Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal. Barbara McCauley

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      The smile on his mouth disarmed her, had her whispering back, “I think I can manage to keep a secret.”

      “Yeah.” He studied her for a moment. “I think you can.”

      She stilled at his comment, arched an eyebrow and settled back in her chair. “You sure you aren’t here for fish, Mr. Prescott?”

      Smiling, he settled back in his chair, as well.

      An unseen cook in the kitchen dinged three times on a bell to signal an order was up.

      Round one, Kiera thought absently.

      “So how’s it going?” Sam asked.

      “I assume you’re referring to my job.”

      “Of course.”

      She picked up her lemonade, sipped. “Why don’t you tell me?”

      “Okay.” He folded his hands on the table and straightened his shoulders. “Your ratio of tables to gross and time are in the ninetieth percentile and an initial review of customer comments is exceptional.”

      In spite of the deep, official tone of his voice, Kiera saw the glint of a rogue in Sam’s eyes. “Sounds like I should ask for a raise.”

      “I’m afraid that request would be denied. You’ve had two complaints filed against you.”

      “What!” Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and ran down the front of her tank top; a sliver of ice slid under the cotton neckline and into her bra. Frowning, she grabbed a napkin.

      He signaled for the busboy. “Tyler says you’re difficult to work with.”

      Tyler’s an ass, she nearly said, but managed to bite her tongue. She’d worked with jerks like him before. He was a good waiter, but he kissed up to the manager and chef, patronized the rest of the staff and gossiped worse than a tabloid columnist.

      She had nothing to gain by defending herself or acknowledging the waiter’s complaint had even the tiniest bit of merit. Nor did she have anything to gain by retaliating. Sooner or later, Tyler would have to face retribution.

      Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see it.

      “Hey, Mr. Prescott.” The busboy appeared beside the table. “You want coffee or—”

      Sam watched the dazed expression fall over the teenager’s face when his eyes dropped to the front of Kiera’s damp tank top. The boy’s jaw went slack.

      “Eddie,” Sam prompted.

      No response.

      Sam sighed. It wasn’t that he blamed the kid for staring. Hell, it was all he could do not to stare himself. Kiera was too busy dabbing at her chest to notice that she’d attracted the attention of most of the men in the restaurant.

      “Eddie,” Sam repeated.

      “Huh?” The busboy blinked and looked at Sam.

      “The towel?”

      “Oh, sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie grabbed the towel from the waistband of his apron and reached out as if to wipe the front of Kiera’s chest.

      Sam moved quicker than the boy and grabbed the towel away. Realizing what he’d almost done, Eddie blushed deeply.

      “I think we can manage now, thanks.” Sam handed the towel to Kiera. “How ‘bout you just bring me that cup of coffee?”

      “Sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie glanced at Kiera and swallowed hard. “You, ah, need anything, miss?”

      “I’m fine, thanks.” Kiera managed a smile. “I just spilled some lemonade, that’s all.”

      “I—I’ll get you some more,” he stammered. “You need some water, too? ‘Cause I could go get that, case that might stain or something, or maybe you want some club soda—”

      “Edward Morrison!” Madge stormed up behind the boy. “Stop drooling over that girl and go get Sam here some coffee.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Eddie cast one last, puppy-dog look at Kiera.

      “Sometime before Christmas?” Madge barked, then shook her head when the boy shuffled off. “What do you think, Sam? You’re the big business expert here. Should I fire him?”

      “Absolutely.”

      Kiera’s mouth dropped open.

      “I’ll give him the boot after he brings your coffee.” Madge grabbed the pencil she’d stuck over her ear. “The boy’s a pain-in-the-butt, anyway. So what’ll you have today? The usual?”

      “We both will,” Sam replied. “Extra cheese.”

      “Wait—”

      “You got it.” Madge scribbled on her order pad, then stuck her pencil behind her ear and snatched up the menu on the table.

      Kiera called after the waitress again, but Madge was too busy hollering the order to the cook to hear.

      “How could you do such a thing?” Kiera said through clenched teeth. “He’s just a kid, a sweet kid, who was just trying to be helpful.”

      The “sweet” kid reappeared with a mug in one hand and pot of coffee in the other. If he’d been looking at the mug instead of Kiera when he poured, Eddie might have even managed to get some of the coffee in the cup. He jumped when he realized he’d missed, reached for his towel, only to remember he’d given it to Kiera.

      “Sorry, Mr. Prescott,” Eddie apologized. “I’ll be right back.”

      “I’ve got it.” Kiera was already wiping the spill up. “It was just a drop.”

      “I’ll get another towel,” Eddie said and hurried—well, for Eddie it was hurried—off. Sam stared at his empty coffee cup, the mess on the table, then looked back up at Kiera. He gave her an I-told-you-so look.

      “Don’t you dare get that boy fired.” She put her hands on the table and leaned forward. Outrage sparked in her blue eyes and flushed her cheeks pink. “You call the owner back here right now and tell her you were just kidding or so help me I’ll—”

      Kiera stopped suddenly, pressed her mouth into a thin line.

      Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ll what?”

      He could almost hear Kiera doing battle in her brain.

      Her need to defend a slow, clumsy busboy warring with her need to tell her boss off.

      “You’ll what?” he asked again, lowering his voice. He was dying to know.

      “Please.” Her fury dissipated like smoke in a breeze. “Please, don’t.”

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