A Dash of Romance
A Dash of Romance
Elizabeth Harbison
A PERFECT RECIPE FOR ROMANCEIngredients:1 self-made billionaire1 spirited waitress2 opposite lifestyles1 romantic location1 close working environment, with tabloid scandals and sparks of awarenessMix the first two items together, and add in additional ingredients as strong tension builds. Slowly turn up the heat until the attraction can no longer be denied–but be careful at this stage. The mixture will be extremely fragile and prone to falling apart! Add a pinch of passion and a dash of good luck, and the result will be a deliciously tender relationship that is sure to last a lifetime.
It was hard to call them friends.
Business associates would have been a mischaracterization. “Acquaintances?” Rose offered, closing her eyes for a moment against the tingle his touch sent through her.
There was a smile in his voice. “That’s a start.”
Warren didn’t move his hand from her face. And she didn’t want him to.
She realized she’d been holding her breath. “A start?”
“Well,” said Warren, “technically you could say we already had a start, a few weeks ago.”
She swallowed. “You could also say that was an aberration. A moment of weakness.”
Warren laughed and reached out, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Or maybe just basic attraction,” he said, looking into her eyes before he drew her into a kiss….
Dear Reader,
No month better suits Silhouette Romance than February. For it celebrates that breathless feeling of first love, the priceless experiences and memories that come with a longtime love and the many hopes and dreams that give a couple’s life together so much meaning. At Silhouette Romance, our writers try to capture all these feelings in their timeless tales…and this month’s lineup is no exception.
Our PERPETUALLY YOURS promotion continues this month with a charming tale from Sandra Paul. In Domesticating Luc (#1802) a dog trainer gets more than she bargained for when she takes on an unruly puppy and his very obstinate and irresistible owner. Beloved author Judy Christenberry returns to the lineup with Honeymoon Hunt (#1803)—a madcap adventure in which two opposites pair up to find their parents who have eloped, but instead wind up on a tight race to the finish line, er, altar! In A Dash of Romance (#1804) Elizabeth Harbison creates the perfect recipe for love when she pairs a self-made billionaire with a spirited waitress. Cathie Linz rounds out the offerings with Lone Star Marine (#1805). Part of her MEN OF HONOR series, this poignant romance features a wounded soldier who craves only the solitude to heal, and finds that his lively and beautiful neighbor just might be the key to the future he hadn’t dreamed possible.
As always, be sure to return next month when Alice Sharpe concludes our PERPETUALLY YOURS promotion.
Happy reading.
Ann Leslie Tuttle
Associate Senior Editor
A Dash of Romance
Elizabeth Harbison
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Paige and Jack with love from Mommy
Books by Elizabeth Harbison
Silhouette Romance
A Groom for Maggie #1239
Wife without a Past #1258
Two Brothers and a Bride #1286
True Love Ranch #1323
* (#litres_trial_promo)Emma and the Earl #1410
* (#litres_trial_promo)Plain Jane Marries the Boss #1416
* (#litres_trial_promo)Annie and the Prince #1423
* (#litres_trial_promo)His Secret Heir #1528
A Pregnant Proposal #1553
Princess Takes a Holiday #1643
The Secret Princess #1713
Taming of the Two #1790
A Dash of Romance #1804
Silhouette Special Edition
Drive Me Wild #1476
Midnight Cravings #1539
How To Get Your Man #1685
Diary of a Domestic Goddess #1727
Silhouette Books
Lone Star Country Club
Mission Creek Mother-To-Be
ELIZABETH HARBISON
has always been an avid reader. After devouring the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden series in grade school, she moved on to the suspense of Mary Stewart, Dorothy Eden and Daphne du Maurier, just to name a few. From there it was a natural progression to writing, although early efforts have been securely hidden away in the back of a closet.
After authoring three cookbooks, Elizabeth turned her hand to writing romances and hasn’t looked back. Her second book for Silhouette Romance, Wife without a Past, was a 1998 finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award in the Best Traditional Romance category.
Elizabeth lives in Maryland with her husband, John, daughter Mary Paige and son Jack, as well as two dogs, Bailey and Zuzu. She loves to hear from readers and you can write to her at c/o Box 1636, Germantown, MD 20875.
ARTICHOKE SALAD WITH CARAMELIZED SHALLOT AND CHAMPAGNE TRUFFLE VINAIGRETTE
Serves 4
3 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil
3 shallots, sliced and tossed with a little brown sugar
1 large garlic clove, minced fine
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp brut champagne or sherry
2 tbsp champagne vinegar
3 tbsp white truffle oil
Pinch of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 cups artichoke hearts, marinated in oil and drained
1 cup baby arugula, washed and drained
Heat olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pan over medium-high heat. Add the sliced shallots and sauté slowly until they start to caramelize. Once the shallots start to achieve a deep amber color, toss in the garlic and sauté for one minute.
Remove pan from heat.
Whisk together lemon juice, champagne or sherry and champagne vinegar. While whisking briskly, slowly drizzle in the white truffle oil. Add salt and a grind or two of black pepper.
Put the artichokes into the pan with the shallots and garlic and heat very gently over low heat, tossing the artichokes to fully integrate the flavor of the shallots and garlic.
Remove artichokes, shallots and garlic, placing them in a decorative bowl. Pour the champagne and truffle oil mixture over them. Toss again.
Add arugula. Toss again.
Serve warm or chilled.
Contents
Prologue (#ua1202262-746c-5cc7-8fdc-bc27fbf94c2c)
Chapter One (#u496b4a9c-29d4-5103-8fce-e07c9c7137b3)
Chapter Two (#u6be73b9c-abfb-5df2-bea7-83b903305b3a)
Chapter Three (#uded35895-a7a1-50b8-a62b-cbc52da76602)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Twenty-Five Years Ago
“What a shame,” said Virginia Porter, director of the Barrie Home for Children, looking at the little girls who had lost their parents in a car crash just one week ago. The little angels were sleeping now, but they had spent more restless hours awake and crying than Virginia could count. She’d walked the floors with them every night. If any of her hair had remained brunette at the beginning of the week, it was all gray now. “So young to be all alone in the world. It’s a terrible, terrible shame.”
The air conditioner kicked on, sending, as if on cue, a cold breeze into the room.
“Do you think we’ll be able to keep them together?” Sister Gladys asked, kneading her hands in front of her. “I can’t bear the idea of separating them.”
Virginia sighed. “Of course we’ll continue to try and find some next of kin, but it’s not looking hopeful at this point. We’ll have to start thinking about placement.” She frowned, already worried about how little control she might have over the matter. Like Sister Gladys, Virginia wanted to keep the girls together, but it would be hard to refuse a good home to one if the parents wanted just one child. At least the girls were young enough, at thirteen or fourteen months, that they probably wouldn’t remember any of this later. “We’ll do the very best that we can.”
“They’ll need each other, Miss Porter,” Sister Gladys insisted. If possible, she was even more tender-hearted than Virginia. “They’ve lost their parents so horribly, so suddenly. Surely we can make sure they keep each other. Please.”
The little redheaded girl, Rose, stirred in her sleep and Virginia bent down and stroked her hair to soothe her back to sleep. If she woke up, she’d cry…They could already tell that Rose was the most sensitive one of the three.
“We’ll try.” Virginia said softly, smoothing the child’s copper curls as she spoke. “I promise you, we’ll try.”
Chapter One
“Warren Harker, age, forty-one, height six feet two, hair, black, eyes, blue, educated at Stanford, but got his master’s from Harvard Business School.”
Rose Tilden listened incredulously as her boss, Marta Serragno, of Serragno Catering, listed the attributes of the man who had hired them to cater his party tonight.
“Has worked in real estate development and construction since 1988, established Harker Companies in 1992. Likes his meat rare, his business cold and his women hot. Bank portfolio, four hundred and twenty-seven million, give or take a million.” Marta licked her lips. “And soon he’s going to be mine.” She turned her dark eyes on Rose. “You can count on it.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Rose commented.
“Do you doubt me?”
Frequently, Rose thought. But there was no point in arguing with Marta. It wouldn’t end until she felt she’d won. Might as well give in to her early on. “Never.”
“Wise girl.” Marta tapped her index finger against her temple. “That’s the right answer.”
“Although, if you ask me…” Rose went on. Sometimes she was unable to stop herself from giving her opinion. Her sister, Lily, said it was her red hair that made her fiery that way. “We could do with a little less real estate development and a little more fixing up of what already exists.”
Marta gave her a chilly look. “I do hope you don’t plan on saying that to Harker.”
“Not unless he asks.” She’d never been shy about giving her opinion. Lily also kept telling her she needed to learn to zip it, because that red headed fire was going to get her into trouble, but every time she tried, she failed.
This was particularly bad in her line of work, since she was supposed to be nice and accommodating with the client and their guests, even in the face of sexual advances (which happened a lot) or complaints that were clearly concocted with the aim of getting free service (which happened even more frequently). Rose was amazed how often the richer clients tried to get something for free. Three years into the business, Rose had learned several strange truths, and one was that the wealthier the clients, the cheaper they tended to be.
And the cheaper they were, the meaner they tended to be.
Rose had trouble with that, but Marta was just fine with it. The richer the better, she didn’t care.
“Frankly, my dear,” she said to Rose, “you’re not going to have any sort of conversation with our client, so the idea of him asking your opinion on inner city refurbishment is out of the question.”
Rose gave a short nod. Marta was really such a jerk. If she weren’t so ridiculous, Rose might occasionally feel offended by her slings and arrows.
“Now,” Marta went on. “Did you make that artichoke salad everyone likes so much?”
“Eight pounds of it.” Rose pointed to the large bowl she’d been working on for the past hour. She knew why Marta wanted the lemon artichoke salad. It was one of Rose’s specialties. As a matter of fact, it was one of the dishes that tended to…well, people thought it had some sort of aphrodisiacal properties.
Clearly, Marta was looking for magic.
“You did it…” Marta gave a small, tight smile. “The usual way, right?”
Rose held a smile back. Marta was so transparent. “I always do it the same way,” she assured her.
“Excellent.” Marta turned her attention back to the gorgeous man in the parlor of the large hotel suite. “I’ll definitely be having a bowl of that tonight. Even though I hate artichokes.”
Rose stopped working and looked at her boss. “Marta, if you hate artichokes, don’t eat it.”
“If anything they say about that dish is true, I’m going to eat it.”
“Not everything they say is true.”
“Honey, if I eat it, the stories had better be true,” Marta said, in a voice that could have been jesting or bitterly serious.
Rose shrugged. “You haven’t even met Warren Harker yet. What if he’s a dud?”
Marta fixed a cold dark eye on her. “Number one: I have met him, although briefly. And number two: if he is a dud, he’s a dud worth four hundred and twenty-seven million.” She pressed her thin red lips together. “For that, I might have to learn to love artichokes. Wait a minute.” She touched her finger to her chin. “Maybe all that matters is if he likes artichokes.”
Rose shook her head and wordlessly went to assemble the silver chargers of cheese by region. Marta didn’t like cheese. She didn’t like fish. She didn’t like any vegetables. She didn’t like sweets. In fact, Rose had rarely seen her put anything in her mouth at all. Why she was still in the catering business was a mystery.
After all, she’d only inherited the business. Her second husband—or was it her third?—had left it to her when he’d died several years back. In that time, to her credit, Marta had kept the business going and had even upped its profile. But she’d never once shown any interest in food. She was just ruthlessly ambitious, and willing to succeed in any area that would allow her to prosper, both financially and socially.
So she’d succeeded in the catering business by hiring the best people and running the operation with an iron fist. So what if she couldn’t cook? In true Henry Ford fashion, she’d simply hired someone who could.
Rose.
Rose, along with her sister, Lily, had grown up in the Barrie Children’s Home in Brooklyn. The two had spent some of their time in foster care, all fairly good experiences, but as they’d grown older they’d spent more and more time at the orphanage. People didn’t want to foster older children as much as younger ones.
When they were sixteen, though, they learned that their first foster mother had died, leaving her meager estate to the girls so that they could go to vocational school and learn a trade.
Rose had gone to culinary school, while her sister had studied hotel management. Now, while Rose worked as an assistant caterer for Marta, one of the most prominent caterers in New York, Lily was a concierge in one of New York’s most exclusive boutique hotels, the Montclaire.
“How’s it going in here?” a small, twitchy man with a dark comb-over and black-rimmed glasses asked. “Is everything on schedule?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Potts,” Marta cooed. “You go tell your boss everything is just fine. In fact, maybe he’d like to come in here and—” she gave a coy smile “—sample my wares.”
Mr. Potts raised his eyebrows so high his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up hastily. “Mr. Harker trusts that your wares will be everything they’re advertised to be, Ms. Serragno.”
Rose stifled a giggle.
Potts left and Marta turned to Rose. “Can you believe that man? When I land this big fish, and I will, that worm is going to be one of the first things to go.”
“Oh, I don’t think he meant anything by it,” Rose said, not to reassure Marta so much as to spare Potts his job if she did manage to get her hooks into his boss. “Warren Harker’s just a busy guy. He trusts us to do a good job, just like we always do.”
Marta gave a mild nod. “I’ll do a good job, all right. How’s that artichoke salad coming along?”
The suite was incredibly posh. Rose had seldom seen such ornate handiwork and she’d worked in some of the finest homes in Manhattan. The chandelier alone must have cost more than a year’s worth of her salary. Word was that Harker had two residences in Manhattan, and countless others across the world. Money to burn. Real estate development must be on an upswing.
“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?” She asked a group of party guests, holding out the platter with its pretty little assortment of appetizers.
“Oooh! What are those?” a plump, bleached blond woman asked excitedly.
“Avocado egg rolls.” One of Rose’s better concoctions. “They’re particularly good with the tamarind sauce.”
The woman drew in her breath appreciatively and took several of them.
“I’ll try one of those,” a deep voice said behind Rose. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with Warren Harker.
He was taller than she’d realized, even though Marta had gone over his stats quite explicitly. His eyes were a pale, crystal blue, with the faintest laugh lines fanning out into his tanned skin.
“Mr. Harker.” She held the platter out to him. “Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”
“Anything but that artichoke salad your coworker has been chasing me down with.” He smiled and picked up a cheese puff.
“You don’t like the artichoke salad?”
“I don’t like anything held out to me on a spoon with someone saying, ‘Come on, just have a little bite.”’ He smiled. “Reminds me of my mother trying to get me to eat liver. Not a good memory.”
“Oh, I see.” Rose groaned inwardly. Marta did have a tendency to be a little heavy-handed when she wanted something. Or, in this case, someone. “Look, I’m sorry about that. She’s not…” What? Not herself? Marta was being completely herself. Not taking her medication? She had a purse full of prescriptions. “She’s not usually like that.” A lie, but harmless.
“Have you worked with her long?” He had a great voice. Low, smooth, perfectly modulated.
“Just about a year.”
“Ever think of striking out on your own?”
She looked at him. “As what?”
“A caterer.” He laughed. Very nice laugh. “You are the cook in this operation, aren’t you?”
Marta didn’t like anyone to know that she didn’t cook. “One of them.”
“One of them,” he repeated and gave a broad white smile. “You’re good. Loyal. If I were in the food business, I’d try to steal you away right now.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “My assistant set this whole thing up, and she says that Serragno never cooks, she just hires the best.” He gave a shrug. “Which is why I hired her. And if she hired you, you must be the best. At whatever it is that you do.”
Rose gave a wan smile. “I made the artichoke salad.”
“Ah.” He laughed outright, and several people looked over at them. “I’m sure it tastes far better than this foot I’ve been chomping on.”
Rose couldn’t help but chuckle. “If it doesn’t, I’m in the wrong business.”
“There you are.” Marta swooped in between them, still holding a ramekin of artichoke salad. She turned to face Warren and took what looked like a deliberate step backward into Rose, loudly knocking the platter to the floor.
Rose’s heart sank. All that food, smashed into the carpet.
“Rose Tilden!” Marta snapped. “That was very clumsy. Look what you’ve done to Mr. Harker’s carpeting.” She turned to Warren with what Rose could only imagine was a look of condescending disgust.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Warren said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Someone ran into her.”
Marta acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry about a thing, Rose will get that cleaned up.” She snaked her arm through his and tried to lead him away. “Why don’t you show me your view?”
Warren pulled back and went to Rose. “Let me help you with this,” he said, kneeling down in his two-thousand-dollar suit.
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Rose said quietly.
“No, it isn’t.” Marta stood over them. “She dropped it, she can pick it up. Now, about that view—”
“Go to any wall,” Warren said, helping Rose anyway. “Look out a window. You can’t miss it.”
Rose felt, rather than saw, Marta’s wrath surround them like a cold mist.
“I can get this,” she said to him, pulling a mini quiche off the floor. “Please. Go back to your party. I’d feel awful if I kept you from it because of this.” And she would be terribly self-conscious if Warren Harker stayed on the floor next to her, picking up bits of food.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, his voice quiet, “this is more interesting.”
Her face went warm again, and she looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Aren’t you enjoying your party?”
“This isn’t what I’d call a party,” he went on. “It’s more of a social obligation. Every summer I have one of these,” he nodded at the room, “soirées for the New York bigwigs and corporate head honchos. Got to keep in touch with them, know who’s who. I’m in the real estate business, you see.”
She was tempted to tell him she knew all about him, thanks to Marta, but decided instead to say, “I heard something like that.”
He studied her for a moment before continuing. “So this is what you might call good business. Bad party, good business. It happens a lot. I’m sure you see it all the time.”
Rose laughed in admission. “You’re right. But most people don’t admit they’re having a miserable time.” She picked up the last fallen appetizer, plopped it on the platter and stood up. “But why bother if you know you’re not going to like it?”
He stood up beside her. “See that woman?” He indicated a matronly-looking woman, perhaps in her eighties, dripping with diamonds. The woman had a sour expression on her face, with thin lips, pursed tightly together. “That’s Mrs. Winchester, the mayor’s mother. Word is, he doesn’t make a move without her approval.”
“So you need her to approve of you.”
“Bingo. So I’m plying her with good food and wine.”
“What if she just doesn’t like you?”
“She does.” He was absolutely confident. “At least for now. She does have her moods, and if she turns against you,” he gave a low whistle, “look out.”
“She reminds me of a woman I knew when I was a kid. Mrs. Ritter. She owned a flower shop in Brooklyn, which was ironic since she always looked like something smelled funny.”
“You’re from Brooklyn?”
She nodded. “You?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ve spent most of my life right here.” He eyed her. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Rose. Rose Tilden.”
Surprise flickered across his features. “Tilden?”
She nodded.
He frowned. “That’s not a name you hear every day.”
“I do.” She smiled. Almost every day, that is. Since she was two years old. The Barrie Home for Children was on Tilden Street in Brooklyn. All the children who came in without names or identification of any sort were assigned “Tilden.” Rose and her sister had come in wearing bracelets that identified their first names but not their last, so they became Rose and Lily Tilden.
“I guess you do,” he conceded, but the easy smile he’d worn a few minutes earlier was gone. “Interesting.”
“Rose, dear.” Marta’s voice sounded as if she were two inches behind Rose. “Could you please help Tonya in the kitchen?”
Rose turned to see a look in Marta’s eye that she had never seen before. It was sheer anger. “Is something wrong?” Rose asked.
Marta gave a thin-lipped smile. “Certainly not. Tonya simply needs help preparing the dessert tray.”
Rose gave Marta a long, hard look, then glanced at Warren and said, “Please excuse me.”
He gave a slight nod, then lowered his gaze onto Marta.
Rose didn’t see what happened next. She walked to the kitchen resolving with every step to quit this job. She loved the work and really enjoyed most of the people she worked with, but Marta had become more and more of a tyrant lately. Every time a party guest so much as asked Rose if she knew where the ladies’ room was, Marta was there, nosing her way in, trying to find out if Rose was being overly familiar with their clients. As if it were a bad thing to be cordial in a service-oriented business. What did Marta prefer? That Rose make the “zipping my lips” motion familiar to every third grader in America?
Rose just couldn’t deal with her anymore. Serragno might have one of the best reputations in town, but it wasn’t the only game in town. And Rose would probably be better off working for someone less tempestuous than Marta, even if they weren’t as high-profile. Her résumé would survive. She could still have a career.
When she got to the kitchen, Tonya was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire room was sparkling clean; there was no food prep out at all. Rose glanced out the opposite doorway and saw that the dessert had already been set up on the table.
“Just what do you think you’re doing flirting with the client?” Marta’s voice snapped Rose to attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s your job, right?”
“You bet it is.” Marta’s face went red like the top of a cartoon thermometer. “And I don’t want you getting in the middle of my affairs.”
“I wasn’t flirting with him.”
“That’s what it looked like to me.”
“We were just talking.”
“I don’t pay you to talk, I pay you to cook, serve and clean. That’s all. Got it? I don’t want to catch you doing this again.”
“What did you want me to do? Ignore him when he spoke to me?” Rose frowned. “What do you mean again?”
“I mean, as you well know, that over these past few months you have gotten bolder and bolder about speaking to our clients. And I don’t like it. Every time we do a partly lately, it seems as if you’re spending more time chattering with the guests than you are working.”
“That is absolutely not true,” Rose returned hotly. “I have never shirked my duties. As a matter of fact, I defy you to tell me even one time when I didn’t do at least fifty percent more than my job description called for.” She began untying her Serragno Catering apron. “See? You can’t. Because it hasn’t happened.” She pulled the apron off and folded it. “Look, this isn’t working for me and you’ve made it really obvious it’s not working for you, either, so let’s just call it a day, okay? Tonya, Keith and the rest of the gang can clean up without me.” She put the apron down on the counter. She was so angry her hands were shaking, but she hoped to God that Marta hadn’t noticed that.
Marta glanced out the door and then back at Rose. Like melting wax, her facial features relaxed. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry. Can you possibly forgive me?”
Rose was taken aback. “What?”
“This has just been so stressful for me.” She drew in a shuddering breath and dabbed at her dry eyes. “I just…I’ve been awful. I know it. I can’t blame you for quitting.” She gave a humble smile. “I’d do the same thing in your place.”
“You would.” Something wasn’t right here.
Marta nodded. “But the thing is, this is a very important party for me. The mayor is out there! He could bring so much business our way. Would you consider staying on at least for the rest of the night?”
“I don’t know, Marta…”
“I’ll double your pay. Honestly. I’ll pay you now. Hand me my purse.” She gestured toward a garishly shiny leather purse on a wingback chair in the other room.
“That’s not necessary,” Rose said, with a sigh. She took the apron off the counter and tied it back on. “I’ll finish the night as we agreed. But after that, you’re going to have to accept my resignation.”
“If you insist.” Marta sniffed, then crumpled into a heap on the gleaming tile floor. “Oh, I’m such a mess!” she said in a harsh whisper. “How can I face everyone out there?”
Rose felt completely helpless. What was she supposed to do? “Marta, come on. You’ll be fine.”
“Could you…could you do one teensy-weensy thing for me?”
Trepidation pounded in Rose’s breast. “What’s that?”
“Would you get my pill bottle from my purse? The brown one with the yellow lid?”
Rose hesitated for a moment before sighing and saying, “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
She went to the purse and lifted it. It was heavier than she expected, and one of the first things she touched was a soft clean handkerchief. That was weird. Something didn’t compute, but it wasn’t until she heard the gasp several feet away that the pieces began to fall into place.
“What are you doing with my purse?”
Rose looked up to see Mrs. Winchester—the mayor’s mother—standing with one hand over her mouth and the other pointing at her like a gun.
The noise of the party died down to silence. All eyes turned on Rose.
Suddenly everything moved in slow motion. She turned to see Marta, apparently recovered from her nervous collapse, standing with one hand on her hip and a smug look on her face.
“What’s going on?” Warren Harker appeared at the front of the crowd, looking from Mrs. Winchester to Rose. “What’s wrong?”
“That—that girl was stealing from me!”
“What?” Warren asked sharply, giving Rose a look that could have cut glass.
“Oh, no, no, I wasn’t,” Rose stammered. “I was just—”
“Put the purse down,” Warren said in a cold voice.
Until that moment, she hadn’t even realized she was still holding it. She dropped it, as if it were a dead thing, and said, “Marta just asked me to get something from her purse and said it was this one.” She turned to Marta. “Please. Tell them.”
“I cannot believe my eyes,” Marta said.
Rose couldn’t believe her ears. “What?”
When Marta spoke again, Rose knew she’d been set up. “Mr. Harker, I don’t know how to apologize enough for this. I don’t know what Rose was thinking.”
“I was thinking it was your purse, just like you told me,” Rose said sharply.
Marta shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “That’s enough, Rose. You’ve been caught.”
It was clear that there was no point in trying to get Marta to tell the truth since she’d gone to considerable trouble to set up the lie.
Instead, Rose turned back to Warren Harker. “Honestly, this is all just a big mistake.”
Mrs. Winchester whimpered like a wounded puppy. “I can’t believe we’re not even safe from theft in a place like this.” Her son, the mayor, patted her arm and said to Warren, “This is unacceptable.”
“Yes, it is,” Warren agreed, eyes on Rose. “I think you’d better go now.”
“I will,” Rose said, reaching around to untie the apron she had just put back on. “But you have to understand, I was not stealing from Mrs. Winchester. I was just trying to get something for Marta from her purse, and she said—”
“Stop!” Marta barked. “You’re a liar and I wouldn’t blame Mr. Harker for calling the police right now.”
“I think you should,” Mrs. Winchester agreed, nodding quickly. “Send a message.”
Rose’s jaw dropped. “This is a mistake!”
“I think you’d better go,” Warren said quietly. He moved forward and, with a firm grip on her arm, led her to the front door.
She wrenched her arm free. “You don’t need to manhandle me. It’s not like I want to stay.”
He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head and opened the door. Behind him, she could see the condescending expressions on the faces of his guests. A bunch of wealthy people who were more comfortable believing the “help” would steal than in listening to the truth.
For just a moment when she’d met him, Rose thought maybe Warren was different.
What a foolish mistake that had turned out to be.
One thing was for sure: it was a mistake she would never make again.
Chapter Two
“He sounds like a jerk,” Lily pronounced.
“Big-time,” Rose agreed. “I don’t know if I should conclude never to trust rich guys, or good-looking guys, or both.”
Rose and her sister were sprawled on the floor of their Brooklyn apartment, the newspaper Help Wanted section spread around them on the floor.
“How about simply never trusting Warren Harker?” Lily suggested. “Rather than wiping out the entire male population with one fell swoop. Or at least, the entire desirable male population.”
Rose sighed. “We’ll see. Oh, and add Marta Serragno to the list, too. I’m an equal opportunity mistruster.”
Lily chuckled. “So she actually used the words, ‘You’ll never work in this town again’?”
“That’s exactly what she said.” Rose circled another ad in the Help Wanted section of the paper. “And she’s as good as her word. So far I’ve been turned down by every major catering company in the entire city and two of three that are so minor you’d think she wouldn’t have ferreted them out.”
“Well,” Lily said with a straight face, “when you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, you’re going to have to expect repercussions, sis.”
“Very funny, Lil. Very, very funny.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Lily threw her arms around Rose and gave her a big squeeze. “I’m just trying to help you see the humor in this. Such as it is. I mean, it’s not like you’ll never work again.”
“It’s starting to look like it.” An ad for a gas station attendant caught Rose’s eye and, after a moment of self-pity, she circled it, too.
Lily looked over. “Oh, come on.”
“Come on what?”
“You can get a job in the food industry. Gerard said he’d hire you if Miguel didn’t already have the job.”
Rose mustered a smile. “That’s nice of him to say, but since Miguel already does have the job, he doesn’t really have to put his money where his mouth is.” Gerard owned one of the exclusive boutique hotels where Lily worked as a concierge. He’d always been so kind to both of them. “Unless…Maybe he’d hire me as a maid?”
“I’m sure he would, but you’d be miserable.”
“I’m miserable now.”
“No, I mean you’d be a miserable maid.” Lily smiled. “Look at your room. There’s hardly a place on the floor where you can see the carpet.”
“This is no time to joke, Lily,” Rose said, but she smiled.
“Okay, okay. Just trying to add a little levity. Now let’s think about this. What if you forget catering for the time being and try restaurants? Maybe even work as a waitress.”
“I’d do that gladly. Unfortunately, I’ve already tried. Same story. Marta Serragno is nothing if not determined. Horrid woman. Half the town seems to be sucking up to her and the other half seems terrified. I can’t win.”
“Wait a minute.” Lily tapped her finger against her chin. “I saw a sign up in one of these places…yes! It was the Cottage Diner. Over by Coney Island?”
“Cottage Diner? I’ve never heard of it.”
Lily shrugged. “It’s a greasy spoon, but a great location. Water view and all. The place itself looks like it’s been there since World War II. Maybe you could get in there as a waitress and then, you know, work your way up. Put the place on the map. Meantime, I bet the tourists and Coney Island visitors give good tips.”
Something in Rose tingled. “That’s not a bad idea. There’s no way that Marta would have gotten to a crummy little diner in Brooklyn. But if I could help them raise their profile…” She frowned. That was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t even gotten the job—or seen the diner, for that matter—and she was already thinking about raising the place’s profile?
As if reading her mind, Lily said, “I’m sure it will work out that way. And I’m telling you, the location is great.”
“Hmm.” For reasons she couldn’t quite express—maybe just intuition—this was striking Rose as a good idea. A very good idea. Something told her this could work out in ways she hadn’t even thought of. “Where is this place exactly?”
Like the plucky heroine in an old movie, Rose took the Help Wanted sign out of the Cottage Diner window and carried it inside with her to ask for the manager.
She approached a busboy who was clearing dishes from a booth. “Excuse me,” she said.
He turned, startled, and dropped a mug onto the floor. It didn’t break, but bounced loudly under the booth. He looked at Rose and his face turned red. “Yyes?”
“I’m here about the job.” She indicated the sign she was holding.
If possible, his face turned even more crimson.
“You need to talk to Doc, the owner,” a voice barked behind her. “Tim’s just a busboy.”
She turned to see a craggy-faced customer sitting in another booth, holding a newspaper. There was a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and about ten empty sugar packets. “Doc’s in the back.” He looked her over skeptically. “But I’m not sure you’re exactly what he’s looking for. What do you think, Al?”
He looked across the room at the only other customer in the place. The pudgy gray-haired man sneezed, dabbed his nose with a napkin and said, “Give her a break, Dick.” He sneezed again and said to Rose, “They’ve had pretty waitresses here before, but they always leave.”
“I’m always willing to try another pretty waitress, though.” A bald man in a greasy white apron came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Doc Sears.” He set the towel down on the counter and held his hand out.
Rose shook it. “Rose Tilden.”
“You’re looking for a waitress job?”
“If you’re looking for a waitress.”
He looked at her skeptically. “You don’t look like the kind of waitress we’d get here. Bet you could make a lot of money a few miles into the city.”
He was talking about Manhattan, of course. Where she couldn’t get so much as a job busing tables. “I live here.”
He looked at her as if he wondered what the truth was, but was too tactful to ask. “Can you work evenings?”
She splayed her arms. “Any time you want.”
“You gonna stay on longer than a week?”
“I guarantee it.”
“Good.” He took the sign from her and ripped it in half. “You’re hired, Rose Tilden. Can you start tonight?”
Lunchtime had been dead in the diner, and dinner wasn’t a whole lot better. Doc was working the grill alongside a short-order cook called Hap, short for Elwood Happersmith. Rose privately concluded that, under the circumstances, she would have preferred Hap, too.
Only about half the booths were full, and the only other waiter was a young man named Paul, who spent more time dozing in an unoccupied booth than waiting tables, leaving Rose to handle pretty much the entire crowd.
She didn’t mind, though. She was just glad to have the work.
She was on her feet from two in the afternoon until 10 p.m. With closing time just an hour away, and her feet eagerly awaiting the promise of an Epsom salt bath, her last customer came through the door.
Warren Harker.
She did a double take. If she’d made a list of the top fifteen people she least expected to see in a place like this, Warren Harker would have been close to the top, along with Gandhi and Fidel Castro.
For a moment, she froze, heart pounding. She didn’t know if it was the lighting or the fact that she’d spent the day looking at guys like Dick, Al and Doc, but Warren Harker was even more slick-looking than she’d recalled. His dark hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his crisp blue suit—with loosened tie and unbuttoned collar—fit like a charm across his wide shoulders.
The jerk.
And now he was her customer. This was spectacularly bad luck. A quick glance at the booth she had already come to think of as “Paul’s bed” revealed that the waiter was indeed snoring away, so she was stuck with Warren Harker.
Rose took a quick breath and straightened her back. She could do this. No problem. With a little bit of luck, maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.
She walked toward him, feeling a little like a prisoner being led on the final walk down the prison hall. Of all the greasy spoons in all of New York, why why why did he have to walk into this one?
“Can I take your order?” she asked, laying on the Brooklyn accent a little thick and keeping her eyes averted.
Her efforts were wasted. Apparently Dick was right in saying they didn’t normally have women waiting tables here, because Warren looked up from his paperwork with surprise.
“Hey, you’re new,” he said.
She barely glanced at him. “Just started today.”
He gave a laugh. “Wow, I don’t know when I last saw a women working here.”
Oh, no, he was a regular?
That was it; she was doomed. She was going to lose another job and, given the trouble she had had in finding this one, she didn’t know where she’d go next.
“So what can I get you?” she asked, keeping her tone short.
“Just a coffee, thanks. And real cream, not milk. Doc’s always cheap with the cream.”
So he was a regular. “Sure thing.” She turned to get the coffee, thanking her lucky stars he hadn’t realized who she was. Yet.
But she was stopped in her tracks not three feet away.
“Wait a minute.”
She closed her eyes, dreading what was coming next.
“I know you, don’t I?”
She could feel his eyes on her back, sending a tickle straight down her spine.
“Don’t think so,” she answered without turning around.
“Come here.” It was practically a command. Apparently he was so used to having people jump when he told them to that he felt perfectly comfortable bossing everyone around.
She took the coffee carafe from the counter and turned to go back to his table. She kept her eyes downcast, in the ridiculous hope that if she didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t see her. Ostrich logic. “What is it?”
“I know we’ve met.”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so.” Then she made the mistake of glancing at him.
His blue eyes looked her over for a moment before he snapped his fingers. “Serragno Catering.”
“I—”
“You’re Rose Tilden!”
Chapter Three
“What the hell are you doing here?” he went on, before she’d even had a moment to respond.
His tone was so sharp, so downright accusatory, that she was taken aback. “I’m working here.”
“What?” He looked around, as if trying to find confirmation that this was true.
“I’m working here.”
“That’s impossible.”
She tightened her grip on the coffee carafe, tempted to assure him that his wallet was safe from her. But she bit her tongue and instead tried to be mindful of her job. “Do you need more sugar?”
He looked at her for a long moment, before shaking his head. “I don’t do sugar.”
You don’t do sweet, either, she thought pouring coffee into his cup. “Well, is there anything else I can get you? We’re closing up soon.”
“Nothing,” he said, distracted. “How long have you been working here?”
“Are you investigating me, Mr. Harker?”
“Should I be?”
Good lord, he sounded serious! “Of course not!” she responded quickly. “I was joking.”
“That’s reassuring.” His tone remained even. Cool.
Accusatory.
“Mr. Harker, are you implying something? If so, I really wish you’d come right out and say it.”
“Hey, now, what’s going on here?” Doc came out of the kitchen and ambled over to the booth. “You two know each other?”
“We’ve met,” Warren said, keeping his eyes on Rose.
Her heart pounded as she wondered what else he would say to Doc and if she would lose her job because of it. For a moment, she stood there, suspended in time, filled with anxiety at the thought of what Warren might reveal.
Then she decided she would just tell Doc the truth herself. There was no point in standing around wondering if someone else was going to control her future; she had to do it herself.
“I worked for a caterer at one of Mr. Harker’s parties,” she said to Doc. “I was falsely accused of stealing and lost my job because of it, but I promise you I didn’t do it.”
Doc laughed and patted Rose’s arm. “You’re as wound up as an old alarm clock, aren’t you? I know you wouldn’t steal anything.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you.”
“What sort of idiot accused you of stealing?”
She glanced uneasily at Warren.
“No!” Doc exclaimed. “Not you!”
Warren gave a small shrug. “The evidence was, as they say, overwhelming.”
Doc looked at Warren incredulously. “What are you, crazy?”
“I’ve been called worse than that,” Warren said. Then he frowned and added, “I think I’ve even been called worse than that by you, Doc.”
Doc furrowed his brow. “Then you deserved it, I’m sure. Now it sounds like this little lady has been through enough. You ease up, Harker, or you’ll find yourself drinking some mighty cold coffee in here.”
Warren took his wallet out, opened it and left a twenty on the table for the dollar fifty check. “Your coffee isn’t that good to begin with, Doc.”
“Hmmph.” Doc crossed his arms in front of his barrel chest. “You drink too much of it anyway.”
Warren laughed, then headed for the door without looking back at Rose. “See you next time.”
“Be nice to my waitress,” Doc called after him, then turned back to Rose. “See? He’s not so bad.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully, watching the dashing figure of Warren Harker walk out the door and into the night. “Does he come in here very often?”
“Few times a week. He’s been in quite a lot lately.”
Her heart sank. This was going to be trouble for her. “Why? He doesn’t live near here.”
“Nah. Just likes to hang out here, I guess.” Doc gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry about him. He may be a big shot up in the city, but around here he’s just another fella looking for a cup of coffee. Now let’s wake Paul up and get out of here. Got another day of work tomorrow, you know.”
Warren Harker leaned back against the leather seats of his Town Car and watched the drizzly gray city pass by. It had been unseasonably cold and rainy all day, and his mood had grown worse by the hour, along with the weather.
Now, on what promised to be a long wait in traffic on the drive to Brooklyn, he sat back and tried to figure out what was troubling him so much.
It came to him in two words: Rose Tilden.
For two days, he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.
What was she up to? What was she doing at the Cottage, of all places? There was no way it was just a coincidence and although Warren didn’t like to draw the worst conclusion, it was inevitable. She had to be some sort of corporate spy. Some clever and strange variation on the theme—a cross between Mata Hari and Donald Trump. He had heard rumblings that something like that was going on, but at first he had dismissed it as rumors. Now he wasn’t so sure.
If her contact with him had just ended with the caterer, he never would have suspected a thing. Whoever had sent her, if indeed someone had, had been smart to take that route. If he were a less honest businessman, he’d be jotting it down in his notes for future reference.
But once she showed up at the Cottage…well, that was bad planning. It was just too specific to be chance, wasn’t it? Of all the tiny, obscure little places she might have gotten a job, why the Cottage? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a woman working there. Maybe never. It was in what was generally regarded as a slightly unsavory part of town. That was one of the reasons he was spending so much time there. In fact, the neighborhood was still a diamond in the rough. He could buy property for a song and turn it around in no time.
Which was exactly what he intended to do.
He could think of three adversaries right off the top of his head who would have paid big money to find out what and where he was planning to develop next.
Had Rose figured it out? The real reason he was spending so much time in that booth at the Cottage was that he was planning to buy the building opposite it just as soon as he could get the owner—a creaky old man who ran a dry cleaner on the ground floor that never seemed to have customers—to sell.
Warren couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t accept any of his offers, though there were rumors of money laundering and vague Mob ties, so he had to keep an eye on the place to watch for changes. As soon as the old guy relented, and surely he would eventually, Warren had to pounce.
Then he’d tear the building down and use the space to build one of his luxury apartment complexes. More and more people were moving out of the heart of the city, for more and more reasons. Now was the time to bring the Harker touch to the suburbs of Manhattan.
Unless, of course, Monroe Associates or Chuck Donohue or Apex got wind of his plans and sabotaged them somehow.
The question was, who among them would go so far as to hire a beautiful woman to spy on him?
And had she figured out anything about his plans yet?
Rose’s first two weeks of work flew by. She liked being busy. And the truth was, she was enjoying working in her old hometown, a stone’s throw from the nostalgic beauty of Coney Island. It was still hot for mid-October, and there were a lot of tourists who kept the place hopping.
Toward the end of her night shift one Thursday night, it occurred to her that Warren Harker hadn’t been in for days. That led to a long series of troubling thoughts about the man; mostly troubling because once she started thinking about him she couldn’t stop.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Rose?” the busboy, Stu, asked. “You look sad.”
She sat down at the counter, glad to take a load off her aching feet. “Stu, do you know Warren Harker?”
He pressed his lips together and looked up and to the left, as if trying to see something very far away. “Mmm…I don’t think so.”
“Yeah you do,” Paul said with a yawn as he passed by with some plates in his hand. “Mr. Harker.”
Realization lit Stu’s eyes. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Harker. Sure. He’s in here all the time.”
Rose tried to keep from smiling. Stu was just like a child. It was going to take a while to get used to it. “Has he been here a lot?”
“Sure,” Paul said, clattering the dishes into the sink and turning back to her. “Few times a week. Always sits in that same booth.” He pointed to where Warren had, indeed, been sitting the last time she saw him.
“Why does he come here do you think?”
“Best food in Brooklyn,” Stu said.
“Horse manure,” Dick called from his booth several yards away. “If this is the best food in Brooklyn, Brooklyn is in trouble.”
At this point the short-order cook, Hap, poked his head out of the window from the kitchen. “Then why are you in here all the time, you big lug?” he asked with a bright, red-faced smile.
Dick gave a grumpy shrug and turned his eyes back to the racing section of the newspaper. “Close to home.”
Hap chuckled. “Customer’s a customer, I guess. No matter why they come in.”
“So why do you think Warren Harker comes in here?” Rose asked him. “I mean, the guy’s as rich as Croesus. He could eat anywhere. He could hire an entire cooking staff to be on call twenty-four hours. Why come to a little place like this, no matter how good the food is?”
“You think he doesn’t like the food here?” Stu asked, frowning.
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just wondering if there’s some other reason he comes here.” Not that she could think of one. If he hadn’t been coming all along, she’d have worried that he was so angry about what happened at his party that he came here to get her fired, but she knew no one was that petty. No one except Marta.
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Elizabeth Harbison
A PERFECT RECIPE FOR ROMANCEIngredients:1 self-made billionaire1 spirited waitress2 opposite lifestyles1 romantic location1 close working environment, with tabloid scandals and sparks of awarenessMix the first two items together, and add in additional ingredients as strong tension builds. Slowly turn up the heat until the attraction can no longer be denied–but be careful at this stage. The mixture will be extremely fragile and prone to falling apart! Add a pinch of passion and a dash of good luck, and the result will be a deliciously tender relationship that is sure to last a lifetime.
It was hard to call them friends.
Business associates would have been a mischaracterization. “Acquaintances?” Rose offered, closing her eyes for a moment against the tingle his touch sent through her.
There was a smile in his voice. “That’s a start.”
Warren didn’t move his hand from her face. And she didn’t want him to.
She realized she’d been holding her breath. “A start?”
“Well,” said Warren, “technically you could say we already had a start, a few weeks ago.”
She swallowed. “You could also say that was an aberration. A moment of weakness.”
Warren laughed and reached out, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Or maybe just basic attraction,” he said, looking into her eyes before he drew her into a kiss….
Dear Reader,
No month better suits Silhouette Romance than February. For it celebrates that breathless feeling of first love, the priceless experiences and memories that come with a longtime love and the many hopes and dreams that give a couple’s life together so much meaning. At Silhouette Romance, our writers try to capture all these feelings in their timeless tales…and this month’s lineup is no exception.
Our PERPETUALLY YOURS promotion continues this month with a charming tale from Sandra Paul. In Domesticating Luc (#1802) a dog trainer gets more than she bargained for when she takes on an unruly puppy and his very obstinate and irresistible owner. Beloved author Judy Christenberry returns to the lineup with Honeymoon Hunt (#1803)—a madcap adventure in which two opposites pair up to find their parents who have eloped, but instead wind up on a tight race to the finish line, er, altar! In A Dash of Romance (#1804) Elizabeth Harbison creates the perfect recipe for love when she pairs a self-made billionaire with a spirited waitress. Cathie Linz rounds out the offerings with Lone Star Marine (#1805). Part of her MEN OF HONOR series, this poignant romance features a wounded soldier who craves only the solitude to heal, and finds that his lively and beautiful neighbor just might be the key to the future he hadn’t dreamed possible.
As always, be sure to return next month when Alice Sharpe concludes our PERPETUALLY YOURS promotion.
Happy reading.
Ann Leslie Tuttle
Associate Senior Editor
A Dash of Romance
Elizabeth Harbison
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Paige and Jack with love from Mommy
Books by Elizabeth Harbison
Silhouette Romance
A Groom for Maggie #1239
Wife without a Past #1258
Two Brothers and a Bride #1286
True Love Ranch #1323
* (#litres_trial_promo)Emma and the Earl #1410
* (#litres_trial_promo)Plain Jane Marries the Boss #1416
* (#litres_trial_promo)Annie and the Prince #1423
* (#litres_trial_promo)His Secret Heir #1528
A Pregnant Proposal #1553
Princess Takes a Holiday #1643
The Secret Princess #1713
Taming of the Two #1790
A Dash of Romance #1804
Silhouette Special Edition
Drive Me Wild #1476
Midnight Cravings #1539
How To Get Your Man #1685
Diary of a Domestic Goddess #1727
Silhouette Books
Lone Star Country Club
Mission Creek Mother-To-Be
ELIZABETH HARBISON
has always been an avid reader. After devouring the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden series in grade school, she moved on to the suspense of Mary Stewart, Dorothy Eden and Daphne du Maurier, just to name a few. From there it was a natural progression to writing, although early efforts have been securely hidden away in the back of a closet.
After authoring three cookbooks, Elizabeth turned her hand to writing romances and hasn’t looked back. Her second book for Silhouette Romance, Wife without a Past, was a 1998 finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award in the Best Traditional Romance category.
Elizabeth lives in Maryland with her husband, John, daughter Mary Paige and son Jack, as well as two dogs, Bailey and Zuzu. She loves to hear from readers and you can write to her at c/o Box 1636, Germantown, MD 20875.
ARTICHOKE SALAD WITH CARAMELIZED SHALLOT AND CHAMPAGNE TRUFFLE VINAIGRETTE
Serves 4
3 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil
3 shallots, sliced and tossed with a little brown sugar
1 large garlic clove, minced fine
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp brut champagne or sherry
2 tbsp champagne vinegar
3 tbsp white truffle oil
Pinch of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 cups artichoke hearts, marinated in oil and drained
1 cup baby arugula, washed and drained
Heat olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pan over medium-high heat. Add the sliced shallots and sauté slowly until they start to caramelize. Once the shallots start to achieve a deep amber color, toss in the garlic and sauté for one minute.
Remove pan from heat.
Whisk together lemon juice, champagne or sherry and champagne vinegar. While whisking briskly, slowly drizzle in the white truffle oil. Add salt and a grind or two of black pepper.
Put the artichokes into the pan with the shallots and garlic and heat very gently over low heat, tossing the artichokes to fully integrate the flavor of the shallots and garlic.
Remove artichokes, shallots and garlic, placing them in a decorative bowl. Pour the champagne and truffle oil mixture over them. Toss again.
Add arugula. Toss again.
Serve warm or chilled.
Contents
Prologue (#ua1202262-746c-5cc7-8fdc-bc27fbf94c2c)
Chapter One (#u496b4a9c-29d4-5103-8fce-e07c9c7137b3)
Chapter Two (#u6be73b9c-abfb-5df2-bea7-83b903305b3a)
Chapter Three (#uded35895-a7a1-50b8-a62b-cbc52da76602)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Twenty-Five Years Ago
“What a shame,” said Virginia Porter, director of the Barrie Home for Children, looking at the little girls who had lost their parents in a car crash just one week ago. The little angels were sleeping now, but they had spent more restless hours awake and crying than Virginia could count. She’d walked the floors with them every night. If any of her hair had remained brunette at the beginning of the week, it was all gray now. “So young to be all alone in the world. It’s a terrible, terrible shame.”
The air conditioner kicked on, sending, as if on cue, a cold breeze into the room.
“Do you think we’ll be able to keep them together?” Sister Gladys asked, kneading her hands in front of her. “I can’t bear the idea of separating them.”
Virginia sighed. “Of course we’ll continue to try and find some next of kin, but it’s not looking hopeful at this point. We’ll have to start thinking about placement.” She frowned, already worried about how little control she might have over the matter. Like Sister Gladys, Virginia wanted to keep the girls together, but it would be hard to refuse a good home to one if the parents wanted just one child. At least the girls were young enough, at thirteen or fourteen months, that they probably wouldn’t remember any of this later. “We’ll do the very best that we can.”
“They’ll need each other, Miss Porter,” Sister Gladys insisted. If possible, she was even more tender-hearted than Virginia. “They’ve lost their parents so horribly, so suddenly. Surely we can make sure they keep each other. Please.”
The little redheaded girl, Rose, stirred in her sleep and Virginia bent down and stroked her hair to soothe her back to sleep. If she woke up, she’d cry…They could already tell that Rose was the most sensitive one of the three.
“We’ll try.” Virginia said softly, smoothing the child’s copper curls as she spoke. “I promise you, we’ll try.”
Chapter One
“Warren Harker, age, forty-one, height six feet two, hair, black, eyes, blue, educated at Stanford, but got his master’s from Harvard Business School.”
Rose Tilden listened incredulously as her boss, Marta Serragno, of Serragno Catering, listed the attributes of the man who had hired them to cater his party tonight.
“Has worked in real estate development and construction since 1988, established Harker Companies in 1992. Likes his meat rare, his business cold and his women hot. Bank portfolio, four hundred and twenty-seven million, give or take a million.” Marta licked her lips. “And soon he’s going to be mine.” She turned her dark eyes on Rose. “You can count on it.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Rose commented.
“Do you doubt me?”
Frequently, Rose thought. But there was no point in arguing with Marta. It wouldn’t end until she felt she’d won. Might as well give in to her early on. “Never.”
“Wise girl.” Marta tapped her index finger against her temple. “That’s the right answer.”
“Although, if you ask me…” Rose went on. Sometimes she was unable to stop herself from giving her opinion. Her sister, Lily, said it was her red hair that made her fiery that way. “We could do with a little less real estate development and a little more fixing up of what already exists.”
Marta gave her a chilly look. “I do hope you don’t plan on saying that to Harker.”
“Not unless he asks.” She’d never been shy about giving her opinion. Lily also kept telling her she needed to learn to zip it, because that red headed fire was going to get her into trouble, but every time she tried, she failed.
This was particularly bad in her line of work, since she was supposed to be nice and accommodating with the client and their guests, even in the face of sexual advances (which happened a lot) or complaints that were clearly concocted with the aim of getting free service (which happened even more frequently). Rose was amazed how often the richer clients tried to get something for free. Three years into the business, Rose had learned several strange truths, and one was that the wealthier the clients, the cheaper they tended to be.
And the cheaper they were, the meaner they tended to be.
Rose had trouble with that, but Marta was just fine with it. The richer the better, she didn’t care.
“Frankly, my dear,” she said to Rose, “you’re not going to have any sort of conversation with our client, so the idea of him asking your opinion on inner city refurbishment is out of the question.”
Rose gave a short nod. Marta was really such a jerk. If she weren’t so ridiculous, Rose might occasionally feel offended by her slings and arrows.
“Now,” Marta went on. “Did you make that artichoke salad everyone likes so much?”
“Eight pounds of it.” Rose pointed to the large bowl she’d been working on for the past hour. She knew why Marta wanted the lemon artichoke salad. It was one of Rose’s specialties. As a matter of fact, it was one of the dishes that tended to…well, people thought it had some sort of aphrodisiacal properties.
Clearly, Marta was looking for magic.
“You did it…” Marta gave a small, tight smile. “The usual way, right?”
Rose held a smile back. Marta was so transparent. “I always do it the same way,” she assured her.
“Excellent.” Marta turned her attention back to the gorgeous man in the parlor of the large hotel suite. “I’ll definitely be having a bowl of that tonight. Even though I hate artichokes.”
Rose stopped working and looked at her boss. “Marta, if you hate artichokes, don’t eat it.”
“If anything they say about that dish is true, I’m going to eat it.”
“Not everything they say is true.”
“Honey, if I eat it, the stories had better be true,” Marta said, in a voice that could have been jesting or bitterly serious.
Rose shrugged. “You haven’t even met Warren Harker yet. What if he’s a dud?”
Marta fixed a cold dark eye on her. “Number one: I have met him, although briefly. And number two: if he is a dud, he’s a dud worth four hundred and twenty-seven million.” She pressed her thin red lips together. “For that, I might have to learn to love artichokes. Wait a minute.” She touched her finger to her chin. “Maybe all that matters is if he likes artichokes.”
Rose shook her head and wordlessly went to assemble the silver chargers of cheese by region. Marta didn’t like cheese. She didn’t like fish. She didn’t like any vegetables. She didn’t like sweets. In fact, Rose had rarely seen her put anything in her mouth at all. Why she was still in the catering business was a mystery.
After all, she’d only inherited the business. Her second husband—or was it her third?—had left it to her when he’d died several years back. In that time, to her credit, Marta had kept the business going and had even upped its profile. But she’d never once shown any interest in food. She was just ruthlessly ambitious, and willing to succeed in any area that would allow her to prosper, both financially and socially.
So she’d succeeded in the catering business by hiring the best people and running the operation with an iron fist. So what if she couldn’t cook? In true Henry Ford fashion, she’d simply hired someone who could.
Rose.
Rose, along with her sister, Lily, had grown up in the Barrie Children’s Home in Brooklyn. The two had spent some of their time in foster care, all fairly good experiences, but as they’d grown older they’d spent more and more time at the orphanage. People didn’t want to foster older children as much as younger ones.
When they were sixteen, though, they learned that their first foster mother had died, leaving her meager estate to the girls so that they could go to vocational school and learn a trade.
Rose had gone to culinary school, while her sister had studied hotel management. Now, while Rose worked as an assistant caterer for Marta, one of the most prominent caterers in New York, Lily was a concierge in one of New York’s most exclusive boutique hotels, the Montclaire.
“How’s it going in here?” a small, twitchy man with a dark comb-over and black-rimmed glasses asked. “Is everything on schedule?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Potts,” Marta cooed. “You go tell your boss everything is just fine. In fact, maybe he’d like to come in here and—” she gave a coy smile “—sample my wares.”
Mr. Potts raised his eyebrows so high his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up hastily. “Mr. Harker trusts that your wares will be everything they’re advertised to be, Ms. Serragno.”
Rose stifled a giggle.
Potts left and Marta turned to Rose. “Can you believe that man? When I land this big fish, and I will, that worm is going to be one of the first things to go.”
“Oh, I don’t think he meant anything by it,” Rose said, not to reassure Marta so much as to spare Potts his job if she did manage to get her hooks into his boss. “Warren Harker’s just a busy guy. He trusts us to do a good job, just like we always do.”
Marta gave a mild nod. “I’ll do a good job, all right. How’s that artichoke salad coming along?”
The suite was incredibly posh. Rose had seldom seen such ornate handiwork and she’d worked in some of the finest homes in Manhattan. The chandelier alone must have cost more than a year’s worth of her salary. Word was that Harker had two residences in Manhattan, and countless others across the world. Money to burn. Real estate development must be on an upswing.
“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?” She asked a group of party guests, holding out the platter with its pretty little assortment of appetizers.
“Oooh! What are those?” a plump, bleached blond woman asked excitedly.
“Avocado egg rolls.” One of Rose’s better concoctions. “They’re particularly good with the tamarind sauce.”
The woman drew in her breath appreciatively and took several of them.
“I’ll try one of those,” a deep voice said behind Rose. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with Warren Harker.
He was taller than she’d realized, even though Marta had gone over his stats quite explicitly. His eyes were a pale, crystal blue, with the faintest laugh lines fanning out into his tanned skin.
“Mr. Harker.” She held the platter out to him. “Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”
“Anything but that artichoke salad your coworker has been chasing me down with.” He smiled and picked up a cheese puff.
“You don’t like the artichoke salad?”
“I don’t like anything held out to me on a spoon with someone saying, ‘Come on, just have a little bite.”’ He smiled. “Reminds me of my mother trying to get me to eat liver. Not a good memory.”
“Oh, I see.” Rose groaned inwardly. Marta did have a tendency to be a little heavy-handed when she wanted something. Or, in this case, someone. “Look, I’m sorry about that. She’s not…” What? Not herself? Marta was being completely herself. Not taking her medication? She had a purse full of prescriptions. “She’s not usually like that.” A lie, but harmless.
“Have you worked with her long?” He had a great voice. Low, smooth, perfectly modulated.
“Just about a year.”
“Ever think of striking out on your own?”
She looked at him. “As what?”
“A caterer.” He laughed. Very nice laugh. “You are the cook in this operation, aren’t you?”
Marta didn’t like anyone to know that she didn’t cook. “One of them.”
“One of them,” he repeated and gave a broad white smile. “You’re good. Loyal. If I were in the food business, I’d try to steal you away right now.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “My assistant set this whole thing up, and she says that Serragno never cooks, she just hires the best.” He gave a shrug. “Which is why I hired her. And if she hired you, you must be the best. At whatever it is that you do.”
Rose gave a wan smile. “I made the artichoke salad.”
“Ah.” He laughed outright, and several people looked over at them. “I’m sure it tastes far better than this foot I’ve been chomping on.”
Rose couldn’t help but chuckle. “If it doesn’t, I’m in the wrong business.”
“There you are.” Marta swooped in between them, still holding a ramekin of artichoke salad. She turned to face Warren and took what looked like a deliberate step backward into Rose, loudly knocking the platter to the floor.
Rose’s heart sank. All that food, smashed into the carpet.
“Rose Tilden!” Marta snapped. “That was very clumsy. Look what you’ve done to Mr. Harker’s carpeting.” She turned to Warren with what Rose could only imagine was a look of condescending disgust.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Warren said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Someone ran into her.”
Marta acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry about a thing, Rose will get that cleaned up.” She snaked her arm through his and tried to lead him away. “Why don’t you show me your view?”
Warren pulled back and went to Rose. “Let me help you with this,” he said, kneeling down in his two-thousand-dollar suit.
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Rose said quietly.
“No, it isn’t.” Marta stood over them. “She dropped it, she can pick it up. Now, about that view—”
“Go to any wall,” Warren said, helping Rose anyway. “Look out a window. You can’t miss it.”
Rose felt, rather than saw, Marta’s wrath surround them like a cold mist.
“I can get this,” she said to him, pulling a mini quiche off the floor. “Please. Go back to your party. I’d feel awful if I kept you from it because of this.” And she would be terribly self-conscious if Warren Harker stayed on the floor next to her, picking up bits of food.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, his voice quiet, “this is more interesting.”
Her face went warm again, and she looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Aren’t you enjoying your party?”
“This isn’t what I’d call a party,” he went on. “It’s more of a social obligation. Every summer I have one of these,” he nodded at the room, “soirées for the New York bigwigs and corporate head honchos. Got to keep in touch with them, know who’s who. I’m in the real estate business, you see.”
She was tempted to tell him she knew all about him, thanks to Marta, but decided instead to say, “I heard something like that.”
He studied her for a moment before continuing. “So this is what you might call good business. Bad party, good business. It happens a lot. I’m sure you see it all the time.”
Rose laughed in admission. “You’re right. But most people don’t admit they’re having a miserable time.” She picked up the last fallen appetizer, plopped it on the platter and stood up. “But why bother if you know you’re not going to like it?”
He stood up beside her. “See that woman?” He indicated a matronly-looking woman, perhaps in her eighties, dripping with diamonds. The woman had a sour expression on her face, with thin lips, pursed tightly together. “That’s Mrs. Winchester, the mayor’s mother. Word is, he doesn’t make a move without her approval.”
“So you need her to approve of you.”
“Bingo. So I’m plying her with good food and wine.”
“What if she just doesn’t like you?”
“She does.” He was absolutely confident. “At least for now. She does have her moods, and if she turns against you,” he gave a low whistle, “look out.”
“She reminds me of a woman I knew when I was a kid. Mrs. Ritter. She owned a flower shop in Brooklyn, which was ironic since she always looked like something smelled funny.”
“You’re from Brooklyn?”
She nodded. “You?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ve spent most of my life right here.” He eyed her. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Rose. Rose Tilden.”
Surprise flickered across his features. “Tilden?”
She nodded.
He frowned. “That’s not a name you hear every day.”
“I do.” She smiled. Almost every day, that is. Since she was two years old. The Barrie Home for Children was on Tilden Street in Brooklyn. All the children who came in without names or identification of any sort were assigned “Tilden.” Rose and her sister had come in wearing bracelets that identified their first names but not their last, so they became Rose and Lily Tilden.
“I guess you do,” he conceded, but the easy smile he’d worn a few minutes earlier was gone. “Interesting.”
“Rose, dear.” Marta’s voice sounded as if she were two inches behind Rose. “Could you please help Tonya in the kitchen?”
Rose turned to see a look in Marta’s eye that she had never seen before. It was sheer anger. “Is something wrong?” Rose asked.
Marta gave a thin-lipped smile. “Certainly not. Tonya simply needs help preparing the dessert tray.”
Rose gave Marta a long, hard look, then glanced at Warren and said, “Please excuse me.”
He gave a slight nod, then lowered his gaze onto Marta.
Rose didn’t see what happened next. She walked to the kitchen resolving with every step to quit this job. She loved the work and really enjoyed most of the people she worked with, but Marta had become more and more of a tyrant lately. Every time a party guest so much as asked Rose if she knew where the ladies’ room was, Marta was there, nosing her way in, trying to find out if Rose was being overly familiar with their clients. As if it were a bad thing to be cordial in a service-oriented business. What did Marta prefer? That Rose make the “zipping my lips” motion familiar to every third grader in America?
Rose just couldn’t deal with her anymore. Serragno might have one of the best reputations in town, but it wasn’t the only game in town. And Rose would probably be better off working for someone less tempestuous than Marta, even if they weren’t as high-profile. Her résumé would survive. She could still have a career.
When she got to the kitchen, Tonya was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire room was sparkling clean; there was no food prep out at all. Rose glanced out the opposite doorway and saw that the dessert had already been set up on the table.
“Just what do you think you’re doing flirting with the client?” Marta’s voice snapped Rose to attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s your job, right?”
“You bet it is.” Marta’s face went red like the top of a cartoon thermometer. “And I don’t want you getting in the middle of my affairs.”
“I wasn’t flirting with him.”
“That’s what it looked like to me.”
“We were just talking.”
“I don’t pay you to talk, I pay you to cook, serve and clean. That’s all. Got it? I don’t want to catch you doing this again.”
“What did you want me to do? Ignore him when he spoke to me?” Rose frowned. “What do you mean again?”
“I mean, as you well know, that over these past few months you have gotten bolder and bolder about speaking to our clients. And I don’t like it. Every time we do a partly lately, it seems as if you’re spending more time chattering with the guests than you are working.”
“That is absolutely not true,” Rose returned hotly. “I have never shirked my duties. As a matter of fact, I defy you to tell me even one time when I didn’t do at least fifty percent more than my job description called for.” She began untying her Serragno Catering apron. “See? You can’t. Because it hasn’t happened.” She pulled the apron off and folded it. “Look, this isn’t working for me and you’ve made it really obvious it’s not working for you, either, so let’s just call it a day, okay? Tonya, Keith and the rest of the gang can clean up without me.” She put the apron down on the counter. She was so angry her hands were shaking, but she hoped to God that Marta hadn’t noticed that.
Marta glanced out the door and then back at Rose. Like melting wax, her facial features relaxed. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry. Can you possibly forgive me?”
Rose was taken aback. “What?”
“This has just been so stressful for me.” She drew in a shuddering breath and dabbed at her dry eyes. “I just…I’ve been awful. I know it. I can’t blame you for quitting.” She gave a humble smile. “I’d do the same thing in your place.”
“You would.” Something wasn’t right here.
Marta nodded. “But the thing is, this is a very important party for me. The mayor is out there! He could bring so much business our way. Would you consider staying on at least for the rest of the night?”
“I don’t know, Marta…”
“I’ll double your pay. Honestly. I’ll pay you now. Hand me my purse.” She gestured toward a garishly shiny leather purse on a wingback chair in the other room.
“That’s not necessary,” Rose said, with a sigh. She took the apron off the counter and tied it back on. “I’ll finish the night as we agreed. But after that, you’re going to have to accept my resignation.”
“If you insist.” Marta sniffed, then crumpled into a heap on the gleaming tile floor. “Oh, I’m such a mess!” she said in a harsh whisper. “How can I face everyone out there?”
Rose felt completely helpless. What was she supposed to do? “Marta, come on. You’ll be fine.”
“Could you…could you do one teensy-weensy thing for me?”
Trepidation pounded in Rose’s breast. “What’s that?”
“Would you get my pill bottle from my purse? The brown one with the yellow lid?”
Rose hesitated for a moment before sighing and saying, “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
She went to the purse and lifted it. It was heavier than she expected, and one of the first things she touched was a soft clean handkerchief. That was weird. Something didn’t compute, but it wasn’t until she heard the gasp several feet away that the pieces began to fall into place.
“What are you doing with my purse?”
Rose looked up to see Mrs. Winchester—the mayor’s mother—standing with one hand over her mouth and the other pointing at her like a gun.
The noise of the party died down to silence. All eyes turned on Rose.
Suddenly everything moved in slow motion. She turned to see Marta, apparently recovered from her nervous collapse, standing with one hand on her hip and a smug look on her face.
“What’s going on?” Warren Harker appeared at the front of the crowd, looking from Mrs. Winchester to Rose. “What’s wrong?”
“That—that girl was stealing from me!”
“What?” Warren asked sharply, giving Rose a look that could have cut glass.
“Oh, no, no, I wasn’t,” Rose stammered. “I was just—”
“Put the purse down,” Warren said in a cold voice.
Until that moment, she hadn’t even realized she was still holding it. She dropped it, as if it were a dead thing, and said, “Marta just asked me to get something from her purse and said it was this one.” She turned to Marta. “Please. Tell them.”
“I cannot believe my eyes,” Marta said.
Rose couldn’t believe her ears. “What?”
When Marta spoke again, Rose knew she’d been set up. “Mr. Harker, I don’t know how to apologize enough for this. I don’t know what Rose was thinking.”
“I was thinking it was your purse, just like you told me,” Rose said sharply.
Marta shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “That’s enough, Rose. You’ve been caught.”
It was clear that there was no point in trying to get Marta to tell the truth since she’d gone to considerable trouble to set up the lie.
Instead, Rose turned back to Warren Harker. “Honestly, this is all just a big mistake.”
Mrs. Winchester whimpered like a wounded puppy. “I can’t believe we’re not even safe from theft in a place like this.” Her son, the mayor, patted her arm and said to Warren, “This is unacceptable.”
“Yes, it is,” Warren agreed, eyes on Rose. “I think you’d better go now.”
“I will,” Rose said, reaching around to untie the apron she had just put back on. “But you have to understand, I was not stealing from Mrs. Winchester. I was just trying to get something for Marta from her purse, and she said—”
“Stop!” Marta barked. “You’re a liar and I wouldn’t blame Mr. Harker for calling the police right now.”
“I think you should,” Mrs. Winchester agreed, nodding quickly. “Send a message.”
Rose’s jaw dropped. “This is a mistake!”
“I think you’d better go,” Warren said quietly. He moved forward and, with a firm grip on her arm, led her to the front door.
She wrenched her arm free. “You don’t need to manhandle me. It’s not like I want to stay.”
He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head and opened the door. Behind him, she could see the condescending expressions on the faces of his guests. A bunch of wealthy people who were more comfortable believing the “help” would steal than in listening to the truth.
For just a moment when she’d met him, Rose thought maybe Warren was different.
What a foolish mistake that had turned out to be.
One thing was for sure: it was a mistake she would never make again.
Chapter Two
“He sounds like a jerk,” Lily pronounced.
“Big-time,” Rose agreed. “I don’t know if I should conclude never to trust rich guys, or good-looking guys, or both.”
Rose and her sister were sprawled on the floor of their Brooklyn apartment, the newspaper Help Wanted section spread around them on the floor.
“How about simply never trusting Warren Harker?” Lily suggested. “Rather than wiping out the entire male population with one fell swoop. Or at least, the entire desirable male population.”
Rose sighed. “We’ll see. Oh, and add Marta Serragno to the list, too. I’m an equal opportunity mistruster.”
Lily chuckled. “So she actually used the words, ‘You’ll never work in this town again’?”
“That’s exactly what she said.” Rose circled another ad in the Help Wanted section of the paper. “And she’s as good as her word. So far I’ve been turned down by every major catering company in the entire city and two of three that are so minor you’d think she wouldn’t have ferreted them out.”
“Well,” Lily said with a straight face, “when you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, you’re going to have to expect repercussions, sis.”
“Very funny, Lil. Very, very funny.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Lily threw her arms around Rose and gave her a big squeeze. “I’m just trying to help you see the humor in this. Such as it is. I mean, it’s not like you’ll never work again.”
“It’s starting to look like it.” An ad for a gas station attendant caught Rose’s eye and, after a moment of self-pity, she circled it, too.
Lily looked over. “Oh, come on.”
“Come on what?”
“You can get a job in the food industry. Gerard said he’d hire you if Miguel didn’t already have the job.”
Rose mustered a smile. “That’s nice of him to say, but since Miguel already does have the job, he doesn’t really have to put his money where his mouth is.” Gerard owned one of the exclusive boutique hotels where Lily worked as a concierge. He’d always been so kind to both of them. “Unless…Maybe he’d hire me as a maid?”
“I’m sure he would, but you’d be miserable.”
“I’m miserable now.”
“No, I mean you’d be a miserable maid.” Lily smiled. “Look at your room. There’s hardly a place on the floor where you can see the carpet.”
“This is no time to joke, Lily,” Rose said, but she smiled.
“Okay, okay. Just trying to add a little levity. Now let’s think about this. What if you forget catering for the time being and try restaurants? Maybe even work as a waitress.”
“I’d do that gladly. Unfortunately, I’ve already tried. Same story. Marta Serragno is nothing if not determined. Horrid woman. Half the town seems to be sucking up to her and the other half seems terrified. I can’t win.”
“Wait a minute.” Lily tapped her finger against her chin. “I saw a sign up in one of these places…yes! It was the Cottage Diner. Over by Coney Island?”
“Cottage Diner? I’ve never heard of it.”
Lily shrugged. “It’s a greasy spoon, but a great location. Water view and all. The place itself looks like it’s been there since World War II. Maybe you could get in there as a waitress and then, you know, work your way up. Put the place on the map. Meantime, I bet the tourists and Coney Island visitors give good tips.”
Something in Rose tingled. “That’s not a bad idea. There’s no way that Marta would have gotten to a crummy little diner in Brooklyn. But if I could help them raise their profile…” She frowned. That was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t even gotten the job—or seen the diner, for that matter—and she was already thinking about raising the place’s profile?
As if reading her mind, Lily said, “I’m sure it will work out that way. And I’m telling you, the location is great.”
“Hmm.” For reasons she couldn’t quite express—maybe just intuition—this was striking Rose as a good idea. A very good idea. Something told her this could work out in ways she hadn’t even thought of. “Where is this place exactly?”
Like the plucky heroine in an old movie, Rose took the Help Wanted sign out of the Cottage Diner window and carried it inside with her to ask for the manager.
She approached a busboy who was clearing dishes from a booth. “Excuse me,” she said.
He turned, startled, and dropped a mug onto the floor. It didn’t break, but bounced loudly under the booth. He looked at Rose and his face turned red. “Yyes?”
“I’m here about the job.” She indicated the sign she was holding.
If possible, his face turned even more crimson.
“You need to talk to Doc, the owner,” a voice barked behind her. “Tim’s just a busboy.”
She turned to see a craggy-faced customer sitting in another booth, holding a newspaper. There was a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and about ten empty sugar packets. “Doc’s in the back.” He looked her over skeptically. “But I’m not sure you’re exactly what he’s looking for. What do you think, Al?”
He looked across the room at the only other customer in the place. The pudgy gray-haired man sneezed, dabbed his nose with a napkin and said, “Give her a break, Dick.” He sneezed again and said to Rose, “They’ve had pretty waitresses here before, but they always leave.”
“I’m always willing to try another pretty waitress, though.” A bald man in a greasy white apron came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Doc Sears.” He set the towel down on the counter and held his hand out.
Rose shook it. “Rose Tilden.”
“You’re looking for a waitress job?”
“If you’re looking for a waitress.”
He looked at her skeptically. “You don’t look like the kind of waitress we’d get here. Bet you could make a lot of money a few miles into the city.”
He was talking about Manhattan, of course. Where she couldn’t get so much as a job busing tables. “I live here.”
He looked at her as if he wondered what the truth was, but was too tactful to ask. “Can you work evenings?”
She splayed her arms. “Any time you want.”
“You gonna stay on longer than a week?”
“I guarantee it.”
“Good.” He took the sign from her and ripped it in half. “You’re hired, Rose Tilden. Can you start tonight?”
Lunchtime had been dead in the diner, and dinner wasn’t a whole lot better. Doc was working the grill alongside a short-order cook called Hap, short for Elwood Happersmith. Rose privately concluded that, under the circumstances, she would have preferred Hap, too.
Only about half the booths were full, and the only other waiter was a young man named Paul, who spent more time dozing in an unoccupied booth than waiting tables, leaving Rose to handle pretty much the entire crowd.
She didn’t mind, though. She was just glad to have the work.
She was on her feet from two in the afternoon until 10 p.m. With closing time just an hour away, and her feet eagerly awaiting the promise of an Epsom salt bath, her last customer came through the door.
Warren Harker.
She did a double take. If she’d made a list of the top fifteen people she least expected to see in a place like this, Warren Harker would have been close to the top, along with Gandhi and Fidel Castro.
For a moment, she froze, heart pounding. She didn’t know if it was the lighting or the fact that she’d spent the day looking at guys like Dick, Al and Doc, but Warren Harker was even more slick-looking than she’d recalled. His dark hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his crisp blue suit—with loosened tie and unbuttoned collar—fit like a charm across his wide shoulders.
The jerk.
And now he was her customer. This was spectacularly bad luck. A quick glance at the booth she had already come to think of as “Paul’s bed” revealed that the waiter was indeed snoring away, so she was stuck with Warren Harker.
Rose took a quick breath and straightened her back. She could do this. No problem. With a little bit of luck, maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.
She walked toward him, feeling a little like a prisoner being led on the final walk down the prison hall. Of all the greasy spoons in all of New York, why why why did he have to walk into this one?
“Can I take your order?” she asked, laying on the Brooklyn accent a little thick and keeping her eyes averted.
Her efforts were wasted. Apparently Dick was right in saying they didn’t normally have women waiting tables here, because Warren looked up from his paperwork with surprise.
“Hey, you’re new,” he said.
She barely glanced at him. “Just started today.”
He gave a laugh. “Wow, I don’t know when I last saw a women working here.”
Oh, no, he was a regular?
That was it; she was doomed. She was going to lose another job and, given the trouble she had had in finding this one, she didn’t know where she’d go next.
“So what can I get you?” she asked, keeping her tone short.
“Just a coffee, thanks. And real cream, not milk. Doc’s always cheap with the cream.”
So he was a regular. “Sure thing.” She turned to get the coffee, thanking her lucky stars he hadn’t realized who she was. Yet.
But she was stopped in her tracks not three feet away.
“Wait a minute.”
She closed her eyes, dreading what was coming next.
“I know you, don’t I?”
She could feel his eyes on her back, sending a tickle straight down her spine.
“Don’t think so,” she answered without turning around.
“Come here.” It was practically a command. Apparently he was so used to having people jump when he told them to that he felt perfectly comfortable bossing everyone around.
She took the coffee carafe from the counter and turned to go back to his table. She kept her eyes downcast, in the ridiculous hope that if she didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t see her. Ostrich logic. “What is it?”
“I know we’ve met.”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so.” Then she made the mistake of glancing at him.
His blue eyes looked her over for a moment before he snapped his fingers. “Serragno Catering.”
“I—”
“You’re Rose Tilden!”
Chapter Three
“What the hell are you doing here?” he went on, before she’d even had a moment to respond.
His tone was so sharp, so downright accusatory, that she was taken aback. “I’m working here.”
“What?” He looked around, as if trying to find confirmation that this was true.
“I’m working here.”
“That’s impossible.”
She tightened her grip on the coffee carafe, tempted to assure him that his wallet was safe from her. But she bit her tongue and instead tried to be mindful of her job. “Do you need more sugar?”
He looked at her for a long moment, before shaking his head. “I don’t do sugar.”
You don’t do sweet, either, she thought pouring coffee into his cup. “Well, is there anything else I can get you? We’re closing up soon.”
“Nothing,” he said, distracted. “How long have you been working here?”
“Are you investigating me, Mr. Harker?”
“Should I be?”
Good lord, he sounded serious! “Of course not!” she responded quickly. “I was joking.”
“That’s reassuring.” His tone remained even. Cool.
Accusatory.
“Mr. Harker, are you implying something? If so, I really wish you’d come right out and say it.”
“Hey, now, what’s going on here?” Doc came out of the kitchen and ambled over to the booth. “You two know each other?”
“We’ve met,” Warren said, keeping his eyes on Rose.
Her heart pounded as she wondered what else he would say to Doc and if she would lose her job because of it. For a moment, she stood there, suspended in time, filled with anxiety at the thought of what Warren might reveal.
Then she decided she would just tell Doc the truth herself. There was no point in standing around wondering if someone else was going to control her future; she had to do it herself.
“I worked for a caterer at one of Mr. Harker’s parties,” she said to Doc. “I was falsely accused of stealing and lost my job because of it, but I promise you I didn’t do it.”
Doc laughed and patted Rose’s arm. “You’re as wound up as an old alarm clock, aren’t you? I know you wouldn’t steal anything.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you.”
“What sort of idiot accused you of stealing?”
She glanced uneasily at Warren.
“No!” Doc exclaimed. “Not you!”
Warren gave a small shrug. “The evidence was, as they say, overwhelming.”
Doc looked at Warren incredulously. “What are you, crazy?”
“I’ve been called worse than that,” Warren said. Then he frowned and added, “I think I’ve even been called worse than that by you, Doc.”
Doc furrowed his brow. “Then you deserved it, I’m sure. Now it sounds like this little lady has been through enough. You ease up, Harker, or you’ll find yourself drinking some mighty cold coffee in here.”
Warren took his wallet out, opened it and left a twenty on the table for the dollar fifty check. “Your coffee isn’t that good to begin with, Doc.”
“Hmmph.” Doc crossed his arms in front of his barrel chest. “You drink too much of it anyway.”
Warren laughed, then headed for the door without looking back at Rose. “See you next time.”
“Be nice to my waitress,” Doc called after him, then turned back to Rose. “See? He’s not so bad.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully, watching the dashing figure of Warren Harker walk out the door and into the night. “Does he come in here very often?”
“Few times a week. He’s been in quite a lot lately.”
Her heart sank. This was going to be trouble for her. “Why? He doesn’t live near here.”
“Nah. Just likes to hang out here, I guess.” Doc gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry about him. He may be a big shot up in the city, but around here he’s just another fella looking for a cup of coffee. Now let’s wake Paul up and get out of here. Got another day of work tomorrow, you know.”
Warren Harker leaned back against the leather seats of his Town Car and watched the drizzly gray city pass by. It had been unseasonably cold and rainy all day, and his mood had grown worse by the hour, along with the weather.
Now, on what promised to be a long wait in traffic on the drive to Brooklyn, he sat back and tried to figure out what was troubling him so much.
It came to him in two words: Rose Tilden.
For two days, he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.
What was she up to? What was she doing at the Cottage, of all places? There was no way it was just a coincidence and although Warren didn’t like to draw the worst conclusion, it was inevitable. She had to be some sort of corporate spy. Some clever and strange variation on the theme—a cross between Mata Hari and Donald Trump. He had heard rumblings that something like that was going on, but at first he had dismissed it as rumors. Now he wasn’t so sure.
If her contact with him had just ended with the caterer, he never would have suspected a thing. Whoever had sent her, if indeed someone had, had been smart to take that route. If he were a less honest businessman, he’d be jotting it down in his notes for future reference.
But once she showed up at the Cottage…well, that was bad planning. It was just too specific to be chance, wasn’t it? Of all the tiny, obscure little places she might have gotten a job, why the Cottage? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a woman working there. Maybe never. It was in what was generally regarded as a slightly unsavory part of town. That was one of the reasons he was spending so much time there. In fact, the neighborhood was still a diamond in the rough. He could buy property for a song and turn it around in no time.
Which was exactly what he intended to do.
He could think of three adversaries right off the top of his head who would have paid big money to find out what and where he was planning to develop next.
Had Rose figured it out? The real reason he was spending so much time in that booth at the Cottage was that he was planning to buy the building opposite it just as soon as he could get the owner—a creaky old man who ran a dry cleaner on the ground floor that never seemed to have customers—to sell.
Warren couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t accept any of his offers, though there were rumors of money laundering and vague Mob ties, so he had to keep an eye on the place to watch for changes. As soon as the old guy relented, and surely he would eventually, Warren had to pounce.
Then he’d tear the building down and use the space to build one of his luxury apartment complexes. More and more people were moving out of the heart of the city, for more and more reasons. Now was the time to bring the Harker touch to the suburbs of Manhattan.
Unless, of course, Monroe Associates or Chuck Donohue or Apex got wind of his plans and sabotaged them somehow.
The question was, who among them would go so far as to hire a beautiful woman to spy on him?
And had she figured out anything about his plans yet?
Rose’s first two weeks of work flew by. She liked being busy. And the truth was, she was enjoying working in her old hometown, a stone’s throw from the nostalgic beauty of Coney Island. It was still hot for mid-October, and there were a lot of tourists who kept the place hopping.
Toward the end of her night shift one Thursday night, it occurred to her that Warren Harker hadn’t been in for days. That led to a long series of troubling thoughts about the man; mostly troubling because once she started thinking about him she couldn’t stop.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Rose?” the busboy, Stu, asked. “You look sad.”
She sat down at the counter, glad to take a load off her aching feet. “Stu, do you know Warren Harker?”
He pressed his lips together and looked up and to the left, as if trying to see something very far away. “Mmm…I don’t think so.”
“Yeah you do,” Paul said with a yawn as he passed by with some plates in his hand. “Mr. Harker.”
Realization lit Stu’s eyes. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Harker. Sure. He’s in here all the time.”
Rose tried to keep from smiling. Stu was just like a child. It was going to take a while to get used to it. “Has he been here a lot?”
“Sure,” Paul said, clattering the dishes into the sink and turning back to her. “Few times a week. Always sits in that same booth.” He pointed to where Warren had, indeed, been sitting the last time she saw him.
“Why does he come here do you think?”
“Best food in Brooklyn,” Stu said.
“Horse manure,” Dick called from his booth several yards away. “If this is the best food in Brooklyn, Brooklyn is in trouble.”
At this point the short-order cook, Hap, poked his head out of the window from the kitchen. “Then why are you in here all the time, you big lug?” he asked with a bright, red-faced smile.
Dick gave a grumpy shrug and turned his eyes back to the racing section of the newspaper. “Close to home.”
Hap chuckled. “Customer’s a customer, I guess. No matter why they come in.”
“So why do you think Warren Harker comes in here?” Rose asked him. “I mean, the guy’s as rich as Croesus. He could eat anywhere. He could hire an entire cooking staff to be on call twenty-four hours. Why come to a little place like this, no matter how good the food is?”
“You think he doesn’t like the food here?” Stu asked, frowning.
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just wondering if there’s some other reason he comes here.” Not that she could think of one. If he hadn’t been coming all along, she’d have worried that he was so angry about what happened at his party that he came here to get her fired, but she knew no one was that petty. No one except Marta.
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Elizabeth Harbison
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A PERFECT RECIPE FOR ROMANCEIngredients:1 self-made billionaire1 spirited waitress2 opposite lifestyles1 romantic location1 close working environment, with tabloid scandals and sparks of awarenessMix the first two items together, and add in additional ingredients as strong tension builds. Slowly turn up the heat until the attraction can no longer be denied–but be careful at this stage. The mixture will be extremely fragile and prone to falling apart! Add a pinch of passion and a dash of good luck, and the result will be a deliciously tender relationship that is sure to last a lifetime.