Blackhawk Desires

When she didn’t reply, he stepped back and dragged a hand through his rumpled hair. “Dammit, Kiera, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

She slid off the counter, picked the bag up from the floor, then dropped the box inside. “I didn’t ask you for help, Sam.”

His eyes dark with anger, he stared at her for what felt like a lifetime.

“Fine.”

He ground the single word out through gritted teeth, then turned and headed for the door. He yanked it open, stopped, spun around and leveled his gaze at her.

“Just tell me this,” he said tightly. “And dammit, tell me the truth. Are you married?”

That she could honestly answer. “No.”

A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. She watched him turn and slam out the door. Slowly, she released the breath she’d been holding, then leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.

She heard a car engine rev, then the squeal of tires.

Men!

With an irritated groan, she pushed away from the counter and bent to pick up the fruit that had rolled on the floor. Why should he be mad at me? she thought, picking up an orange and tossing it back onto the counter. And why were the men in her life who mattered to her most so damn demanding?

She scooped up another orange and glared at it. “I refuse to be bullied.”

Why the hell did she have to fall for a guy who had the same ornery, the same intolerable, the same insufferable temperament as Trey?

She spun around at the sudden knock on the door. So he’d come back to interrogate her further, she thought and marched toward the door, ready to argue if that’s what he wanted. She threw open the door.

But it wasn’t Sam standing there. It was Clair.

“I—I’m sorry,” Clair said hesitantly, obviously startled at the unexpected force of the door opening. “I must have come at a bad time.”

“No, no. Of course not.” Kiera felt the heat of a blush scurry up her neck onto her face. “I’m sorry. I thought you were—never mind. Please, come in.”

Kiera closed the door when Clair stepped inside, then moved to the counter and picked up the box sitting there. “I hope I bought the right one. There were several to choose from and I really hadn’t a clue.”

“I wouldn’t have known, either.” Clair stared at the pregnancy kit with a mixture of wonder and amazement on her face. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “Oh, I hope you’re right. I really, really hope you’re right.”

“Then I really, really hope I’m right, too,” Kiera said, then stiffened when Clair moved forward and hugged her. Just a brief hug, a simple, I’m-just-so-happy-I-want-to-share-it hug.

But to Kiera it was so much more.

It was a hug that had the power to topple defenses. To break through walls. To answer questions.

If there was anyone she dared trust, anyone who might be able to answer those questions, Kiera knew it was Clair.

But she couldn’t. Not only because it was terrible timing, but because now that she had established this connection she was terrified of losing it, afraid that the joy shining in Clair’s eyes would turn to doubt. Maybe even to hatred.

When the time is right, she thought, praying it would be soon.

“I’m sorry.” With a sniff, Clair stepped back and wiped at the tears in her eyes. “I’ve just been so emotional these past couple of weeks.”

“That’s another sure sign.” Kiera blinked back her own threatening tears, then shifted uneasily, not sure what to do now. “Can I—ah, would you like something to drink? Some water or iced tea?”

“Iced tea would be wonderful,” Clair said distantly, still staring at the box in her hands. “I think I might need a couple of minutes to calm down before I drive home.”

“Sugar?” Kiera asked, pulling a pitcher out of the fridge.

“No, thanks.” Clair moved to the counter, glanced at the groceries and the chopped basil. “You cook?”

“I like to,” Kiera said, filling a glass from the cupboard. “Do you?”

“Never learned, and now I’m too busy.” Clair nodded at the pan with butter in it. “What are you making?”

“Chicken marsala.” Kiera handed the tea to Clair, then threw caution to the wind. “You’re welcome to stay and eat if you’re hungry.”

“Just the tea, but thanks for the offer. Maybe a rain check?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t let me keep you, though,” Clair said, sipping her tea. “I would enjoy watching you for a few minutes. It fascinates me how people can take a bunch of different ingredients and turn them into something exotic and delicious. Unless you’d rather not have someone hanging over you—”

“I don’t mind.” Kiera moved back to the stove and flipped on the burner. If there was one place she felt most comfortable, it was in the kitchen. And besides, if she was cooking it would keep her mind off being nervous around Clair—off all those questions she so desperately wanted to ask.

“So where did you learn?” Clair settled on a counter bar stool. “Your mother?”

Kiera shook her head. “Cookie Roggenfelder.”

Clair raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I was raised on a ranch in East Texas.” Kiera opened a package of chicken breasts she’d had the butcher pound thin for her. “When I was eight, I spent most of my time following after the cook.”

“Named Cookie,” Clair added, grinning.

Kiera nodded. “I’d beg him every day to let me help and every day he’d say no. I guess I finally wore him down, because on my ninth birthday he gave me an apron and told me if I still wanted to help, I had to start at the bottom. The bottom being peeling potatoes, shucking corn, chopping onions. It was nearly six months before he let me actually cook anything. I made corn fritters.”

“How did you do?” Clair asked.

“They were hard as granite and burned, to boot.” While she opened a bag of flour, Kiera smiled at the memory. The kitchen had smelled like smoke for three days. “Cookie insisted I bake them every day until I got it right. Took me three weeks straight, but now I can honestly say I make the best corn fritter you’ve ever tasted.”

“I’ve never had one.” Clair swirled the ice in her tea. “But you’re definitely making me want one.”

“I’ll make them for you sometime,” Kiera said, then dusted the chicken with flour. “You’ll be spoiled for life.”

Clair studied Kiera’s face for a moment, then took another drink. “Does that mean you’ll be staying in Wolf River?”

Kiera’s heart jumped a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Like I said before, small towns are brutal on a person’s private life.” Clair gave an apologetic shrug. “There’s been some talk.”

“Oh?” Somehow, Kiera managed to keep her hand steady. Butter sizzled when she dropped the chicken into the heated frying pan. “What kind of talk?”

“What you’d expect,” Clair said. “Where you come from, why you’re here. Why you’re living in a motel, by yourself. If you’re married.”

“I’m not married.” But she’d answered a little too quickly, Kiera realized, especially for someone who was trying her damnedest to be calm and collected.

“I’m sorry if I’m prying.” Clair’s voice was truly contrite. “But I do have an interest in you beyond idle curiosity. I’d like to know if the best waitress my hotel has ever hired plans on sticking around for a while. And besides, I like you. This may sound weird, and it’s probably just my hormones going crazy, but I feel as if we have a connection, somehow. I realize we just met, but I’d hate to lose you, as a Four Winds employee, and as a friend.”

“I—” Kiera had to choke back the lump of emotion in her throat “—thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me that chicken you’re cooking will be done soon,” Clair said with a grin. “I wasn’t hungry a minute ago and now I’m suddenly starving.”

Kiera and Clair looked at each other. Together they said, “Another sign of pregnancy.”

They laughed, then Clair folded her arms and leaned forward on the counter. “I promise I won’t pry anymore, but I’d love to hear more about Cookie and the ranch you grew up on. It sounds wonderful.”

It had been wonderful, Kiera thought. Until two weeks ago, when she’d found out everything had been a lie. For the moment, though, she would pretend she didn’t know the truth. Meeting Clair had helped ease the pain somewhat, but there was still so much to learn. So many questions to be answered.

And besides, after her incredible lapse of good judgment with Sam, she needed a distraction. Cooking and talking with Clair would certainly be a welcome one.

“My favorite Cookie story—” Kiera said while she turned the chicken “—has to be the day one of the new ranch hands inadvertently commented that his mama made the best ribs in the entire state of Texas….”

Six

It seemed as if everywhere he turned, Sam saw an expectant mother. In the lobby. On the elevator. At the pool. An hour ago he’d seen two of them, walking together into the hotel spa. Then there was Christine, Adagio’s manager, three of the women in Housekeeping and two of the desk clerks. Was it some kind of cosmic joke being played on him, or had he just suddenly become excruciatingly aware of their presence?

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the report on his monitor. He’d been staring at the same page, at the same figures, for the past half hour. The way his day was going, he might finish this simple accounting statement around one or two in the morning.

But why should today go any better than last night?

It frustrated—and irritated—the hell out of him he couldn’t get Kiera out of his mind. Or the burning question: was she pregnant?

It had taken a will of iron today not to seek her out and force the issue. If she’d thought she was pregnant, it might explain why she’d been so secretive since she got here, especially if she was running away from the father of her child. She’d told him she wasn’t married, so the father would most likely be a boyfriend. He remembered the black eye she’d had when she’d first arrived, and his hands tightened on the arms of his chair.

Five minutes, Sam thought, narrowing his eyes. That’s all the time he’d need with the guy. Hell, that would be taking it slowly. He could mess the jerk up big-time in under two without breaking a sweat.

He shook his head and sighed. Something just didn’t jive here. Not that he knew anything at all about pregnant women. He didn’t know a damn thing.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a feeling that what he was seeing, what she’d let him see, was all wrong.

Or was that just what he wanted to think?

He swore, then rose and walked to the window in his office, stared down at the crowded pool. It was late afternoon, a popular time for guests to swim and stretch out on the lounge chairs. There had to be at least thirty people down there. Kids splashing, old men in shorts with white legs and socks sitting under umbrellas. Gorgeous women sunbathing in bikinis. And where did his eyes end up?

On a pregnant woman.

Dammit!

He turned and started to pace. Kiera was just as attracted to him as he was to her, there was no question about that. She’d been just as wild for him as he’d been for her. God, he could still taste her, still feel her body pressed against his.

He dragged both hands through his hair and linked them behind his head. What the hell was she hiding from him? he wondered. Or, more likely, who? Why wouldn’t she tell him anything? And why wouldn’t she let him help?

She was driving him crazy.

I don’t want this complication, he told himself. I like my life just the way it is.

So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Why couldn’t he stop worrying if she was all right, if she needed anything?

If the test was positive …

He continued to pace. In spite of his lack of knowledge regarding “female stuff,” he just couldn’t believe she was pregnant. Kiera hadn’t missed a beat since she’d been hired at Adagios. She worked as hard, if not harder, than any other server on staff. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to throw up a lot, turn green and sleep all the time?

Shoot, Clair was acting more like she was pregnant than Kiera, he thought. Just yesterday she’d fallen asleep in the middle of a presentation by that publicist for the Cattlemen’s Association, and she’d had that bug she hadn’t been able to shake—

He stopped, furrowed his brow.

Clair?

Where the hell had that thought come from?

Clair had been acting strangely the past two days. He’d assumed because she’d suspected something had happened between him and Kiera.

But what if he’d had it all wrong, and she’d been distracted for another reason? Lord knew nothing had been as it seemed since Kiera had shown up. Why should this be any different?

Why indeed?

He squared his shoulders and set his back teeth. Enough already. He wanted answers.

And he wanted them now.

“Imbecile!” A loud clash of pots and pans followed Chef Phillipe’s ringing insult. “This is repulsive. Mon dieu, I would not feed this slop to the pigs, let alone people.”

A plate of grilled salmon in her hand, Kiera listened to Chef Phillipe berate Robert, Adagio’s sous-chef. Phillipe was on his usual daily rampage and poor Robert was his most recent victim.

“This is what I think of your so-called food.” Phillipe picked up the pan and turned it over, spilling the sauce onto the floor. For good measure, he then tossed the pan on the floor, as well. “You are a disgrace to chefs everywhere.”

Red-faced, Robert glanced from the mess to Phillipe. “But I did what you—”

“Silence!” Phillipe bellowed. “Your brain is like a petite pea. Who taught you to cook? The man who cleans out your plumbing pipes?”

Kiera winced. While she was grateful that Phillipe’s anger hadn’t been turned on her for once, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the young man. He was fresh out of culinary school and from what she’d seen, quite talented, though still unsure of himself. Kiera figured any confidence that Robert had would quickly be beaten out of him by Phillipe.

Stay out of it, she told herself. Just turn around and walk away.

“Must I do everything myself?” Phillipe towered menacingly over Robert, who was visibly shaking. “You are incompetent.”

She clamped her teeth together and turned away. Haven’t you got enough problems of your own? This is your last order of the day. Just keep walking …

“You will never be a chef,” Phillipe continued. “You are not even fit to serve the food that I prepare.”

Unable to help herself, Kiera glanced over her shoulder, saw Robert’s eyes welling up.

Oh, hell.

She sucked in a breath, let a heartbeat pass, then dropped the plate in her hand. Well, more like threw the plate, she supposed. It landed with a loud, satisfying shatter.

Phillipe spun around, his eyes bulging with fury.

“Sorry,” she said innocently. “It slipped.”

Launching into his native language, Phillipe rounded on her, his fists clenched. Kiera spoke, and understood, enough French to know that his insults were as vile as they were insulting. The man was an ass, and she knew she should probably back away—or at least be afraid—but anger overrode her good sense.

And the expression on poor Robert’s face—a mix of horror and relief—was enough to make her stand her ground.

If there was one thing Trey had taught her, Kiera thought, it was how to drop a man—any size—to the floor. When Phillipe strode toward her, she waited for the man to even lift a finger. Almost hoped that he would. With all the frustration that had been building in her since she’d left Stone Ridge Ranch, she was certain her knee would pack quite a wallop.

When Phillipe moved into her space, she tightened her leg—

“What the hell is going on here?”

Kiera froze at the sound of Sam’s voice behind her. Dammit! Would this man forever be sneaking up on her?

Still, she didn’t turn, didn’t take her eyes off Phillipe, who looked as if he was about to pop a blood vessel in that thick neck of his.

“What is wrong?” His chest heaving, Phillipe glared at Sam. “I will tell you what is wrong. I am surrounded by complete idiots.”

From the corner of her eye, Kiera watched Sam’s jaw tighten. He glanced at Robert and the mess at his feet, then the plate she’d dropped. When he lifted his gaze back to her, she saw the controlled anger there. Her spine stiffened. Believe whatever you want, she thought. He’d already tried and convicted her yesterday when he’d seen the pregnancy test. What possible difference could it make to add one more crime to her long list of offenses?

“He is a buffoon.” Phillipe pointed a sausage-thick finger at Robert, then narrowed his beady eyes at Kiera. “And she is a clumsy, insolent—”

“That’s enough.”

The chef puffed up his chest. “You cannot expect me to work with such dim-witted, abruti—”

“I said, that’s enough.”

Stunned at the steel-edged tone in Sam’s voice, Phillipe clamped his mouth shut and gave an indignant tug at the hem of his shirt. “I will return in fifteen minutes. I expect them both to be gone.”

Phillipe turned on his heels and stomped out of the kitchen. Sam turned his gaze to the trembling sous-chef. “Robert, go over to catering and help Andrew with the anniversary party in the ballroom.”

“I’m not fired?” Robert asked incredulously.

“You’re not fired.” A muscle jumped in Sam’s clenched jaw. “Just don’t let Phillipe see you until I straighten this out.”

“Yes, sir.” Robert hesitated, then cast an anxious glance at Kiera. She smiled reassuringly at him. He smiled back weakly and hurried out of the kitchen.

When Sam turned his dark gaze on her, Kiera pressed her lips firmly together. She refused to make excuses or apologize. “I dropped a plate.”

“Did you?” He looked down at the broken china and food, then back at her. “Come with me.”

Her heart sank. Damn you! she wanted to scream. How could he have kissed her like he had—twice!—and suddenly treat her with such cold disregard? Did he even care what had happened here?

Did he care about her?

Apparently not.

“What about my customer’s order?” Kiera glanced at the salmon she’d intentionally dropped on the floor, then thought about the sweet, white-haired woman who’d ordered it. “I can’t just leave.”

“I’ll have a menu and apology sent over and comp the meal.”

“It took her twenty minutes to decide on the salmon.” Kiera knew she was goading him, she was beyond caring. “I doubt that will make her happy.”

“Fine.” He could have ground glass between his clenched jaw. “I’ll comp a meal for two and if she’s a guest here, I’ll comp her room, too. Will that make her happy?”

“I’m sure it will.” Delighted that something good was going to come of this debacle, Kiera gave a satisfied nod. “You sure you don’t want me to finish up my shift, because it’s almost over and—”

“No, Kiera, I don’t want you to finish up your shift. One of the other servers can cover your station. Now come with me.”

He turned and slammed through the kitchen’s double doors. On the other side, the entire lunch staff scattered like a herd of frightened deer.

Kiera yanked her apron off and threw it on a counter. He wanted to talk to her? Fine.

She’d talk all right.

Pushing through the doors, she grabbed her purse out of the employee closet. After she told Sam Prescott exactly what she thought of him, it was pretty much a done deal she’d get canned. The last thing she wanted was to have to come back here and deal with the you-poor-thing-you-didn’t-deserve-it condolences. Strangely enough, even Tyler was looking at her with sympathy.

She caught up with Sam after he’d paused long enough to give instructions to Christine, then followed him through the restaurant.

He didn’t say one word to her.

In the elevator, she stared straight ahead, refused to even glance at Sam, determined to hold her tongue until they were in the privacy of his office. She’d been holding in too much for too long. She was ready—past ready—to let it out. No doubt she’d regret it later, but she’d simply deal with that when the time came.

Tension crackled in the tiny space, and the overhead music sounded like a muted roar. When the doors slid quietly open, Sam strode purposefully into the hallway without giving her so much as a glance. Part of his intimidation method, she figured, stalking after him. She kept her gaze lasered to the back of his head, every step heightening her already strained emotions.

He stopped outside an unmarked office, slid a card-key into the door and opened it, then stepped aside. Head high, she marched in. When she heard the door close behind her, she dropped her purse onto an armchair and whirled on him.

“Chef Phillipe is a bully,” she said furiously. “He insults every member of the staff and refuses to acknowledge any mistake on his part, though let me tell you, he makes plenty.”

Arms folded, Sam simply stared at her.

A tiny little voice told her to put a sock in it, but she squashed the voice like a bug. She was on a roll and had no intention of slowing down.

“The man hasn’t a creative bone in his body,” she ranted on. “Everyone knows he’s hanging on the skill and reputation of your last chef. Everyone but you, obviously, or you wouldn’t put up with his arrogant nonsense.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so.” She slammed her hands onto her hips and moved closer. “Robert is a wonderful sous-chef and he has tremendous potential. He just needs a little guidance, which he’ll never get from Phillipe. You know why?”

“I have the feeling you’re going to tell me,” Sam said evenly.

“Yes, I am going to tell you.” Why not? she thought. She’d already cooked her goose, why not serve it on a platter while she was at it? “Because any sign of talent threatens him so he beats it down. Because he knows he lacks the je ne sais quoi that a truly great chef is born with. And because, sooner or later, he knows that he’ll be found out, and when he is he’ll be flipping burgers and slinging hash in a coffee shop somewhere.”

Lord, but she was riled.

Sam watched Kiera throw her arms out in exasperation. Her cheeks were flushed and sparks flew from her eyes like tiny blue bolts of lightning. He was certain he’d never met anyone like this woman before. She absolutely fascinated him.

She absolutely dazzled him.

“I don’t know why I’m trying to explain this to you.

You wouldn’t understand working in a kitchen, what it means, what it takes.” She spun on her heels and flounced away. “And why should you believe anything I say, anyway? You’re too busy making assumptions and passing judgments.”

“Kiera—”

“You’re management, I’m just a waitress. What the hell do I know?”

“Kiera—”

“I’m done talking. So what are you waiting for? Fire me already.” She whirled around and faced him. “Never mind. I’ll make your job easy. I quit.”

“Kiera,” he said patiently. “I believe you.”

That stopped her. “What?”

“I said, I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Still unsure, she tilted her head. “Which part?”

Sam folded his arms and sighed. “Chef Phillipe is a bully riding on the previous chef’s coattails,” he repeated her words. “He hasn’t a creative bone in his body and Robert is a good sous-chef. I already knew all that.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

She frowned. “So then why did you let me go on like that?”

Grinning, he leaned back against the door. “I was enjoying the show.”

Her frown darkened, then she suddenly went still and scanned around the room, confused. “This isn’t your office.”