Elizabeth Harbison - A Dash of Romance

When they were sixteen, though, they learned that their first foster mother had died, leaving her meager estate to the girls so that they could go to vocational school and learn a trade.

Rose had gone to culinary school, while her sister had studied hotel management. Now, while Rose worked as an assistant caterer for Marta, one of the most prominent caterers in New York, Lily was a concierge in one of New York’s most exclusive boutique hotels, the Montclaire.

“How’s it going in here?” a small, twitchy man with a dark comb-over and black-rimmed glasses asked. “Is everything on schedule?”

“It certainly is, Mr. Potts,” Marta cooed. “You go tell your boss everything is just fine. In fact, maybe he’d like to come in here and—” she gave a coy smile “—sample my wares.”

Mr. Potts raised his eyebrows so high his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up hastily. “Mr. Harker trusts that your wares will be everything they’re advertised to be, Ms. Serragno.”

Rose stifled a giggle.

Potts left and Marta turned to Rose. “Can you believe that man? When I land this big fish, and I will, that worm is going to be one of the first things to go.”

“Oh, I don’t think he meant anything by it,” Rose said, not to reassure Marta so much as to spare Potts his job if she did manage to get her hooks into his boss. “Warren Harker’s just a busy guy. He trusts us to do a good job, just like we always do.”

Marta gave a mild nod. “I’ll do a good job, all right. How’s that artichoke salad coming along?”

The suite was incredibly posh. Rose had seldom seen such ornate handiwork and she’d worked in some of the finest homes in Manhattan. The chandelier alone must have cost more than a year’s worth of her salary. Word was that Harker had two residences in Manhattan, and countless others across the world. Money to burn. Real estate development must be on an upswing.

“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?” She asked a group of party guests, holding out the platter with its pretty little assortment of appetizers.

“Oooh! What are those?” a plump, bleached blond woman asked excitedly.

“Avocado egg rolls.” One of Rose’s better concoctions. “They’re particularly good with the tamarind sauce.”

The woman drew in her breath appreciatively and took several of them.

“I’ll try one of those,” a deep voice said behind Rose. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with Warren Harker.

He was taller than she’d realized, even though Marta had gone over his stats quite explicitly. His eyes were a pale, crystal blue, with the faintest laugh lines fanning out into his tanned skin.

“Mr. Harker.” She held the platter out to him. “Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”

“Anything but that artichoke salad your coworker has been chasing me down with.” He smiled and picked up a cheese puff.

“You don’t like the artichoke salad?”

“I don’t like anything held out to me on a spoon with someone saying, ‘Come on, just have a little bite.”’ He smiled. “Reminds me of my mother trying to get me to eat liver. Not a good memory.”

“Oh, I see.” Rose groaned inwardly. Marta did have a tendency to be a little heavy-handed when she wanted something. Or, in this case, someone. “Look, I’m sorry about that. She’s not…” What? Not herself? Marta was being completely herself. Not taking her medication? She had a purse full of prescriptions. “She’s not usually like that.” A lie, but harmless.

“Have you worked with her long?” He had a great voice. Low, smooth, perfectly modulated.

“Just about a year.”

“Ever think of striking out on your own?”

She looked at him. “As what?”

“A caterer.” He laughed. Very nice laugh. “You are the cook in this operation, aren’t you?”

Marta didn’t like anyone to know that she didn’t cook. “One of them.”

“One of them,” he repeated and gave a broad white smile. “You’re good. Loyal. If I were in the food business, I’d try to steal you away right now.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “My assistant set this whole thing up, and she says that Serragno never cooks, she just hires the best.” He gave a shrug. “Which is why I hired her. And if she hired you, you must be the best. At whatever it is that you do.”

Rose gave a wan smile. “I made the artichoke salad.”

“Ah.” He laughed outright, and several people looked over at them. “I’m sure it tastes far better than this foot I’ve been chomping on.”

Rose couldn’t help but chuckle. “If it doesn’t, I’m in the wrong business.”

“There you are.” Marta swooped in between them, still holding a ramekin of artichoke salad. She turned to face Warren and took what looked like a deliberate step backward into Rose, loudly knocking the platter to the floor.

Rose’s heart sank. All that food, smashed into the carpet.

“Rose Tilden!” Marta snapped. “That was very clumsy. Look what you’ve done to Mr. Harker’s carpeting.” She turned to Warren with what Rose could only imagine was a look of condescending disgust.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Warren said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Someone ran into her.”

Marta acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry about a thing, Rose will get that cleaned up.” She snaked her arm through his and tried to lead him away. “Why don’t you show me your view?”

Warren pulled back and went to Rose. “Let me help you with this,” he said, kneeling down in his two-thousand-dollar suit.

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Rose said quietly.

“No, it isn’t.” Marta stood over them. “She dropped it, she can pick it up. Now, about that view—”

“Go to any wall,” Warren said, helping Rose anyway. “Look out a window. You can’t miss it.”

Rose felt, rather than saw, Marta’s wrath surround them like a cold mist.

“I can get this,” she said to him, pulling a mini quiche off the floor. “Please. Go back to your party. I’d feel awful if I kept you from it because of this.” And she would be terribly self-conscious if Warren Harker stayed on the floor next to her, picking up bits of food.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, his voice quiet, “this is more interesting.”

Her face went warm again, and she looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Aren’t you enjoying your party?”

“This isn’t what I’d call a party,” he went on. “It’s more of a social obligation. Every summer I have one of these,” he nodded at the room, “soirées for the New York bigwigs and corporate head honchos. Got to keep in touch with them, know who’s who. I’m in the real estate business, you see.”

She was tempted to tell him she knew all about him, thanks to Marta, but decided instead to say, “I heard something like that.”

He studied her for a moment before continuing. “So this is what you might call good business. Bad party, good business. It happens a lot. I’m sure you see it all the time.”

Rose laughed in admission. “You’re right. But most people don’t admit they’re having a miserable time.” She picked up the last fallen appetizer, plopped it on the platter and stood up. “But why bother if you know you’re not going to like it?”

He stood up beside her. “See that woman?” He indicated a matronly-looking woman, perhaps in her eighties, dripping with diamonds. The woman had a sour expression on her face, with thin lips, pursed tightly together. “That’s Mrs. Winchester, the mayor’s mother. Word is, he doesn’t make a move without her approval.”

“So you need her to approve of you.”

“Bingo. So I’m plying her with good food and wine.”