac.”

  Darcy brought forth her favorite word. She didn’t have a problem exhibiting basic competency, why did the rest of the world? “Send it back. I’ll call Ken.”

  “Yes, boss.” Through the window surveying the kitchen, which she’d heard staff refer to as “big brother,” she watched Ace amble away, playing catch with the celery. The kid could take just about any hit the business gave out and barely blink. During more than one crazy, pressured shift he’d saved their butts by calmly stepping onto the line and taking up the slack when orders got ahead of them. He also got the job checking in deliveries because he was smart as hell, even stoned, and Darcy trusted him above anyone else in the kitchen. Even her sous chef Sean, who did what he was told, but didn’t contribute much else.

  She dialed the Lenson’s sales rep, still fuming. Darcy did not take on problems with barely a blink. Maybe she should try some of Ace’s weed. “Ken, it’s Darcy. Doug showed up with a crate of celery. I ordered celeriac. I’ll need the right stuff here ASAP. Like now.”

  “Celeriac…” His voice was doubtful.

  “I don’t care where you have to get it, just get it. I can’t serve mashed celery. Andy Gerber was nosing around here the other day and I can tell you, his pricing is nice. And he’s cuter than you.”

  “I’ll find it,” Ken said immediately. “I’ll have it there in under two hours.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” She hung up, imagining Ken indulging in choice vocabulary at her expense. Whatever. If you didn’t keep the pressure on, people bled out from ineptitude. She emerged into the kitchen, took a quick glance around. “Where the hell is my sous chef?”

  “Dunno.” Ace poked his head out of the cooler, arms full of asparagus. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”

  “Can you start the dinner prep if he’s not here in five?” Sean wasn’t usually late, but apparently today he was joining the Drive Darcy Nuts Club.

  “Sure.” He looked at her curiously. “You’re off today, chef. You aura is all out of whack. What’s up?”

  Darcy glared at him. “My aura is fine. Have Sean come see me when he gets in.”

  She stomped back to her office. Yes, her aura was off today. Everything was off today. Sean had gone missing, tonight’s featured side dish was in jeopardy, the kid she’d like to move up onto the line was stoned 24/7, Marie was being particularly pigheaded…and Darcy could not stop thinking about him.

  She wasn’t proud of her sexual history—she wasn’t ashamed, either—but since she’d given up on relationships after Chris, her postcollege boyfriend, cheated on her with a woman who had no life outside of catering to him, Darcy had been with enough men to know that once they were out of her bed and she was back in her kitchen, it was all about the work, her true passion. In a quiet moment she might let her thoughts drift briefly, maybe get a quick smile or shot of arousal out of a particular memory of a lover. But she’d never had her brain hijacked to this extent, as if she’d imprinted on the guy. His body, the way he touched her, his voice, the way he touched her, his scent, the way he’d touched her…

  He touched her as if every inch of her body deserved exploration and adoration. His hands were never still—brushing lightly, bringing nerve endings to life, warming her with smooth, sensuous stroking or kneading deeply to soothe tired muscles. She knew herself around men; she had definite limits. She got antsy under sustained physical caresses and she couldn’t sleep in contact with a male body.

  That night? She’d loved this man’s hands on her, had stretched and grinned and purred like a cat in silent ecstasy. Afterward, wrapped in unfamiliar arms in a strange hotel room, she’d slept like a rock. Did this make sense? No. Worse, at dawn, she’d slipped out of the warm, comfortable bed to use the bathroom and returned with the assumption that her right-now man would be awake and ready for another round. But he’d slept on peacefully, his big, lean body sprawled under the sheet. The sight of that dark tousled head on the white pillow, lashes black against his cheek, stubble shadowing his strong chin… Darcy had succumbed to an overwhelming wave of tenderness that had made a mockery of all the vague, empty feelings she’d experienced on other mornings-after, and which had left her literally breathless. And scared.

  What did Darcy do when she was scared? She shut down and she ran. The way she did when Dad went into his drunken rages. The way she did when boyfriends betrayed or hurt her. Reflexive flight, an animal-deep instinct for self-preservation. This time, though, she was flying away from something that felt more dangerous than rage or abuse. Something she couldn’t define beyond certainty that it had threatened to devour her whole.

  She only had herself to blame. Three nights ago at Esmee Restaurant, after she’d locked eyes with her recent lover, but before he’d spoken to her, she could have listened to the instinct telling her to leave. Even after he started a conversation, she should have left, knowing she was at a low point that night, vulnerable and lonely, and knowing better than to think men were any kind of answer to what ailed her. Hadn’t she been screeching that exact lecture at Marie for months now? But the chemical connection between them had been so powerful…

  Yeah, well, Darcy had gotten all the trouble she’d gone looking for and more.

  Her office phone rang, startling her back to real life. “Gladiolas, this is Chef Darcy Clark.”

  “Hey there, honey.”

  Oh, hurray. The day was getting worse and worse. “Raoul. What do you want?”

  “You.” His playful, deep voice did nothing for her. She cringed that she’d ever found him attractive. He had that dark, tattooed, ponytailed, muscled bad-boy thing going, which she generally found irresistible. But there was bad boy and there was slime-boy, and he’d crossed the line. “I miss ya, Darce.”

  “Uh-huh. Why are you calling?”

  “Can’t a friend call to check on you?”

  “Yes, of course.” She put a big smile in her voice. “Of course a friend can. It’s just that you’re not one.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve gotta let that anger go before it eats you up.”

  “I will so keep that in mind.” She wanted to growl at him. “Once more, why are you calling?”

  “I told you. I miss you, I miss the old place. I was wondering if you’d like to get together.”

  “For?” What did he want? Why was he doing this? She instinctively closed her latest Chef’s Bible document. Not that he could see into it over the phone, but she didn’t trust the guy for a second, and if her recipes got into his hands, he’d no doubt make full use of them. Excellent technician in the kitchen, zero on creativity.

  “A talk.”

  “About?”

  “Jeez, you are a tough one. A talk about anything. About you, about how you’re doing, about how Gladiolas is doing. Two professionals shooting the breeze about the biz.”

  “And about your suspiciously familiar-soundi
ng new venture?”

  “Babe…”

  “Name is Darcy. Use it. And sorry, no time for a drink, I’m busy.”

  “That’s definitely my loss.” His voice dropped into the seductive tone that had actually tempted her before she found out he was sleeping with Alice, their only married waitress. Before she found out boxes of steaks and pounds of expensive cheeses were disappearing into his truck. “Any men in your life?”

  “Hundreds. Can’t keep track of them all. I have to go now.”

  “So when’s a good time for our date?”

  “Oh, gosh, let me see.” Darcy paused as if consulting her calendar. “How about next…never?”

  “Look, Darce…”

  “Darcy.”

  “Darcy. We’re both in this business now. I don’t see anything wrong with forming an alliance. We can both benefit from—”

  “You go your way. I’ll go mine.” She whacked her forehead with her palm. “Oh, wait, sorry, I got that wrong. I meant, I go my way. You copy me.”

  “Hey. That’s not—”

  She hung up, more rattled than she’d ever let him know. He reminded her of a jerk she knew in college who kept suggesting he and Darcy study together, which meant he wanted her to summarize the course material so he could avoid preparing for exams himself.

  Instinct told her she was hanging on in this city only by being unique, and if Raoul’s new venture took off in its better location with her menu style and format, he could sink Gladiolas and her with it. The perfect way to get ahead for someone with no special talent, and the perfect revenge on her for having fired him.

  Was it time to go to bed yet? She’d never sleep with all this fear and fury inside her, though. Sometimes she did worry that her anger would eat her up. Or that her emotions would explode and she’d fly off, fragmented, into the ether. She needed ballast in her life, some emotional constancy that would give her what she—

  Oh, no. No.