"Oh, come on. There has to be more to it than that, since you can afford to do whatever you want."
They were finally bonding in a way. She really wanted to know more about him. He decided to confide.
"I've never had male friends my own age—nobody to talk to, really, about all the stuff boys talk about. I was too smart and too young for the kids in my classes. Hell, I was fourteen when I was a college freshman and my classmates treated me like a baby brother. But I did have one friend, Don Leone, the family chef, who filled in the lonely times teaching me to love properly prepared food. I know I'll never be a chef. I'm too good at what I do now. When I work at the hotel, I guess I'm living those good times and making a connection."
"Yeah, but waiting tables for seven bucks an hour and tips?"
"Don't knock it. I meet interesting people." He paused at the look in her eye, and added, "Other than women on the prowl."
"So, get going already." She grinned. "I have a new book from the library about some high school brainiacs who hack into the computers at a bank in the Bahamas and take down the oil cartel."
Apparently the storm was over and they'd made some real progress.
He laughed. "You are one scary woman."
She returned his smile and relief filled him. He'd managed to fumble his way through another parental crisis, but he was left with a sharp awareness of just how fragile their relationship had become, and how ill equipped he was for parenting, but maybe they could be friends. His background had not prepared him to know how to manage being a parent.
Lindsay loved the Victorian ambience of the Kensington Royale, a living anachronism, holding court among massive oaks on the highest hill in the town, like an aging queen, unaware of the modern world around her.
The investors who built her over a hundred years ago had a grand dream of owning the country's greatest destination resort hotel—a dream never quite fulfilled. Today she catered to the tourists' yen to experience a life of Victorian elegance, with all the modern amenities, discreetly hidden, of course. The belief that the hotel was haunted only added to the attraction.
Her role as a surviving relic served as a reminder of the Victorian era—halcyon days in the late eighteen hundreds when fashionable city dwellers came to 'take the waters' of the nearby springs. In the late 1890s, the town was a thriving spa and the single-track railroad delivered carloads of health-seekers daily, before the Great Depression changed everything forever.
Lindsay's imagination required only minor tweaking when she entered the lobby graced with antique settees placed around the pink marble fireplace. Crystal-paned doors opened into the dining room. She imagined the guests who had lingered there, a century ago, waiting for the dinner gong. The gong was no more, but a hostess greeted her as she entered the hushed elegance of the Crystal Room.
"Your group is already here, Lynn, over there in the corner, where you'll have some privacy to talk. Go on and someone will be there in a minute with water and menus."
"Thanks, Helen." The room was always crowded on a Friday night. Lynn paused a moment to enjoy the huge chandeliers hung from the walnut paneled ceiling. Their myriad, winking crystals scattered confetti of light on the glassware, silver, and crisp, white table linen. She spied Caro, when her hand rose in greeting, and threaded her way across the room.
"Hey, Lynn." You had to know Caro—get past her attractive face and feminine mien—before you realized what a smart and capable administrator she was.
"Hey yourself." She nodded to Janine and Mary as she slid into the remaining upholstered armchair at the table.
The two were such a contrast. Mary, a bank teller, was short, with only a bit of lipstick. She kept her soft, brown hair, chin-length and parted in the middle, and always wore a jumper. Janine was high-maintenance all the way; acrylic nails, latest hairstyle, power suit and faultless makeup. She booked conventions for one of the larger motel complexes.
"How was it downtown today?" Mary, like all locals, kept track of the state of business. Tourism was the town's only source of income; without it, Eureka Springs would be deserted.
"Slow," Lindsay replied, "but normal for a weekday. It'll pick up when the trees start changing color."
"Girls," Caro said, her eyes alight, "brace yourselves. Here comes the object of our fact-finding mission tonight, and oh, my, isn't he gorgeous? His last name is Martin, and Helen says he uses his initials, D.G. for a first name."
Lindsay's heart skipped a beat as she watched the man negotiate the narrow path leading toward them in the crowded room, checking the status of tables as he passed. The easy grace of his movements drew her attention to his narrow hips and flat stomach.
A shock wave moved through her from head to toe and pushed her senses to alert mode—cool guy approaching.
Mere words couldn't describe that kind of handsome. The primitive masculine look of him, enveloped in an aura of strength and confidence, but far removed from male-model attractiveness, set her nerves tingling.
She couldn't believe her reaction. This never happened. She'd shown no interest in men for a long time, but nevertheless, her senses betrayed her. She wanted to be the focus of those dark brown eyes under a rugged brow. They projected sharp intelligence. This man wouldn't miss a thing around him.
He was tall, lean, maybe late thirties, with a wealth of dark brown hair cut close at the sides and two inches left on the top to be casually finger-combed—a style which, along with the latest trend—the merest shadow of a beard—suggested he'd recently left his bed after a night of five-star sex.
The image popped into her mind, shocking her.
For God's sake, what is wrong with me? I don't even know who he is.
When he arrived his glance swept the table, taking in the four of them, pausing when his eyes met hers. The word 'stunned' fell far short of describing the gut-searing jolt Lynn experienced at the contact. She felt on the edge of falling into a pool of melted chocolate.
Whoa! Hold on!
She never, ever, noticed men on a sensually aware level, certainly not one of the here-today-gone-tomorrow summer itinerants. She'd ignore him, get a firm grip, and play it cool.
Uh huh.
Good plan until he turned those eyes on her and beamed her a megawatt smile. Her composure slipped another notch.
"Good evening, ladies," he said.
Did she imagine the husky promise in his voice?
"Would you like to order something to drink while you read the menu?" His look touched each one of them, lingering a second longer on Lynn—or did she imagine it? Her heart stuttered. She squirmed, unused to the feelings racing through her.
"You didn't tell us your name," Janine blurted, clearly dazzled. Lynn glanced at her, startled. She was generally the cool and composed one in the group.
His smile adjusted to one of patient tolerance. He'd been through this before. "The management frowns on such familiarity from the servers."
Probably true,
Lindsay thought, embarrassed by Janine's boldness. The owners of the hotel abhorred anything that resembled service in a fern bar or a theme restaurant. 'Hi, there, my name is Bob and I'll be your server tonight,' was a phrase one would never hear at the Kensington Royale.
"Iced tea," Lindsay said, to cut Janine off.
"Separate checks?" He glanced at her, amused, as though they shared a private joke.
She nodded at him, grateful for being spared the inevitable discussion of who owed what that generally followed when a group of women ate in a restaurant. Some genetics programmed into the gender, she supposed.
With a barely perceptible wink, as though he read her mind, he turned to the others.
Whoa.
He wasn't above a little flirting
. That put her guard up and fired her instincts. She eyed him warily.
There was something slightly 'off' about him, that set him apart from the usual 'summer men,' as she called them, who drifted into town each spring, got a job of some sort and if, at the end of the season, they hadn't found a willing female to provide a place to stay, they'd move on south to New Orleans for the winter. This one didn't quite fit the pattern. Either that, or he spent every penny he made on himself. The white shirt he wore fit too well, like custom made, and the black trousers were not off the rack at Walmart nor were the Italian loafers a local item.
"Earth to Lindsay? Hello?" Caro startled her out of her reverie.
"Oh, sorry."
"Our boy's coming back with the iced tea. You'd better make up your mind what you want to order."
"I know what I want," Janine said, purring as only she could. "I want him on a platter and hold the sauce, unless it's melted chocolate."
Chocolate?
They both thought chocolate when they looked at him? Janine's interest in D.G. began to irritate her.
"Janine, sometimes you can be so gross." Mary frowned, clearly embarrassed.
Well, apparently Mary also realized their waiter was not the usual summer fare.
The object of their attention arrived with a flourish and a tray laden with glasses of tea and baskets covered with white linen.
"Are you ladies ready to order?" He asked, placing tea and rolls in front of them.
Janine looked up at him. "I am." Her eyelashes fluttered to no effect. Their waiter had become wooden-faced, order pad at the ready.
Lindsay suspected his overly formal approach was to let them know he was used to being hit on. She felt herself blushing. If they kept this up, she would be too embarrassed to show her face here the rest of the summer. "How is the salmon this evening?"
"Excellent." His approving smile dazzled her. Mercy, but he was an attractive man. "It is fresh, of course, and Chef Edward has added a bit of turmeric to the lemon sauce, which gives it a nice golden color." He gave her a knowing look—one gourmet to another.
Hardly. She barely managed to boil ramen noodles without turning them to mush.
"I'll have the salmon," she said quickly, avoiding his eyes as she felt her face flushing hotly. The others followed with their orders, and managed to get through the salad dressing, potatoes or rice choices in short order, then he was gone. Lindsay sighed with relief.
Good-natured speculation about D.G. Martin continued until Mary remarked, "I think he likes you, Lynn."
Janine's reaction was immediate. Throwing a hostile glance Lynn's way, she said, "Shall we put him out of his misery by telling him he's wasting his time? Our Lindsay doesn't dig men."
"Oh, stuff it, Janine." Caro's irritation showed in her voice. "Lynn's life is her own business."
"Lynn likes men," Mary said in a rush, as if to head off an argument. "She's just waiting for something special to come along."
"Well, don't develop a liking for this one. I have plans for him," Janine snapped.
Lynn stiffened, ready to lash out, appalled at the depth of the jealousy she felt; a new experience for her. Janine's malice deserved a response.
"I'm selective, Janine." Her lips tightened in a thin line, the anger in her voice unmistakable. "I'll not settle for one of these wandering, temporary, summer help types, with a terminal case of 'Peter Pan' syndrome, who won't grow up, and have no thoughts for their future beyond making enough traveling money to get to the next town."
Mary threw her a panicked look at the same instant she became aware of movement behind her. He stood there, waiting while the busboy set up a stand to hold the large tray he carried. His face, expressionless except for the glint in his eyes, gave her no hope he hadn't heard her rant about local men.
Subdued, they sat waiting, while D.G. placed orders with unerring accuracy before each of them. His, "Will there be anything else?" dared them to request even a fork.
As far as Lindsay was concerned, the heated exchange with Janine had put a damper on the evening. She ate mechanically, while the others talked shop and discussed weekend activities.
Once in a while, her gaze would fall on D.G. as he worked the room, and she'd quickly avert her eyes. It would be mortifying if he looked up and caught her studying him, but she couldn't keep from watching that wonderful body, several inches taller than her five-foot-eight. The way he moved his hips around the crowded tables with faultless choreography.
My God, she was staring at a man's hips? She had to remind herself that sex was not a part of her life; she didn't want to go there.
Finally, the meal ended. She begged off going upstairs to the lounge for drinks, and nobody urged her to change her mind. She guessed they were disappointed in her company. She needed to get out of there and away from the relentless sensuality of D.G. Martin.
By leaving her tip on the table and paying her check at the register, she managed to avoid further eye contact with him, escaped to her car, and headed on home.
Minutes later she pulled into her driveway, tense, unsettled, and looking forward to a hot bath with some calming lavender oil mixed with maybe some chasteberry, to subdue her raging hormones.
She loved coming home to her small, two-bedroom house. Bought last year, it represented final proof that she could make it on her own. She turned off the engine and sat there thinking, unable to get past this evening.