Christmas Baby For The Princess. Barbara Wallace
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deep in his belly.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Her nod was as wobbly as her legs. “Fine. That is, I was feeling light-headed, but I’m much better now.”
She was a horrible liar. Better would mean color in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, noticing the water.
“No problem. Figured you wouldn’t be looking for the tea.” His coffee had long since grown cold, but he drank it anyway. Wasn’t the first time—wouldn’t be the last. “So,” he said, from over the rim, “you were telling me about where you used to work.”
Her eyes immediately dropped to her glass. “Right. Where I worked. The thing is...”
“It was a long time ago?” he suggested.
“Exactly.” She grabbed the excuse like a lifeline, gratitude in her voice. “I’m not sure they would remember me.”
Max sat back and took a good look at her, trying to think like the businessman he was. Ten to one, the only experience she had waitressing involved leaving a tip. Darius was right: he had no business offering her a job.
But then he saw how hard she was struggling to keep her composure and his conscience beat down his common sense.
“That’s all right,” he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think you will feel well enough to start tomorrow night?”
Her eyes widened. “I have the job?”
In a flash, Max understood how every private eye in every mystery movie fell prey to the femme fatale. The way her face lit up was absolutely criminal. He smoothed his tie and did his best to hide his reaction. “You did say you wanted it, didn’t you?”
“I did. I mean, I do.” She leaned forward, the subtle scent of high-end perfume accompanying her. “Thank you so much,” she said, clasping his hands. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Definitely criminal. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from her grasp and stood up. “Darius will go over everything you need to know, including where to get your uniform. Welcome to the Fox Club family, Miss Santoro.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Darius shaking his head. Honestly, sometimes his friend was too much the glass-half-empty kind of guy. They were helping a gorgeous woman out of a tight spot, is all. What was the worst that could happen?
SHE 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.”
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