“I don’t want to know what you assumed …” She stopped. She really needed to get back to work. She bit off her tirade and cut around him, heading for the doorway.
He kept pace, apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Stack has a way with the ladies …”
“What, manhandling them into submission?”
“He’s very charming when he’s sober. Give him five minutes, and he can turn any woman into Jell-O.”
“Any woman but me,” she snapped.
He gave her another long, slow look and said softly, “Looks like you’re different.”
“Different from what? The kind of woman who’d fall for a glass of wine and an invitation to slow dance in the kitchen? I should hope so.” She squinted at him suspiciously. “You seem to know that pig well enough, by the way.”
She couldn’t tell whether the smile he gave her was rueful or mocking. “I should. That pig’s my father.”
Chapter 2
Low blow, Elliot thought as the look of horror spread across the woman’s dark, pretty face. She began to babble, “Oh, I … I … I had no idea.” The irritation she’d shown since he’d put his foot in his mouth with that remark about flirting dissipated.
She didn’t deserve such discomfort, so he hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’ve called him worse—and so have a few dozen women, I bet.” To put an end to the issue, he held out his hand. “I’m Elliot Bookman Jr.”
She looked at his hand as if she thought he’d palmed a joy buzzer, but she shook it anyway. Her hand was warm and smooth, the hand of a woman who took care of herself. He liked that. He had to remind himself to release it within the time limit set by good manners, rather than indulge for just a few more seconds in its warm softness.
“Shani Matthieu.” She was frowning, half embarrassed, half anxious to get out of there. “Mr. Bookman—”
“Elliot,” he cut across with the standard joke. “My father’s Mr.—”
“I need to get back to work.” She brushed away a floppy lock of dark brown hair, pushing it up and over her ear in a gesture that made her seem girlish. Those hands again.
She rushed through the doorway—and careened into a shadow that had sidled in without either of them noticing.
The man was about Elliot’s height, but long-limbed and thin. He was so pale as to be almost transparent, save for the ferociously glowing freckles. His eyes were the color of brackish Florida swamp water, the kind that hid lurking gators. A black tuxedo draped over his thin frame made him look like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. The kente-cloth cummerbund looped around his waist immediately identified him as the aforementioned Yvan.
“Shani!” His voice was a Yoda-like rasp. “What’s this about you biting my client? And hitting him with a tray?”
She hit Stack with a tray? Elliot regretted having missed that part. Then he noticed his father standing behind him, glowering, and decided the situation was too grim—for Shani at least—to merit a chuckle.
Shani drew in her lip, her beautifully shaped teeth working at the full, wine-tinted flesh. For a second he thought she mightn’t answer, but she squared herself and said resolutely. “He was getting fresh with me.”
“How fresh does a guy got to get for you to bite him? “
“Fresh enough. He put his hand on me and I asked him to stop …”
“That’s a lie!” Stack swayed a little, and Elliot knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. “The crazy chick bit me for no reason!”
“Why would I bite you for no reason?”
Another waitress arrived on the scene and hesitated before snatching up a tray of tidbits and scurrying off as if afraid Yvan’s anger would spill over in her direction.
Fat chance. Yvan was totally focused on his current victim. “Little lady, jobs are hard to come by, especially with bosses as patient as me.”
Elliot was surprised Shani didn’t snort.
“This is your only warning. I want you to apologize to Mr. Bookman.”
“What?”
Yvan confirmed his demand with an insistent nod. “You apologize, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll still have a job by the end of the night.”
The tortured look on Shani’s face was too much for Elliot. He could practically hear the scales shifting back and forth as she tried to determine which was worth more: her job or her pride? Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue appeared. The gesture was jarringly erotic, which was an odd response to have, given that the situation was so serious. She inhaled, looked about to speak and stopped again. Facing her, Yvan frowned like an old schoolmaster about to administer a whippin'. Behind him, Stack looked victorious.
She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Mr. Bookman.” she began.
This was wrong. Elliot stepped forward, shielding her from the ire of her employer and his father’s unfounded self-righteousness. “The lady has nothing to apologize for. I saw what happened. My father was getting out of line, and she defended herself.”
Shani gave a small squeak. “I told you I don’t need help!”
“I know, but right is right. You don’t need to apologize.” He speared his father with a look. “Does she, Stack?”
Stack shifted, looking guilty. “Well, maybe I misunderstood …”
“She’ll apologize because I tell her to,” Yvan ground out. “Shani …” He pointed at Stack as if he was showing a naughty dog the way out.
She lifted her head like an innocent woman facing a firing squad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bookman. Please …” She swallowed hard; Elliot could see movement at the base of her throat, and that movement drew his eyes downward to the cleavage that swelled out the top of her plunging neckline. She didn’t need the push-up bra she was wearing. He dragged his eyes to her face again as she begged, “Please, forgive …” Then she stopped, and another look crossed her face. Not outrage, not embarrassment, not discomfort. Something else, and it scared him.
She slipped her hand into her pocket. Yvan saw the movement, reptilian eyes swiveling down. “Don’t tell me.” he began.
What the hell?
She withdrew a small cell phone and looked at it as if it was the detonator for a nuclear weapon. It must have been on silent, because nobody had heard it ring.
“I’ve explicitly told you, all of you, you are not allowed to carry your phones on the job!” Yvan was in a fine lather. Something told Elliot that this was his usual state of being.
Shani gave him half a second’s glance. “You know my situation, Yvan.”
“I don’t give a pickled monkey’s butt about your situation.”
“Hello?” Shani’s voice was a whisper. Elliot’s eyes were riveted to her face, beyond curiosity. Under the plum-dark skin, the blood drained. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked the phone shut. “It’s Bee,” she said to Yvan.
Bee? What bee? He half expected to see one buzzing around their heads.
If you’d set a spirit level along Yvan’s mouth, the bubble would have been dead center. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I need to go. Now.”
Yvan lifted his hand and checked his watch. “Your tail is mine for another hour and forty minutes.”