the noise—unusually rowdy, even for The Torrid Tomato—Adam realized he was enjoying his lunch with Ilsa Fairchild.
“I know an events planner,” Ilsa said. “I think you’d like her and she’s very dependable. I’ll warn you, though, she’s extravagantly expensive, but worth every penny. I’ll get her name and number for you, if you’d like.”
“Great.” Adam couldn’t help himself. He spread the last of the artichoke dip across the last triangle of toasted bread and popped it into his mouth. Delicious. Maybe he’d been too hasty in his assessment of this restaurant.
“Hi, again.” The waitress with the frizzy ponytail returned, dropping into her bouncy squat as if she’d only just vacated the spot. “I just remembered something,” she said. To Ilsa. She seemed barely aware Adam was even present at the same table. “The Tai Chi class starts next Monday and you really should call if you’re interested. I don’t have the phone number with me, but I could bring it to work Thursday, if you’re going to be in for lunch.”
Ilsa reached for her purse. “Why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you later to get the information. I’d hate to miss out because the class filled up before I had a chance to call. Would you mind?”
“Not a bit,” the waitress said as if the answer was so obvious as to be unnecessary. Then, unexpectedly, her blue eyes came to rest with an unsettling clarity on Adam. “What about you? Any interest in Tai Chi? It’s supposed to be remarkably beneficial for anyone with arthritis or a stiff neck.”
“No, thanks,” he said coolly, willing the manager to appear and make her go away, wondering if she thought he looked like he needed more exercise. His hand automatically lifted to press against the tense muscles in his neck, then catching himself, he straightened his tie, as if that had been his intent all along. “I prefer more energetic and competitive forms of exercise.”
She shrugged, a dainty lift of one slender shoulder, and shifted her attention back to Ilsa. “Got a pencil and paper?” she asked, as if she wasn’t a waitress, on duty, and presumably expected to write down customer’s orders from time to time.
Ilsa drew a stylized, misty pink business card from her purse and turned it, blank side up, on the table. “Just write on that. And thanks so much for reminding me about the class. I’m looking forward to it.”
The little brunette jotted down a phone number and handed back the card. “I think you’ll really enjoy the class. Harry is a wonderful instructor and you won’t believe how old he is!” Her bluebell glance flicked from Ilsa to Adam and back again, challenging them to guess the instructor’s age. “Seventy-four!” she supplied before any guessing could take place. “He’s a perfect example of why Tai Chi is the very best form of exercise.”
Better than ballet and kickboxing? Adam wanted to ask, but kept his counsel and, instead, took her thinly veiled challenge in stride. He didn’t know why he felt anything other than annoyance when he looked at her—she was, after all, a silly little waitress, and not much of one at that—but, however unsettling, he recognized the sparks for the base attraction they were. Not that he could imagine any circumstances under which he would pursue such an attraction. And as he felt certain she’d do something to get herself fired long before he scheduled another lunch at The Torrid Tomato, it was highly unlikely he’d ever see her again.
There was a crescendo of noise, the clink and clatter of silverware on glass, and she straightened with the innate grace of an athlete. “The natives are getting restless,” she said, her lips curving with a rueful smile. “I’m off to assuage their hunger. See you Monday, if not sooner,” she said to Ilsa and moved past Adam with only a glance to indicate her goodbye. In a moment, the noise died back to a satisfied chorus of teasing calls and answering laughter…and Adam experienced a fleeting wish that he were sitting at a table in the midst of it all, where he could watch the sparkle in her eyes as she laughed.
“…and the caterer was fit to be tied,” Ilsa was saying, continuing a conversation that Adam had completely lost the gist of, so absorbed had he been in the imagined scene going on behind him. He brought his attention to heel and made sure he didn’t lose focus again.
Outside the restaurant, after they’d finished lunch, Adam and Ilsa shook hands and exchanged a thank-you for the meal and the conversation. “I hope to see you at Grandfather’s party,” he said. “I can’t promise it will be the best gathering the Braddocks have ever put together, but if I can get my hands on an events planner, I intend to make sure she orders plenty of that artichoke dip.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely be there,” Ilsa said with a laugh. “And I will get you the name of that events planner.”
“That would be a help.” Adam’s thoughts were halfway to the office already. “I’ll ask my secretary to call you for the information.”
“Or I’ll call you. Thanks, again, for lunch. I loved getting to know you a little in person.”
“I enjoyed it tremendously. Take care.” He waited for her to turn away, which she did, but before he made his own turn in the opposite direction, she was back, extending her hand toward him.
“You might need this,” she said.
He took it without a glance and slipped it into his suit pocket. “I’ll be sure you get an invitation to the party.”
“Perhaps we’ll run into each other again in the meantime.” Then, she walked off at a brisk clip and Adam didn’t give her—or the business card she’d given him—another thought.
WHEN THE CARD turned up, Adam barely recalled how he’d come to have it. For nearly two weeks, he’d been immersed in salvaging Braddock Industries’ purchase of The Wallace Company and had thought of little else. The deal teetered on the brink of collapse from one day to the next, coming close to agreement and then falling apart all over again. Adam had spent long hours investigating how a “sure thing” had gone awry, trying unsuccessfully to get Richard Wallace to meet with him, one on one. So far, Wallace was holding firmly in the negotiations-are-over camp and finally, Adam had sent his corporate team home for the weekend, telling them to rest, relax and return with new energy and the enthusiasm to get this buyout completed, one way or another.
Adam planned to spend the entire weekend in the office, coming up with a compromise. For some months now, Braddock Industries had been quietly buying up a large chunk of Wallace stock as a negotiating tool but, while Adam had issued the buy order, he didn’t want to initiate a hostile takeover. Not if there was any other way to get what he wanted. He admired Richard Wallace tremendously for building a company out of nothing and, it was true, Adam’s one business failing was his soft spot for family-run concerns. After all, where would the Braddock family be if some upstart had decided to take over the construction business back when it was vulnerable to such an unwelcome attack? On the other hand, the offer was a fair one and Adam had a gut feeling that Richard Wallace had dug in his heels only because he wanted to walk away with a little more dignity and considerably more cash than was first offered.
IF Enterprises, read the raised gold lettering across the pink card stock. Ilsa Fairchild, 555-5683.
Adam continued to frown at the business card, newly discovered under piles of reports on his desk. He recalled his lunch with Ilsa as pleasant, nothing out of the ordinary, but was still unsure as to why his grandfather had asked him to meet with her in the first place. No request for a contribution had been forthcoming. He hadn’t been asked to head up a new fund-raiser for a worthwhile cause. His father’s wedding plans were going along apace, and Archer hadn’t even asked how the luncheon went or mentioned
