Lead Me Not. James B. Johnson
but elation started within her that she’d actually driven and done so successfully—successfully by her definition.
Plan A: Fight for your man. Down and dirty. It fit her personality and mood right now. Beat them to the restaurant and occupy the reservation and when they showed up, act surprised and confounded and hurt. A nagging thought told her that wasn’t the first class approach. And what would she do if they were already seated? Well, Plan B, of course. Plan B was: To be developed if necessary.
—Just be cool, dear.
—Yeah, sure.
If nothing else, he would know that she cared enough to go through all this trouble for him. Wouldn’t he?
—Maybe, said Bonnie. Men are coarse and disappointing.
She hurried under the awning and into the front door. Before she headed for the reservations clerk, she turned to check her appearance in the door glass. Partially because of her vanity, but mostly worry that her driving travail had disheveled her.
Oh, shit.
Rudd and a woman were walking out of the parking lot coming this way.
Too late!
Quickly, she went to the ladies room and killed a few minutes. She reapplied her lipstick and breathed deeply to calm herself. There was no waiting line so they must be seating reservations pretty well on time.
—What to do? Plan A is no longer operational. Aloha.
—Okay, do Plan B. Bonnie.
—Which is?
—Beats me. Bonnie was dodging.
—Don’t chicken out now, look at all the trouble you’ve gone through to this point.
—Bluster it out. You’re pretty well composed now.
—Got it. Execute Plan B. Confrontation possible, but not part of Plan B. Aloha.
Besides, she realized, the elation at conquering her fear of driving was flowing through her like a tornado. This was a different kind of high.
Aloha Bonnie Blaze marched up to the reservations desk. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. Reservations for Biggs, please.”
She raced her memory for his name...Mark.
Plastered black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He checked his list. “I don’t have reservations for Biggs.”
“Eight o’clock.” She looked into the open-dining room she could see. Suppose she conned her way in and they put her in a different room? Or Rudd was in one of the many individual curtained rooms?
“Nothing, ma’am.” He looked at her expectantly.
She fixed him with her glamorous smile. “You are Mark?” At his nod, she went on. “I confirmed these reservations with you a couple of hours ago.”
He squenched his face. “I seem to remember—” He checked his reservations list. “Ah. That was a Mr. R. Six.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, Raymond Biggs. You confirmed it.”
“I misunderstood, please forgive me.” He was glancing around in the dining room behind him.
“It happens,” she said, casual voice belying her racing heart. “It figgers. My first dinner with the new boss and—”
Mark waved a waiter over, and soon a table was set up at a far wall. She smiled her thanks to Mark. He melted visibly and that pumped her up.
Now what? She was seated, and turned slightly and could survey this dining room.
Bingo!
Rudd and a brunette, not a sexpot, but shapely and attractive, especially the way her hair framed her face. And worse, the woman was closer to Rudd’s age.
About forty feet away, Rudd facing offset away from her table.
Aloha ordered a ginger ale in a champagne glass while she studied the menu. She gulped at the prices.
When her drink arrived, she hadn’t yet decided what the rest of Plan B was. But the waiter did not know about Raymond Biggs, so she determined to simply order and eat alone and not pretend as if she were waiting for her date who was becoming increasingly late.
She felt on display, for many of the men had watched her entrance frankly. And some women with envy.
Rudd still hadn’t noticed her. Aloha could tell that he was very tired. At least he hadn’t lied about that. Plan B was dying with no action.
Damn.
Self-consciously, she ordered a chef’s salad.
—Let us engage the battle, Bonnie ventured.
—Done.
Aloha rose, straightened her dress and walked to their table.
The level of conversation in the restaurant dropped off significantly, but maybe that was her imagination. The tinkle of dishes, flatware, and ice in glasses rang louder than the noise warranted.
She breathed deeply, stepped around a table of eight, and into his line of vision.
“Rudd! I thought I saw you over here. How are you, sweetheart?” She stepped over to him, bent over so that he could see her breasts were unconstrained, and kissed him on the cheek.
The woman could see what Rudd was staring at, too. And it wasn’t her bare shoulders.
Half the room was watching.
“Aloha,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
She extemporized as she straightened up. “I had an absolute great day and was topping it off with a celebration—but it seems my date isn’t going to show up.” She pouted. “What are you doing here?” Would he take the bait and ask her to join them? And if he did, would she accept?
The woman was watching closely, eyes alert to some kind of subtext to which she wasn’t privy.
Avoiding the question, Rudd stood as he was supposed to. “Er, ah, Aloha, I want you to meet Amanda McMullen. Amanda, this is Aloha Blaze.”
Amanda stuck out her hand. “My pleasure. What a wonderful name you have.”
The compliment startled Aloha. “Thank you.”
“Won’t you join us?” Amanda was being polite, following protocol, but clearly curious.
Aloha sat quickly before Rudd could change the invitation. “Well, okay. Maybe until my dinner arrives.”
—Should I nail the bastard?
—Wait. See what happens. Roll with it.
“What were you going to celebrate?” asked Amanda innocently.
Aloha shrugged. “Something very special, but very personal. I don’t really want to say here.”
“Oh, certainly. Forgive the intrusion.” Amanda sounded as if she were from South Carolina or Georgia. She smiled at Aloha.
Dammit, I want to hate this woman. Aloha felt crushed. It wasn’t turning out as she hoped it would. Amanda was personable. Aloha could see how men could be attracted to her. Especially Rudd. Who needed someone. Someone Aloha hoped was herself. But might not be. And this someone was within shooting distance of his own age. Shit.
She turned to Rudd. “It’s surprising to see you here.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve had this scheduled.”
“Scheduled?” Amanda said. “That, sir, is a strange term for a date.”
“Poor choice of words,” Rudd said, his steel gray eyes cutting into Aloha. He drank his entire gin and tonic. “Pilot lingo,” he said lamely.
Aloha saw the waiter delivering her salad.