Fortune's Just Desserts

Shaking his head, Jeremy laughed shortly. “Wouldn’t it be something if the baby turned out to be Dad’s?”

Drew frowned. “Don’t be an idiot, Jer. Dad’s a one-woman man and he picked Lily. There’s no way he would have fathered another woman’s baby.”

Jeremy inclined his head, conceding the point. But there was still a glaring question left. “So why did he disappear?”

“Hell if I know.” Out of town now, he stepped down on the accelerator, picking up speed. “When he gets his memory back, we’ll ask him.”

“If he gets him memory back,” Jeremy cautiously qualified.

Trust Jeremy to ground him in reality. “Yeah, there’s that, too,” Drew conceded. “For Lily’s sake, I hope this guy does turn out to be Dad and that his memory loss is just temporary.”

Amnesia was a tricky condition, and if William was in fact suffering from it, there was no knowing how long it would last—or if it would ever clear up.

“Amen to that.”

Drew gave him a long glance, surprised. “You turning religious on me, Jeremy?”

Jeremy’s shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. “Everyone needs a little help every now and then,” he allowed. “In our family’s case, I think we could stand to use an extra dose of it.”

This is more like it. Wendy wove her way around the tables, heading toward the ones that comprised her station. Working at Red had turned out to be a far better fit for her than she’d initially expected.

Her parents had first sent her to work at the Fortune Foundation, located right here in Red Rock. It had taken her only a couple of weeks to discover that she was psychologically allergic to claustrophobic-size offices. She felt too confined, too hemmed in. She just didn’t belong in a nine-to-five job inside a building whose windows didn’t open.

Granted, out here in the spacious dining area there weren’t any windows to speak of, either, but the windows in the front of the restaurant kept the space bright and airy as did the ones in Marcos’s office.

That room was actually smaller than her office at the Foundation, but somehow, it still felt a lot more airy.

That probably had something to do with the man in it.

If the word gorgeous in the dictionary had a photo next to it, she had no doubts that it would be Marcos’s.

Especially if he was smiling.

She’d seen Marcos smiling—not at her, of course. For some reason, she only seemed to elicit frowns from the man whenever he turned his attention to her. But when he was mingling with Red’s patrons, he always had a wide, sexier-than-sin smile on his lips.

Despite the hectic pace during business hours, she’d managed to observe him with the customers—in particular the female patrons—and Marcos was nothing if not charismatic. He even smiled at the kitchen help and some of the other staff.

Smiled, she thought, at everyone but her.

Boss or not, she was determined to find out what it was about her that seemed to coax those dour looks from him.

Wendy wasn’t used to a man deliberately scowling at her instead of going out of his way to curry her favor and approval. All of her life she’d been the recipient of admiring looks, wide grins, broad winks and a great deal of fawning.

A lot more fawning than she actually cared for. But that was predominantly because she was her father’s daughter and the fawning person usually thought that he could flatter her into getting an audience with the famous Fortune.

As if, she thought with a toss of her head that managed to loosen her bound-up hair a little.

Wendy paused and sighed. That was the part she didn’t care for. She liked having her hair loose, flowing. But those were the rules. Customers, Marcos had told her when he’d handed her a barrette, didn’t like finding hair in their meals.

When she’d asked, “Even if it’s mine?” it had been meant as a joke, but Marcos had snapped no at her, and the look in his eyes told her that he thought she was genuinely a few cards short of an actual deck.

Obviously when God had given the man an extra dose of sexiness, He had subtracted any and all fragments of humor. From their interactions, she’d come away with the feeling that Marcos Mendoza was born without a funny bone.

Too bad, because, aside from that, the man was practically perfect in every way. But he fell short of the mark to ever have a serious chance at entering her daydreams.

A man without a sense of humor was like a day without sunshine. Not really too pleasant.

Reaching her station, Wendy smiled warmly at the people the hostess had just seated. After working here for a little more than a month, she was beginning to recognize familiar faces and learn their names.

This particular table seated six and each chair was filled by a virile, rugged-looking wrangler who appeared as if he’d ridden up to the restaurant’s doors on a horse rather the extra-wide truck that was now parked in the front lot.

Her brown eyes traveled from one member of the group to another, silently greeting them even before she said, “Hi, boys, what’ll it be?”

The tallest of the men held his unopened menu before him, his eyes slowly drifting over the length of her torso. “Dunno about my friends, but I’m suddenly in the mood for a little Georgia peach,” he told her.

Word must have gotten around that she was from Atlanta. Either that, she thought, or her accent gave her away. In any case, this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been hit on, although it was the first time she’d been hit on at Red.

Unfazed, Wendy’s eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not on the menu.”

“Wasn’t thinking of having it here,” the wrangler answered. His grin grew wider. “What are you doing later, after you get off?”

“Not being with you,” Wendy answered, her smile just as wide, her tone just as friendly as it had been before. But there was no mistaking the fact that she had no intention of getting together with the insistent patron.

“Looks like the little lady’s got your number, Dave,” one of his friends hooted, tickled. “She’s a feisty one, this one.” There was admiration in the other man’s voice.

Dave, apparently, wasn’t quite ready to give up just yet.

“You sure?” he asked, catching Wendy by the wrist to draw her attention away from the others at the table and back to him. “You really don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

“Guess that’ll just have to be my loss,” Wendy replied, fisting her hand as she began to yank her wrist free.

“C’mon, Dave, settle down,” another one of his tablemates urged.

Before anyone else could chime in, Wendy suddenly found herself being physically moved aside and manually separated from the overzealous cowboy. To her surprise, Marcos had placed himself between them, facing the amorous customer. His rigid posture told her he was none too happy about this situation, even before she heard his voice.

“Is there some kind of problem here?” Marcos asked the man, keeping his voice even and the edge of his anger visible but under wraps.

“No, no problem,” the cowboy assured him, raising his hands up in the universal symbol indicating complete surrender.

“Good,” Marcos replied with a quick nod. Turning to see who was in the immediate vicinity, he called out to the closest waitress. “Eva.”

Recording an order, the woman looked up and raised a single quizzical eyebrow when she saw who had called her name.

Marcos indicated the people at the table. “When you’re done over there, take this table’s orders, please.”

Okay, hold it, Wendy thought, growing annoyed. If he thought he could just shoo her away like an inconsequential fly just because a customer had gotten a little grabby, Mr. Marcos Mendoza was in for a big surprise. She wasn’t about to be dismissed that easily—especially not since she had the impression that the restaurant manager would back her up.

“There’s no need to call in anyone else,” she told him cheerfully, her smile never wavering. “This is my station, I can take their order.”

Marcos felt his temper flaring. He was not nearly as laid-back as he had to pretend to be when he was at Red. But exploding in front of a roomful of diners wasn’t something he wanted to do. Aside from it being bad for business, it was guaranteed to get back to his aunt and uncle within five minutes. He didn’t want them regretting having hired him.

The way he grossly regretted that they had hired this Fortune woman, favor or no favor.

“Then do it,” he instructed tersely. Before leaving, Marcos paused for a moment to issue her a silent warning that he didn’t want any more trouble from her or because of her.

The moment Marcos was out of earshot, the man who had started the dust-up gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your boss.”

Readying the electronic board she’d been given to note down the various orders, Wendy glanced over her shoulder at Marcos’s broad, disappearing back.

“You didn’t.” She turned back to face the men at the table. “He’s had it in for me ever since I started working here.”

“Anything we can do?” another one of the patrons at the table asked seriously.

“Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “You can order. Now, what’ll it be, gentlemen?”

This time, they gave her their orders without any further incident.

Wendy Fortune was trouble.

Marcos had known in his gut she would be. Knew it the very first time he laid eyes on her. The patrons, his uncle had pointed out after observing her on the floor the second day she was on duty, liked her.

But that, Marcos thought, was part of the problem. Some of the male patrons seemed to like her too much.

He supposed, if he were an impartial observer, he couldn’t exactly blame them. She had a supple figure that caught a man’s attention, even hidden beneath the wide, colorful skirt and white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that the female waitstaff wore. Couple that with her soft laugh and that Southern accent of hers and the men were drawn in like hapless fish in an overstocked lake.

When word of mouth about the new “knockout of a waitress” spread, business at Red started booming even more than usual.

He wouldn’t have minded what was happening if—

If?

What if?

Was it because he was annoyed that business had picked up, not dropped off the way he’d feared when he’d predicted that the Fortune girl would be bad for Red?

Or was there something else that was annoying him about her presence in his restaurant?

Was it just that rich people in general annoyed him because he thought that they always acted as if they were better than everyone else?

In Wendy’s defense—as if he had to defend her—he hadn’t noticed her behaving that way once she’d begun working here. There was no bored-to-tears heiress drama about her. She’d listened diligently while Eva showed her the ropes, instructing her where to find the flatware and dishes, how to serve people, how to pour beer into their glasses and a whole host of things he was sure Wendy hadn’t concerned herself with prior to coming here.

According to Eva, she had been a good student, absorbing everything she was told the first time around. There was no need for repetition.

Maybe it was just that he didn’t like his opinion being disregarded—and then proven wrong. Because, so far, the Fortune woman was working out rather well.

After he’d allowed himself some time to calm down, he silently admitted that the incident at the table earlier hadn’t been her fault. After all, he couldn’t blame her for taking a man’s breath away merely by standing there.

Marcos stood off to the side, watching as her table of six finally left. There were just too many maybes for him to waste his time contemplating. After all, he had a restaurant to run—all of it, not just one particular employee.

“Did he hurt you?” Marcos wanted to know when she came back to the register with the table’s signed credit statement.

The question—and his supposed concern—took her by surprise. Wendy braced herself for a lecture. Whenever Marcos spoke to her, there was always a lecture in the offing.

“He gripped my wrist a little harder than I’m accustomed to, but no, he didn’t hurt me. And I think he felt bad about it.” She reached into her apron pocket and displayed a rather thick wad of bills. Unlike the payment for the meal, the men at table eight had left the tip in cash. “He got his friends to leave me a real substantial tip.”

Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have said anything. Money didn’t matter to her. She’d always had more than enough. But tips meant that the patrons liked you and she wanted to prove to her handsome, thickheaded boss that the people who frequented Red didn’t find her lacking, the way he did.

Marcos frowned as he watched her tuck the money she’d flaunted back into her pocket. It was just as he’d always heard. The rich were greedy. And the richer they were, the greedier they were.

“What do you plan to do with your ‘tips’?” he asked sarcastically.

Given his frame of mind, he wasn’t prepared for her answer.

“I thought I’d give them to Eva.” Her words drew a scowl from him—why, she had no idea—so she added, “She’s pregnant, you know.” Wendy realized that she’d miscalculated when she saw the look of complete surprise that came over his face. “I guess you didn’t.” She pressed her lips together. Why was it she never said anything right around this man? He made her fumble around like some self-conscious schoolgirl. Wendy sighed. “Did I just get her in trouble?”

“No,” he answered curtly, “you didn’t.”

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way straight to Eva.

Chapter Three

“Eva, can I have a word with you?” Marcos requested as he passed by the attractive, raven-haired waitress. Without breaking stride or slowing down, he added, “In my office.”

The smile on the young woman’s lips faded away. Her sunny face paled slightly. Taking off her apron, she hurried to follow Marcos into his office.

When she crossed the threshold, Marcos closed the door. The sounds coming from the kitchen were muted. Without saying a word, he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

Sitting down in the worn chair behind the scarred desk, Marcos leaned closer to the waitress before finally asking her, “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

He heard Eva catch her breath, watched as she grew even paler. Was she afraid of him? Why? If anyone had asked him, he would have said that they had a good working relationship.

Eva pressed her lips together and met his gaze nervously. “You know.”

He could see that this wasn’t going to be easy. She was afraid of him, or at least afraid of something. That bothered him.

“That would be obvious from my question. Why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated.

Eva looked down at her hands, lacing her long, slender fingers tightly, as if that was all that was holding her together. “Because I was afraid,” she finally said.

It was one thing to suspect that she was afraid of him, it was another to actually hear her say it. It stung more than he’d thought it would.

“Afraid?” he echoed incredulously.

Her head bobbed up and down. “That you’d fire me,” she explained. “I mean, who wants to see a pregnant waitress waddling over with their order, right?” But even as she asked, she was watching him hopefully.

Eva had been the first person he’d hired when a vacancy had become available, about two months after he’d started at Red. He couldn’t deny that he had a soft spot for her in his heart.

Which was why her response took him by such surprise. Did he come across as some kind of ogre to her and the others?

He thought he’d done his best to be fair and evenhanded with all of them—except for perhaps the Fortune girl, but that was a different matter entirely. As for his real staff at Red, he’d tried to make himself available to all of them so that if there was some kind of problem, they’d tell him.

Apparently he wasn’t as approachable as he’d thought.

Still, in light of how things were these days, with everyone watching their back and afraid of losing their jobs—usually for reasons beyond their control—he could see where Eva might be afraid.

But if she’d just come to him with this news, he would have set her straight.

As he intended to now.

“There’s only one reason to let someone go—and only one reason to fire them. The first happens when the business is losing money, which, happily, is definitely not the case here at Red. The second is if the employee is more interested in getting away with things than in getting the job done. We both know that doesn’t describe you. You’ve always been an exceptionally hard worker, Eva.”

Mentally, Marcos made a notation to look into getting her a raise. With another mouth to feed, she was going to need one.

In response to his words, Eva’s breathing grew a little more even and relaxed. Calmer, she looked up at him, still a little confused. “If you don’t want to fire me, then why are you angry that I didn’t tell you that I was pregnant?”

“Because if I’d known, I would have seen to it that you were assigned to the smaller tables. Pregnant women shouldn’t have to struggle with overloaded trays,” he told her.

She’d always been proud of the fact that she pulled her own weight. Now was no exception.

“I don’t want any special treatment, Mr. Mendoza,” Eva protested.

“It’s not special, it’s just common sense. If you wind up overdoing it, carrying trays that are too heavy for you, you might wind up hurting the baby—or worse. You could wind up in the hospital—and Red would be out one damn good waitress. So it’s settled,” he said with finality. “You take over waiting on the smaller tables, starting now.” Marcos looked at her pointedly. “Anything else I should know?”

Eva allowed a little sigh of relief to escape her lips. “No, sir.”

“You need any extra time?” he asked her. “Maybe some time off to go see your doctor?” When Eva flushed and hesitated before answering him, Marcos arrived at his own conclusion: she wasn’t going to a doctor. “You need to see a doctor on a regular basis, Eva. It’s important for your baby—and you.”

Opening the double drawer on the right side of his desk, Marcos thumbed through several folders until he found what he was looking for: insurance information. He pulled out a thick booklet and handed it to her.

“You have health coverage. Pregnancy is a covered expense. Go see your doctor. And if you don’t have a doctor and find that you have trouble picking one out—”

“I have a name,” Eva assured him. “My sister gave me the name of the one she uses. Dr. Sonia Ortiz.”

He hoped she was a good doctor. “All right. Call Dr. Ortiz and see if she can squeeze you in this afternoon or tomorrow morning. I don’t want you having any problems because you haven’t been taking care of yourself, Eva.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mendoza,” Eva cried, tears of relief shimmering in her eyes.

Marcos flushed at her words. He didn’t want her gratitude, that just embarrassed him. What he did want was for the woman to take care of herself—and the child she was carrying.

“I’m glad we talked,” he told her, turning his chair so that he was facing his computer. “Why don’t we both get back to work.” Marcos smiled, then touched the keyboard and activated the monitor on his computer. Abandoning its sleep mode, the screen instantly grew bright.

Focused on his timesheets, Marcos barely heard Eva leave his office. There was a slight pause before he heard the door being closed again, making him think that perhaps Eva had wanted to ask him something else.

“That was very nice of you.”

The soft, melodic Southern drawl made him look up sharply from his screen. There was only one way to construe the woman’s words, since not enough time had passed for Eva to have filled his personal albatross in on the conversation they had just had.

“You were eavesdropping,” he accused.

“Yes,” Wendy said simply. “I was.”

Marcos stared at her, momentarily speechless. The Fortune girl made absolutely no attempt to deny her transgression. If anything, he thought he heard a hint of pride in her voice.

She was brazen, he’d give her that. In another setting, that might have even intrigued him a little. He liked a woman who didn’t act like a shrinking violet. Usually. But not in this case.

“I had to,” she told him before he could demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing, listening in on his private conversation with an employee. “I was afraid you were going to rake her over the coals about being pregnant. There was fire in your eyes when you walked away and called her into your office,” Wendy explained. “I figured you were either mad at her—or at me. If it was her, I wanted to be there for her when you finished reading her the riot act.”

His eyes narrowed as he pinned her in place. “And if it was you?”

He expected her to cower, or at least pretend to. Instead, Wendy smiled in response. That same bright, disarming smile he’d seen her aim at the customers, both male and female, when she walked up to their tables.

The same smile that somehow seemed to brighten up a room.

It was official, he thought. He was losing his mind. Because of her.

“If it was me, I thought I’d spare you having to come and fetch me. I figured that would make you even angrier.”

To his further surprise, Wendy slid into the seat that Eva had just vacated and then, without so much as blinking or building up to it, she asked, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

She definitely wasn’t the kind of employee he was used to. Or the kind of woman he was used to, for that matter, either.

“Whether I do or not doesn’t matter—”

Again she didn’t give him a chance to finish—why didn’t that surprise him? “It does to me,” she told him. “I’m not used to people not liking me,” she said with genuine sincerity. “Now what have I done to rub you the wrong way?”

Her choice of words was unfortunate because it unexpectedly conjured up a scenario in his head that had absolutely nothing to do with their work relationship, but it did have a great deal to do with him as a man and her as a woman.

A very sensually attractive woman.

The next second Marcos upbraided himself for allowing his mind to veer off the path so drastically. It wasn’t like him. Not when he was at work.

Something else to hold against the woman, he thought grudgingly.

Ordinarily, he had a great deal more control over his thoughts and his reactions, both inside Red and outside, when he socialized. He was a man who liked to party in his off hours, but not so much that he ever carelessly ignored the consequences that any of his actions might generate.

But there was just something about the Fortune girl—beyond being saddled with her—that pushed all of his buttons at the worst possible moments.

Since she’d asked a legitimate question—and he wasn’t the type to shy away because he’d lost his nerve—Marcos gave her an answer.

“I don’t like people who have had everything handed to them and expect that to continue for the rest of their lives.” He looked her straight in the eye. And was mildly impressed when she didn’t look away. She was either very gutsy, or too dumb to know what he was talking about. And he was beginning to suspect, from what he’d witnessed, that she wasn’t dumb. “I also don’t like people who don’t know what it means to work.”

Wendy nodded, waiting for him to be done. So that she could begin. “Anything else?”

“Oh, there’s a lot more,” he assured her, even though he hadn’t phrased it properly in his mind yet. “But that’ll do for now.”

Wendy nodded, seeming to accept his response. But rather than get up and leave in a huff the way he’d expected, she slid forward in her chair, fixed him with an unabashed, penetrating stare and asked, “Has anyone complained about me? Has anyone told you I was doing a bad job, or not carrying my weight?”