Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal. Barbara McCauley

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      “I’m not fired?” Robert asked incredulously.

      “You’re not fired.” A muscle jumped in Sam’s clenched jaw. “Just don’t let Phillipe see you until I straighten this out.”

      “Yes, sir.” Robert hesitated, then cast an anxious glance at Kiera. She smiled reassuringly at him. He smiled back weakly and hurried out of the kitchen.

      When Sam turned his dark gaze on her, Kiera pressed her lips firmly together. She refused to make excuses or apologize. “I dropped a plate.”

      “Did you?” He looked down at the broken china and food, then back at her. “Come with me.”

      Her heart sank. Damn you! she wanted to scream. How could he have kissed her like he had—twice!—and suddenly treat her with such cold disregard? Did he even care what had happened here?

       Did he care about her?

      Apparently not.

      “What about my customer’s order?” Kiera glanced at the salmon she’d intentionally dropped on the floor, then thought about the sweet, white-haired woman who’d ordered it. “I can’t just leave.”

      “I’ll have a menu and apology sent over and comp the meal.”

      “It took her twenty minutes to decide on the salmon.” Kiera knew she was goading him, she was beyond caring. “I doubt that will make her happy.”

      “Fine.” He could have ground glass between his clenched jaw. “I’ll comp a meal for two and if she’s a guest here, I’ll comp her room, too. Will that make her happy?”

      “I’m sure it will.” Delighted that something good was going to come of this debacle, Kiera gave a satisfied nod. “You sure you don’t want me to finish up my shift, because it’s almost over and—”

      “No, Kiera, I don’t want you to finish up your shift. One of the other servers can cover your station. Now come with me.”

      He turned and slammed through the kitchen’s double doors. On the other side, the entire lunch staff scattered like a herd of frightened deer.

      Kiera yanked her apron off and threw it on a counter. He wanted to talk to her? Fine.

      She’d talk all right.

      Pushing through the doors, she grabbed her purse out of the employee closet. After she told Sam Prescott exactly what she thought of him, it was pretty much a done deal she’d get canned. The last thing she wanted was to have to come back here and deal with the you-poor-thing-you-didn’t-deserve-it condolences. Strangely enough, even Tyler was looking at her with sympathy.

      She caught up with Sam after he’d paused long enough to give instructions to Christine, then followed him through the restaurant.

      He didn’t say one word to her.

      In the elevator, she stared straight ahead, refused to even glance at Sam, determined to hold her tongue until they were in the privacy of his office. She’d been holding in too much for too long. She was ready—past ready—to let it out. No doubt she’d regret it later, but she’d simply deal with that when the time came.

      Tension crackled in the tiny space, and the overhead music sounded like a muted roar. When the doors slid quietly open, Sam strode purposefully into the hallway without giving her so much as a glance. Part of his intimidation method, she figured, stalking after him. She kept her gaze lasered to the back of his head, every step heightening her already strained emotions.

      He stopped outside an unmarked office, slid a card-key into the door and opened it, then stepped aside. Head high, she marched in. When she heard the door close behind her, she dropped her purse onto an armchair and whirled on him.

      “Chef Phillipe is a bully,” she said furiously. “He insults every member of the staff and refuses to acknowledge any mistake on his part, though let me tell you, he makes plenty.”

      Arms folded, Sam simply stared at her.

      A tiny little voice told her to put a sock in it, but she squashed the voice like a bug. She was on a roll and had no intention of slowing down.

      “The man hasn’t a creative bone in his body,” she ranted on. “Everyone knows he’s hanging on the skill and reputation of your last chef. Everyone but you, obviously, or you wouldn’t put up with his arrogant nonsense.”

      Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

      “Yes, that’s so.” She slammed her hands onto her hips and moved closer. “Robert is a wonderful sous-chef and he has tremendous potential. He just needs a little guidance, which he’ll never get from Phillipe. You know why?”

      “I have the feeling you’re going to tell me,” Sam said evenly.

      “Yes, I am going to tell you.” Why not? she thought. She’d already cooked her goose, why not serve it on a platter while she was at it? “Because any sign of talent threatens him so he beats it down. Because he knows he lacks the je ne sais quoi that a truly great chef is born with. And because, sooner or later, he knows that he’ll be found out, and when he is he’ll be flipping burgers and slinging hash in a coffee shop somewhere.”

      Lord, but she was riled.

      Sam watched Kiera throw her arms out in exasperation. Her cheeks were flushed and sparks flew from her eyes like tiny blue bolts of lightning. He was certain he’d never met anyone like this woman before. She absolutely fascinated him.

      She absolutely dazzled him.

      “I don’t know why I’m trying to explain this to you.

      You wouldn’t understand working in a kitchen, what it means, what it takes.” She spun on her heels and flounced away. “And why should you believe anything I say, anyway? You’re too busy making assumptions and passing judgments.”

      “Kiera—”

      “You’re management, I’m just a waitress. What the hell do I know?”

      “Kiera—”

      “I’m done talking. So what are you waiting for? Fire me already.” She whirled around and faced him. “Never mind. I’ll make your job easy. I quit.”

      “Kiera,” he said patiently. “I believe you.”

      That stopped her. “What?”

      “I said, I believe you.”

      “You do?”

      “Yes.”

      Still unsure, she tilted her head. “Which part?”

      Sam folded his arms and sighed. “Chef Phillipe is a bully riding on the previous chef’s coattails,” he repeated her words. “He hasn’t a creative bone in his body and Robert is a good sous-chef. I already knew all that.”

      “You did?”

      “Yes, СКАЧАТЬ