“Sorry, but we aren’t allowed to drink on the job.”
His response was loaded with suggestion: “I’m sure there’re lots of things you aren’t allowed to do on the job.” He waved the glass of red liquid under her nose. The bouquet of the wine rivaled the scent of stronger alcohol on his breath. “But I’m not gonna tell anyone if you don’t.”
His mouth was intimately close to her ear. She could see his lips move as though he was speaking in slow motion. “I like ‘em dark, you know,” Stack confided. “Beautiful girls, dark as berries.” He moistened his lips. “Black men in my position, they go for white women, you know? Or light-skinned girls. Because they can afford it, understand?”
Shani’s jaw became unhinged, but Stack went on.
“But not me, I still love you dark-skinned sisters. Sweet and round in all the right places. Know what I’m saying?”
Did this man actually think that was a compliment? Enough was enough, Shani decided. She got a tighter grip on her plate of crab cakes and pushed aside the glass of wine, which he was still holding up before her like bait. “Mr. Bookman, if you’ll excuse me …”
Before she could make it past the kitchen door, he grasped her wrist and spun her around. “Wait just one damn second here!”
Pop, pop, pop. Something blew in her head. A fuse, a gasket, whatever was holding her back. Crack went the tray of crab cakes as they impacted with Bookman’s face. Squish went the tamarind sauce as she dumped the silver bowl down the front of his shirt. And thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk went the cakes as they rained down on the slate tiles.
At least, she thought she heard those sounds, although it was possible they were only in her irate imagination, given the volume of the music and Bookman’s bellow of fury. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
The white apron constricting her breasts heaved, half a beat ahead of the thudding bass of the music. “Don’t you ever—”
“You’re finished, lady.” Bookman reached past her and grabbed a dish towel off the marble-topped kitchen island and tried to sop up the sticky brown sauce trickling down his chest. “I’m going to tell Yvan just what I think of the way he manages his staff.”
Shani was beyond caring. She could feel her hand coming up, rising on its own, drawing back and preparing to deliver the much-deserved slap that had been tingling in her palm since Bookman’s first off-color remark.
His response was snake-swift. He caught her by the wrist, holding her fast in spite of the sticky sauce. Shani yelped as his short nails raked furrows into her skin. “Let me go!”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me. I said let me—” “Couldn’t hear you, girl. Too busy listening for an apology.”
She was supposed to apologize to him? She twisted, spinning around so his arm was bent at an awkward angle, and leaned her weight into it. “Let go of my hand—” Stack winced, but his nails cut deeper. “Don’t think so.”
They were entangled like a snake and a mongoose. Shani could feel the effort in her arms and back, but she wasn’t letting up. If he wouldn’t release her, she’d make sure he’d have a sprained wrist to remind him of his mistake. She put more pressure on, the effort showing in her gritted teeth.
Stack hissed a curse. The balance of power shifted. He was male and had all the advantages that came with it: greater height and strength, backed up by pure ill will. Instead of breaking their hold, he pushed back, and it was her turn to curse. Then she found something better to do with her mouth.
Her teeth closed over the base of his thumb, sank in and held fast. She tasted tamarind sauce and pure, blind rage. Stack bellowed, and the nails digging into her skin let up. He called her a name he shouldn’t have.
She would have opened her mouth to answer if she wasn’t enjoying her revenge, hanging on like a pit bull with PMS. Then something weird happened. There was another hand in her line of vision, and it wasn’t her tormentor’s. It closed around the expensive watch on Stack’s wrist and wrenched the two of them apart.
Shani staggered back, confused. There’d been two of them in the kitchen, and now.
“What’s the matter, Stack? Things so bad with you these days you have to wrassle your heifers to the ground before you can climb on?”
“What?” The crudeness of the comment was like a smack across the face. Shani reeled in disbelief toward the man who’d spat it out. He was an inch or two taller than Stack, but anger made it seem like more. His body was taut, as if poised for a brawl, unkempt hair bristling with electricity and outrage. He ignored her shocked explosion, fixing his black eyes on Stack, who was angrily rubbing the half-moon wounds on his hand and glaring from her to the interloper and back.
“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I walk in the kitchen and see you near-raping the hired help, that becomes my business.”
Hired help? Where’d he get off.? “Look,” she began.
Both men ignored her. “Fine time for you to turn up, too. The invitation said seven.”
The man shrugged. “I had a few things to do.”
“I also recall the invitation said formal.”
The man looked down at himself as if only now noticing what he was wearing: a casual, open-necked shirt and dark, relaxed-fit jeans. His smile was dry and mocking. “Hard to straddle a Triumph in a tux.”
Stack snorted. “If you had a lick of respect, you’d have come in your car, rather than on that thing.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Realizing he was losing the battle, Stack turned sourly to Shani. He held up his bitten hand meaningfully. “I wonder what Yvan will say when I let him know his waitress has been chewing on something, and it ain’t the hors d’oeuvres.” His handsome face glittered with malice.
That was enough to sober Shani up immediately, her pleasure at her small victory evaporating like spilled booze. Getting back at this pig was one thing, but her job was another. It wasn’t as though she had only herself to maintain. There was Bee to think of. She grimaced and swallowed her pride. “Mr. Bookman, please …” But Stack was already turning away.
She was left with the handsome intruder, as alone as it was possible to be, given the proximity of the liquor-fueled crowd in the next room. His sharp black eyes were slowly going her over as if looking for injury. “You okay?”
“Great.” As okay as it was possible to be with her job hanging in the balance. If Bookman ratted her out, there wasn’t much she could do. It would be better if, at the very least, Yvan found her working. She smoothed her hair, dropped to her knees and began picking the ruined crab cakes up off the floor.
To her surprise, the tall, lithe man squatted next to her and began to help. “Pity,” he murmured as he let a few tumble onto the tray. “These look delicious. You cook them?”
Too weary for conversation, she answered shortly, “I’m a waitress, not a cook.” She couldn’t help
