Читать книгу Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal - Barbara McCauley - Страница 7

Kiera was certain she hadn’t heard him right. She cleared her throat and calmly met his eyes. Dark, intense eyes, that seemed to bore straight through her. “A tour?”

“Every person on the staff needs to know their way around the hotel.” He pushed the elevator button. “But if you haven’t the time …”

“Not at all.” Why would he do this? She’d worked in hotels before, knew perfectly well that the general manager didn’t take new employees on a tour. She also knew perfectly well she couldn’t refuse. “Now is fine.”

“Good.”

The smile he gave her made her pulse jump. Something told her that very few people—especially women—ever said no to Sam Prescott. He had a … presence, she thought. Not just his height, or the broad stretch of shoulders. Not even those lethal eyes, strong jaw and thick, espresso-brown hair.

No, it was much more than the way he looked. The first time she’d stepped into the elevator with him, she’d felt it.

Power.

The air inside the elevator had sizzled with it. She’d intentionally kept her gaze turned from him, even when she’d felt the gripping pull to look. Perhaps for self-preservation, perhaps to prove to herself that she could resist. She hadn’t even been able to breathe until she’d stepped out of the elevator.

And here she was again. Same elevator. Same man. Same sizzle.

Trey had told her on more than one occasion that she was naive. When they’d argued before she’d left the ranch, he’d told her again. So maybe she was. But she wasn’t so naive to think that Sam Prescott standing outside Mrs. Lamott’s office door was an accident. And she wasn’t so naive to think that this tour he wanted to take her on was hotel policy.

She certainly hadn’t done anything to attract this man’s unwanted attention. As far as he knew, she was simply a new employee—a waitress. There was nothing about her that should warrant interest from a general manager.

Unless he suspected she wasn’t being completely honest …

Oh, good grief, Kiera, she silently chided herself. You’re being paranoid. Of course he doesn’t suspect anything. How could he?

This has to be the slowest elevator I’ve ever been on.

“You’re not from around here,” he said flatly.

She hesitated, decided that the best way to avoid questions was to offer information. It might be useless information, but she hoped it would alleviate any apprehensions he might have about her. “I was born and raised in East Texas. Have you heard of a town called Rainville?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s not exactly a tourist spot.” It wasn’t exactly where she was from, either, though it was close. “Unless you’re interested in honey.”

“Honey?”

“Rainville’s claim to fame.” When the elevator finally slid to a stop, she stepped forward. “They raise bees.”

“Really.”

When he pressed the button to keep the doors closed, then leveled those piercing eyes at her, Kiera’s stomach twisted.

“What happened to your eye?” he asked.

Her eye? Confused, she stared at him. Oh, her eye. She’d forgotten about that. She released the breath she’d been holding, waited a moment for her pulse to slow down. “I fell off a horse.”

His frown darkened. “I’m not asking to be nosy. If you have a problem that might become this hotel’s problem, I need to know.”

So that’s what he was suspicious about, she realized. Not because he knew who she was or that she lied but because of her black eye. Relief poured through her. “Everyone has problems, Mr. Prescott,” she said evenly. “But I assure you, whatever mine are, they will in no way affect my job or this hotel.”

He stared at her for a long, nerve-racking moment, then removed his finger from the button. “Sam,” he said and straightened.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped out.

On unsteady legs, she followed.

The decor at Adagio’s Ristorante was elegant and contemporary. Crisp white linens, airy palms and high ceilings invited diners to relax, while the menu invited them to indulge. Homemade fusilli, a carpaccio sauce that made even the most hardened critic shed tears and “the best crème brûlée on the northern continent,” according to one reviewer, had made the restaurant legendary in the few short years it had been open.

The fragrant scent of warm spices and fresh bread mixed with the clink of tableware. The lunch crowd was always louder than dinner, and the animated voices of hotel guests and local business owners filled the softly lit room.

Sitting in a corner booth, Sam speared a bite of the steak he’d ordered, chewed attentively while Rachel Forster, publicist for the Central Texas Cattlemen’s Association, discussed her schedule.

“I’ll be sending out a press release to all the local newspapers within a hundred-mile radius, and I have a photographer coming out next Tuesday,” Rachel said. “I’ll have him call to set up an appointment.”

It was more information than Sam really needed, but the blonde sitting across from him, young, extremely efficient and heavily armed with pages of notes, seemed determined to go over every minute detail of the upcoming conference.

“I’d also like to write an article for The Dallas Register on the Four Winds chef. I understand he’s won the Hotelier’s Choice Award three years in a row. I thought maybe I could tie that in with some kind of a Texas beef angle.”

“Chef Bartollini is on hiatus for the next six months.” Actually, he’d flown home to Italy for a family emergency, and, unfortunately, no one knew when, or if, the man would return. “Chef Phillipe Girard is with us until then.”

“Would it be possible for me to meet him?” she asked.

Not a good idea, Sam thought, but simply smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’d appreciate that, and oh, I was wondering—” she pushed her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and scribbled on her notepad “—I’d like to meet the new owner and get some background so I can write a story about her, as well.”

“She’s out of the office today.” Sam doubted that Clair would consent to an interview. Even though most of the people in Wolf River knew her family history, Clair wouldn’t want it printed in newspapers across the state. “Why don’t I have her secretary call you?”

When the publicist moved on to the next item on her list, transportation issues, Sam listened patiently. Well, half listened, anyway.

He glanced across the crowded restaurant to the serving station, where Kiera busily filled water glasses with ice. Francine had already fitted her with Adagio’s standard uniform: white, long-sleeved shirt and tailored black slacks. The only variation the restaurant allowed for the servers was their personal choice of tie. Kiera’s was silver, with thin stripes of white and black. She’d knotted her dark hair on top of her head and secured it with shiny red chopsticks. The style not only revealed her long, slender neck but gave her an exotic look, as well.

Unwanted, restless, something stirred in him.

The tour he’d taken her on had included the lobby, conference rooms, employee gym and wedding chapel. She’d paid attention and asked several questions regarding hotel policies but had kept a stiff, polite demeanor. In itself, that wasn’t odd, he reasoned. New employees were usually nervous around him. But with Kiera, she hadn’t seemed nervous as much as simply reluctant to be anywhere near him.

Especially when he’d questioned her about her eye.

I fell off a horse.

Who the hell did she think she was kidding with that line? She might as well have said she’d walked into a doorknob, for God’s sake. And why the hell should he believe her problems wouldn’t follow her here? Because she’d said so?

She was hiding something, that much was obvious. For now, he decided he’d simply keep an eye on her.

Which was exactly what he was doing, he thought, watching as she hefted the tray of water glasses. When she moved smoothly toward a table of noisy businessmen, the silver in her tie shimmered.

Dammit. Why the hell did he think that tie looked so damn sexy?

“Will that be possible?”

Sam realized the publicist had asked him a question, something about the banquet meals, and he snapped his attention back to her. He had no idea what the woman had said, so he flashed a smile. “I’ll personally work with the catering department to see that your every need is met.”

“Oh—” Flustered, Rachel’s face turned rose-pink. She fumbled through her papers. “Well, thank you. Ah, now if we could go over the local publicity I’ve planned, I’d like to be sure it meets with your approval.”

“Of course.” With a silent sigh, Sam dragged his mind off the woman serving water several feet away and back to his job.

“Hey, babe, I need two iced teas and one soda at table six, one coffee, one soda at eight, refills at ten and eleven.”

Kiera quickly memorized and filled the order, didn’t bother to take the time to be annoyed that Tyler, the server she’d been paired with her first day, had pretty much called her everything except her name. She understood there was a pecking order in every restaurant, and as the new girl she was going to have to take her share of hits. She’d been there before and she could handle it.

What she couldn’t handle, she thought, hefting the tray of drinks, was Sam Prescott.

He’d been watching her from that corner booth for the past hour. He hadn’t been obvious about it, but, nonetheless, she’d been very aware that he’d been keeping track of her. As if it wasn’t difficult enough that this was her first day on the job and she had to not only learn the staff’s names, the layout of the restaurant and the stations, but keep her orders straight so Tyler-honey-baby-sugar-darling wouldn’t be on her back.

While she smiled and dropped off the first order of two iced teas and a soda, she casually glanced in Sam’s direction. He sat with a cupid-faced blonde who wore thick-framed glasses and a tailored pantsuit the color of buttered toast. They appeared to be having a serious conversation, although the woman was doing most of the talking, while Sam simply listened and nodded.

She knew he didn’t trust her, and that tour he’d taken her on had been more of a fishing expedition than anything else. Even his questions hadn’t been all that subtle.

Have you been in town long? Not really.

Will your husband be joining you? No.

So what brings you to Wolf River?

She’d wanted to say, “A car,” but managed a response that was much more vague and certainly more polite. Her answers hadn’t satisfied him, but something told her that Sam Prescott was not a man who was easily satisfied.

She knew all about men like that.

His gaze suddenly lifted and met hers. The knot of stress in her stomach twisted a little tighter, but she managed to curve her lips into what she hoped looked like a smile, then moved on and finished delivering her drinks. She hadn’t even dropped off the tray in her hands before Tyler thrust another one at her.

“Take these salads to table ten. One chicken barbecue and one Caesar. And hurry it up, will you, toots? Table six is waiting for more bread.”

Toots? Kiera ground her teeth, bit the inside of her lip, then turned with the tray.

And froze.

Trey?

Kiera stared at the man talking to the hostess. His back was turned to her, but it had to be Trey. Same wavy devil-black hair, same broad shoulders, same bronzed skin. That all-too familiar stance of arrogant authority.

Oh, God. She felt the blood drain from her face. How had he found her?

“Move it, sweet cheeks.”

Startled at the sudden voice behind her, Kiera swung around too quickly and knocked the tray into Tyler. To her horror—and Tyler’s—the food went down the front of him. The tray and salad plates crashed to the ground.

“You idiot!” Tyler hissed under his breath while he swiped at the bits of shredded lettuce and diced tomatoes clinging to his white shirt and burgundy tie. Barbecue sauce dripped from his collar.

Every head in the restaurant turned her way, but Kiera only cared about one. She glanced back toward the hostess desk, locked her gaze with a pair of curious dark brown eyes.

Oh, thank God.

It wasn’t Trey.

Even as Tyler continued to berate her, overwhelming relief swam through her. Relief that quickly dissipated when Chef Phillipe Girard stepped through the double kitchen doors.

Her first thought was he looked like a rutabaga, round at the top, narrow at the bottom. Fleshy cheeks framed an oversized nose and underscored pale, deep-set eyes. A tall, black chef’s hat sat like an exclamation point on top of a sand-colored ponytail. He had a knife in one hand and an onion in the other.

Kiera had heard about the man from a couple of the other servers. She’d been warned, “Stay out of his way,” “Don’t make him mad” and double-warned, “Don’t mess with his food.”

In the span of less than thirty seconds, she’d managed to do all three.

Based on the chef’s ominous frown, Kiera had the feeling he’d like to dice and chop more than onions. He glared down his large nose at her.

“Clean this mess up immediately,” he snarled, then he turned and swept back into the kitchen.

Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Kiera bent and picked up the tray and broken salad plates.

“You’ve done it now, miss butterfingers,” Tyler hissed, still brushing bits of green and red from his shirt. “He’ll take it out on all of us and God only knows what hell he’ll put—”

“Tyler, that’s enough.”

Kiera looked up and met Sam’s somber gaze. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but when he shifted his attention to Tyler, Sam’s mouth hardened.

“It wasn’t my fault.” Tyler pursed his lips. “I was just—”

“Never mind. Go change your shirt. Christine can cover for you until you get back.”

“Yes, sir.” Tyler tossed a look of annoyance at Kiera as he flounced off.

A busboy appeared with a trash bag and hand broom. When Sam cupped a hand on her elbow, Kiera pulled away. “I’ll finish here,” she said anxiously, still picking up chunks of broken plate. “I can help with those tables, too.”

“Not necessary.” Sam wrapped his fingers around her arm, tighter this time, and pulled her up. “Come with me.”

Every bone in her body, every cell, vibrated in protest. Terrific. Just what she needed. One more lecture. He released her arm and turned away. Because she didn’t want to make a scene—again—she followed Sam through the restaurant, down a hallway of offices, then outside to a shaded back alley.

An air conditioning motor whirred and blew hot air over her feet; in the distance, church bells chimed the three o’clock hour.

She lifted her chin, prepared herself to be fired. A perfect end to the perfect day.

“What happened in there?” he asked.

“I tripped.”

He frowned at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a lousy liar?”

Trey, she thought. And Alexis and Alaina. But she sure as hell didn’t need this man telling her. Still, common sense overrode defiance, and rather than speak she pressed her lips firmly together and stared blankly at him.

“You didn’t trip, Kiera,” he said evenly. “I was watching you. Something spooked you.”

“Maybe it was you watching me.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do I make you nervous?”

“It’s not unusual to be nervous when the boss is staring at you.”

“You have an interesting way of avoiding a direct answer to a direct question.” He studied her face. “Do I make you nervous?”

Yes, dammit, she thought. But she had no intention of admitting it. She glanced over her shoulder. “I really should be getting back to work.”

“You turned white as your blouse when you looked at Rand,” Sam replied, ignoring her comment. “Do you know him?”

“Rand?” she asked calmly, but her heart skipped a beat. Sam had obviously seen her staring at the man who looked so much like Trey. “Who is Rand?”

“There you go again.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Rand Blackhawk. He moved back to Wolf River a few months ago, got married. He’s rebuilding the family ranch outside of town.”

She gave him her best I’m-really-not-interested expression, but her heart was beating fast. “Fascinating story, but I’ve never seen him before.”

Sam moved closer. “But he looks like someone you know, doesn’t he? Someone you’re worried might find you.”

He was too close, not only in his estimation of her situation, but physically. Close enough she could see the subtle but fierce striations of deep brown in his irises, the web of lines at the corners of his eyes, the thick fringe of lashes. His scent was pure male, and the female in her reluctantly responded.

“No one is looking for me, Mr. Prescott.” For once, she could answer a question truthfully. At least, she prayed it was true. “Now if you’re going to fire me, then fire me. Otherwise, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me get back to work.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then stepped back. “I’ll speak to the chef. I know he can be difficult.”

She knew that Chef Phillipe would only dislike her all the more if Sam said even one word to him about her. “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary.”

Somehow she managed to walk away without stumbling or without looking back. In the employee restroom, she let out a long breath, shook off her jitters, then washed her hands and returned to her station. The spill had been cleaned up and Tyler had changed into a clean shirt and tie. His surly attitude, however, remained the same. He glared at her and gestured to a pitcher of iced tea.

“Refills at ten and twelve, miss grace, if you think you can manage without spilling anything.”

Enough was enough.

Narrowing her eyes, Kiera moved in close to the server, stuck her face nose to nose with his and pressed a fingertip against his bony chest. “My name is Kiera. Got that? Kiera. Next time you call me anything else, next time you insult me, next time you even look at me with disrespect, you’re going to be wearing more than a few scraps of lettuce and barbecue sauce.”

Smiling, she smoothed a hand over the startled server’s clean tie, then turned and picked up the iced tea. Red-faced, Tyler moved out of her way.

So much for keeping things low key, she thought while she refilled glasses. Rand Blackhawk. She glanced at the man now sitting in a booth with a pretty redhead, then quickly looked away before she did something stupid.

Too late, she thought with a sigh, then watched Sam walk back into the restaurant.

Way too late.