“Madge’s son?” Kiera glanced at the busboy, who’d already forgotten about bringing a towel and was busy posturing for a cute teenage girl who’d just walked in the front door.
Sam nodded. “The youngest of six boys.”
Kiera’s eyes widened. “She has six boys?”
“Yep.” He watched Madge come up behind her son and grab his earlobe, then drag him into the kitchen, lecturing him the whole way. “And she can say whatever she likes about any one of them, but if she hears someone else say anything close to criticism … well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be within ten yards. When her temper’s up, the woman moves a lot quicker than you’d think.”
“I believe you,” Kiera said, then met his gaze. “I … I’m sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”
It struck him how incredibly beautiful she’d looked a moment ago—her face animated with anger, her chin lifted with indignation—and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what all that intensity of emotion and energy would be like in bed.
His bed.
The image of Kiera naked, underneath him, her body arching upward into his—
Madge slid a mug of steaming coffee in front of Sam and frowned. “What is it about teenage boys and hormones that makes them dumb as a post?”
And then she was off again, shaking her head as she walked back to the kitchen, obviously not looking for an answer.
Teenage boys have nothing on us big boys, Sam thought, thankful to have his mind diverted from his fantasy of Kiera. When he glanced at her, he could see she was smiling while she sipped on her lemonade.
He couldn’t figure her out. The day she’d dropped the tray of drinks, she wouldn’t say one word to defend herself, but today, when she thought that a busboy was going to get the axe, she’d wanted to reach across the table and rip out his liver.
The woman absolutely fascinated him.
“So are you going to tell me?” she asked.
“Tell you?”
“You said there were two complaints.”
“Oh, right.” In spite of her cool tone, he could see the tension in the rigid line of her shoulders. “Chef Phillipe said you questioned his authority.”
“Did he?” Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Did you?”
She shrugged. “I simply suggested he might have put too much thyme in his chicken kiev.”
Sam wasn’t certain he’d heard her right. In the two months the replacement chef had been with Adagio’s, no one on staff in the restaurant had ever questioned him. They wouldn’t dare. When it came to his kitchen, the man was a tyrant. “You told Chef Phillipe that he put too much thyme in his chicken?”
“I’m sure it was a mistake,” Kiera said.
“You bet it was a mistake.”
She frowned. “I meant the chef’s mistake.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “How do you know he used too much thyme?”
She hesitated, took a long sip of her lemonade. “I could smell it.”
“You smelled it?” He was amazed that the chef hadn’t stuffed Kiera in the pantry and put a double padlock on the door.
“I have an extraordinary sense of smell and taste.”
She definitely had an extraordinary smell, Sam thought. From the first moment she’d stepped into the elevator, he’d been captivated by her scent. And her taste … his gaze dropped to her mouth. Right now she’d taste like pink lemonade, and dammit if he didn’t want to lick that tart sweetness off those enticing lips. He tried his best not to think about the path the spilled lemonade had taken under her tank top. Tried not to wonder what it would feel like to taste that lemonade on her skin, her breasts …
He tossed back a gulp of coffee, though what he really needed was a tall glass of iced water—poured directly below his belt.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, carefully setting her glass on the table. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Chef Phillipe. I was out of place. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”
Her contrite tone bothered him much more than anything else she’d said or done. He’d caught a glimpse of the fire simmering just under her surface, an intensity that she clearly kept tamped down.
He wanted to know why, dammit. Wanted to know what it was she was so obviously running away from. Why she needed to keep herself so controlled and distant.
It might not be today, he mused.
But he intended to find out.
Four
“Mrs. Carver is just finishing up a phone call, Miss Daniels. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Kiera managed a smile at the middle-aged brunette receptionist, then sat stiffly on the tan leather sofa. Afraid that her knees might start knocking, she gripped her thighs and held them tightly.
She was about to meet Clair Carver.
Clair Blackhawk.
A knot the size of a trucker’s fist twisted in her stomach.
She’d been setting up her lunch station not even ten minutes ago when the restaurant manager, Christine, gave her the message to report to Clair’s office. Kiera’s first thought was that there’d been more complaints filed against her. Tyler had lightened up a little, but Chef Phillipe had been storming about the kitchen since she’d called him on his faux pas. She’d done her best to keep her opinions to herself, be polite and stay out of the chef’s way, but if he wasn’t barking orders at her, he was muttering under his breath about mindless, insipid waitresses.
Obviously, the man held a grudge.
Still, Kiera seriously doubted that Clair would handle a problem between a chef and a waitress. Normally, owners didn’t get involved in the day-to-day operations of a larger hotel. They had staff for that.
Which led to her second, and definitely more frightening, thought.
Clair knows who I am.
The fist in her stomach twisted tighter.
But how could she?
Sam?
As careful as she’d been to cover her tracks, if he’d been curious enough, if he’d dug deep enough and made the right phone calls, it was possible he might have learned who she was. Maybe even why she was here. But it was doubtful. And he certainly hadn’t seemed curious. Or even interested, for that matter. In fact, for the past four days, since they’d had lunch together at Pappa Pete’s, he’d barely even looked at her. She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed.
Both, she decided.
There was no question she was attracted to the man. Butterflies-in-the-stomach attracted. Can’t-stop-thinking-about-him attracted.
Fantasy attracted.
When she least expected it, they’d sneak up on her. Those insidious little erotic daydreams. Bare, hot skin against bare, hot skin. Arms and legs intertwined. Busy hands, rushing lips. Sometimes her fantasy involved a bed, sometimes an elevator. In his office—on his desk—was her personal favorite. Sizzling, no-holds-barred sex. Wild. Frantic. Spontaneous. He was as mad for her as she was for him, reaching, gasping …
“Miss Daniels?”
She jumped at the receptionist’s