Forever and a Night

by Lana Campbell

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Forever and A Night

  Lana Campbell

  FOREVER AND A NIGHT

  © Copyright Lana Campbell 2017

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and organisations are purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Condition of sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Chapter 1

  “Somebody come get these orders!” Mia shouted, pounding the little bell next to the pick-up window, ready to wring some servers’ necks.

  Tavania’s was packed and the wait for seating currently stood at about an hour. They were two servers shy tonight and the ones here, who Mia needed to be running food were chasing their tails in the dining room, trying to get checks to the guests and basically keep them happy in the midst of the chaos.

  She glanced across the fifteen plates under the heat lamp, taking up every inch of the pass window and groaned. The food had to go out now.

  Andrew, the line cook, came around her with two more steaming orders, ready to be ran. He took one look at the pass and cursed. “Where the hell are all the servers? What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “As deep in the weeds as the kitchen right now, at least the ones who are here.” She snarled the last part, furious with the two who weren’t.

  Mia dashed out the kitchen door into the servers’ station, grabbed a large oval tray and jack, set it up, and began pulling plates, lining the carrier with them.

  “What are you doing?” Andrew asked, frowning at her through the kitchen side of the window.

  He was twenty three, the age of her oldest daughter, tatted like a jailhouse skinhead, but a talented cook. “Running this five top myself. What choice do I have?”

  “Man, Brittany and Michael suck, doing this to us on a Saturday night.” He put the two new steaming plates in the spot she’d cleared. “When Joe finds out they both ditched work tonight to go to that Deathtroid concert, their asses are going to be grass. I wanted to go too, damn it. This is the first time they’ve played in New Orleans.”

  “Well I’m not into that ear-raping, heavy metal music, but I agree with you on one thing—I hope he mows both of their back yards.” She hoisted the heavy tray onto her shoulder and grabbed the jack, sparing Andrew one last look. “Keep the orders coming. I’ll be back as soon as I can to help.”

  “Hurry. The POS printer is spitting them out faster than I can hang them.”

  Mia glanced at the table number on the ticket, then took off. When she returned to the server’s window, she groaned. No more orders had gone out and some were starting to seriously wilt and dry. She noticed a lone plate at the far end of the window which was completely toast, grabbed it and tossed it in the buss tub.

  “Andrew!” she yelled through the window. “Remake on table 59. A Tour of Sicily. Flying!”

  He shot her an ‘are-you-frickin’-kidding me look, then got busy.

  So did she, running more orders and filling in where needed on the floor. On her next trip to the pass, Andrew had just dropped 59’s remake.

  She snatched the plate and ran it to a one top in the far back of the restaurant. When she arrived she found a lone man seated there with long, black hair tied into a ponytail, studying the screen of a lap top. He glanced up at her, offering a warm smile. Mia let out a sigh of relief. Whatever he’d been doing seemed to have kept him occupied. At least he didn’t appear primed to unload for his long wait.

  She smiled back with a calm, winning one. “I hope you’re having a pleasant evening, sir. I have your Tour of Sicily plate.” She sat it in front of him next to his computer. He didn’t answer immediately because he glanced over her chef attire and she noticed his nostrils flare. The look in his eyes seemed intrigued. Mia suspected he was curious as to why kitchen staff delivered his order and he probably thought she reeked. Marinara and other garlic sauces were splattered across the front of her white chef’s jacket, which she hadn’t time to even think about changing.

  “Thank you. This looks wonderful. I can see you’re a bit understaffed here tonight, but don’t be concerned about me. I’m easy to please.”

  Mia glanced about the room then back at him, thinking he did seem like the most centered person in the place at the moment. The couple at the table just right of them were scowling, whispering to one another and looked minutes from bolting.

  God, Joe, why did you have to come down with the flu on a Saturday night? she thought, referring to her boss and head chef.

  “Are you okay?”

  He obviously sensed her anxiety, given his concerned expression. She opened her mouth to reassure him, then her gaze fused with his and her breath caught. His eyes were captivating. Violet, like the color of the African Violet flower, the irises huge and widely dilated. The amount of light in the dining room was marginal for ambiance, but enough caught his brilliant gaze and for a brief second gave the illusion of light catching a diamond at just the right angle. They sparkled—literally—then filled with mirth.

  “I take it you’re the chef?”

  Boy, he had quite the Southern drawl. Deep south. Not Louisiana though. More like Georgia. Maybe Alabama. And he was sinfully good looking. Like if it were a crime, he would be outlawed in forty eight states, gorgeous.

  She cleared her throat and centered herself. “Sous chef. But I’m cooking tonight. I hope you enjoy and thanks for dining at Tavania’s. I’ll do my best to get a server your way as soon as possible. Is there anything else you need?”

  He glanced at his plate and bottle of wine. “I’m perfect and low maintenance. No one need hurry on my account.”

  Mia grinned and rolled her eyes. “Lord, I wish you could extend those vibes to the rest of the diners.”

  He chuckled. It was a deep, pleasant, sexy sound that married well with his smile, one which had probably led more than a few women to their demise. He was the epitome of male eye candy, but she had no time to indulge that particular sweet tooth. “Anyway, enjoy.” She turned and hurried back to the kitchen.

  It had been a three hundred plus cover night and Mia’s angst finally settled into gratefulness. Not one plate came back, and as far as she knew none of the guests had pitched any fits, although she had yet to speak to all the servers. The time was a little after midnight, but she knew from experience there would still be guests present in the dining room because the bar stayed open until one a.m..

  She and Andrew had just finished kitchen clean-up on their end and were fixing their shift meal. She walked over to one of the sto
ves with a couple plates where Andrew cooked them both steaks and grilled squash.

  “Shit, talk about a night from hell,” Andrew said and took the empty plates from her. He filled hers, then his own and turned off the grill.

  “I know, but hey, we rocked, without Joe and without those mutinous deserters.” Everyone in the house tonight knew Brittany and Michael ditched work to go to the Deathtroid concert. When Joe refused their request for the night off, they’d obviously plotted a rotten little scheme to call in sick, which had coincided with Joe’s flu thing. A coincidence, she was sure, yet perfect debauchery on their part. No one would tattle on them, but Mia knew Joe to be savvy enough to smell a rat where those two kids were concerned when he learned of their `sick’ day.

  They were college students, into the whole heavy metal thing. She had children their age. Granted she’d raised her three girls in church, with Godly principles, and taught them to be better than sneaks and liars, but kids were kids. Anyway, it was all water under the bridge now.

  Plate in hand, she went to the bar to eat her very late dinner. Andrew headed for the outside break area with his meal. As crazy as the night had been, she knew he’d be jonesing for a cigarette.

  Cody, their lead bartender, a guy about her age, early forties, with light blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, flashed her a smile when she seated herself on a stool at the far edge of the bar. “Want a glass of wine?”

  “You bet.” Mia didn’t hesitate. After tonight she might have two.

  Knowing her preference, Cody poured her a glass of Cabernet and sat it in front of her. “You know, I’m not sure Joe could have pulled off what you did tonight. Mostly because he can’t move as fast as you.”

  Mia chuckled and gave him a chiding grin. Joe was a very large man and he enjoyed every aspect of the culinary industry, especially eating his creations.

  Cody grinned back, then continued. “Yeah, there were long waits for food and people were getting antsy, but at least from what I saw, customers left happy.”

  “I hope so,” Mia, replied, cutting into her steak. She took a bite, swallowed, then added, “I can’t take all the credit. Andrew had the grill and he was literally smoking the orders off of it. I had to end up running plates because we had no more room under the heat lamp.”

  He huffed and picked up a couple of empty highball glasses next to her on the bar. “I saw you running orders earlier. I think the girls should tip you out.”

  Mia took a sip of her wine. “No, I think Brittany and Michael ought to tip us all out for their little splurge tonight, but we both know that’s not going to happen.”

  Cody chuckled and began wiping down the oak surface next to her with a wet bar rib. “True. Let me know if you want a refill.” He nodded toward her glass then walked over to a trendy-looking, thirty-something couple who had just seated themselves five barstools away.

  Mia was starved. She dug into her meal. There had been no time to eat today, which was par for the course in a busy restaurant. Generally, she only ate twice a day. Breakfast before she left her apartment for work and her shift meal always falling around this time.

  Restaurant hours were long and laborious; twelve to sixteen hours, but the overtime pay made up for the exhaustion. She intended to use some of the money she’d saved when her three daughters, Tiffany, Danielle and Chelsie, all living in Springfield Missouri, came to visit her later this summer.

  “You’re having a very late dinner.”

  Mia’s head shot up, her gaze slashing toward her right. The speaker was that drop dead, gorgeous man she’d delivered the one top order to earlier and he was standing beside her holding a glass of wine. She swallowed the bite in her mouth and said, “This tends to be my normal dinner hour. How was your dinner?”

  She was surprised to find him still here, but not unusual she supposed. Tavania’s was one of the tamer establishments here on Bourbon Street. Guests, whether single or in a group often came here to eat, hook up to wifi and work or just hang out in a non-party atmosphere.

  “Amazing, actually. You’re a talented chef.” He took up residence on the stool next to her and sat his glass on the bar.

  Mia noticed him studying her. His eyes, the most beguiling she’d ever seen, held intrigue. She felt a little unnerved by his perusal, but she chalked it up to a customer desiring to speak to the chef. It happened all the time. Mostly with Joe because he was head chef. Happy guests often asked to speak to him. She had a roll to play. So play it she would.

  Mia pushed aside her plate and smiled. “I’m Mia Peebles. Is this your first time at Tavania’s?” She extended her hand.

  He gave it a cordial shake. “Yes. I drove by tonight and decided it might be a quiet place to do some work. Not so much, but I managed to accomplish what I needed to. I’m Nathan Davenport.”

  Mia laughed. “Yes, it was a bit crazy tonight. It’s good to meet you Nath—” She broke off and glared at him. Her heart did a little trip over in her chest when her brain cells began to fire and comprehend the name the man had given her.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. Suddenly, his features began to morph with the memories of numerous news and other TV show interviews she’d witnessed over the last ten years or so. Nathan Davenport was a real estate mogul and currently the richest man in the United States and possibly worldwide. Also the most sought after bachelor on the planet. A playboy. He had a different supermodel or Hollywood starlet on his arm every other picture or interview taken of him.

  He looked amused. “I guess you know who I am.”

  “Duh.” She laughed, picked up her glass of wine and sipped. “My biggest question is how did you end up here? I thought you lived in New York.”

  “I do primarily, but I have a number of homes and one of my favorites is here in New Orleans in the heart of one of the historical districts. Circumstances have brought me to the city. Unfortunately, I don’t have a private chef here, just a housekeeper, so I went out for the evening.”

  Mia blinked at him. A private chef? Wow! Of course a man like him would have all sort of household and personal staff. Her background was redneck, Missouri rural. Just having food on the table every day for her ex-husband and children had been a miracle of God for many years. That kind of wealth stymied her.

  In her four years with Joe, she’d had many encounters with well-to-do folk and had learned to accept and accommodate their eccentricities. Not every wealthy patron she’d met were all up in their stuff, but she suspected Nathan Davenport about as spoiled as a rich person could get.

  “What?” he demanded, grinning at her.

  “Nothing. Just glad you happened by tonight and enjoyed your meal. And truly, I hope you’ll visit Tavania’s again.” She tried for a kind smile then stood, intending to take her half-eaten plate and wine glass to the dish pit.

  He laid a hand on her arm, halting her. “Are you finished for the evening?”

  Mia’s smile faded. There was a hungry look in his eyes which had nothing to do with food and she didn’t like the implications. “No. I’m closing tonight and have another hour or so ahead of me. Why?”

  “I was going to ask you if you’d like to have a drink with me when you’re finished. I’d be happy to wait.”

  His expression seemed polite enough. Maybe her thinking was a little harsh. He’d been completely cordial, but Mia was forty two years old and wise enough to recognize a player when she saw one. “That’s very kind of you, but no. It’s been an extremely long day and I’m beat, but I appreciate the invite.”

  He appeared disappointed, but Mia didn’t care. She hadn’t dated since her divorce. Hadn’t had time and certainly tonight she had no time for a guy like Davenport. The man would have been a temptation for a nun. She’d certainly lived like one for the last five years because work left her no time for a social life. However, she wasn’t thinking very `sisterly` thoughts at the moment, which solidified her refusal. That and the fact he was Nathan Davenport. Dating required commonalities. She couldn’t think
of one they might share.

  She’d taken several steps away from the bar, when she heard him speak.

  Mia, look at me.

  His voice had taken on a deep hypnotic tone which seemed to echo in her head. In fact, it seemed to only be in her head, not audible. The strangeness of that reality should have been terrifying, yet something compelled her to turn and face him. She sat her dishes on the bar.

  “Come with me.” He gave her a kind, reassuring smile.

  She opened her mouth to say, `Hell, no`, but the word that came out in its’ stead was, “Okay.” Her heart tumbled over in her chest.

  Mia realized she was seriously loosing it because she allowed him to escort her out the front door of the restaurant without a peep. As hard as she tried to get her feet to obey her mind’s order to run back inside the restaurant, they were useless. They just kept taking her the direction he led them. Her voice was useless too. Her jaws felt locked. She began to pant and look around.

  Mia, relax. You have nothing to fear. I’m not going to hurt you.

  Her gaze, wild and crazy, she was sure, shot toward him. His words and voice had been in her mind. She hadn’t heard them audibly.

  Oh God, please tell me this is not real, that I’m going to wake up from this any second.

  He gave her a reassuring smile and took her hand. She wanted to yank it away and use both to scratch his eyes out, but she couldn’t move them either.

  You will be afraid no more. Understood?

  As his words filtered through her head, fear evaporated and her breathing and pulse gained normal momentum as desperately as she tried to fight both. He must have drugged her. That was the only explanation Mia could come up with, because her mental and physical control were history.

  She looked around to gain perspective. Everything seemed surreal. All the Bourbon Street noises and smells were alive to her senses yet distant, all stationed in a tunnel, contained, her in the midst, separate, yet a part. Nathan stood beside her, holding her hand. At some point a long, black limo pulled up to the curb. He opened the door and gently ushered her inside.