Luc (Rossi Brothers) Page 2

  Now he could only hope Liz would take his comment as the joke he’d meant it as.

  He reached the far side of the center island and lifted his gaze. Across from him, Liz remained frozen in the kitchen entrance. When his gaze collided with hers, she pulled her shoulders back and stepped into the kitchen. “Was that an offer?”

  He picked up his previously discarded bowl, pretending nonchalance as he began to stir the contents. “Would you like me to make it an offer?”

  She stopped on the other side of the island, resting her hands on the surface. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Luc couldn’t help his chuckle. The woman had spunk; he’d give her that. He lifted the bowl in her direction. “I was just mixing the filling for the cannoli when you arrived. I could use some help filling them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, but”—she turned her head and sniffed tentatively at the air—“do I smell chocolate?”

  “Brownies. Sam insisted I make some. They’re still in the oven.” He nodded in the direction of the double ovens, off to his left.

  “They’re the same ones he makes at the restaurant, Lizzie,” Sam said behind him. “Those ones you love.”

  Ah. Of course Sam’s request would have an ulterior motive. Damned if he’d let her know she’d gotten him, though.

  He smiled at Liz. “She’s right. I make the best brownies in the state.”

  “We’ll see.” Challenge glinted in Liz’s eyes as she crossed to the kitchen sink. There, she washed her hands before returning to the island and setting her hands on the counter. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come on, Joseph. Grab that stack of plates and let’s go set the table.” Sam picked up a foursome of wine glasses she’d set out earlier and marched from the kitchen.

  “You’re a bossy woman, you know that?” Despite his grumbled protest, Joe grabbed the stack of plates Sam indicated and followed.

  Sam shot a grin over her shoulder. “But you love me anyway.”

  “To the moon and back, baby.”

  As Sam and Joe disappeared into the attached dining room, Luc frowned at the pastry bag. “She is not very subtle. You’d think after the tongue-lashing she just got, she’d chill out.” He glanced at Liz as he scooped spoonfuls of filling inside the bag. He was babbling, of course. Talking to fill the uncomfortable silence that suddenly rose over the kitchen. “Do you cook?”

  Liz tensed beside him. She diverted her gaze to his hand, seeming to study his actions. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and released it in a rush of air.

  “No. I never learned. My husband did most of the cooking when he was home.” Her voice came out small and filled with pain, and although her expression remained neutral, the heaviness of her memories hung over her. As suddenly as the emotion came, though, she flashed a smile. “I can boil water for tea. Does that count?”

  Something about her smile rang all kinds of false, jarring the ache inside of him. He was entirely too familiar with the grief process. Knew all too well the desire not to let the pain show, to pretend life itself didn’t feel like shards of glass. To somehow fake yourself into believing you really were okay.

  Temptation to share more than he should stared him in the face. Of all people, she knew what it was like to lose someone. To have to smile politely, and wish like hell they’d all just … go away.

  He turned to the pastry bag, scooping in more filling. “Boiling water is good. If you can boil water, you can cook pasta.”

  She studied him, once again silent, likely trying to figure out what to say. He knew the feeling all too well. Living in a small town had its disadvantages. When he first came home from Italy a little over a year ago, everybody somehow knew he’d lost someone, and they showed an outpouring of support. It was nice, decent of people, but he’d been overwhelmed by it all. Their constant sympathy had nagged at the grief he just wanted to forget.

  She shrugged, off-handed and dismissive. “I never learned how to cook, and takeout is better than frozen dinners. Plus, all the restaurants in town know me well.”

  “I could teach you, you know.”

  She averted her gaze to the countertop. “That’s kind of you, but …”

  Before the rest of the denial he knew was coming could leave her mouth, Luc shook his head and spooned the last of the filling into the pastry bag. “Don’t read into that. It’s just an offer. Cooking’s a tradition in my family. In our house, if you can reach the counters, you can help make meals. Even my brother, Nic, can cook, and the only time he’s in the kitchen is when he’s hungry. My nonna drafted us every night to help make dinner.”

  “Nana? You really still call your grandmother Nana?”

  Her question was soft, but he didn’t miss the tease in her tone and lifted his gaze. She was watching him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  Glad to finally see her relaxing, he grinned and nudged her elbow. “Uh-huh, go ahead and laugh. Not na-na. Nonna. It’s Italian for grandmother. Mine happens to be from Tuscany.”

  Her brows rose. “Oh? Do you speak the language, then?”

  “Fluently.” He turned from the countertop and moved to the stove, lifting the lid on Sam’s soup pot and giving the contents a stir. “We were raised by my grandparents, and we grew up listening to them speak to each other in their native tongue. Nonna insisted we learn. Said it was part of our heritage. I also lived in Italy for a couple of years.”

  Liz followed, leaning around his shoulder. “That smells delicious. What is it?”

  Her shoulder brushed his, and her soft scent, something floral and feminine, wafted over him, subtle but alluring. The heat of her body beside him, all those curves he’d tried not to take in earlier, called to that long-dead part of him. He’d missed that. The softness of a woman’s body in bed beside him at night.

  It didn’t help that Liz went still as a statue beside him, and the space between them filled with so much tension the air practically crackled with it.

  Luc stirred the soup again. “Pasta fagioli. It’s a traditional soup. We make it at the restaurant. It’s simple but delicious. One of my favorites.”

  “It must have been interesting to live in Italy.” She cleared her throat and straightened, turning to lean back against the counter beside him, then narrowed her gaze on him. “Say something.”

  He thought for a moment, then clutched a hand to his chest. It was this side of a corny pickup, but it sounded good in Italian. With any luck, it would break the unbearable tension hanging between them. “La sua bellezza porta via il mio fiato. Posso fissare i tuoi bellissimi occhi per sempre.”

  “That sounds very romantic.” Her lips twitched. “You’re feeding me a cheesy line, aren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. I heard a guy use it on a girl once. Got you to smile, though.”

  For the first time since her arrival, she let out a genuine laugh and held up her hands. “Okay, okay, you got me. So, what’d you say?”

  He turned to her face her. “Your beauty takes my breath away. I can gaze into your beautiful eyes forever.”

  She laughed quietly. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. That was kind of the point.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, either. He’d seen her more than a few times at the restaurant but had never really stopped to look at her. He was usually too wrapped up in work. He’d never tell Sam—it would only feed her already overinflated ego—but he had to admit Liz was gorgeous. Her long, dark auburn hair fell past her shoulders in thick waves he ached to sift his fingers through. She had curves on top of curves and the most unusual eyes, almost violet in color.

  Needing something to distract himself, he turned, intending to head back to the center island, only to come up short. Her dog—what had Joe called him? Bruce?—had been lying quietly on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. He now stood directly behind Luc, his tail swishing back and forth, eyes hopeful.

  He bent to scratch the dog’s head. “He obviously knows his place. What’s he want?” />
  She nodded at the counter behind him. “When Joe stands there, he drops carrots for him.”

  Facing the stove again, he indeed found a small pile of sliced carrots on the wooden cutting board.

  “Really? My nonna’s dogs turn their nose up at anything that isn’t chicken.” Sure enough, though, when he plucked a piece of carrot from the cutting board, the dog’s ears perked up. His tail swished over the floor. When Luc wasn’t forthcoming with the treat, Bruce let out another low whine.

  Luc laughed and held out the carrot. Bruce accepted it with a gentleness that belied his size, crunching down the vegetable in seconds. He licked Luc’s hand and promptly lay at his feet.

  Luc squatted, peering at Liz as he stroked the dog’s head again. “He’s very well behaved.”

  “I had him formally trained, but he’s always been a good dog.” She smiled, pride in her eyes, and moved to the kitchen sink.

  Luc followed, and they washed their hands in silence before returning to the center island.

  She looked over at him. “So, teach me to make cannoli?”

  He picked up a cookie shell and the pastry bag and took his aim. “It’s easy. All you do is fill them, a little in each end.”

  Sam’s laughter preceded her into the kitchen. “Fill your cannoli. There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.”

  Trailing behind Sam, Joe shook his head, one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Way to break the ice, sweetheart.”

  Luc rolled his eyes. “Subtlety, Sam. There’s an art to it. You should look into it sometime.”

  Sam laughed softly.

  Liz’s cheeks flushed, but she turned her gaze to the counter and picked up another cookie shell. “You can’t tell me you’ve never used that line on a woman.”

  She had him on that one. “Actually, I have, but I was kidding when I said it. I dated a girl in college. She was nervous, and I purposely made a bad joke to get her to laugh.”

  Something akin to appreciation lit in Liz’s eyes. Yeah. He’d done the same with her. He was glad to see she recognized his joke as such.

  Sam peered around Liz’s shoulder, waggling her brows at him. “Yeah, but did it get you anywhere?”

  Luc glanced at Liz and grinned. “Got me a kiss, actually.”

  The tip of the pastry bag paused halfway to the end of her cannoli shell as Liz giggled. For a moment, Luc could only stare. Damn. She really did have a beautiful smile. It didn’t help any that she caught him and stared right back, and that hot tension once again filled the space between them.

  Seconds later, a soft pink flush rushed into her cheeks. She turned back to the cookie shell in her hand, inserting the metal bit into the other end. “Am I doing this right?”

  He took a step sideways and glanced over her shoulder at her progress.

  “You’re doing fine. Squeeze the bag from the top down.” He reached around her, setting his hand over hers to correct her awkward movement. He tried to ignore the warmth of her body and the soft, feminine curves pressed lightly along the front of him. Or the delicate scent of her perfume wafting around his head like a lure. The aroma begged him to forget they were in a room with other people, or that they were strangers, and bend his head instead to discover the fragrance on her skin.

  Liz stiffened. Her shoulders rose and fell at a more rapid pace, and her awareness of him charged the air between them like too much static electricity.

  He needed a distraction, and fast, because right at that moment, he couldn’t stop wondering what she’d do if he trailed his tongue along the bare shoulder currently taunting him.

  Think. Say something.

  He leaned back against the counter beside her. “What do you do, Liz? Sam said you used to teach preschool. I take it you don’t anymore?”

  Liz froze, stared for a heartbeat, then jerked her gaze to Sam. “You didn’t tell him?”

  Sam shot her a sympathetic frown and shook her head. “I figured you’d want to be the one to do it.”

  Liz let out a world-weary sigh. “I grew up in this town, Sam. What if he tells someone? I’m not sure I want to know what people will think of me if they ever find out.”

  “So, we swear him to secrecy.” Sam turned to Luc and frowned. Despite her serious expression, humor danced in her eyes. "The last thing she needs is a bunch of busybodies gossiping about her business. If you tell a soul in this town, I personally give her permission to hunt you down and string you up by your toenails in the middle of Sunside Park. Naked."

  Okay, now he had to know. “Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be that bad.”

  Sam pointed a stern finger at him. “Swear.”

  Luc held up three fingers. “On my honor as a Boy Scout, I’ll go to my grave with it.”

  Liz pursed her lips. “You were not a Boy Scout.”

  Oh, God. Here went nothing. He was going to make a complete ass out of himself.

  He closed his eyes, reciting the code from memory. “On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

  When he opened his eyes, Liz had a hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were filled with a mirth that made them sparkle. She laughed at him, but she looked so damn beautiful doing it, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  “I was a Boy Scout until I was fourteen. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got something I don’t tell most people either. You have to promise not to laugh.”

  “Does Sam know?”

  “Oh, she knows.” She gave him shit for it all the time. Usually when she was pissed at him.

  Sam giggled and nudged Liz. “Oh, he’s got you beat on this one, honey.”

  He glared at his sous chef. “I appreciate that.”

  Sam grinned.

  Liz just nodded and straightened her shoulders. “All right. I promise. What’s the big secret?”

  “Ask me what my first name is.”

  Confusion etched her brow. “I assumed Luc was short for Lucas. Or that maybe Luc is your first name. I’ve known a few Lucs over the years.”

  He shook his head. “Luc is short for Luciano. I was named after my grandfather.”

  Something shifted in her gaze, those blue eyes filling with a soft heat. “Actually, I kind of like that name.”

  It wasn’t her words that made his pulse skip. It was the way she held his gaze. Not for the first time tonight, something hot and tangible sparked between them.

  But they weren’t alone. He shook his head, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand lest he embarrass himself. Not that it mattered. In about two seconds, he’d douse that flame like a bucket of ice water. He and Nic agreed on one thing: their first names were cruel and unusual punishment. “Luciano is my middle name. My grandfather’s name was Aldo.”

  Liz blinked, staring at him for a nerve-wracking moment longer. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shook his head. “’Fraid not. I consider myself lucky. My younger brother? Nicolo’s not his first name, either. My grandparents insisted our parents keep with family tradition and name us after relatives. Nic’s first name is actually Elmo. He was named after our great grandfather.”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Elmo. Like the Sesame Street character?”

  He grinned. “The same. He got teased a lot growing up.”

  She laughed through her fingers, and damned if he could stop himself from grinning along with her. God help him, that sound was spectacular.

  As quickly as the laughter came, it died away, and she fell silent, studying him.

  Sam nudged her with an elbow. “If he can do it, so you can you. You’ve wanted to test it out. Now’s your chance to see how it feels. Go on. He’s not the church ladies.”

  Joe offered her a smile. “Be brave, sweetheart. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Luc’s curiosity piqued. What on earth could a former preschool teacher do that would make he
r this nervous?

  Liz nodded, hiked her chin a notch, squared her shoulders as if preparing for battle, and released her held breath. “I write erotic romance.”

  Chapter Three

  Liz’s heart hammered as if to escape her ribcage. A fierce heat climbed her neck and scorched her cheeks. You just didn’t toss that kind of information into casual conversation. Oh, by the way, I write sex for a living.

  She buried her face in her hands and shook her head. “Oh God, I don’t even want to know what you think.”

  The oven timer buzzed, filling the unbearable silence. A heartbeat later, masculine fingers tugged her hands away from her face. Her left hand clasped firmly in his, Luc turned, pulling her behind him as he strode for the glass doors leading to the backyard. "That’s the brownies, Sam. Do you mind getting them? They should be done. Liz and I need to have a chat. In private."

  Bruce rose from his spot on the floor and followed closely on their heels as Luc pulled her outside, leading her across the deck overlooking Sam’s small backyard. At the far left end, he sank onto a lounger, peering expectantly at her.

  She hadn’t a clue what to say to him. She couldn’t stop staring at their hands. It was such a simple sensation. The warmth of his skin against hers. The roughness of his palms. His long fingers. God, she’d forgotten that. What it was like to be touched. Really touched. The simple press of a man’s hand in hers reminded her she was a living, breathing woman with wants and needs and desires aching to be fulfilled.

  It didn’t help that he watched her or that a solar flare flashed between them. It left her trembling. She’d never had such an immediate reaction to a man before. She’d known Daniel all her life. He’d been warm and familiar. And safe. What Luc inspired in her was sinful and delicious and called to all those womanly places begging to be remembered.