“Why, so they are!” Maggie looked over her shoulder and winked at Patrick, then left, her hips swaying provoc-atively.
Patrick smiled. He could handle Maggie—she wouldn’t present any surprises. She knew she was flirting and so did he. His glance shifted to Jasmine. Now there was an enigma. She might be making an effort to flirt; she might not. Just the fact that she wore a conservatively loose uniform as opposed to the more formfitting one her less voluptuous sister sported said a lot about her personality— and her need to keep customers at a distance.
So why in hell was she making an effort with him?
“Don’t mind my sister,” Jasmine said, breaking into his thoughts.
“I like a woman who speaks her mind.” Patrick held her gaze until she gave him a small smile and walked away. Ah, yes, this woman was much more interesting.
The chicken was broiled to perfection, the vegetables tender-crisp, the rice neither clumped nor sticky. It was a meal some workout guru would turn cartwheels about, but not this red-blooded American man who’d earned his calluses by moving freight. Patrick swore he could hear the last bite of chicken hit bottom in his stomach, like a bucket splashing into a well.
No way in hell was some damned plate of fruit going to fill the emptiness. Not even a basketful would do it.
His good mood deteriorated into annoyance. Hunger did that to him. As the hospital nutritionist, Nurse Crackwhip, had instructed, he visualized a healthy heart, the blood flowing unrestricted through a steadily pumping machine. Of course, she had also told him stress would add to his problems, and he was extremely stressed when he was hungry.
Eating healthy was for women.
He drummed his spoon on the table and watched Jasmine approach with his fruit plate and coffee—decaf, another curse from the evil Crackwhip. He felt the stick of pins in him at the slightest temptation to deviate from his healthy food program, as if she’d made a voodoo doll of him and would push in a pin when necessary to keep him on the straight and narrow. Okay, so it was really the road to recovery. It felt like capital punishment.
“How was your dinner?” Jasmine asked as she exchanged one plate for another, then began filling his coffee cup.
“Fine. Great.”
She looked up at his tone of voice and he apologized.
“Jet lag catching up with you?” she asked, smiling.
He shrugged. It was a convenient excuse, and probably part of his problem, as well. “I’m sure a good night’s rest will straighten me out. How about you? How much longer until you get off your feet?”
“A couple hours. Midnight, usually, unless we’re really slow.” She glanced around the room. “Excuse me. A customer wants more coffee.”
Patrick jabbed a slice of cantaloupe and took a bite. Not too bad. The grapes were okay, as well. And the strawberries juicy and tasty. He felt better when he was done, and sat back to enjoy his coffee. His gaze landed on Jasmine’s sister, Maggie, as she laughed with a couple of men old enough to be her father.
Hell, he was old enough to be her father. He’d bet she was near Paige’s age, and a good ten years younger than Jasmine. Still, he was holding together all right, considering he had an almost-thirty-year-old daughter. The first strands of gray had made their appearance over the past year but his hairline hadn’t receded at all.
And recently he’d been more sought after than ever. The reason for his sudden popularity probably stemmed from the announcement a few months ago of the merger of his company, O’Halloran Shipping, with the smaller firm of Collins-Abrahamson, especially since actual dollar figures had been revealed in newspaper articles. When his net worth had become public knowledge, ambitious mamas had doubled their dinner party invitations and seated him next to their twenty-something daughters, hoping to draw his interest.
There was nothing wrong with either his eyesight or his libido. He found many of those young women beautiful, sexy…and far too young to be of interest. He wanted a woman who had a memory of the Vietnam War, not one who’d learned about it in high school history class. Neither did he want a woman who hung on his every word or whose focus was on shopping and partying.
Then there were the divorced women blatantly prowling for a new mate…and meal ticket.
Why couldn’t he find someone in between, maybe someone with a couple of children he could still be a father to? He wiped a hand down his face. Nothing like acknowledging your mortality to bring on an attack of sentimentalism, he decided.
“All done?” Jasmine asked. “Or would you like more coffee?”
He hadn’t even heard her come to the table. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”
“Are you running a tab or paying cash?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be around, so I don’t want to run a tab.”
“Oh? This is a really quick trip, then?”
“I’m not sure. My daughter and son-in-law had to leave town. As soon as they get back I’ll probably be with them instead of coming here.”
She placed his check upside down on the table. “So, you may not be back?” she asked, her voice soft but her chin lifted.
Patrick didn’t know what to make of the contradictions he saw in her. She looked as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her and seemed suddenly small and lost, yet she also appeared ready to do battle. “Do you want me to come back, Jasmine?” he asked, equally softly and with as much intensity.
“I—I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”
“Do you want me to come back?” He had a sudden urge to kiss away her hesitation, and an even stronger urge to feel her pressed against him. Was she stalling because she was an employee and he a guest? Or because she was feeling the same attraction that he was, and didn’t know how to handle it either, especially this soon? She was the first woman he’d met in a long time whose intentions weren’t conspicuously apparent within the first fifteen minutes of acquaintance—which didn’t say much about his choice of women lately.
“Good night,” she said softly.
Patrick watched her walk determinedly away, then he pulled a slim gold pen from inside his jacket and wrote a message on the check stub. After adding several bills, he strode out of the club and into the night.
Jasmine watched him leave, regretting that she hadn’t answered him. She didn’t have time to be a fatalist. If she wanted something to happen, she had to make it happen.
She’d seen him write something on the check. Usually when a man did that, it was his phone number. Please, don’t let it be his phone number, she prayed. She wanted him to be better than that.
First she noticed the staggering tip he’d left, then she lifted the check. “I’ll be back.” The words were printed in bold, masculine script.
She closed her eyes, tore off the perforated stub and shoved it into her pocket, keeping her hand on it for a few seconds. She’d seen complexity and intelligence in the man, along with some pain and, she was pretty sure, mutual attraction.
She hoped he would be the one to fath—be The Donor, yet she didn’t even know his name.
And she didn’t dare ask J.D., who would gloat over finally accomplishing his goal of the past year—getting her to show the slightest interest in a man.
No, she had to wait for him to come back and then work up her nerve to entice him to her bed. It was a tall order for a man-hating woman who treasured honesty above all else.
Honesty. Why should she worry about it? How long had it been since a man had been completely honest with her?
Her father had left before her first birthday. Her first stepfather lasted six months. Her second stepfather had stuck