Breakaway. Nancy Warren

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      “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

      “I don’t want to cause trouble for the people who run this hotel. They’re friends of mine.”

      “Ignore him. If he chooses to make a scene it’s his business. Maybe he’ll have a drink and move on.” He smiled at her. “Here, have a bite of crab. It’s fantastic.”

      “If you’re still here next April I’ll cook you fresh king crab and you’ll understand the difference.” But she still opened her mouth and let him feed her a bite.

      “Well?”

      “Pretty good for frozen,” she admitted.

      Frank Carmondy banged his glass down on the bar and stormed over, as predictable as thunder after lightning. He came so close to their table he knocked into it and Max realized that scotch was far from his first.

      “So, you fired me so you could give your boy toy my job, huh?”

      Claire sent Max a sharp glance, essentially saying, “Let me handle this,” so he kept his mouth shut and his temper in control.

      “Frank,” she said, “this isn’t the time or place.”

      “You think you can fire me? Nobody fires me. You wouldn’t have an airline without me.”

      The conversation in the dining room petered out as people turned to stare. Their waitress said something to a girl holding a water jug. She put down the water and hurried into the back, probably getting the manager. Even though Claire had told him to let her handle her ex-employee, Max found it difficult to sit still and stay out of the fray.

      Carmondy slurred his words but they were loud and easy to understand. “I bet your grandmother’s real happy you turned out to be such a slut. She used—”

      Max was on his feet and had hold of one of Frank’s beefy arms before he could finish the sentence.

      He’d been prepared to let Claire handle the situation but he wasn’t about to let a drunk insult her. Not while she was sitting having dinner with him at his invitation. He began to drag the man toward the exit.

      “Where you think you’re taking me?”

      “Outside.”

      “Good,” said a guy sitting with his wife at the next table. He glanced with dislike at the drunk former airline manager.

      * * *

      CLAIRE WASN’T THE type to swoon over a couple of guys brawling, she’d spent too long in Alaska for that, but she really didn’t appreciate being at the center of controversy.

      She was annoyed with Frank for being a drunk, stupid bully. Annoyed with Max for playing the hero yet again when no one had asked him to interfere.

      She was annoyed with herself for agreeing to this date. If she hadn’t, the whole embarrassing situation would have been avoided.

      She sipped her wine and gazed out the window. She should simply leave, but that would only add more drama to an already overwrought situation.

      So, she sat. And waited.

      It was a surprisingly short time later when Max returned. He didn’t have a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his crisp white shirt.

      He said, “I’m sorry for my absence. Would you like dessert?”

      “No, thank you.”

      He picked up his napkin and neatly spread it over his lap when he reseated himself. “You’re annoyed with me.”

      “I’m annoyed with you, with Frank, with me, with my grandfather for hiring such a creep.”

      “I know.”

      She fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “What he said about me—”

      She’d thought his eyes were the sexiest thing about him, but now that he was smiling at her so intimately, as though they shared secrets the rest of the world could never understand, she changed her mind. His smile was his sexiest attribute. “Please. I’m not stupid. You’re a beautiful woman. He ever give you trouble?”

      “He said a couple of inappropriate things. Nothing I couldn’t ignore. Why?”

      “Because if he did I’d have to rethink my earlier restraint.”

      A sound of frustration emerged from her throat. “You are from another century.”

      “Perhaps. Please join me in dessert.”

      “I never eat it. I’ll have coffee.”

      “Fine.”

      When they were finished and he’d shaken off her offer to buy dinner as though it were an insult, she rose. “Thank you so much for dinner,” she said.

      “You’re welcome.” He walked out of the restaurant with her. She greeted people she knew as she passed, embarrassed that they’d all witnessed her encounter with Frank.

      Max held the door that led to the gravel parking lot out front. And followed her through it.

      She turned to him. “What are you doing?”

      “I’m seeing you to your car.”

      “You’re very old-fashioned.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      Spruce Bay was far enough north that even at nine-thirty at night the sun hadn’t set. There was plenty of light, making it easy to see the word SLUT scrawled with a finger in the dust on the Yukon’s back window.

      “Guess we need to wash the car more often,” she said, digging in her bag for a tissue. Max was ahead of her, pulling a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping off the offensive word.

      He didn’t say anything, simply walked to the driver’s side, waited until she’d unlocked the car, then opened the door and held it while she got in. She’d wondered if he’d attempt to kiss her. Hoped she’d be strong enough to resist. But he didn’t. He slammed the door on her without a word.

      So much for manners, she thought, putting her key in the ignition and firing up the beast.

      The passenger door opened and to her shock, Max got in beside her.

      She threw up both hands. “Now what are you doing?”

      “Escorting you home.”

      “But you’re staying at the hotel.”

      “Yes. I am.”

      “Max, this is ridiculous.”

      “I’m old-fashioned, remember?” And then she got it. He didn’t want her going home alone in case Frank Carmondy wanted to cause more trouble than scrawling insults on her back window.

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