Wedding Fever. Susan Crosby
I doubt it could include conversation.”
He smiled then, that smile that pierced her lungs and let all the air out.
“This should be fascinating,” she commented as she leaned into the door and left.
J.D. watched the door swing shut, his smile fading. In his mind he heard her call him by his middle name again, drawing it out, emphasizing her exclusive use of it—just as he was the only one to call her Magnolia.
Magnolia. Her mother hadn’t named her well. She was no pale, fragile blossom who wilted easily....
He roused himself to clean the workstation, and greet the chefs, then he left the kitchen to assume his post as maître d’ of the Carola, an exclusive club housed in a converted Victorian mansion in the heart of San Francisco. The forty-year-old private club offered peace and privacy to the famous and the infamous as they socialized in an environment free of paparazzi and curious onlookers.
He glanced into the elegantly furnished dining room. Maggie moved from table to table lighting candles, her crisp white shirt reflecting light and shadows from the flames, her fitted black skirt hinting at graceful feminine curves—a narrow waist and an appealing flare of hips. Her usual thin black tie had been replaced by one that was red and dotted with tiny gold angels. She hummed somewhat on-key with Bing as he dreamed of a white Christmas. Personally, J.D. was grateful there were just a couple of days left to endure the Christmas music filtering through well-placed speakers. All that good cheer. If the members knew what really went on here...
Taking the stairs two at a time, he checked each of the card rooms and billiard rooms on the second floor, as was his routine. A quick detour into the gender-segregated lounges as-sured hum all was in order.
He hurried downstairs to take his position at the podium fifteen feet from the front door. His eyes focused on the name that stood out as though written in blood-red. Brendan Has-tings. How could such a simple name impact so many lives?
After eight years of doing the same job Tuesday through Saturday nights, Maggie functioned by rote—which was a good thing, since her mind wasn’t anywhere near work tonight. Instead she spun imaginative scenarios of possibilities for her meeting with Diego, from the argument that would most likely occur to an improbable moment of passion.
At least indifference wouldn’t be a likelihood. Their relationship tended to cling to the ends of the scale, at either barely controlled irritation or barely controlled desire, never balanced at its midpoint. She’d gotten used to the extremes and even kind of liked it that way.
Except she had a feeling that in just about an hour everything was going to change.
She put on a smile as she focused on her customer, an attractive man m his late forties. “Here you are, Mr. Hastings. Your favorite. Chocolate cheesecake and espresso.”
His companion ate nothing, his job apparently only to take notes, not to do anything as mundane as indulge in dessert. She wondered about the demanding man who kept his employees working this late, something he’d done from the first night he’d come to the Carola the week before.
“Ahh, thank you, Maggie. Did I get the last slice?”
“I saved it just for you. I know it’s the only dessert on the menu that tempts you.”
“Excellent. It’s important to give in to what tempts us, don’t you think?”
“I think dessert’s one of life’s little pleasures.”
“What tempts you?” Brendan asked, his tone of voice provocative.
“I’m mighty partial to peach pie.” Suddenly uncomfortable, she let her drawl thicken, although she left off the “honey” she generally added when speaking with her familiar customers.
She knew she still had to face the signing of the check, which he did with great ceremony, first scrawling his signature across the bill in handwriting as legible as the Richter reading of an earthquake, then tucking a tip into her skirt pocket as he left. Many customers had their quirks about how they paid bills. She hadn’t thought too much of it, at least, not after that first time, when she’d been so startled by his familiarity—and she’d had dishes in each hand. She would have complained except that his hand never lingered, neither did he make suggestive remarks. However...something was different tonight.
First, Diego; now, this man. She wondered if there was a full moon.
“Excuse me,” she said, escaping with a polite smile. “I’ll go tell J.D. your request.”
As she left his table she considered Brendan Hastings and how perfect he appeared. She couldn’t imagine his dark blond hair messed up—ever—as if it might constitute a crime against nature. The rest of him was just as untouchable. Cool gray eyes, strong nose, sharp cheekbones, a solid, muscular body. His clothing was European, from his tailored London suits to his handmade Italian shoes. His diamond pinky ring flashed brilliantly in the candlelight.
All in all, he was an elegant man. Just not her type.
“Stop scowlin’, honey,” Maggie said as she came up beside Diego, provoking him, keeping tension between them. “You’ll freeze your face like that.”
“Another of Mama’s homespun homilies, Magnolia?”
Maggie almost sighed. She loved the look of him in his tuxedo, which emphasized his long, lean lines and superb posture. Just the way he’d angled his head her way without turning his body made every cell in her body play leapfrog for a few seconds.
“Mr. Hastings wants to reserve a card room for tomorrow night,” she said, finally taking care of the business that had sent her Diego’s way.
He inclined his head to Brendan, who she noted was watching them without expression, then Diego turned on his heel, leaving Maggie to frown after him. She’d never seen him react to any guest as he had to Brendan. The nod Diego had given him should have been deferential. It had come across as regal. Of course, Diego had never acted like any other maître d’ she’d worked with.
She moved on to another table. “How was your meal?” she asked Misty Champion as she cleared the dishes.
The president of Misty Nights Lingerie and her current remedy for holding middle age at bay—young, blond and studly—had come in for a late dinner. Her escort was gone, probably sent to call and wait for her chauffeur, part of Misty’s own quirky bill-paying ritual. She never let her escort watch her pay the check.
“Dinner was perfect, as usual. What do you think of Joseph ?”
“Stunning.”
Misty laughed, the smoky sound carrying in the near-empty room so that Brendan turned their direction. He eyed Misty until she lifted her almost-empty wineglass and toasted him before draining it. Maggie glanced away, not watching his reaction, afraid he might decide she cared.
“Stunning and not overly bnght,” Misty said of Joseph as she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Unlike the man who has been eyeing you like a Christmas present.” She stood, sweeping a beautifully wrapped package off the seat beside her and setting it on the table. “Happy birthday, hon. I designed this with you in mind. Promise you’ll wear it the second time you sleep with him.”
Him? Maggie hoped she was talking about Diego, but was afraid she meant Brendan. “Um, the second time?”
“The first time will be spontaneous, of course. Fiery.” Her eyes glazed a moment. “The second will be different.”
“Do you have someone in mind for me, Misty?”
“The same man you have in mind, I suspect. I hear he likes red.”
Before Maggie could respond, Diego appeared with Misty’s silver fox coat and helped her into it.
“Thank you, Mr. Duran.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Champion.”