Blackhawk Desires. Barbara McCauley
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listened, anyway.
He glanced across the crowded restaurant to the serving station, where Kiera busily filled water glasses with ice. Francine had already fitted her with Adagio’s standard uniform: white, long-sleeved shirt and tailored black slacks. The only variation the restaurant allowed for the servers was their personal choice of tie. Kiera’s was silver, with thin stripes of white and black. She’d 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 he’d taken her on had included the lobby, conference rooms, employee gym and wedding chapel. She’d paid attention and asked several questions regarding hotel policies but had kept a stiff, polite demeanor. In itself, that wasn’t odd, he reasoned. New employees were usually nervous around him. But with Kiera, she hadn’t seemed nervous as much as simply reluctant to be anywhere near him.
Especially when he’d 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 she’d walked into a doorknob, for God’s sake. And why the hell should he believe her problems wouldn’t follow her here? Because she’d said so?
She was hiding something, that much was obvious. For now, he decided he’d 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?
“Will that be possible?”
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. “I’ll personally work with the catering department to see that your every need is met.”
“Oh—” Flustered, Rachel’s face turned rose-pink. She fumbled through her papers. “Well, thank you. Ah, now if we could go over the local publicity I’ve planned, I’d like to be sure it meets with your approval.”
“Of course.” With a silent sigh, Sam dragged his mind off the woman serving water several feet away and back to his job.
“Hey, babe, I need two iced teas and one soda at table six, one coffee, one soda at eight, refills at ten and eleven.”
Kiera quickly memorized and filled the order, didn’t bother to take the time to be annoyed that Tyler, the server she’d 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. She’d been there before and she could handle it.
What she couldn’t handle, she thought, hefting the tray of drinks, was Sam Prescott.
He’d been watching her from that corner booth for the past hour. He hadn’t been obvious about it, but, nonetheless, she’d been very aware that he’d been keeping track of her. As if it wasn’t difficult enough that this was her first day on the job and she had to not only learn the staff’s names, the layout of the restaurant and the stations, but keep her orders straight so Tyler-honey-baby-sugar-darling wouldn’t be on her back.
While she smiled and dropped off the first order of two iced teas and a soda, she casually glanced in Sam’s 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 didn’t trust her, and that tour he’d taken her on had been more of a fishing expedition than anything else. Even his questions hadn’t 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?
She’d wanted to say, “A car,” but managed a response that was much more vague and certainly more polite. Her answers hadn’t 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 hadn’t even dropped off the tray in her hands before Tyler thrust another one at her.
“Take 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.”
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?
“Move it, sweet cheeks.”
Startled at the sudden voice behind her, Kiera swung around too quickly and knocked the tray into Tyler. To her horror—and Tyler’s—the food went down the front of him. The tray and salad plates crashed to the ground.
“You idiot!” 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 wasn’t 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 chef’s 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. She’d been warned, “Stay out of his way,” “Don’t make him mad” and double-warned, “Don’t mess with his food.”
In the span of less than thirty seconds, she’d managed to do all three.
Based on the chef’s ominous frown, Kiera had the feeling he’d like to dice and chop more than onions. He glared down his large nose at her.
“Clean this mess up immediately,” he snarled, then he turned and swept back into the kitchen.
Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Kiera bent and picked up the tray and broken salad plates.
“You’ve done it now, miss butterfingers,” Tyler hissed, still brushing bits of green and red from his shirt. “He’ll take it out on all of us and God only knows what hell he’ll put—”
“Tyler, that’s enough.”
Kiera looked up and met Sam’s somber gaze. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but when he shifted his attention to Tyler, Sam’s mouth hardened.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Tyler pursed his lips. “I was just—”
“Never