by J. R. Ward
Frankie looked deeply into his eyes. “Is seven good for you?”
“Perfect,” he muttered as he got down on the floor and inched back under the car.
ON TUESDAY NIGHT, NATE got out of the shower and toweled off, thinking that he’d never before had to coerce a woman into having dinner with him. Threatening to quit a job was a new addition to his dating repertoire and he couldn’t say he was happy with the fresh approach.
Damn that woman. She’d pushed him away, refused his friendship and then insulted him. Not once, but twice. And he still wanted her. What the hell was it going to take to turn him off? Having her knock him upside the head with a two-by-four? He was a man who thrived on challenges, but this was ridiculous.
And no matter how many times he reminded himself that they weren’t going on a date, he supposed on some deep level he was hoping she’d be dazzled by him and come around. But no doubt that wouldn’t happen unless something hit her on the head.
So this was desperation. God, what a drag.
Nate left his room wearing clean everything. Socks and boxers were just out of the wash. Khakis and the faded polo shirt were fresh from the duffel. He looked as presentable as he ever got.
He tried to remember the last time he’d been in a suit. Years, probably. Ties irritated the hell out of him and the only jackets he could stand were the top half of chef’s whites. And the GQ rebellion stuff wasn’t a new trend. He and his mother had always fought over his wardrobe and she’d given up only when he’d moved away from home and she didn’t see him anymore.
So it felt a little odd for him to be wondering what Frankie would think if he were a sharp dresser.
She was waiting for him in the kitchen and he clamped his mouth shut so he didn’t blurt out how good she looked. She was wearing a long, loose skirt and she’d left her hair down. Her blouse was just tight enough so that the curve of her breasts showed.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded as she picked up her bag and her keys. “George? We’re going.”
The man came in from the pantry. “Where you guys headed?”
“Nowhere special and we’ll be home soon.”
Nate wanted to shake his head. Yup, this was a woman looking forward to being alone with him, all right. Man, she kept at it and his ego was going to be the size of a cherry tomato at the end of the summer.
“Joy’s going to heat up some dinner for you all,” she said to George.
“I can do that. She’s busy with Grand-Em.”
Frankie smiled at the man. “You’re thoughtful. We’ll see you later.”
“So where are we going?” Nate asked as they stepped out the back door and walked over to the Honda. The night was coming on and the temperature cooling.
“The Silver Dollar Diner. The only other choices are tourist joints that are more bar than restaurant. They’re noisy, full of college kids out for the summer. It would be hard to talk business in them.”
Nate smiled grimly as she opened her own door.
Right. Business. This was all about business.
He’d known carpenter ants who were less single-minded than she was.
In less than ten minutes, they were parked next to an old railroad dining car that had been put up on a foundation. Inside, there was a long, Formica counter with stools bolted to the floor and a soda fountain set up behind it. Red Naugahyde booths took up the other side of the car and stretched out into a back room that had been added on. The place had a well-used air and he had a feeling that the 1950s decor wasn’t cultivated, it was authentic. The thing had probably been at the side of the road since sock hops and ducktails were in.
People looked them over and waved at Frankie. She was careful to introduce him as her new chef to every single person they talked to, setting the boundaries like a brick layer. He wasn’t sure whether the message was for his benefit or the townspeople’s—probably both. When they finally sat down at a booth way in the rear of the addition, he wasn’t surprised when she put her back to the door.
Cherry tomato? His ego was going to fit on a pinhead with room to spare.
Before the waitress even filled their water glasses, Frankie said, “So. What do you think we should do?”
“Order dinner. Eat.” Go dancing, he thought, eyeing the way her collarbones looked framed by the wide neckline of her shirt.
This is not a date, he reminded himself.
Yeah, says who? his libido shot back.
Nate rubbed his eyes. Oh, goody. He could kiss mental health goodbye now, too.
Frankie accepted a laminated menu with a smile. “I mean about us working together.”
He flipped open his menu and was delighted to see pictures of the entrées. And the food was right out of the Saturday Evening Post. Meat loaf. Chicken potpie. Turkey blue-plate special that came with mashed potatoes and wax beans. As if it could possibly have included anything else?
He felt her eyes on him and liked it, so he leisurely perused the selections.
“What are you going to have?” he asked.
“A nervous breakdown,” she muttered and opened her menu.
So we’ll tell the waitress to make that a double, he thought.
“I should never have agreed to this.” Her eyes were scanning up and down and he doubted she was seeing anything.
“Now why’s that?” he drawled. And when she was finished, he could share his own list of regrets. Starting with the fact that he was getting turned on just by watching her lovely fingers flip the menu pages over.
“This just feels all wrong. And so does being around you in the kitchen. I can’t decide whether you’re ignoring me because you’re busy or because you’re still mad. And I tell myself I shouldn’t care, but I do.” She pulled the shirt back so its neckline was higher. Pity. “And if you are angry, I don’t really blame you, but I can’t think of much more I can do in terms of apologizing.”
Unfortunately, he could think of quite a number of things. Most of which involved his mouth and unfettered access to her body.
Why don’t you lean forward and put your hand on her knee, his libido suggested. You could inch that skirt up until you—
Shut up. Damn, his sex drive—
“Excuse me?”
Nate realized he’d spoken aloud. God, he hoped like hell he’d stopped at the shut up part. “Nothing. I, ah—”
The waitress came back. Thank God.
“We’d like a bottle of wine,” he said. As well as a cold pack for his erection.
“White or red?” the woman asked, whipping out her pad.
“Frankie?”
“Red’s fine. No, white. Wait, red.” She put her hand on her forehead. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“We’ll take one of each.” He smiled at the waitress and ordered the meat loaf.
“That’s overkill,” Frankie said.
“Then pick one. And what would you like to eat?”
“I’ll have the meat loaf, too. So red would be fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the diner open and a tall man with two blond children come in. The three of them took seats at the counter. The youngest, a girl of about four, needed help from her father to get on the stool.
A sturdy shot of pain whipped through Nate’s chest and he had to take a quick drink of water.
As he looked away from the kids, he hoped the ache would fade quickly. God, that yearning, that regret, was it ever going to go stop? Every child he saw triggered the sting. Especially the little girls.
And children were everywhere. He couldn’t seem to get away from them, even at White Caps. Twice this week he’d had them invade his territory, coming into the kitchen looking for a snack or just out of curiosity.
“Nate?”
“Huh?”
“About us.”
Good. Distraction was good.
He leaned back as the waitress put a bottle of wine and a basket of rolls on the table. He offered both to Frankie, who only let him fill
her glass.
“Honest truth?” he said. “I’m not good at dealing with bosses to begin with and you’ve got some serious control issues. So I think we’ll end up killing each other.”
“But I apologized.”
“And I appreciated it. Except that doesn’t change much, does it?”
Her eyes flashed up to his. “So why are we here tonight?”
Because evidently he had a penchant for self-torture. God, could she look better?
Salads were put down in front of them. He watched her pick up her fork and carefully shuffle the radish shavings off to the side.
“Tell me, what’s your problem with bosses?” she asked.
He started eating. “Same as everyone’s. I don’t like to be told what to do.”
“Even if they’re right?”
“But if they’re right, I already know it and don’t need to be told. And if they’re wrong, they’re wasting my time.”
“That’s pretty arrogant.”
“You’ve already noted my healthy ego, so this can’t be a surprise.”
He caught her mouth twitching as if she were fighting a smile. “But when I spoke with Henri, he told me he was willing to give you everything to stay in his kitchen. You would have had control. Why did you leave?”
“If I’d taken over for him, I’d have always been in his shadow. He’s a famous chef and that’s a famous restaurant so I’d never make a name for myself. I’d just be keeping his alive after he retired.”
“Do you want to be famous?”
“I want to be respected. And I want something that is mine. That’s why I need to buy my own place in the city.”
“Is New York your first choice?”
“Yeah.”
She pushed her salad away and looked out the small window. She hadn’t eaten much.
From the corner of his eye, he watched as the man with the two kids got up and held his hand out to his younger daughter. She slid off the seat and together they started to make their way to the unisex bathroom which was in the far corner. The door squeaked a little when the man opened it and they went inside together.
Nate rubbed the throbbing spot in the middle of his chest. The sight of the little girl’s hand in her daddy’s sure grip made him sick to his stomach. He gulped some more water.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE WAITRESS CAME BY AGAIN, putting a bottle of ketchup between them and saying that their dinners would be out in a few minutes. As she walked off, Nate heard the bathroom door open and then the father and daughter were standing at their table.
“Frankie?”
Her head snapped around, her face settling into a frozen smile. “David.”
The man smiled. “You’re looking well.”
“You, too. And this must be Nanette?”
“No,” the little girl piped up. “That’s my sister. I’m Sophie.”
“And there’s another one on the way,” the man said with an awkward shrug, as if apologizing for his wife’s fecundity.
Nate avoided looking at the little girl and narrowed his eyes on the guy. He was tall, in good shape. Expensive watch and shoes. Had that genteel air of old money about him.
“How is Madeline?” Frankie asked.
“Very well. Getting bigger every day. But she still keeps up with all of her work. That woman chairs more boards than I have clients.” The man cleared his throat. “But you—ah, you must be busy, too. With White Caps.”
“Yes, very busy.”
The man looked at Nate as if he were searching for a life raft. “Where are my manners? I’m David Weatherby.”
Nate recognized the name immediately. The Weatherbys and the Walkers had crossed paths often. But the last thing he wanted was to play connect the social dots, so he shook the man’s hand and kept his lineage to himself.
“I’m Nate. The new chef at White Caps.”
“Oh.” The man inclined his head towards Frankie. “How are things this season?”
“Fine.”
“Daddy. I want to go sit down now,” the child said.
“Yes, darling. Ah, if you’ll excuse us? Frankie, it was good to see you.”
“Same here, David.” Frankie let out a long breath after they left. “May I have some more wine?”
Nate poured, watching her as he filled her glass. “Old friend?”
“Something like that.” She drank. There was a silence. “You aren’t going to pry?”
“Don’t need to. It’s pretty obvious.”
“Oh, really.” She lifted the glass to her lips again.
“The two of you were lovers, right? Nasty breakup followed. But it’s a small town so you know you will run into each other. Both of you are determined to be pleasant when it happens—”
“He was my fiancé.” When she emptied her glass, she refilled it herself.
Nate shifted in the booth. That was more than he’d expected. He measured the man again.
Those could have been her daughters, he thought. And she’d probably considered the same thing once or twice.
The waitress put two plates the size of river barges down in front of them, asked if either of them wanted fresh pepper, and left when they declined.
“Why did it end?”
Frankie stuck with her wine. “My old life was over when my parents died. And neither one of us could see David fitting into my new one.”
Nate paused with his fork and knife over the meat loaf. “He left you?”
“I told him to leave because I knew he was going to.” She pushed her food around. “I think I was just a declaration of independence from his family, anyway. He’d always done what his parents expected of him and he was just getting out of college when we got together. His parents were trying to force him to go into the Weatherby brokerage firm down on Wall Street even though he was interested in journalism. Eventually, he caved in, but he brought me home the very first weekend after he started working. I was totally outside the standard. No money, working girl, loonies for parents. His mother wasn’t happy and the more she complained, the more he said he loved me.”
She tried a bite of the meat loaf. “I wanted to believe in him. In us. I was twenty years old and I wanted to live out a big, bright future in the best city in the world with a handsome husband who was devoted to me. But then my parents died and we postponed the wedding. After a while, I started to see the cracks in our relationship. Part of him had no doubt been honestly in love with me, but he was also using me. And I do think he would have married me if things hadn’t changed in my family. He just wasn’t prepared to strap on the remnants of my parents’ lives and raise a teenager. His relief when I gave him back the ring was astronomical.”
She laughed awkwardly, as if she was surprised she’d said so much. “But at least he cured me of any Prince Charming complex I might have had. Rich men are a huge turnoff. Between waiting on them hand and foot at my day job, and everything that happened with David, I’m sticking to my own kind from now on.”
“Not everyone who comes from money is evil,” he pointed out.
“True. But I’ve already gracefully endured the shocked disapproval of one rich man’s family. I can’t see myself behaving that well again. Now, I’m too old to put up with that crap.”
“I can understand that.” He picked up his water glass. “Did you like the city?”
“New York? God, yes. I loved it and not just the glamorous parts. I liked the way those street vendors’ carts smell. You know the ones. With the roasting nuts?”
He nodded.
“And when I walked down Fifth Avenue at night, I could see that the sidewalk had flecks of mica or quartz or something in it that sparkled under the street lamps. I liked the rush of the taxis and the shouts of the drivers. The horns. I liked Times Square with all the people and the lights.” She cut herself off abruptly, as if enjoying the memories was too much of a guilty pleasure.
“Do
you get down much anymore?”
“No. Although I do fantasize sometimes of moving there still. Which is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“It’s never going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Her brows twitched and her mouth flattened into a thin line. “There’s White Caps for one thing. And my family. Joy needs me.”
“But she’s in her mid-twenties now, right? She’s an adult so you’re free. What’s holding you here?”
She waved her hand through the air, as if his challenge was smoke she could bat away. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my chef, not my psychiatrist.” With that, she picked up the bottle of wine and seemed a little surprised when it was almost empty. She looked at his glass, which was full. “You didn’t like the taste?”
He shrugged. “I’m not a big drinker. The stuff’s good in sauces and to clear the palate. Otherwise I avoid alcohol.”
She sat back, studied him. “Any particular reason?”
“My father was a drunk.” Her brows lifted with compassion. “Yeah, the smell of mixed drinks, especially anything with scotch in it, reminds me of him so I can’t stomach the hard stuff. Wine’s part of my job so I have a professional relationship with it.”
“Do you see your father at all?”
“He’s been dead for almost five years.”
She put her fork down. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m still not sure if I am, to tell you the truth.”
Frankie considered him thoughtfully. “And your mother?”
“A little of her goes a long way. Fortunately, my brother toes the mark on that one. He takes care of her, thank God.”
“Is she ill?”
“Healthy as a horse. But she could never support herself.” Not with the kind of money she burned through on a monthly basis.
Frankie pushed her food around. Her face was full of concentration, as if she was trying to frame a difficult question.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked abruptly.
“No.”
She fiddled with her mashed potatoes. “You say that as if marriage is an ugly thing.”