Читать книгу Christmas Baby For The Princess - Barbara Wallace, Barbara Wallace - Страница 9
ОглавлениеSHE WAS THE worst waitress he’d ever seen. Quite possibly, the worst waitress on the planet.
“I tried to tell you,” Darius said, sliding Max a cup of coffee. “But you and your white-knight complex wouldn’t listen.”
Biting back the retort he wanted to give, Max forced his features to remain expressionless. “She’s a bit rusty, I’ll give you that.”
“Rusty? The past two nights she’s dropped three trays. Not to mention all the orders she’s messed up. Lorenzo and his staff are annoyed—they’re threatening to refuse any order she puts in.”
“Yeah, well, Lorenzo better think twice about that, considering I’m about to drop a small fortune upgrading the kitchen.”
“It’s not just Lorenzo. Darlene and the other waitresses are annoyed, too. Apparently she keeps disappearing into the employees’ lounge during her shift.”
So Max had noticed. In fact, he’d been paying quite a lot of attention to his newest employee the past two days. Enough to realize it wasn’t only his desire to help that had made him hire her. She looked breathtaking in the waitress costume. He’d personally ordered the dress after seeing a photograph of Grace Kelly wearing something similar, the idea being that his waitresses would be smoldering but classy. On Arianna, the concept took on a whole new meaning. Every man in the room had to be cursing how the neckline didn’t dip low enough to reveal anything more than bare shoulders and a hint of cleavage. Max certainly was.
She’d fixed her hair, too. Pulled it into some fancy twist that showed off a long, graceful neck. Max had dated his share of women—beautiful women—but none as enticing as his new waitress. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with the help—made for an awkward work environment when he moved on—but with Arianna, he was seriously tempted.
“Darlene asked her if she was sick, and she insisted she wasn’t,” Darius said. “You don’t suppose she’s using, do you?”
“Nah.” Enough addicts and alcoholics had crossed his path over the years for him to know the signs. “Nervous stomach, more likely.” He’d caught her stealing crackers from the salad bar. “All the same, tell the other waitresses to let me know if they see anything odd.”
“That mean you’re going to let her keep waiting tables?”
“How else is she going to get up-to-speed? Another day or two and she’ll be fine.”
There was a loud crash.
“Another day or two, huh?” Darius said. “You sure?”
Across the room, their newest employee had just spilled a salad on... Oh, Lord—was that the deputy mayor?
Max ran a hand over his face. “Send a couple bottles of Amatucci reserve to the table, and tell him the entire night is on the house.” He watched as the mayor’s right-hand man slapped away Arianna’s hand before plucking a piece of arugula from the lapel of his gray flannel suit. Hopefully the drink and a few profuse apologies would be enough to soothe the man’s ego.
“And your new puppy? What about her?”
“Move her to somewhere where she won’t cause damage for the rest of the night,” he said.
“You mean you’re not going to let her go?”
He’d certainly fired employees for less. Only he couldn’t shake the memory of her anxious expression, or that she was in a roach hotel to beat all roach hotels. Attraction to her aside, there remained the fact she was a woman clearly looking for an escape. What kind of man would he be if he cut her loose?
“Tomorrow we’ll try her at the hostess station.” Now that he thought about it, he should have assigned her that position to begin with. Who wouldn’t want to follow her to their table?
“You’re the boss,” Darius said, with a look that said he disagreed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
So did he, thought Max. So did he.
* * *
“Arianna, may I speak to you for a moment?”
The fussy, nasal voice of the maître d’ had the uncanny ability to cut through the restaurant din like an upper-crust trumpet. By itself the tone was enough to make Arianna’s insides cringe. When coupled with the distinct sound of disapproval, it made her feel sick to her stomach. Or sicker, as the case may be. What had she done this time?
Javier stood at his seating station, impatiently tapping his pen against the wood. His rigid posture reminded her of the music instructor her father had hired when she was twelve. A dictatorial virtuoso who she’d been certain had moonlighted as a prison guard. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be surprised if Javier moonlighted at the same place.
Smoothing the front of her waitress dress, which was doubling as a hostess outfit for the evening, she excused herself from the diners with whom she’d been talking and headed toward him. He immediately tilted his gel-slicked head toward a corner away from the crowd. “I thought I asked you to seat the last party in section four,” he said, once they were out of earshot.
“I did.” At least she thought she had.
“No, you seated them in section three.”
Section three, section four...what difference did it make? Four people needed a table, so she gave them a table with four chairs.
Apparently, from the maître d’s dramatic sigh, it mattered a great deal. “Did I not tell you that restaurant seating is like a mathematical equation? You make a mistake on one side of the dining room, then the entire scheme is thrown off-balance. Now I’m going to have to redo the entire seating chart. Again.”
Arianna lifted her chin. Perhaps, she wanted to say, if she’d been allowed more than five minutes to study the floor plan before the restaurant opened... Traditionally, memorizing information on quick order wasn’t a problem, but lately it seemed her brain was constantly foggy and sluggish. It did not help that the majority of her energy these days seemed to center on trying not to run to the ladies’ room.
Apparently, Javier wasn’t done lecturing her. “And did you tell a couple they couldn’t sit in one of the back booths?”
“They were walk-ins. You told me the booths were reserved.”
“I also told you customer service is our number-one priority. As the first face they see when they come into the Fox Club, you are in a sense Mr. Brown’s ambassador, and as such, you never tell a customer you cannot accommodate their request.”
“But I thought I wasn’t supposed to disrupt the seating chart.”
Javier glared at her. “From now on, come and get me if there’s a special request. I don’t want you making decisions on your own.” He reached for the reservation book while muttering under his breath. Arianna caught the words empty-headed and useless.
They were enough to make her see red. Raising herself to her fullest height, she stared down her nose at the maître d’. “Listen here, you...”
“Excuse me.” A tall, elderly woman approached them, preventing Arianna from finishing. The newcomer wore a pale green gown that, while dated, Arianna immediately recognized from the stitching as a designer original. She was carrying a leather tote bag and a large brown canister.
“Javier,” she said, in an upper-crust voice to rival the maître d’s. Another time, Arianna would find it amusing that she, the actual royal, had the least affected voice. “It’s five past seven. Mr. Riderman and I distinctly requested a seven o’clock reservation. I mentioned it to this young woman, but she told me I had to wait.”
“The rest of her party hasn’t arrived yet,” Arianna told Javier, figuring that he would appreciate the defense, since he set the rule.
He didn’t, though. He snapped to even greater attention. “My apologies, Mrs. Riderman. She is a new employee. Had I seen you walk in I would have attended to you personally. May I send you and Mr. Riderman a cocktail with our compliments?”
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered at the offer, her gigantic cocktail ring spinning on her thin finger as she did. “Mr. Riderman isn’t drinking this evening. I, however, will have an extra dry martini.”
“Very good.” Arianna had to force herself not to roll her eyes at the bow Javier offered the woman. The palace guards weren’t that effusive. “Now if you follow me, your regular table is ready.”
There was another exception to his rules? If he was going to allow exceptions, then there should be a list for employees.
Javier glared at her when he returned. “You are very lucky, Mrs. Riderman is a forgiving person,” he said.
Oh, no, she refused to let some uptight little man lecture her on this. “You specifically instructed that no party was to be seated unless everyone was present.”
“The entire party was present.”
“No, Mr. Riderman...” She stopped, suddenly remembering the bronze vase. “You mean she is eating with her dead husband’s...?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” he said, almost hissing. “Mrs. Riderman is one of our oldest and best customers. She’s also an influential voice in the New York arts society.”
Who eats with her husband’s ashes? “Does Mr. Brown know about this?”
“Of course he knows.”
“Oh.” And he wasn’t disturbed? “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.” The next time a party arrived carrying a jar of remains, she’d make sure to seat them promptly.
“It most certainly will not,” Javier replied. “You’ve done quite enough damage for the evening.”
Arianna stiffened as he touched her elbow. She still wasn’t used to being touched so casually. In Corinthia, only her family and closest confidants took such liberties.
And Manolo, she added ruefully. He had taken a lot of liberties. But then, she’d been foolish enough to think the words coming out of his mouth were sincere.
“Are you sending me home?”
Javier shook his head. “Only Max can do that.” Arianna was certain she heard a silent “unfortunately” prefacing the sentence. “For now, I just want you out of the way.”
“Doing what?” As if she couldn’t guess.
* * *
Folding tableware. Tucked away at the corner of the bar, with a stack of linen napkins and a silverware tray in front of her, she was quickly becoming an expert at the task.
Take a napkin off the pile, fold the cloth carefully into a triangle and stack a knife and two forks by the fold. Then tuck the corners to keep the silverware in place before rolling them into a cylinder. Within five minutes she’d built a small pyramid. At this rate, the restaurant would have table settings to last until New Year’s.
She should have called home by now. If she was back home, she’d be curled up in her big comfortable bed right now waiting for a servant to bring her a cup of lavender mint tea.
Instead, her feet hurt, her back hurt and her stomach wouldn’t stop lurching from the constant food smells passing by her nose. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for the next twenty-four hours straight.
Worse, after three days, she was no closer to deciding what she should do.
As if on cue, a wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to press a fist to her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the child inside her was voicing its opinion. Too bad she did not know what side the bambino was on. Then again, how could an embryo know what to do when she herself didn’t?
If only she had not seen Manolo’s true colors. Then perhaps the idea of spending a lifetime with him would not seem so...daunting. Her father, of course, was thoroughly impressed by the man and had been thrilled when she and the industrialist began dating. A wedding and grandchild would send him over the moon.
But wasn’t wanting to please Father what had gotten her into this dilemma? Knowing how happy the relationship made her father, she’d ignored the questions whispering in her ear. If Manolo’s kisses failed to make her head spin, or if there were times when she thought he loved being with the king more than with her, it was her imagination. After all, no relationship was perfect one hundred percent of the time. Perhaps if they were intimate her doubts would disappear...
Finding another woman’s underwear in his apartment had shown her how wrong that idea was. Unfortunately, the shutters were pulled from her eyes a little too late.
“You’re doing that wrong,” a voice said from behind her.
Max. A quiver struck low in her stomach. The bambino seemed to have an opinion about him as well. Since that first day, her stomach insisted on wobbling every time she and the owner crossed paths.
He reached over her shoulder to take the setting from her hand. “The ends have to be tucked tightly or else the silverware will slide out. See?”
Arianna could feel his breath on the back of her bare neck. In Corinthia, it was considered disrespectful to stand so close to a member of the royal family. A deferential distance had to be maintained at all times. Max’s arms were nearly wrapped around her. She could feel the edge of his jacket brushing her spine as he leaned forward, the feathery touch causing goose bumps.
“Now you try.”
She tried to repeat the steps she’d done dozens of times throughout the night, but her fingers had grown clumsy. Instead of stacking the silverware, she fumbled and knocked them over. “It would be easier if you weren’t breathing down my neck,” she told him.
“Sorry.” The space behind her cooled as he took a spot at the bar next to her chair. Better, but not by much. Arianna could still feel his slate-colored eyes watching her every move. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the napkin into the tightest cylinder humanly possible.
“Good,” Max said. “Although next time, you might want to include a spoon.”
Her shoulders sagged. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius slide a drink across the bar. Max wrapped his hand around it without looking, and settled back against the bar rail to survey the restaurant. Unable to help herself, Arianna stole a look.
The man had the most effortless grace about him. You could see it in the way the glass dangled from his long fingertips and in the way he moved. Yet for all his smoothness, he wasn’t overly soft. Just like how the scar on the bridge of his nose kept his face from movie-star perfection, there was strength beneath the elegance. A toughness that said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. In a way he reminded her of the ancestral portraits lining the halls of Corinthia Castle, with their impenetrable gazes that followed her every step.
They always left her feeling very exposed, those paintings. Max’s stare did as well.
“I hear you’re having trouble catching on to hostessing,” he said, his gaze thankfully still on the dining room.
Trouble catching on had to be an American euphemism for making a lot of mistakes. “It was not all my fault,” she said, defensiveness kicking in. “No one told me the woman was deluded.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The woman in the green dress. How was I to know she wanted a seat for her husband’s remains?”
“Ah, Mrs. Riderman.” Understanding crested over his features. “You’re right, Javier should have warned you. She and her ‘husband’ come in every Friday.”
“Every week?” With her dead husband? “Does that not violate some kind of health code?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug, “but seeing how she owns most of the buildings on this street, we’re willing to risk the infraction.”
“Oh.” Whatever vindication she felt faded away. “I did not realize she was so important.”
“All our customers are important,” Max corrected. “Without them, we wouldn’t exist.” He took a sip of his drink. “Did he tell you that every time you move a party or seat them at the wrong table, that he needs to redo the seating chart?”
More times than she could count. “Yes,” she said.
“Did he also tell you that having to start over causes even longer delays?”
“No, that he did not mention.”
Arianna fiddled with the napkin roll she’d just completed, twirling the black cloth back and forth between her fingers. Whereas being upbraided by the likes of Javier set her teeth on edge, Max’s criticisms made her feel foolish and inept. She couldn’t imagine him ever making as many mistakes as she had these past few days.
“I had some trouble memorizing the seating chart,” she said meekly. “My brain, it...”
She shook her head. Max didn’t need to hear how her brain had become fuzzy and sluggish, or how it took all her energy to keep her ever-present morning sickness at bay.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead. “I’ll pay closer attention in the future.”
“Afraid it’s too late for that. Javier’s refusing to let you back up front.”
“He is?” That was not fair. She did not make that many mistakes. “What am I supposed to do then?” Surely they had enough tableware.
Max didn’t reply, beyond staring into his drink. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “You can’t hostess for Javier anymore. And I can’t put you back out there as a waitress. Not after what happened with Deputy Mayor Esperanza. The man you dumped a salad on last night,” he added when she gave him a blank look.
That man was the deputy mayor? While Corinthia didn’t have the position, she knew enough about the title to assume that in a city the size of New York, the title was an important one. “No wonder he asked if I knew who he was.”
She must have said something amusing because the hint of a smile played on Max’s mouth. “Yes, well, Deputy Mayor Esperanza is a legend in his own mind, that is for sure.”
“Was he very angry?” If the way the man turned a deep shade of crimson was any indication, he had been. She’d done her best to apologize, but the horrid little man simply slapped her words aside and told her to leave him alone.
“Nothing a couple bottles of super Tuscan didn’t cure,” Max replied.
“Good.” She would have felt terrible if her mistake caused real damage to Max’s restaurant. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too. Although between you and me, the guy could use an arugula shower now and then. To keep him humble.”
Setting his drink on the counter, he shifted his posture, leaning his weight on the elbow closest to the bar so he once again faced her. The smile he’d been fighting had found its way to his eyes, the shine bringing out flecks of blue in them Arianna hadn’t noticed before. Her lips curled upward in response and for a moment, they silently shared the idea.
“So,” Max said, reaching for his drink again. “You’ve never waited tables before, have you?”
“Of course I ha— How did you know?”
He arched his brow. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice your lack of experience?”
“No.” Certainly not with the way he was watching her. Still... Her cheeks growing hot, she looked down at her feet. “I had hoped I would catch on quickly.”
“How’s that plan working out?”
“Not so well.”
“You think?”
She’d prefer anger to sarcasm. “If you knew, why did you hire me?”
“Because I’m a sucker for a sob story, that’s why,” he replied.
Sob story? “I did not tell—”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, frowning into the last of his drink. “I guess I’d hoped you’d catch on quickly, too.”
But she hadn’t, and she felt like a fool for even trying. “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult.” All those people speaking so rapidly, barking orders at her. “Everything moves so much faster than I expected.”
“Problem is, this is our busiest season. I need a waitress who can be up-to-speed immediately. I don’t have the time to train someone.”
“I understand,” Arianna replied, though that didn’t take away the sting. Before, she’d been merely foolish. Now she was foolish and useless, too.
Seemed like all she’d done the past few weeks was let people down. Her lower lip started to quiver. How on earth was she going to be able to do what was right for a baby? She hadn’t so far.
“I’ll go get my coat.”
Sliding off the stool to her feet, she barely got a step before Max’s hand caught her arm. “Hold on,” he said. “You don’t have to go so fast.”
What was the point in staying? So she could fold more napkins?
“We’re on the last round of seating. Why don’t you grab a good hot meal, and wait until closing. I’ll take you home, and we can talk about what you’re going to do. Okay?”
How could she say no when his eyes were filled with such concern? Seeing their warmth helped to soften her disappointment. If she had one good memory about her brief stay in New York, Max Brown looking at her right now, with soft, sexy, sympathetic eyes, would be it.
Plus, she would be foolish to turn down a five-star meal. Her stomach, with its usual unpredictability, leaped for joy when he made the offer. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He looked pleased. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she swore he had looked as disappointed about her imminent departure as she felt. “I’ll send Darlene over with a menu.
“And hey, chin up...” His fingers caught her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”
“Sure,” she whispered after he left. “We’ll see.”
* * *
Leaving Arianna at the bar, Max retreated to the sanctuary of his office. He had the sudden need to bury himself in paperwork and clear away thoughts of pale skin and black sateen dresses.
What was he going to do? His office chair squeaked as he collapsed into it. There was no way he could keep Arianna on staff; the woman was a disaster. Javier spent ten minutes ranting about her inabilities and swearing on his mother’s life that he would not work with “that woman” again. Over-the-top? Sure, but the man was also one of the finest maître d’s in the city. Max couldn’t risk ticking him off. Especially since he’d had a similar “discussion” with his chef the night before.
So what did he do? He choked. He’d walked out there to fire her, but right when he was about to say the words, they died on his tongue. Killed by a pair of soulful blue eyes.
His mother’s eyes had been brown. Brown and surrounded by mottled purple smudges she would try to cover with makeup. It never worked. Max always knew. No matter how much she applied, makeup couldn’t cover split lips.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Arianna was running away from the same nightmare as his mother. His gut said no. Well, his gut and the fact that her alabaster skin would bruise too easily for her to hide it.
Or maybe he was rationalizing to soothe his conscience.
His conscience was still nagging him a few hours later when Darius knocked on his office door. “Just wanted to let you know the last party is getting ready to leave,” he said.
“Thanks. I’ll be out to close out the till in a bit.”
“Okay.” Except instead of leaving, his friend wavered in the doorway. “Is it true?” he asked. “Did you really let your new puppy go?”
“Stop calling her that,” Max said, bristling. Arianna wasn’t some stray off the streets. “And who told you I let her go?”
“The pup—lady—herself. When Darlene brought over a steak, she told me it was her last meal at the Fox Club.”
“Oh.” Apparently, he’d made his point after all. Now his conscience really stung. “I suppose it is.”
“It’s for the best, you know.”
“I know.” Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, though.
Stepping all the way inside the office, the bartender pushed aside the brass lamp and took its place on the edge of Max’s desk. “Look, man, no one appreciates what you were trying to do more than me, but things don’t always work out, you know? If you still want to help her, write the chick a check. Unless...”
His voice drifting off, Darius’s attention shifted to the desk’s surface and an invisible spot that he suddenly needed to scratch at with his fingernail.
Max narrowed his eyes. “Unless what?”
“Unless, it ain’t just about helping a girl out. You said yourself she was hot.”
“I didn’t say she was hot, I said she’d look good in the uniform...and I was right.” Over on the side of the desk, Darius let out a snort. One that said Max was splitting hairs, and they both knew it.
Truth? Yeah, he was attracted to the woman. She was different from other women who had crossed his path, and not because her appearance screamed money—although that did make her stand out. It was her personality that truly set her apart. She had the oddest combination of haughtiness and innocence about her. One moment she was icy and entitled, the next she looked vulnerable and scared. Most women, he could read from the get-go. They were either women from his old life, looking to rise up from their lousy circumstances, or they were women from his current world looking to hook a successful businessman. In either case, their faces were open books.
Not Arianna’s, though. As much as he could read her, there was a layer he couldn’t get to. It intrigued him.
Excited him, too. The way she wore that uniform, like it was a real Dior. He’d have to be a dead man not to appreciate that fact, and even death wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t, seeing as how every swish of her skirt and sway of her hips sent awareness shooting below his belt.
A smile played on his lips. “Oh, brother,” Darius said. “Just admit you want her already, will you?”
Max refused to respond. Spinning in his chair, he turned and looked out his office window. The view wasn’t much, an alley and the emergency exit for the building on the next lot, but he’d certainly had worse. Behind him, the dining room was quiet except for the sounds of chairs being put on the tables. In between scrapes and rattles, he heard the soft notes of a piano over the din. Some song he’d never heard before. Reminded him of a Christmas carol, but not quite.
“When did you switch on the radio?” he asked. Normally, he wasn’t big on plain piano music, but this was nice.
“I didn’t,” Darius replied. “That’s the piano on stage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Unless the speaker over your door is blown.”
Max frowned. “Shirley?” Last he heard, his former piano player was behind bars. “You think she got out?”
“Doubt it. Besides, she was never that good.”
Rising, Max made his way to the office door, with Darius not far behind. Together the two of them stepped into the main dining room. “Well, what do you know...?” Max said, giving a low whistle.
Arianna sat the piano, head bent over the keyboard, playing with the agility of a trained expert.
