elegant place where the maître d’ would look down his ski-jump of a nose and seat her behind a potted palm—if he even deigned to seat her at all.
What if they didn’t even let her in?
A momentary shaft of humiliation and panic stabbed her in the gut before she realized that of course they would let her in.
She was going to be on the arm of Dominic Wolfe. He’d cow them and loom over them and pass them fifty bucks on the side and they might look askance, but they’d let her in.
And then they’d spill soup in her lap.
Or expect that she’d do it herself.
She started to bite her thumbnail, then jammed her hand into the pocket of her jacket. She was not going to bite her nails in front of Dominic. It was why she painted them wild and outrageous colors in the first place—so she’d remember not to bite them.
She wasn’t going to betray by the slightest flicker that her heart was in her throat and that her stomach was in knots.
No, sir. She wasn’t.
She’d learned long ago that fear got you nowhere. Her older sister Mariah had taught her that back when Sierra was only seven years old.
In those days her biggest terror had been water. When she was four, Terry Graff had knocked her into the swimming pool. She’d swallowed half of it before her father had fished her out. For the next three years she hadn’t stuck a toe in.
While all the other kids had laughed and splashed and swam and played, she’d stood quaking on the side, watching. Then some of the bigger kids had realized she was afraid—and instead of leaving her alone, they’d dragged her in.
She’d gone kicking and screaming and flailing and floundering. She’d made a complete fool of herself before Mariah had run at them with a stick and scared them off. When she’d dragged Sierra, shaking and crying back out, she’d said the seven most important words anyone had ever told her.
“You can’t let them see you’re afraid.”
Sierra had done her damnedest never to let anyone see her fears ever since.
She’d spent her life making sure she got over them. And, if she had to say so herself, she’d done a bang-up job. She’d outgrown her early panics. She’d discovered the world was a pretty dandy place.
But every once in a while she felt like that little girl on the poolside. But she wasn’t going to show it. She was going to march right up to the restaurant and, even if she resembled a Day-Glo raccoon, she was going to look them straight in the eye and never bat a lash.
Dominic might well be sorry he’d asked her to be his bride.
But he’d never feel sorry for her.
She’d see to that!
The maître d’ was agog.
His normally impassive features became positively animated at the sight of Dominic and his guest. For a split second his eyes gawped. But then he schooled his features, stiffened his spine and assumed an expression of something that might best be described as “determined indifference.”
As well it might be, Dominic thought. If he was willing to pay Le Sabre’s exorbitant prices, he ought to able to bring his damn dog to dinner if he so chose!
Gripping Sierra firmly by the arm, he smiled at the maître d’. “Good evening, Flaubert. Has my father arrived?”
Flaubert fixed a thin smile on his face. “He has, Mr. Wolfe. He and the lady and the other gentleman arrived a few moments ago. They’ve already been seated. I understood you were to be four for dinner?” One brow lifted, but he determinedly did not look at Sierra.
Dominic’s back stiffened. “There’s been a change in plans.”
For a split second the maître d’ seemed about to argue. Then his mouth pressed into a tight line and beckoned a waiter. The man scurried to his side. At Flaubert’s whispered words, he shot an astonished gaze in their direction, then nodded and hurried toward the dining room.
“It will take just a moment.” Flaubert paused. Once more his gaze skated right over Sierra to focus on Dominic. “Would the…young lady…like to…check her coat and er…?” He eyed the tackle box with distaste.
“I’ll keep it, thanks,” Sierra said before Dominic could open his mouth.
But it was as if she hadn’t spoken. Flaubert continued to look at Dominic for an answer.
Dominic’s teeth came together and he put an arm around her shoulders. “We will check the box. I think it might get in the way in the dining room, don’t you?” He looked to Sierra for a nod which, after a moment’s stubbornness, he got. Then he turned back to the maître d’. “My wife will keep her coat, thank you.”
Flaubert’s jaw sagged as Dominic had been sure it would.
Stepping around him, Dominic handed over the box to the woman behind at the cloak room. Then, pocketing the token she gave him, he steered Sierra into the dining room.
His father, Tommy Hargrove and a sleek blond woman were no longer sitting at the table his father regularly claimed. Instead they were sitting behind a potted palm, looking discomfitted and annoyed as a waiter finished laying an extra place setting and stepped away.
A sound something akin to a smothered snigger emanated from Sierra.
Dominic looked down at her. “Something funny?”
She flashed a grin. “The palm tree. I knew they’d have a palm tree.”
And that they’d put you behind it, he finished for her. A corner of his own mouth twisted and his fingers tightened on her arm. “Screw ’em,” he muttered and was instantly rewarded when Sierra grinned again.
Just then Douglas spotted them, and Dominic had the pleasure of seeing the old man’s jaw rival Flaubert’s. Almost instantly, though, it snapped shut again and Douglas took a deep breath as he rose to his feet. His gaze fixed on Dominic and his hard blue eyes glittered. It was belied by his smooth tone.
“How nice that you’ve brought a guest to join us. I don’t believe we’ve met?” He, at least, was facing Sierra head-on. In fact he stared straight into the magenta and the Day-Glo peeking out from behind the denim and didn’t even blink. Dominic was impressed.
“We have, actually,” Sierra said cheerfully, offering her hand. “I’m Sierra Kelly. Mariah’s sister. My hair was blonde for the wedding,” she added, presumably by way of explaining why he might not have recognized her.
“Oh!” Douglas’s relief was palpable as he took her hand and shook it heartily. “Yes! Oh my, yes. Of course. I do recognize you now. The, um, purple threw me for a moment. My son Rhys’s wife’s little sister!” he explained to Tommy and the blonde who had to be Viveca.
Dominic smiled and corrected this misconception. “Mariah’s little sister,” he agreed. “And my wife.”
He had to give his father credit.
By
