Читать книгу Tears Of Pride - Lisa Jackson - Страница 10

THE RESTAURANT NOAH selected was located on one of the steep hills near the heart of the city. It was unique, in that the original Victorian structure had been built by one of Seattle’s founding fathers. The old apartment building had been remodeled to accommodate patrons of L’Epicure, but the structure retained its authentic nineteenth-century charm. White clapboard siding, French gray shutters and an elegant touch of gingerbread adorned the entrance. Flickering sconces invited Sheila inside.

A formally dressed waiter led them up a narrow flight of stairs to a private room in the second story of the gracious old apartment house. An antique table sat in an alcove of leaded glass, giving the patrons a commanding panorama of the city lights. Raindrops lingered and ran on the windowpanes, softly blurring the view and creating an intimate atmosphere in the private room.

“Very nice,” Sheila murmured to herself as she ran her fingers along the windowsill and looked into the night.

Noah helped her into her chair before seating himself on the other side of the small table. Though he attempted to appear calm, Sheila could sense that he was still on edge. The quiet, comfortable silence they had shared in the car had been broken in the shadowy confines of the intimate restaurant.

Before the waiter left, Noah ordered the specialty of the house along with a bottle of Chardonnay by Cascade Valley. Sheila lifted her brows at Noah’s request, but the waiter acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Why would a European restaurant carry a local wine?” she inquired after the waiter had disappeared from the room.

Noah’s smile twisted wryly. “Because my father insists upon it.”

The waiter returned with the wine and solemnly poured the wine first into Noah’s glass, and upon approval, into Sheila’s. After he had left once again, Sheila persisted with her questions.

“L’Epicure keeps wine for your father?”

“That’s one way of putting it. L’Epicure is a subsidiary of Wilder Investments,” he explained tonelessly.

Sheila’s lips tightened. “I see. Just like Cascade Valley.”

Noah nodded. “Although the restaurant carries a full cellar of European wines, Ben insists that Cascade Valley be fully represented.”

“And your father is used to getting what he wants?”

Noah’s blue eyes turned stone cold. “You could say that.” Any further comment he would have made was repressed by the appearance of the waiter bearing a tray overloaded with steaming dishes of poached halibut in mushroom sauce, wild rice and steamed vegetables. Sheila waited until the food was served and the waiter had closed the door behind him before continuing the conversation.

“I take it you don’t like working for your father?” she guessed as she started the meal.

Noah’s dark eyebrows blunted, and the fork he had been holding was placed back on the table. He clasped his hands together and stared at her over his whitened knuckles. “I think we should get something straight: I do not work for Ben Wilder!”