Barbara McCauley - Blackhawk's Betrayal

When she glanced around the room, several curious eyes quickly looked away. Terrific. No one in the diner knew who she was, but everyone in the place surely knew who Sam Prescott was. Before the day was over, Kiera had no doubt that rumors of the Four Winds general manager having an afternoon rendezvous with an unknown woman would be burning up the phone lines.

Sam followed her gaze. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” She looked back at him, took in the street clothes he wore. She’d thought him handsome in a suit. Confident. Absolutely unwavering and completely sure of himself. But it had nothing to do with clothes, she realized, taking in the stretch of black T-shirt across his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Apparently, the rumors she’d heard about him working out in the gym every morning were true. “I was just running errands and stopped in for something to eat.”

“You picked the right place.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Best hamburger in town, though if you tell anyone I said so, I’ll deny it.”

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.

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