Sandra Marton - The Bridal Suite

Ms. Anderson, making love on a beach. The very idea was laughable. She’d probably never had a date in her life. She’d probably never...

Griffin jerked back in his seat.

No. It couldn’t be!

But it was. There, directly across the restaurant, tucked away in a cozy little nook, sat Dana Anderson...and a man.

What was she doing here? Griffin would have bet anything that she had her lunch in a health food store, or quaffed yogurt at her desk. Instead, here she was amidst the palm fronds and velvet drapes in the pseudo-romantic, sickeningly phony confines of Portofino. And she was with a guy.

An attentive one.

Griffin’s frown deepened.

The man could have been chosen for her by central casting. He was perfect, from his tortoise-shells to the bow tie that bobbed on his Adam’s apple.

“Monsieur?”

Griffin looked up. The waiter hovered beside the table.

“Do monsieur and madame wish dessert? A tarte, perhaps, or a Madeline Supreme?”

What Griffin wanted was to keep watching the Anderson babe and her boyfriend, but Cynthia had that I’m-hurt-but-I’m-being-brave look on her face again. The waiter, who seemed to see nothing strange in a French menu and a French accent in a restaurant named for a town in Portugal and warned, perhaps, by the look on Griffin’s face, drew back as if expecting to be attacked.

Griffin did his best to smile politely.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” he said. “Cyn? What will you have?”

Cynthia listened attentively while the waiter made his way through a seemingly endless list. Anderson—Ms. Anderson—wasn’t doing much of anything. She certainly wasn’t eating. Griffin couldn’t fault her for that. He couldn’t see her plate very clearly, thanks to the near-darkness that hung over the room like a pall, but from what he could observe, she was eating what looked like a taxidermist’s special.

And the Bow Tie was worried. You could see it on his face. He was looking at Anderson the way a puppy looks at an out-of-reach bone.

Well, who could blame him? Despite the plastered-back hair, the tweed jacket and the loose-fitting twill trousers, Dana Anderson was something to look at.

Griffin frowned. Yeah, well, piranhas were interesting to look at, too.

The guy said something. Anderson started to answer, stopped, then began to speak. She was really getting into it now, gesturing with her hands, leaning forward and risking immolation from the candles flickering in the floral centerpiece. She took the guy’s hand in hers, and the idiot positively beamed. There was no other way to describe it.

He was smiling so hard it looked as if his ears might start glowing, and why wouldn’t he? Anderson was looking at him as if he were St. George standing over the dead body of the dragon when, in reality, the guy looked as if a strong breeze might blow him over.

One corner of Griffin’s mouth turned down. This was the Anderson babe’s sort of man, all right. A guy she could lead around by the nose. Somebody who’d never want her to dance for him on a deserted stretch of sand, while the moon looked down and the drums pulsed out a beat that matched the fire in his blood...

“Griffin? Griffin, are you all right?”

Griffin pulled back from the edge of the precipice and looked across at Cynthia. “Yes,” he said calmly. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine.”

And he was.

It was just curiosity that had him wondering what could be keeping Dana Anderson’s attention so tightly focused on the man she was with.

“You aren’t eating, Dana. Is something wrong with your fish?”

Dana sighed. Arthur was looking at her with concern. Well, no wonder. She’d called and asked him to meet her for lunch, and now she was sitting here like a piece of wood, saying nothing, doing nothing, just watching her own grim reflection in the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses.

“No,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “No, the fish is fine, Arthur. Just fine.”

It was fine. She assumed so, anyway, because the truth was that she hadn’t eaten enough of it to know. It was just that Portofino served fish complete with head and tail. The tail didn’t bother her but the head was another story. The finny creature lay draped across her plate on a bed of something that looked suspiciously like kelp, its thin mouth turned down, its glassy eye turned up and fixed on the cherubim painted on the gilded ceiling.

Dana repressed a shudder. She’d never been good with food that looked as if it might get up and walk off her plate—or swim off, as the case might be. Besides, if this morning’s runin with McKenna had dimmed her appetite, the atmosphere in Portofino had finished it off completely.

She’d had no idea the place dealt in such overblown decor. If she had, she’d never have suggested it.

No wonder poor Arthur kept looking at her that way, with a little smile on his lips and his gaze expectant and misty behind his horn-rims. Her phone call, her choice of words, even her choice of restaurants, must have convinced him that romance was in the air.

Dana cleared her throat, lay her knife and fork across her plate, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Arthur,” she said gently, “I’m afraid I may have misled you.”

“I knew it,” he said, “you really don’t like the fish! Where is our waiter? I’ll ask him to bring you something else.”

Dana sat forward and put her hand on his. “The fish isn’t the problem.”

Arthur’s brows lifted. “It isn’t?”

“The problem’s...” She frowned. McKenna, was what she’d thought. But what she’d almost said was, me. Me, you, us, Arthur. We’re just not right for each other.

But it wasn’t true. They were right for each other, it was only that she was in an insane mood today. Just look at how she’d treated that poor custodian. She owed him an apology, and she’d give it to him first thing this afternoon, but right now, she was going to let Arthur help her get back on an even track.

He could do it, if anyone could.

“The problem,” she said, clearing her throat, “is Griffin McKenna.”

Arthur blinked. Just for a moment, it made him bear an uncanny resemblance to her glassy-eyed fish.

“Your employer? My dear Dana, I don’t understand. What has he to do with our lunch?”

“Nothing, Arthur. He has to do with me. With my job, with my self-respect, with my responsibilities at Data Bytes.” She drew back her hand and sat upright “You cannot imagine how much I despise that man.”

Arthur sighed. “My dear Dana—”

“Do you think you could stop saying that?”

“Saying what, my dear?”

Dana forced a smile to her lips. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I just—I’ve had a bad morning, that’s all. My nerves are shot. That’s why I called you. I need your advice.”

“You need...” Arthur’s smile dimmed just a little, then brightened again. “I’m at your disposal, of course.”

“There’s a problem at work, with my boss and the code we’ve been working on. I tried to tell McKenna about it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s surprising, Dana. Griffin McKenna is a brilliant strategist. According to the Journal...”

“The Journal doesn’t bother mentioning that he’s a pompous ass! I hate working for him.” Dana paused. “So, I’m asking for your opinion.”

Arthur’s bow tie rode up and down his Adam’s apple. “I’m flattered, my dear.”

“Should I start looking for another job?”

“Well, if you ask me—”

“Or should I ride it out? McKenna won’t stay at Data Bytes forever, but Dave Forrester probably will.”

“True. And—”

“But, if I quit, what kind of references would I get?”

“An excellent ques—”