Blackhawk's Betrayal. Barbara McCauley
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shirt and tailored black slacks. The only variation the restaurant allowed for the servers was their personal choice of tie. Kieraâs was silver, with thin stripes of white and black. Sheâd 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 heâd taken her on had included the lobby, conference rooms, employee gym and wedding chapel. Sheâd paid attention and asked several questions regarding hotel policies but had kept a stiff, polite demeanor. In itself, that wasnât odd, he reasoned. New employees were usually nervous around him. But with Kiera, she hadnât seemed nervous as much as simply reluctant to be anywhere near him.
Especially when heâd 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 sheâd walked into a doorknob, for Godâs sake. And why the hell should he believe her problems wouldnât follow her here? Because sheâd said so?
She was hiding something, that much was obvious. For now, he decided heâd 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?
âWill that be possible?â
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. âIâll personally work with the catering department to see that your every need is met.â
âOhââ Flustered, Rachelâs face turned rose-pink. She fumbled through her papers. âWell, thank you. Ah, now if we could go over the local publicity Iâve planned, Iâd like to be sure it meets with your approval.â
âOf course.â With a silent sigh, Sam dragged his mind off the woman serving water several feet away and back to his job.
âHey, babe, I need two iced teas and one soda at table six, one coffee, one soda at eight, refills at ten and eleven.â
Kiera quickly memorized and filled the order, didnât bother to take the time to be annoyed that Tyler, the server sheâd 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. Sheâd been there before and she could handle it.
What she couldnât handle, she thought, hefting the tray of drinks, was Sam Prescott.
Heâd been watching her from that corner booth for the past hour. He hadnât been obvious about it, but, nonetheless, sheâd been very aware that heâd been keeping track of her. As if it wasnât difficult enough that this was her first day on the job and she had to not only learn the staffâs names, the layout of the restaurant and the stations, but keep her orders straight so Tyler-honey-baby-sugar-darling wouldnât be on her back.
While she smiled and dropped off the first order of two iced teas and a soda, she casually glanced in Samâs 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 didnât trust her, and that tour heâd taken her on had been more of a fishing expedition than anything else. Even his questions hadnât 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?
Sheâd wanted to say, âA car,â but managed a response that was much more vague and certainly more polite. Her answers hadnât 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 hadnât even dropped off the tray in her hands before Tyler thrust another one at her.
âTake 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.â
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?
âMove it, sweet cheeks.â
Startled at the sudden voice behind her, Kiera swung around too quickly and knocked the tray into Tyler. To her horrorâand Tylerâsâthe food went down the front of him. The tray and salad plates crashed to the ground.
âYou idiot!â 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 wasnât 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 chefâs 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. Sheâd been warned, âStay out of his way,â âDonât make him madâ and double-warned, âDonât mess with his food.â
In the span of less than thirty seconds, sheâd managed to do all three.
Based on the chefâs ominous frown, Kiera had the feeling heâd like to dice and chop more than onions. He glared down his large nose at her.
âClean this mess up immediately,â he snarled, then he turned and swept back into the kitchen.
Releasing the breath sheâd been holding, Kiera bent and picked up the tray and broken salad plates.
âYouâve done it now, miss butterfingers,â Tyler hissed, still brushing bits of green and red from his shirt. âHeâll take it out on all of us and God only knows what hell heâll putââ
âTyler, thatâs enough.â
Kiera looked up and met Samâs somber gaze. She couldnât quite read his expression, but when he shifted his attention to Tyler, Samâs mouth hardened.
âIt wasnât my fault.â Tyler pursed his lips. âI was justââ