Barbara McCauley - Blackhawk Desires

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.

“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 voice, blinked quickly. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” A frown wrinkled the woman’s brow. “You look a little flushed.”

Darn it! Kiera touched a hand to her cheek, felt the warmth there grow warmer still. “Do I?”

The receptionist nodded. “I heard there might be something going around.”

Knowing the effect Sam had on women, Kiera didn’t doubt there was a lot of what she had going around. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.”

“Miss Daniels, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

Kiera froze at the sound of the feminine voice behind her. It was one thing to imagine meeting Clair, quite another to actually do it.

Breath held, heart pounding, Kiera slowly turned.

Thick, dark brown hair skimmed the shoulders of her lime-colored jacket, framed her high cheekbones and wide mouth. Her skin had the barest kiss of bronze, suggesting her obvious Native American heritage wasn’t full-blooded. And her eyes—Kiera stared at Clair’s smiling gaze—they were blue. Deep blue.

“Thank you for coming.” Clair moved into the room. “I’m Clair Carver.”

Kiera watched the woman close the distance between them and felt a moment of panic. Trey was right. I never should have come here. No good could possibly come of it . She rose too quickly, awkwardly accepted the hand Clair offered.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carver.”

“Mrs. Carver,” Clair repeated dreamily, her lips curving wider. “Even after six weeks of marriage, I haven’t quite gotten used to the sound of it. But please, call me Clair.”

Kiera managed a weak smile and nodded. “Kiera.”

“Mary—” Clair glanced at the slender gold watch on her wrist “—why don’t you take your lunch now? I can handle things by myself here for a little while.”