Intimate Exposure

She hit Stack with a tray? Elliot regretted having missed that part. Then he noticed his father standing behind him, glowering, and decided the situation was too grim—for Shani at least—to merit a chuckle.

Shani drew in her lip, her beautifully shaped teeth working at the full, wine-tinted flesh. For a second he thought she mightn’t answer, but she squared herself and said resolutely. “He was getting fresh with me.”

“How fresh does a guy got to get for you to bite him? “

“Fresh enough. He put his hand on me and I asked him to stop …”

“That’s a lie!” Stack swayed a little, and Elliot knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. “The crazy chick bit me for no reason!”

“Why would I bite you for no reason?”

Another waitress arrived on the scene and hesitated before snatching up a tray of tidbits and scurrying off as if afraid Yvan’s anger would spill over in her direction.

Fat chance. Yvan was totally focused on his current victim. “Little lady, jobs are hard to come by, especially with bosses as patient as me.”

Elliot was surprised Shani didn’t snort.

“This is your only warning. I want you to apologize to Mr. Bookman.”

“What?”

Yvan confirmed his demand with an insistent nod. “You apologize, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll still have a job by the end of the night.”

The tortured look on Shani’s face was too much for Elliot. He could practically hear the scales shifting back and forth as she tried to determine which was worth more: her job or her pride? Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue appeared. The gesture was jarringly erotic, which was an odd response to have, given that the situation was so serious. She inhaled, looked about to speak and stopped again. Facing her, Yvan frowned like an old schoolmaster about to administer a whippin'. Behind him, Stack looked victorious.

She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Mr. Bookman.” she began.

This was wrong. Elliot stepped forward, shielding her from the ire of her employer and his father’s unfounded self-righteousness. “The lady has nothing to apologize for. I saw what happened. My father was getting out of line, and she defended herself.”

Shani gave a small squeak. “I told you I don’t need help!”

“I know, but right is right. You don’t need to apologize.” He speared his father with a look. “Does she, Stack?”

Stack shifted, looking guilty. “Well, maybe I misunderstood …”

“She’ll apologize because I tell her to,” Yvan ground out. “Shani …” He pointed at Stack as if he was showing a naughty dog the way out.

She lifted her head like an innocent woman facing a firing squad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bookman. Please …” She swallowed hard; Elliot could see movement at the base of her throat, and that movement drew his eyes downward to the cleavage that swelled out the top of her plunging neckline. She didn’t need the push-up bra she was wearing. He dragged his eyes to her face again as she begged, “Please, forgive …” Then she stopped, and another look crossed her face. Not outrage, not embarrassment, not discomfort. Something else, and it scared him.

She slipped her hand into her pocket. Yvan saw the movement, reptilian eyes swiveling down. “Don’t tell me.” he began.

What the hell?

She withdrew a small cell phone and looked at it as if it was the detonator for a nuclear weapon. It must have been on silent, because nobody had heard it ring.

“I’ve explicitly told you, all of you, you are not allowed to carry your phones on the job!” Yvan was in a fine lather. Something told Elliot that this was his usual state of being.

Shani gave him half a second’s glance. “You know my situation, Yvan.”

“I don’t give a pickled monkey’s butt about your situation.”

“Hello?” Shani’s voice was a whisper. Elliot’s eyes were riveted to her face, beyond curiosity. Under the plum-dark skin, the blood drained. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked the phone shut. “It’s Bee,” she said to Yvan.

Bee? What bee? He half expected to see one buzzing around their heads.

If you’d set a spirit level along Yvan’s mouth, the bubble would have been dead center. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I need to go. Now.”

Yvan lifted his hand and checked his watch. “Your tail is mine for another hour and forty minutes.”

“Bee’s sick, and I’m going to her.”

“You do that, and …” He didn’t finish the threat.

Shani ripped off the silly apron she was wearing and threw it down. “You want to fire me? Consider me fired. But please, Yvan, ask Ralph to give me a lift to the other side of Ventura. Maybe I could catch a late bus. There’s nothing running here in Belmont tonight.”

“Ralph drives a catering truck, not a taxi. Besides, we’re busy tonight.” He added meaningfully, “We’re one hand short.” The scarecrow of a man swooped down and scooped up the apron, tucking it under his arm, then stalked off.

That left three of them. The events of the last minute and a half seemed to have gotten through to Stack. Instead of basking in his petty triumph, he looked abashed, but Elliot knew his father wasn’t man enough to say he was sorry unless it suited him. Stack’s eyes took in Shani’s stricken face and then he, too, slunk away.

And then there were two. Elliot put his hands on his hips and took in the pain on Shani’s face. He’d known this woman only ten minutes, but inexplicably he was hurting for her. “You okay?”

She looked at him as though he’d asked the world’s most asinine question. “No.”

“What’s the problem? What bee are you talking about?”

“My daughter,” she answered irritably, as if he should have known. “Béatrice.”

“Ah.” Now he understood. “She’s sick?”

Shani nodded wearily. “She had a fever when I left home this evening.” She found her purse next to the broom cupboard. As she shouldered it, he noticed a thin wedding band on her finger. For some reason, that disappointed him.

“Was that your husband on the phone?”

She turned and wrenched open the kitchen door, which gave side access to his father’s garage and, beyond it, the broad driveway. “That was my sitter. My baby’s worse. Her fever’s a hundred and four.” She slipped through the doorway and into the darkened garage.

He hurried to keep up with her. “Where’re you going?”

Her look made him feel as if his IQ didn’t graze eighty. “I’m taking her to the hospital.” She twisted, looking for the garage light, the better to see her way out. He found it easily and clicked it on.

“Let me rephrase that. How are you getting there? Yvan said—”

“I heard what Yvan said. I’m walking to the bus stop.” “But there aren’t any—”

“Night buses that pass through Belmont. I know.” He could see her legs flash in the floodlights, hear her heels click on the driveway. “I’m walking to Ventura.”

“That’s two miles away!”