Proud to Serve Her(8)

“You said those were too sweet.” John John didn’t look up, but amusement littered his words.

“Pinch of salt and paprika on the soup should offset that. Send those out in fifteen. Steaks in forty-five.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Damon. I’ll be sending.” Despite the sardonic Driving Miss Daisy humor, the chef spared him a reproachful look. “It’s about time you sat down with that young lady and stopped playing games.”

“Not changing strategies.” Guilt punched him. Should have just ‘fessed up so she didn’t feel stood up. He didn’t realize it was her birthday. He was such an ass. But he could fix it. “Just moving up the time table.”

Salad plate in hand, he exited the kitchen. The crowd continued to ebb and flow. Captain Dexter’s table had added four more chairs and he caught the hand wave from Logan and the nod from Zach. It didn’t surprise him that his fellow Marines made a show of solidarity, but it did leave him with a satisfied glow. They never left a buddy behind and tonight was no exception.

The curtains were already rolling around the private lounge, the swish of heavy velvet a whisper against the tiled floors. He caught the fabric, letting himself in before it closed then drank in the sight of her parted lips, raised eyebrows and wary pleasure—he was going to have to do something about that wariness.

Setting his filet and salad on the spot next to hers, he shifted the table settings and pulled up a chair. He checked his watch—sitting right at the three-minute mark.

“Are you sure you’re not going to get into trouble?” Her voice was a smooth contralto, a perfect descant to his deeper voice, and wholly feminine.

“I’m positive. And it would be a crime to leave you sitting here alone.” He shook out the napkin, spread it over his slacks, and glanced at her plate. She’d left it be, exactly as he asked and he considered it for a moment, switching the plates so hers boasted the warmest steak on the coldest salad.

Shifting in her chair, she crossed one leg over the other and he fought the urge to glance down. The tip of one black heel peeked out from under the tablecloth, flashing a sexy, come-hither red bottom at him.

“Thank you and I apologize. I should not have dumped all of that on you.”

“I asked. I wanted to know.” The corner of his mouth tilted up at the wash of emotion dancing across her face—confusion, regret and a hint of exasperation. “Tonight is supposed to be special for you. I’ve picked a wide selection of dishes designed to tease and tantalize your palate, and none of them come with a side of misery.”

“I thought you said the owner chose my menu tonight….” The slow delivery suggested she’d already put the pieces together, so he refilled her glass before adding a generous measure to his own.

“I did.”

“You own Lagniappe’s?” Her lips parted in expressive wonder.

God, he hoped she was as delightfully open when he carried her off to bed. It was going to be a lights-on session, all hands on deck and his eyes on hers when he slid between her thighs. His cock jerked hopefully at the thought, but he ignored the urge to jump the gun. Strategy was about surgical insertions and definitive results. They’d not finished prepping the foundation yet.

Soon.

“Yes, ma’am. Damon Sinclair at your service and as I said earlier, it is my pleasure to serve you. Now, shall we drink to new acquaintances and new experiences…?”

Her eyelashes fluttered twice and her lips stretched into a grin that promised delight. “Helena Blake, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Damon.”

“Damon.” She touched her glass to his, the gentle clink an almost musical note. “To new acquaintances and experiences.”

He watched her sip before taking one of his own, testing the flavor with a swish of his tongue. The Châteauneuf-du-Pape was an excellent vintage, its spicy undertones warming his mouth. A soft sigh pushed past her lips and he smiled again.

“You like the wine.”

“I love the wine.” She set the glass down with a little shiver. “But I’m not much of a drinker, not sure I could tell you the difference between a boxed variety, or a fine vintage. But this is magnificent.”

He barely held back the grimace at the mention of the boxed variety.

“What?” Her soft brown eyes narrowed and the glass lowered to the table. “You said you could tell a lot about a person based on the wine they drank. What does a box wine say about me?”

“You’re going to make me answer before I can coax you into trying this next dish, aren’t you?”

Releasing the glass, she sat back in the chair, arms folded. “Yes, I am. Because now I’m really curious.”