the color of buttered toast. They appeared to be having a serious conversation, although the woman was doing most of the talking, while Sam simply listened and nodded.
She knew he didn’t trust her, and that tour he’d taken her on had been more of a fishing expedition than anything else. Even his questions hadn’t been all that subtle.
Have you been in town long? Not really.
Will your husband be joining you? No.
So what brings you to Wolf River?
She’d wanted to say, “A car,” but managed a response that was much more vague and certainly more polite. Her answers hadn’t satisfied him, but something told her that Sam Prescott was not a man who was easily satisfied.
She knew all about men like that.
His gaze suddenly lifted and met hers. The knot of stress in her stomach twisted a little tighter, but she managed to curve her lips into what she hoped looked like a smile, then moved on and finished delivering her drinks. She hadn’t even dropped off the tray in her hands before Tyler thrust another one at her.
“Take these salads to table ten. One chicken barbecue and one Caesar. And hurry it up, will you, toots? Table six is waiting for more bread.”
Toots? Kiera ground her teeth, bit the inside of her lip, then turned with the tray.
And froze.
Trey?
Kiera stared at the man talking to the hostess. His back was turned to her, but it had to be Trey. Same wavy devil-black hair, same broad shoulders, same bronzed skin. That all-too familiar stance of arrogant authority.
Oh, God. She felt the blood drain from her face. How had he found her?
“Move it, sweet cheeks.”
Startled at the sudden voice behind her, Kiera swung around too quickly and knocked the tray into Tyler. To her horror—and Tyler’s—the food went down the front of him. The tray and salad plates crashed to the ground.
“You idiot!” Tyler hissed under his breath while he swiped at the bits of shredded lettuce and diced tomatoes clinging to his white shirt and burgundy tie. Barbecue sauce dripped from his collar.
Every head in the restaurant turned her way, but Kiera only cared about one. She glanced back toward the hostess desk, locked her gaze with a pair of curious dark brown eyes.
Oh, thank God.
It wasn’t Trey.
Even as Tyler continued to berate her, overwhelming relief swam through her. Relief that quickly dissipated when Chef Phillipe Girard stepped through the double kitchen doors.
Her first thought was he looked like a rutabaga, round at the top, narrow at the bottom. Fleshy cheeks framed an oversized nose and underscored pale, deep-set eyes. A tall, black chef’s hat sat like an exclamation point on top of a sand-colored ponytail. He had a knife in one hand and an onion in the other.
Kiera had heard about the man from a couple of the other servers. She’d been warned, “Stay out of his way,” “Don’t make him mad” and double-warned, “Don’t mess with his food.”
In the span of less than thirty seconds, she’d managed to do all three.
Based on the chef’s ominous frown, Kiera had the feeling he’d like to dice and chop more than onions. He glared down his large nose at her.
“Clean this mess up immediately,” he snarled, then he turned and swept back into the kitchen.
Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Kiera bent and picked up the tray and broken salad plates.
“You’ve done it now, miss butterfingers,” Tyler hissed, still brushing bits of green and red from his shirt. “He’ll take it out on all of us and God only knows what hell he’ll put—”
“Tyler, that’s enough.”
Kiera looked up and met Sam’s somber gaze. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but when he shifted his attention to Tyler, Sam’s mouth hardened.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Tyler pursed his lips. “I was just—”
“Never mind. Go change your shirt. Christine can cover for you until you get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Tyler tossed a look of annoyance at Kiera as he flounced off.
A busboy appeared with a trash bag and hand broom. When Sam cupped a hand on her elbow, Kiera pulled away. “I’ll finish here,” she said anxiously, still picking up chunks of broken plate. “I can help with those tables, too.”
“Not necessary.” Sam wrapped his fingers around her arm, tighter this time, and pulled her up. “Come with me.”
Every bone in her body, every cell, vibrated in protest. Terrific. Just what she needed. One more lecture. He released her arm and turned away. Because she didn’t want to make a scene—again—she followed Sam through the restaurant, down a hallway of offices, then outside to a shaded back alley.
An air conditioning motor whirred and blew hot air over her feet; in the distance, church bells chimed the three o’clock hour.
She lifted her chin, prepared herself to be fired. A perfect end to the perfect day.
“What happened in there?” he asked.
“I tripped.”
He frowned at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a lousy liar?”
Trey, she thought. And Alexis and Alaina. But she sure as hell didn’t need this man telling her. Still, common sense overrode defiance, and rather than speak she pressed her lips firmly together and stared blankly at him.
“You didn’t trip, Kiera,” he said evenly. “I was watching you. Something spooked you.”
“Maybe it was you watching me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Do I make you nervous?”
“It’s not unusual to be nervous when the boss is staring at you.”
“You have an interesting way of avoiding a direct answer to a direct question.” He studied her face. “Do I make you nervous?”
Yes, dammit, she thought. But she had no intention of admitting it. She glanced over her shoulder. “I really should be getting back to work.”
“You turned white as your blouse when you looked at Rand,” Sam replied, ignoring her comment. “Do you know him?”
“Rand?” she asked calmly, but her heart skipped a beat. Sam had obviously seen her staring at the man who looked so much like Trey. “Who is Rand?”
“There you go again.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Rand Blackhawk. He moved back to Wolf
