Proud to Serve Her (1 Night Stand Series) (3 page)

She sampled more, letting the wine flow around her tongue. It was spicy and fruity and gentle, all the things Damon described.

And the seat opposite her was still empty. Because she was hungry for something she’d never had before. She was hungry for a real connection, something both physical and intimate, but without the tangle of strings or the dating dance which was near impossible to meet on her schedule—and had been for more than a decade if she was honest with herself. Sometime between graduating high school at sixteen and entering college on an accelerated program that earned her a bachelor’s degree before she was nineteen, she’d forgotten how to have fun. If she wasn’t studying, she was working, if she wasn’t working she was sleeping, and then only in small increments. She was thirty years old and she had just received the offer to become a full partner in her law firm.

She should be out celebrating with friends, except her closet friend preferred his meals served on a plate in the kitchen and then to snuggle on her law briefs while she tried to review them.

Of course, what do I know
?
I think my date is playing waiter tonight, and I’m not sure why. But it’s fun and a little naughty
.

She inspected the thin slice of nine grain with the Swiss layered over the top and a drizzle of honey for flavor. Her last date had been to junior prom, which somehow didn’t seem to count in the great, grand scheme of things. A wild burst of laughter from the crowd dragged her away from the melancholy.

Thankful for the distraction, she bit into the hors d’oeuvre. The flavors melded together, blindingly sweet, tart, with something as familiar and homey as the wheat. The bread’s texture was grainy compared to the utter smoothness and she chased bits around her mouth, sliding them against her teeth before swallowing.

She washed the mouthful down with wine and a flush of guilty pleasure. She wasn’t supposed to play with the food. A glance at her watch said it was nearly twenty to eight and her date was still a no show.

Pausing mid reach for her purse, she frowned. Damon had taken her cell phone. She couldn’t even check to see if Madame Eve sent her a note that something else had come up.

Impatience flashed through her and she scooped up another piece of cheese and bread. She’d have to double her time on the treadmill tomorrow to begin to make up for the calories she was indulging in. But hell, it was her birthday, she’d been stood up by the so-called perfect one-night stand and she’d rather devour the sweet cheese and fruity wine than all the self-pity in the world.

A shadow drifted across her plate and she glanced up, half-ready to give the latecomer a piece of her mind, but her
waiter’s
raised eyebrows stilled the acidic words. The corner of her mouth turned up and she set the wine glass down.

“I take it you didn’t like that piece.”

If she could bottle his accent and intonations, she could sample them every day. “No…I mean yes, it was fine. I don’t think I really tasted that one, I was too busy being a bitter old bat.”

With practiced ease, he slid away the trencher of cheese and bread and replaced it with a round plate featuring crisped greens and the most sinful piece of steak. Her stomach recovered from the doldrums faster than her smile. The scent of wine lingered in the air, along with traces of beef and a mouthwatering spice she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“First, we do not insult ladies in this establishment, so no more
bat
comments. Second, if you’re bitter and old, you must introduce me to ancient and decrepit.” The confident ease in his voice did more to stroke her ego than all the pretty compliments in the world. For a horrifying moment, tears touched the back of her eyes and she blinked them away.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” But instead of abandoning her to the next course, he set out her silverware and traded the black napkin for a red before squatting down, one hand braced on the back of the chair.

“Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

Mortification vied with attraction and she shook her head.
Do you want to confess to being my date now? Because at this point, if you’re not, I have a feeling my date is going to be dramatically disappointed. Or I am.

“No, I’m sure you have a lot of better things to do than listen to me moan and complain.”

“Actually, there’s nothing better I have to do than listen to your complaints, particularly if I can fix them. As for moaning, just give me time. I promise, I can’t wait.”

Shock and awe rolled through her, but she wasn’t sure which one was winning. It was one thing to flirt with the truly good-looking waiter, his lean build and well-muscled physique a testament to his fitness, but it was something else to think he was flirting with her.

God, do I have to be so rusty at this
?
Is he actually flirting or am I just looking for crumbs
?

“Seriously.” He laid a hand over the top of hers. “Tell me what’s wrong. I promise you, if I can fix it, I will.”

Her throat choked up and she blinked back the mortifying assault of tears burning her eyes. This was exactly why she’d needed a Madame Eve, because she could light her competition up in the court room, but she’d never figured out how to capture that sizzle outside of it. “I was supposed to be meeting someone tonight, but I was late and obviously they are too or they didn’t bother to show up. It’s my birthday. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for the last week. I hadn’t really thought I had been and then everything went kerfuffle in court, and the judge was a pain in the ass, and I couldn’t get out of there on time, and it looks like I’m spending my birthday eating this beautiful food alone. So pity party, table for one.” The words poured out like a wound lancing open, the pressure on her chest eased, and the cramps in her legs relaxed.

She glanced away from Damon. She was not going to turn into some hysterical female bawling all over him because she’d been stood up.

“It’s your birthday….” His words were slow, mesmerizing and drew her gaze back in spite of herself.

“Yes. The big 3-0. Happy birthday to me…I don’t suppose your boss would let you join me for the meal?” She had no idea where the sassy invitation came from, but once it slipped past her lips there was no taking it back.

“Even if he didn’t, there’s no place else I’d rather be.” He smiled slowly, almost hesitantly. “About your date….”

“No.” She cut him off by turning her hand over under his and indulging in the contact, no matter how brief. “I don’t want to talk about him. He’s not here. Let’s just leave that plot buried, shall we?”

He threaded his fingers with hers. She liked his hands, the fingers were tapered, strong and evenly callused. Whatever he did for a living, he used his hands and he used them well. She half-wondered what it would be like to have them touching her, but immediately shuttled that into the inappropriate and creepy bin. Poor guy was probably just being nice to the hysterical customer.

“I would love to join you for dinner.”

Surprise flared in her.
Seriously
?

“I don’t want to get you into trouble.” She tried to withdraw, but his grip subtly tightened.

“No trouble at all. In fact, I should have from the start. Now….” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and his sexy blue eyes locked on hers. “Give me three minutes and we’re going to have the best birthday dinner you’ve ever eaten. I promise.”

“Three minutes?”

“And not a minute longer.”

He released her, rose to his feet and scooped up the cheese plate in one smooth motion. With a wink, he pivoted and headed off to the kitchen.
Did he just confess to being my date
? Hope flared in her stomach. She didn’t like the indecision or the worry.
You know, to hell with it. Whether he’s my date or not, he’s joining me
. She saluted her new resolve with another mouthful of wine.

She really was hungry for something she’d never tried before….

But somehow she doubted that Damon was on
Lagniappe’s
elusive menu.

Chapter Three

He snapped into the kitchen, moving double time, a man on a mission. “Mindy, trade stations with Jan. I want you working the tables closest to the private lounge. You’re going to take over bringing out the dishes. John-John has the orders and he’ll give them to you when they need to be delivered.”

“Um, okay.” The redhead arched both eyebrows. “I thought that was your table.”

“It is. Hit the privacy curtain, time to see if the money I spent on that was worth the investment. And switch over the tracks to Blue Star.”

“Jazz trio?”

“Yes.” He swung by John John’s station, eyes skimming the marinating steaks. “Thirty more minutes on those. Sweet potato soup first and get Demi to hollow out some of those sweet potato breads for bread bowls.”

“You said those were too sweet.” John John didn’t look up, but amusement littered his words.

“Pinch of salt and paprika on the soup should offset that. Send those out in fifteen. Steaks in forty-five.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Damon. I’ll be sending.” Despite the sardonic
Driving Miss Daisy
humor, the chef spared him a reproachful look. “It’s about time you sat down with that young lady and stopped playing games.”

“Not changing strategies.” Guilt punched him. Should have just ‘fessed up so she didn’t feel stood up. He didn’t realize it was her birthday. He was such an ass. But he could fix it. “Just moving up the time table.”

Salad plate in hand, he exited the kitchen. The crowd continued to ebb and flow. Captain Dexter’s table had added four more chairs and he caught the hand wave from Logan and the nod from Zach. It didn’t surprise him that his fellow Marines made a show of solidarity, but it did leave him with a satisfied glow. They never left a buddy behind and tonight was no exception.

The curtains were already rolling around the private lounge, the swish of heavy velvet a whisper against the tiled floors. He caught the fabric, letting himself in before it closed then drank in the sight of her parted lips, raised eyebrows and wary pleasure—he was going to have to do something about that wariness.

Setting his filet and salad on the spot next to hers, he shifted the table settings and pulled up a chair. He checked his watch—sitting right at the three-minute mark.

“Are you sure you’re not going to get into trouble?” Her voice was a smooth contralto, a perfect descant to his deeper voice, and wholly feminine.

“I’m positive. And it would be a crime to leave you sitting here alone.” He shook out the napkin, spread it over his slacks, and glanced at her plate. She’d left it be, exactly as he asked and he considered it for a moment, switching the plates so hers boasted the warmest steak on the coldest salad.

Shifting in her chair, she crossed one leg over the other and he fought the urge to glance down. The tip of one black heel peeked out from under the tablecloth, flashing a sexy, come-hither red bottom at him.

“Thank you and I apologize. I should not have dumped all of that on you.”

“I asked. I wanted to know.” The corner of his mouth tilted up at the wash of emotion dancing across her face—confusion, regret and a hint of exasperation. “Tonight is supposed to be special for you. I’ve picked a wide selection of dishes designed to tease and tantalize your palate, and none of them come with a side of misery.”

“I thought you said the owner chose my menu tonight….” The slow delivery suggested she’d already put the pieces together, so he refilled her glass before adding a generous measure to his own.

“I did.”

“You own
Lagniappe’s
?” Her lips parted in expressive wonder.

God, he hoped she was as delightfully open when he carried her off to bed. It was going to be a lights-on session, all hands on deck and his eyes on hers when he slid between her thighs. His cock jerked hopefully at the thought, but he ignored the urge to jump the gun. Strategy was about surgical insertions and definitive results. They’d not finished prepping the foundation yet.

Soon
.

“Yes, ma’am. Damon Sinclair at your service and as I said earlier, it is my pleasure to serve you. Now, shall we drink to new acquaintances and new experiences…?”

Her eyelashes fluttered twice and her lips stretched into a grin that promised delight. “Helena Blake, Mr. Sinclair.”

“
Damon
.”

“Damon.” She touched her glass to his, the gentle clink an almost musical note. “To new acquaintances and experiences.”

He watched her sip before taking one of his own, testing the flavor with a swish of his tongue. The
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
was an excellent vintage, its spicy undertones warming his mouth. A soft sigh pushed past her lips and he smiled again.

“You like the wine.”

“I
love
the wine.” She set the glass down with a little shiver. “But I’m not much of a drinker, not sure I could tell you the difference between a boxed variety, or a fine vintage. But this is magnificent.”

He barely held back the grimace at the mention of the boxed variety.

“What?” Her soft brown eyes narrowed and the glass lowered to the table. “You said you could tell a lot about a person based on the wine they drank. What does a box wine say about me?”

“You’re going to make me answer before I can coax you into trying this next dish, aren’t you?”

Releasing the glass, she sat back in the chair, arms folded. “Yes, I am. Because now I’m really curious.”

“You shop at a Kroger’s or an Albertson’s on your way home from the office. It’s always late when you swing in there, you always have work to do, and a box will keep for days if you need it to. You probably choose the zinfandel because it’s sweet, and if it’s an indulgence, then it should be sweet.” He cleared his throat and gave her silverware a pointed look. She reached out for the fork and sat forward, posture relaxing.

Nodding with approval, he continued. “You carry it back to the Styrofoam palace housed in your fridge. You probably drink it in a mug that you can rinse out and have fresh coffee in if you have to work late. But you have your cup while eating cold noodles from a dinner two days before and working at the kitchen counter.”