Читать книгу Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal - Barbara McCauley - Страница 8

With the Fourth of July only two weeks away, the town of Wolf River had already tuned up to celebrate. Red-white-and-blue bunting adorned the two-story brick storefronts down Main Street, patriotic slogans welcomed tourists, posters announced an upcoming rodeo and carnival. The holiday would bring in tourists from across the country and locals as far away as Houston.

It might be a small town, but it was a busy small town.

And growing every day, Sam noted as he strolled down the sidewalk. On Main Street, the city council had carefully kept Wolf River’s country charm through strict building ordinances, but off the main drag they had slowly allowed the big city in. Three-story office buildings, two fast-food restaurants, a small water park, a multiplex theater and the most recent addition, a country-western dinner house with live entertainment and nightly line dancing. Sam had heard the rib-eye steaks were as thick as a phone book and tender as warm butter. He made a mental note to check it out for himself soon.

“Gonna be a hot one,” Fergus Crum said dryly. The old man had been pushing a broom across the sidewalk in front of the hardware store, but he stopped and rested his arthritic hands on the broom handle when he spotted Sam coming his way.

“Come by the bar after work,” Sam said as he passed. “Have a cold one on me.”

“I’ll do that.” Fergus was never one to turn down a cold beer. Or any beer, for that matter. “How ‘bout some of those onion thingies, too?”

“You got it.”

Sam nodded at a local rancher coming out of the barbershop and the man touched the brim of his cowboy hat. Even though Sam knew most of the locals, he didn’t come into town very often. He had no reason to. Most everything he needed he could get at the hotel. Food, clothes, even a car. He had few personal possessions, considered them a hindrance when it was time to pick up and move on. He kept his life—professional and personal—simple.

Exactly how he liked it.

His two-year contract with the Four Winds had been up for two months now. Clair had been pressing him to sign a new one, but he’d put her off. He figured it was about time to start putting out feelers for his next job. His entire life, he’d never lived more than three years in one place. He had no intention of breaking that record any time soon.

“Hey, handsome, where you headed?”

Sam smiled when Olivia Cameron pulled her sleek red Camaro up to the curb alongside him. The stunning redhead owned Vintage Rose, one of the antique stores in Wolf River and she’d also done the interior design on the lobby in the Four Winds.

He leaned into her open car window and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “On my way to the courthouse, gorgeous.”

Her green eyes sparkled. “You finally going to apply for our marriage license?”

“Just say the word, Liv.” They’d gone out on a couple of dates, but the chemistry hadn’t quite been there between them, so they’d settled into a more comfortable, flirtatious friendship. “We could buy one of those tract homes they’re building in Oak Meadows. Have a half dozen kids and join the PTA.”

Olivia winced. “I’ll get back to you one of these decades. Want a ride?”

He straightened and patted his stomach. “Walk will do me good.”

“As if you need it. Every woman in this town knows you work out from five to six-thirty every morning in the Four Winds gym.” Olivia gunned her engine. “Why do you think there are so many females in there at that ungodly hour?”

With a wink, Olivia shot away from the curb.

Grinning, Sam watched her disappear around the corner, wished there had been chemistry between them. Like him, the woman wasn’t looking for a commitment or a picket fence. They could have simply enjoyed each other, without worrying about the theatrics or complications of a messy breakup. Olivia could have been an enjoyable distraction.

And Lord knew, right now he certainly needed one.

He’d spent the past three days watching Kiera. Watched her effortlessly memorize the menu and wine list. Watched her skillfully serve a heavy tray of dishes without fumbling or getting an order wrong. Watched her astutely make recommendations, then offer suggestions for a complimentary wine. Already, she not only had people asking for her station but actually waiting for her.

He’d never seen anything like it.

But—to his annoyance—he hadn’t just been watching her. He’d also been thinking about her.

At the most unexpected times, he’d suddenly find himself wondering what the woman’s story was, who or what she was running away from. If she was in some kind of danger.

The bruise next to her eye had nearly disappeared, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. Couldn’t stop the raw fury that knotted his gut every time he thought about it. The idea of some man raising his fist and—

Realizing he had balled his own hand into a tight fist, he stopped in front of the barbershop, stared at the swirling red-white-and-blue pole. He loosened his fingers, then shook off the anger bubbling through his blood. Dammit! A walk through town on his day off should have cleared his mind and relaxed him, and here he was, barreling down the sidewalk as if he were looking for a fight.

Maybe I am, he thought with a sigh. Lord knew the woman had frustrated him enough. It was obvious she had a problem, obvious that she’d been scared to death when she’d looked at Rand Blackhawk. Obvious she was lying about something. When he’d asked her if Rand looked like someone she knew, the answer in those smoky blue eyes of hers had obviously been yes.

And obviously, she hadn’t wanted his help.

So fine. Why should that bother him?

He waited for a truck to pass, then crossed the street leading to the courthouse. As long as her problem didn’t become the hotel’s, then he’d keep his nose out of her mess. Lord knew he’d already given Kiera Daniels way too much time and thought. He was a busy man. With the upcoming conferences and events, not to mention the impending construction on the hotel, his focus needed to be on his job, not a pretty waitress.

And then suddenly that pretty waitress was walking out of the glass courthouse doors.

Surprised, he stopped beside a hedge of white blooming roses. Good God, he thought with annoyance. He couldn’t even get away from her here.

Head bent, loose-limbed, she moved down the courthouse steps, her eyes focused on a piece of paper in her hand. She wore denim as if it had been invented just for those endlessly long legs of hers. Her jeans, low on her hips and snug, were faded in all the places a man liked to look. And touch. Her white tank top dipped demurely across her collarbone and hugged her breasts, then rose just high enough from her hips to show the barest hint of smooth, flat stomach.

A drought settled in his throat.

It took a will of iron to drag his gaze upward from that enticing glimpse of skin. A frown drew the delicate line of her eyebrows together and settled into a somber line across her mouth. Her hair flowed like a black river down her shoulders. The sun glinted off the dark strands.

For a split second, he didn’t even know where he was.

He blinked hard, watched her fold the piece of paper and shove it into a black tote bag as she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

He argued with himself, lost, waited a full twenty seconds, then followed her.

The mouth-watering scent of grilling hamburgers drew Kiera toward the coffee shop on the corner. The exterior of the restaurant, shiny chrome, sleek lines and wraparound windows reminded her of the ‘57 Chevy that Mr. Mackelroy, her high school principal, used to drive. Even the color was the same, she thought. Sorbet-blue.

When she stepped inside, life-size cardboard cut-outs of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe greeted her with a sign that said Welcome To Pappa Pete’s. Kiera closed the door behind her, barely heard the jangling of the bells over the drumming of a Beach Boys song playing on an overhead speaker and the lively conversations from the lunch crowd. Locals, Kiera thought, noting the mix of families, town workers and ranch hands.

A tall, thick-boned, platinum blonde carrying four plates of burgers on one arm and two plates of French fries on the other bustled by Kiera. “Set yerself down anywhere you like, honey. Something to drink?”

Kiera smiled. “Lemonade, please.”

“Hey, Madge, what about me?” A slumped-back cowboy sitting at a counter stool held up his coffee cup. “I’m still waiting for a refill.”

“You’re still waitin’ for brains, too,” Madge shot back. “Everyone knows you were in the basement when they got handed out.”

“Yeah, well, everyone knows you were at the front door when tongues got handed out,” the cowboy quipped, which brought a round of laughter from the patrons.

“Least I got something in my skull that works.” Madge plunked the fries down on a table. “If your thinker was a mattress, an ant’s feet would stick off the sides.”

“That’s not all I heard was ant size,” someone in the front hollered, setting off a fresh round of laughter and a volley of replies. Red-faced, the cowboy got up, snatched a coffeepot from behind the counter and served himself.

While the wisecracks continued to fly, Kiera sat down at a Formica-topped table next to a window in the back. A teenage boy who hadn’t quite grown into his long legs and arms set a glass of pink lemonade in front of her. She smiled and thanked the busboy, who turned beet-red, then turned and stumbled over his own big feet. One of the ranchers teased the boy, which set in motion a new volley of quips.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in her own hometown, sitting in the Bronco Cafe, adding her own two cents to the banter and good-natured fun. Even the smell was the same. Burgers, grease and pressed wood paneling. A good smell, she thought. Familiar. Comfortable. Since graduating college, then working her fanny off at restaurants across the country, she could probably count on one hand the times she’d even been back to the Bronco in the past six years.

Living in a small town could be difficult, she knew. The gossip, the politics, certainly the lack of privacy, all of it was a major pain in the butt. The closest city with a mall had been three hours away, the only theater showed movies two months old and the few dates she had been on had felt more like going out with a best friend or a brother.

But the camaraderie, knowing that there were always people who would pull together and help if you needed them, people who really gave a damn, was worth not only the isolation she’d often felt at Stone Ridge Ranch, but the aggravation of everyone knowing her family’s business.

And now the question was, did everyone know?

She certainly hadn’t.

With a sigh, she pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and spread it on the table in front of her, stared at the obituary, felt every word etch into her brain like acid.

William Blackhawk … local rancher, businessman and community leader … died in a small plane crash … survived by his son, Dillon Blackhawk … services to be held Thursday at Wolf River Community Church …

That was two years ago.

Two years.

She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of pain coursing through her. If she’d known then what she knew now, what would she have done?

She honestly didn’t know.

“Mind if I join you?”

Jolted out of her thoughts by the question, the terse “yes” on the edge of her tongue nearly slipped out. Her pulse jumped when she looked up.

Sam.

She prayed her hands weren’t visibly shaking as she folded the piece of paper and slipped it back into her bag. Despite the fact that she would have preferred to be alone at the moment, she couldn’t very well tell her boss to take a hike.

And since he had already slid into the booth across from her, he really hadn’t given her much of a choice, anyway.

When she glanced around the room, several curious eyes quickly looked away. Terrific. No one in the diner knew who she was, but everyone in the place surely knew who Sam Prescott was. Before the day was over, Kiera had no doubt that rumors of the Four Winds general manager having an afternoon rendezvous with an unknown woman would be burning up the phone lines.

Sam followed her gaze. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” She looked back at him, took in the street clothes he wore. She’d thought him handsome in a suit. Confident. Absolutely unwavering and completely sure of himself. But it had nothing to do with clothes, she realized, taking in the stretch of black T-shirt across his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Apparently, the rumors she’d heard about him working out in the gym every morning were true. “I was just running errands and stopped in for something to eat.”

“You picked the right place.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Best hamburger in town, though if you tell anyone I said so, I’ll deny it.”

The smile on his mouth disarmed her, had her whispering back, “I think I can manage to keep a secret.”

“Yeah.” He studied her for a moment. “I think you can.”

She stilled at his comment, arched an eyebrow and settled back in her chair. “You sure you aren’t here for fish, Mr. Prescott?”

Smiling, he settled back in his chair, as well.

An unseen cook in the kitchen dinged three times on a bell to signal an order was up.

Round one, Kiera thought absently.

“So how’s it going?” Sam asked.

“I assume you’re referring to my job.”

“Of course.”

She picked up her lemonade, sipped. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay.” He folded his hands on the table and straightened his shoulders. “Your ratio of tables to gross and time are in the ninetieth percentile and an initial review of customer comments is exceptional.”

In spite of the deep, official tone of his voice, Kiera saw the glint of a rogue in Sam’s eyes. “Sounds like I should ask for a raise.”

“I’m afraid that request would be denied. You’ve had two complaints filed against you.”

“What!” Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and ran down the front of her tank top; a sliver of ice slid under the cotton neckline and into her bra. Frowning, she grabbed a napkin.

He signaled for the busboy. “Tyler says you’re difficult to work with.”

Tyler’s an ass, she nearly said, but managed to bite her tongue. She’d worked with jerks like him before. He was a good waiter, but he kissed up to the manager and chef, patronized the rest of the staff and gossiped worse than a tabloid columnist.

She had nothing to gain by defending herself or acknowledging the waiter’s complaint had even the tiniest bit of merit. Nor did she have anything to gain by retaliating. Sooner or later, Tyler would have to face retribution.

Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see it.

“Hey, Mr. Prescott.” The busboy appeared beside the table. “You want coffee or—”

Sam watched the dazed expression fall over the teenager’s face when his eyes dropped to the front of Kiera’s damp tank top. The boy’s jaw went slack.

“Eddie,” Sam prompted.

No response.

Sam sighed. It wasn’t that he blamed the kid for staring. Hell, it was all he could do not to stare himself. Kiera was too busy dabbing at her chest to notice that she’d attracted the attention of most of the men in the restaurant.

“Eddie,” Sam repeated.

“Huh?” The busboy blinked and looked at Sam.

“The towel?”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie grabbed the towel from the waistband of his apron and reached out as if to wipe the front of Kiera’s chest.

Sam moved quicker than the boy and grabbed the towel away. Realizing what he’d almost done, Eddie blushed deeply.

“I think we can manage now, thanks.” Sam handed the towel to Kiera. “How ‘bout you just bring me that cup of coffee?”

“Sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie glanced at Kiera and swallowed hard. “You, ah, need anything, miss?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Kiera managed a smile. “I just spilled some lemonade, that’s all.”

“I—I’ll get you some more,” he stammered. “You need some water, too? ‘Cause I could go get that, case that might stain or something, or maybe you want some club soda—”

“Edward Morrison!” Madge stormed up behind the boy. “Stop drooling over that girl and go get Sam here some coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eddie cast one last, puppy-dog look at Kiera.

“Sometime before Christmas?” Madge barked, then shook her head when the boy shuffled off. “What do you think, Sam? You’re the big business expert here. Should I fire him?”

“Absolutely.”

Kiera’s mouth dropped open.

“I’ll give him the boot after he brings your coffee.” Madge grabbed the pencil she’d stuck over her ear. “The boy’s a pain-in-the-butt, anyway. So what’ll you have today? The usual?”

“We both will,” Sam replied. “Extra cheese.”

“Wait—”

“You got it.” Madge scribbled on her order pad, then stuck her pencil behind her ear and snatched up the menu on the table.

Kiera called after the waitress again, but Madge was too busy hollering the order to the cook to hear.

“How could you do such a thing?” Kiera said through clenched teeth. “He’s just a kid, a sweet kid, who was just trying to be helpful.”

The “sweet” kid reappeared with a mug in one hand and pot of coffee in the other. If he’d been looking at the mug instead of Kiera when he poured, Eddie might have even managed to get some of the coffee in the cup. He jumped when he realized he’d missed, reached for his towel, only to remember he’d given it to Kiera.

“Sorry, Mr. Prescott,” Eddie apologized. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ve got it.” Kiera was already wiping the spill up. “It was just a drop.”

“I’ll get another towel,” Eddie said and hurried—well, for Eddie it was hurried—off. Sam stared at his empty coffee cup, the mess on the table, then looked back up at Kiera. He gave her an I-told-you-so look.

“Don’t you dare get that boy fired.” She put her hands on the table and leaned forward. Outrage sparked in her blue eyes and flushed her cheeks pink. “You call the owner back here right now and tell her you were just kidding or so help me I’ll—”

Kiera stopped suddenly, pressed her mouth into a thin line.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ll what?”

He could almost hear Kiera doing battle in her brain.

Her need to defend a slow, clumsy busboy warring with her need to tell her boss off.

“You’ll what?” he asked again, lowering his voice. He was dying to know.

“Please.” Her fury dissipated like smoke in a breeze. “Please, don’t.”

He might have strung her along another minute or two, but the desperate look in her eyes, the soft, pleading tone in her voice, took all the fun out of it. “Kiera, Eddie is Madge’s son. She fires him at least once a day. Sometimes twice.”

“Madge’s son?” Kiera glanced at the busboy, who’d already forgotten about bringing a towel and was busy posturing for a cute teenage girl who’d just walked in the front door.

Sam nodded. “The youngest of six boys.”

Kiera’s eyes widened. “She has six boys?”

“Yep.” He watched Madge come up behind her son and grab his earlobe, then drag him into the kitchen, lecturing him the whole way. “And she can say whatever she likes about any one of them, but if she hears someone else say anything close to criticism … well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be within ten yards. When her temper’s up, the woman moves a lot quicker than you’d think.”

“I believe you,” Kiera said, then met his gaze. “I … I’m sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”

It struck him how incredibly beautiful she’d looked a moment ago—her face animated with anger, her chin lifted with indignation—and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what all that intensity of emotion and energy would be like in bed.

His bed.

The image of Kiera naked, underneath him, her body arching upward into his—

Madge slid a mug of steaming coffee in front of Sam and frowned. “What is it about teenage boys and hormones that makes them dumb as a post?”

And then she was off again, shaking her head as she walked back to the kitchen, obviously not looking for an answer.

Teenage boys have nothing on us big boys, Sam thought, thankful to have his mind diverted from his fantasy of Kiera. When he glanced at her, he could see she was smiling while she sipped on her lemonade.

He couldn’t figure her out. The day she’d dropped the tray of drinks, she wouldn’t say one word to defend herself, but today, when she thought that a busboy was going to get the axe, she’d wanted to reach across the table and rip out his liver.

The woman absolutely fascinated him.

“So are you going to tell me?” she asked.

“Tell you?”

“You said there were two complaints.”

“Oh, right.” In spite of her cool tone, he could see the tension in the rigid line of her shoulders. “Chef Phillipe said you questioned his authority.”

“Did he?” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did you?”

She shrugged. “I simply suggested he might have put too much thyme in his chicken kiev.”

Sam wasn’t certain he’d heard her right. In the two months the replacement chef had been with Adagio’s, no one on staff in the restaurant had ever questioned him. They wouldn’t dare. When it came to his kitchen, the man was a tyrant. “You told Chef Phillipe that he put too much thyme in his chicken?”

“I’m sure it was a mistake,” Kiera said.

“You bet it was a mistake.”

She frowned. “I meant the chef’s mistake.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “How do you know he used too much thyme?”

She hesitated, took a long sip of her lemonade. “I could smell it.”

“You smelled it?” He was amazed that the chef hadn’t stuffed Kiera in the pantry and put a double padlock on the door.

“I have an extraordinary sense of smell and taste.”

She definitely had an extraordinary smell, Sam thought. From the first moment she’d stepped into the elevator, he’d been captivated by her scent. And her taste … his gaze dropped to her mouth. Right now she’d taste like pink lemonade, and dammit if he didn’t want to lick that tart sweetness off those enticing lips. He tried his best not to think about the path the spilled lemonade had taken under her tank top. Tried not to wonder what it would feel like to taste that lemonade on her skin, her breasts …

He tossed back a gulp of coffee, though what he really needed was a tall glass of iced water—poured directly below his belt.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, carefully setting her glass on the table. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Chef Phillipe. I was out of place. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

Her contrite tone bothered him much more than anything else she’d said or done. He’d caught a glimpse of the fire simmering just under her surface, an intensity that she clearly kept tamped down.

He wanted to know why, dammit. Wanted to know what it was she was so obviously running away from. Why she needed to keep herself so controlled and distant.

It might not be today, he mused.

But he intended to find out.