Proud to Serve Her(2)
A big step.
Damon had offered to travel with him, but the man declined. He still received counseling from James regularly, and between the psychologist’s support and the rest of the unit, Matt was getting it together.
“Yo, boss….” The call tugged his attention back toward the kitchen, but a tingle on the back of his neck warned him to wait. Threading through the line at the door was a long-legged brunette, her short dark hair angling around the smooth, alabaster skin of her face. A modicum of makeup—he supposed it was makeup—highlighted fine cheekbones, delicate eyes and a direct, no-nonsense stare that shot a sizzling jolt to his cock.
Oh, please let that be Helena Blake….
Willowy didn’t begin to describe the slender woman. A white scarf hung around her neck and dangled between her small, pert breasts. The gray sleeveless top and smart black skirt seemed too sedate for the sensuality in her plump lips and dark eyes. His gaze roamed down her body, pausing only when the crowd surged between them then parted again. The press of people annoyed him, he wanted more than peek-a-boo glimpses.
He watched Javier guide her past the velvet ropes to the private dining area set up just off the main room. Close enough to be public, but private enough to indulge in good conversation.
Hell. Yeah.
Whirling from the door, he darted past the servers to check the white chili with fresh chicken and shrimp bubbling in a separate pot. “Whatcha need John-John….”
***
Helena eased around the restaurant’s overflowing tables. She hated to be late. The maître d’ cut a path through, but she had to hurry to keep up or risk the press of bodies refilling the empty space. The overwhelming noise level rattled her after relaxing to Tchaikovsky on the drive. She’d hardly believed the email when it arrived two days ago. Had it really been a year since she’d signed up for Madame Eve’s exclusive 1Night Stand service? Had it taken the woman that long to find a possible match?
Skepticism chased the frustration cramping her stomach. Smells assaulted her—first the tang of a fish broil overlaid with the roasting smell of meat, then the sweet pastry aroma of a bakery—all layered together. Her stomach roiled in a vociferous growl. She latched onto each new scent like a drowning man desperate for driftwood. Not eating since the rushed yogurt and protein bar before court had been a mistake.
The rich, piquant scent of gumbo served to the table on her left distracted her, and she bumped into the young man lurching up from the table on the right. She swayed dangerously on her four-inch heels. A firm hand latched onto her arm, steadying her. The maître d’ pulled the kid out of her path.
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” But the hard look he gave the poor boy earned her a fast, mumbled apology and an open path through the crowded restaurant to a table segregated by red velvet ropes and carefully placed dividers.
Her escort pulled out a chair for her and she sat, crossing one leg over the other. She hadn’t expected to be the first to arrive, particularly since she’d run so late.
“Would you care for a drink?” The man offered no menu or wine list and she pursed her lips. A glass of wine sounded heavenly if not for the small fact that she’d be asleep ten minutes later.
“Actually, I’d love a cup of coffee. Black. No sugar.” Three sugars and loads of cream sounds way better but would add way too much to the hips. So, black it is.
“Right away, ma’am.” Her escort gave her a grin and vanished back into the chaos that was Lagniappe’s. Elbow propped on the table, she perused the crowd. It was mix of upper middle class to mildly wealthy, sprinkled liberally with college students and young adults. The bar seemed to be the most popular spot, where the ratio of females exceeded the males. The bartender must be something to see.
Exhaling, she stared at a tray of piping hot bread bowls filling a waiter’s tray as he ducked through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Her stomach pinched. The carbs alone would kill her diet. Salad would be her best bet, particularly considering her blind date was late. The last thing she needed was to fall on the food like a starving woman.
Another steaming tray of shellfish and cornbread sailed past and she wanted to weep. She’d pay her soul for the spicy combination of crawfish washed down by cold beer. A third man appeared through the swinging doors, and she forced her attention back to the round table in front of her. The heavy red linens on the white cloth added to the atmosphere of city chic meets down home charm. Crystal wine glasses decorated the place settings along with heavy silverware and three cloth napkins per place setting. The restaurant served delicious, messy meals and the napkins would be used.