by Francis Ray
“We’re just friends.” Faith mouthed the words that almost stuck in her throat. “He doesn’t see me that way.”
“Yeah.” Glenda sat back in her seat. “You’re probably right. No offense, but he likes them a bit on the lean side.”
“None taken.” Faith had been called overweight in nicer and crueler ways.
“Well, we’d better get going.” Glenda stood and Sonja followed. “Have to get an early start in the morning. A lot of orders to get out. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
As soon as they left, the waitress appeared. “Here’s your drink and Brandon’s. He said to start on the carrot cake without him.”
Faith ignored the huge slice of the cake heavily layered with buttercream icing and loaded with chopped pecans, finely grated carrots, and coconut. “Where is he?”
“Probably fending off more invitations.” Marlive shook her dark head and blew out a breath. “If I don’t get fired over this, it will be a miracle.”
Marlive had been Faith’s waitress the last time she’d eaten there. She’d instantly liked the bubbly woman. “What do you have to do with that?”
“Plenty,” the waitress said, then explained. “I broke the first rule of employment of not gossiping. And about Brandon, of all people.” She swallowed. “He’s never said a word when I’ve had to take off unexpectedly with my youngest that has asthma or when I have to take my mother to one of her many doctors’ appointments. If he fires me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Faith was on her feet, her arm around the distraught woman in an instant. “You know Brandon better than that. He wouldn’t dream of firing you for such a minor infraction and, if he did, I’d hire you.”
“Trying to steal one of my best waitresses in my own restaurant, Faith?”
Marlive whirled around to face Brandon. He wasn’t smiling. Expertly he balanced a platter of quesadillas and chips on one arm and two plates on the other. The older woman gulped.
Backing down never entered Faith’s mind. “It’s no more than what you’ve tried to do.”
Up went his dark brow. “Says who?”
“Six managers or owners of restaurants that I can think of,” she told him. “Anyone who owns a restaurant starts to worry when you eat at their establishment more than once for fear you’re stalking one of their chefs. They’re usually right.”
He placed the food and plates on the table. “They should be pleased that they had the sense to hire a talented chef.”
“And not be bothered by the little task of finding his or her replacement, I suppose?” she asked with dripping sarcasm.
“Change is good.”
“Except when the shoe is on the other foot?”
Brandon sobered. “Marlive wouldn’t leave me, would you?”
The woman was already shaking her head. “No.”
“See,” Brandon told Faith triumphantly. “Now, let’s eat.”
Faith took the chair he pulled out. “You are too sure of yourself.”
He said grace over the table, then divided the food between them. “Since when was that a bad thing?”
“Never that I can recall in the McBride or the Grayson household.” Faith dunked a chip in the salsa swimming with red and green chilis. “But I’m warning you, keep trying to steal Henrí at your own risk.”
Brandon paused with the quesadilla near his mouth, then took a bite. “You know I could never walk away from a challenge.”
“You will this time because I’m in a position to make you a very interesting offer.” She had the satisfaction of seeing puzzlement replaced by speculation chase across his gorgeous face. She bit into her quesadilla with gusto, suddenly famished.
“Your staff already recommends the Red Cactus as one of the best places besides your own restaurants for dining.” He finished off his food and reached for his raspberry lemonade. “So do many of the hotels and the Chamber.”
“I’m talking about on a more personal level.” She watched him closely over the rim of her glass and was disheartened and disappointed to see unease cross his face. “You know Casa de Serenidad has a forty-eight-hour cancellation policy.”
He straightened, his glass hitting the table with a thud.
“What if we had a cancellation within the last hour?” she asked.
“You’d have a room.” Rising, he scooted his chair over and sat back down closer to Faith, their elbows brushing against each other. “Please tell me you’re not just making conversation.”
He smelled of lemons and another overlying sexy scent that made Faith want to lick her lips and investigate. Instead she moistened her lips and concentrated on breathing. “I might if I knew I didn’t have to worry about my chef.”
Brandon sat back. “You’d try to blackmail a desperate man?”
“Brandon, you’ve never been desperate for or about anything,” she told him, finding herself enjoying bantering with him. “Besides, who said this is anything but dinner conversation?”
“And what if it wasn’t, and I said I might consider laying off Henrí for a week or so.”
Brandon was no pushover, but then neither was she. “Thank you for dinner, Brandon.”
His hand clamped down on hers when she started to stand. He stared into her eyes a long time. “Your pulse is racing.”
His strong, calloused hand made her skin tingle and her body want. “Caffeine in the cola.”
“You aren’t going to eat your dessert?”
She tested the strength of his hold before answering. He wasn’t about to let her go until he was ready. “I couldn’t eat another bite, thank you.”
“I could call the hotel.”
“If you’ll release my hand I’ll get my cell phone.” Her lips quirked upward. “It’s on speed dial.”
He stared at her a few minutes longer, then released her arm and sat back. Although her insides were jumping, she waited for his final answer.
“My wanting Henrí is not a whim. I need a pastry chef who can also do the main dishes. My last chef married and relocated to New Orleans,” he told her. “You must know how much time it takes away from my other duties to prepare the desserts and cook.”
“If you weren’t so territorial you could let someone else do the finishing touches on the desserts or you could purchase them,” she suggested. Around her she heard the soft conversation of the staff, the scraping of the chairs, as they closed the restaurant down for the night.
Brandon looked offended. “We serve five specialty desserts and a number of entrées as well. If I start a dish, I finish it.”
“Territorial, as I said.” Picking up her purse, Faith rose to her feet. “Good night, Brandon, and thanks.” Her fingernails bit into the soft leather as she walked away. She had overplayed her hand. Cameron and Duncan knew how to bluff; apparently she had a lot to learn.
5
Just as she was about to reach for the brass door handle, it opened. In strode the rest of the Grayson clan. Any hope Faith had of winning the war of wills with Brandon evaporated.
“Hello, Faith,” they said in greeting.
“Hello,” she returned, then sensed Brandon behind her.
“Does your being here mean I won’t have to creep around in the morning when I get up?” Sierra asked.
“I certainly hope it means I won’t get any more phone calls,” Pierce said, but there was no heat in the words.
“Faith might have a room if I agree to lay off trying to hire her chef when I desperately need one,” Brandon said, his voice tight.
“Then all you have to decide is which one you need the most, the room or the chef,” Luke reasoned.
“Knowing how you like your space and your sunny disposition in the morning, I hope your stubbornness doesn’t get in the way of common sense,” Morgan reminded him.
“She’s trying to blackmail me!” Brandon protested.
“Is that slander or character assassination, Morgan, and can I sue?” Inadvertently his outburst made Faith feel better. H
e always did the same thing when he was playing cards with Cameron and was losing. Brandon hated to lose.
Brandon stepped around to face her. “To sue you’d have to prove I was wrong, which I’m not.”
“Actually, since you made the accusation in public, she doesn’t,” Morgan glanced around. “I believe she has several witnesses. Although I’d have to recuse myself from the case, since I’m both of your lawyers.”
Faith thought she saw steam coming out of the top of Brandon’s head.
“Stop being mule-headed. You’re going to kick yourself if, while you’re dithering, the room is taken,” Sierra pointed out. “Besides, if you stay anyplace else you’ll hurt Mama’s feelings.”
Incredulous, Brandon moved closer to Faith. “You mean while you were leading me on, someone could have taken my room?”
“Brandon,” Faith said patiently, as if speaking to a small child or a senile adult. “That’s what hotels do. Rent rooms.”
A sound like a growl came through clenched teeth. She’d never seen that particular odd flushed shade on Brandon and didn’t think she ever wanted to see it again. She eased toward the door. He followed.
“Well, I guess I should be going. Good-bye, everyone.” She turned to flee. A vise grip closed around her upper forearm.
She swallowed and managed, “Brandon, was there something else you wanted to say?”
His other hand clamped around her other arm. Before she could draw another breath, her feet were dangling several inches off the floor. She was so awed by the notion that Brandon had picked her up that she smiled at him.
His scowl deepened. “You think you’ve gotten the best of me, don’t you?”
Faith was pretty sure she had. She stuck her tongue in the roof of her mouth and remained silent. Her mother had always told her to be gracious in winning.
“Well, Faith Allison McBride, I accept your blackmail terms, and that’s what they are no matter what my hotshot lawyer brother says, and I had better have a room or guess where I’m spending the night.”
Faith gulped. She should have remembered that when pushed, Brandon pushed back.
“You know you owe Faith an apology. You’re not going to be able to sleep until you give it to her.”
Brandon scowled and let himself into the Conquistador Suite at Casa de Serenidad. His brothers and sister had said the same thing in varying ways since they left him at the restaurant. Their censure didn’t bother him nearly as much as the flush of embarrassment on Faith’s face. He’d wished he could recall the words the moment they were out.
She’d tucked her head. He’d set her on her feet. He hadn’t even been aware of picking her up. He’d never manhandled a woman. He was still in shock when she finally lifted her head and said the keys to his room would be waiting at the front desk.
Luke had chastised him with a look, then followed Faith out the door. Morgan had been right behind him. Sierra and Pierce weren’t shy about telling Brandon what they thought of his outlandish actions. He couldn’t explain to them why he’d lost it, or to Luke and Morgan, who came back after seeing Faith to her car.
“The pressure is getting to you,” Pierce finally said. Then, when Sierra wasn’t close enough to hear, he told Brandon to find a woman, and quick.
Brandon didn’t want a woman. He tossed the duffel bag on the bed and went out the door to follow the lit path. Unhooking the gate, he went through, frowning as he did so. Anyone could get inside. He’d have to speak to Cameron about better security for Faith. He certainly couldn’t talk to her about it; he’d be lucky just to get her to open the door.
At least the small porch was well lit, with a clear view from the peephole. The grounds were bursting with flowers. Some easily reached his waist in height. A stone path led to a curved padded bench. He could easily picture Faith sitting there after a long day. She worked hard. She didn’t need the added aggravation he’d caused her.
Feeling worse, Brandon rang the doorbell, then shoved his hands in his pockets. A light snapped on in the living room. He heard locks disengage.
The door opened. Faith stood there staring up at him.
“I’m sorry.” His hand came out of his pocket to shove through his unbound hair. “I don’t know what got into me.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and glanced away. “Forget it.”
“I can’t.” He stepped closer, causing her to step back. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Surprise widened, then narrowed her eyes. “Of course not.”
“You backed away from me.”
“I’m not dressed to be dangled,” she whispered softly.
Brandon let his gaze drift downward. She wore a long rose-print silk robe belted at the waist. His body stirred, but he had his mind on something much more important. “Did I hurt your arm?”
“I don’t damage easily, Brandon,” she said. “Remember, I used to follow after you and Cameron. I still have a scar on my knee from playing Evel Knievel with you two.”
“If a man did that to Sierra, he’d answer to me,” he said fiercely.
“The man hasn’t been born that Sierra can’t handle, and you know it,” Faith answered.
Brandon relaxed a bit. “She has a mean left hook.”
Puzzlement arched Faith’s brow. “She’s right-handed.”
“We taught her to use her left and throw the opponent off guard.” His expression became serious again. “Duncan and Cameron didn’t teach you to take care of yourself?”
A shadow crossed Faith’s face. “No need. The McBride curse keeps men away.”
“If they let that old wives’ tale keep them away, you’re better off without them,” Brandon said, obviously meaning every word.
“Hopefully there’s a man out there who won’t care about the curse,” Faith said, staring at him.
“Yeah, well.” He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Positive.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me see for myself?” he asked, only half-joking.
Up went her eyebrow; then to his amazement she slid the robe off her shoulder. He didn’t expect the catch in his breath or the sudden impulse to touch the smooth skin beneath the thin straps with his fingers, then his mouth.
“See. I’m fine.”
He had to get a grip. She was his friend, for goodness’ sake. Celibacy was making him act weird. “I see.” His stuffed his hands in his pockets and hoped they stayed there. “Thanks for the room. Good night.”
She stepped out on the porch. “Breakfast is served until ten thirty tomorrow.”
Brandon turned, then fisted his hands. The light behind Faith outlined her lush body in revealing erotic detail. “I’m meeting Montgomery at eight.”
“How about a wake-up call at seven fifteen and we meet on the Mesa patio at half past?” she asked, hopeful and eager.
After his behavior he’d do anything to please her, but he also wanted her to go back inside and stop tempting him. “Fine. Night.” He hurried back to his room, thinking a cold shower was definitely in order.
Locking her door, Faith crawled into bed. Brandon thought he had scared or hurt her. On the contrary, he’d inflamed her senses. Even angry, he had held her with gentleness. A thin line separated passion from anger. How would it feel if he touched her with passion instead of anger, used those strong hands and that sexy mouth to tease and coax her body to fulfillment? Her body craved the answer.
Brandon’s mother wasn’t going to give up until he was married. That left Faith only one option: she had to act before it was too late. She just had to figure out a plan.
Unfolding her arms, she sat up and leaned back against the padded headboard. She’d tackled difficult problems before. She just had to look at this the same way.
When she wanted to select servicepeople or staff, she learned their strengths and weaknesses. Brandon was a nurturer. He enjoyed feeding people. Quickly she discarded that idea. She didn’t need to gain another ou
nce. But he also liked helping people, liked seeing them happy. So, what could he help her with?
The answer came to her almost immediately. She laughed. She’d ask him to teach her how to get a man. He’d refuse, of course, but possibly it would make him really look at her as a woman.
Throwing back the covers, Faith strode back into the bathroom and turned on the lights. Her fingers ran through the curly black hair that brushed her shoulders. Lifting the heavy curls up, she turned her head to the sides, trying to determine if she’d look better with short hair. She let the mass fall.
She’d never been into fashion. Most Santa Feans dressed casually. She liked the layered look, with unconstructed pieces that she could mix and match. Often she worked fourteen-hour days. She needed comfortable clothes that wore well and that could be dressed up with a jacket, jewelry, or a scarf.
It only took seconds to recall the women whom Brandon had spent the most time with at his birthday party. They’d worn short, form-fitted dresses that showed long legs and lush breasts. Faith had the bosom but not the long legs. There was nothing she could do about that; she could buy a few new outfits, perhaps get a new hairstyle. She wasn’t going to get his attention in gabardine and cotton.
Leaving the bathroom again, she went to the secretary in the far corner of the bedroom, sat down, and wrote: Operation Get Brandon on the top of a notebook. “Look out, Brandon; I’m coming after you.”
There was a ringing in Brandon’s ears that persisted no matter how he tried to evade the irritating noise. Finally, blessedly, it stopped. Slowly uncurling from his protective knot, Brandon began to drift back to sleep . . . until there was a pounding on his door. His first thought was to toss whoever it was off the tallest building he could find. The pounding grew louder.
His eyelids jerked upward with the intent of carrying out his thought until he noticed the abstract-print draperies instead of the dark brown ones in his apartment. Everything came tumbling back. The pipe burst in the wall. Mr. Montgomery coming at eight. Wake-up call at seven fifteen. Brandon’s gaze jerked to the clock on the nightstand. 7:19.
The pounding on his door continued. Throwing the covers back, he jumped out of bed and went to answer the door. He yanked it open. His mouth opened to tell the person he was awake, but the words were never uttered.
