21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (16 page)

***

Helena eased around the restaurant’s overflowing tables. She hated to be late. The maître d’ cut a path through, but she had to hurry to keep up or risk the press of bodies refilling the empty space. The overwhelming noise level rattled her after relaxing to Tchaikovsky on the drive. She’d hardly believed the email when it arrived two days ago. Had it really been a year since she’d signed up for Madame Eve’s exclusive 1Night Stand service? Had it taken the woman that long to find a possible match?

Skepticism chased the frustration cramping her stomach. Smells assaulted her—first the tang of a fish broil overlaid with the roasting smell of meat, then the sweet pastry aroma of a bakery—all layered together. Her stomach roiled in a vociferous growl. She latched onto each new scent like a drowning man desperate for driftwood. Not eating since the rushed yogurt and protein bar before court had been a mistake.

The rich, piquant scent of gumbo served to the table on her left distracted her, and she bumped into the young man lurching up from the table on the right. She swayed dangerously on her four-inch heels. A firm hand latched onto her arm, steadying her. The maître d’ pulled the kid out of her path.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” But the hard look he gave the poor boy earned her a fast, mumbled apology and an open path through the crowded restaurant to a table segregated by red velvet ropes and carefully placed dividers.

Her escort pulled out a chair for her and she sat, crossing one leg over the other. She hadn’t expected to be the first to arrive, particularly since she’d run so late.

“Would you care for a drink?” The man offered no menu or wine list and she pursed her lips. A glass of wine sounded heavenly if not for the small fact that she’d be asleep ten minutes later.

“Actually, I’d love a cup of coffee. Black. No sugar.”
Three sugars and loads of cream sounds way better but would add way too much to the hips. So, black it is
.

“Right away, ma’am.” Her escort gave her a grin and vanished back into the chaos that was
Lagniappe’s
. Elbow propped on the table, she perused the crowd. It was mix of upper middle class to mildly wealthy, sprinkled liberally with college students and young adults. The bar seemed to be the most popular spot, where the ratio of females exceeded the males. The bartender must be something to see.

Exhaling, she stared at a tray of piping hot bread bowls filling a waiter’s tray as he ducked through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Her stomach pinched. The carbs alone would kill her diet. Salad would be her best bet, particularly considering her blind date was late. The last thing she needed was to fall on the food like a starving woman.

Another steaming tray of shellfish and cornbread sailed past and she wanted to weep. She’d pay her soul for the spicy combination of crawfish washed down by cold beer. A third man appeared through the swinging doors, and she forced her attention back to the round table in front of her. The heavy red linens on the white cloth added to the atmosphere of city chic meets down home charm. Crystal wine glasses decorated the place settings along with heavy silverware and three cloth napkins per place setting. The restaurant served delicious, messy meals and the napkins would be used.

Except she planned to have a cup of coffee and a salad washed down by water and lemon. Her stomach snarled. She pressed a hand firmly under her rib cage and concentrated on the breathing exercise learned in Yoga. It always got her through a difficult deposition. She couldn’t afford to gain any weight. She had a hard enough time getting a date as it was.

Look at me, sitting in the exclusive, isolated spot, waiting for some man as hard up as I am, all to scratch a primal itch that normal people didn’t need a special service to arrange
. It had sounded so much better in theory.

A cup of coffee appeared in front of her, and she jerked her gaze upward, blinking at the waiter she’d seen exiting the kitchen. Unlike most of the other staff, he actually wore a jacket, the rich black a perfect complement to his dark hair and too-blue eyes.

“Good evening.” The rich, rolling cadence of the south drifted through his voice. “One cup of coffee, black.”

“Thank you.” She closed her cool fingers around the hot cup. She’d barely eaten and had forgotten her suit jacket at the office. The combination of low blood sugar and cooler temperatures left her chilled. “I don’t suppose there are menus?”

The waiter’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, ma’am, typically we offer menus.” His mouth quirked in an amused smile. “But your meal was prepared tonight by the owner, especially for you.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t a waiter. The fact that he wore a jacket over a button down white shirt and none of the other waiters did was a clue. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she trusted her instincts. No way was he the waiter. So was her date playing a game with her? As her mind raced over the possibilities, her stomach chose the one moment of silence to gurgle. She lifted the coffee cup to her lips to hide her discomfort.

“He planned the meal for six-thirty, but he wasn’t sure whether you preferred a white or a red wine and that will tell him a lot about what to serve first.”

Oh, he didn’t, did he? Well, two can play
. She lowered the cup. “My wine selection?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Again with the amusement. What does he know that I don’t
?

“Wines say a lot about someone. A person who orders a dry white is a focused individual, and prefers clearly defined foods, with a smoky cheese. Whereas the patron who enjoys a fruity white is more likely to indulge in a spicy dish.” The lyrical cadence to his words fascinated her.

She rubbed her finger against the warm side of the coffee cup. A swallow of the bitter black brew helped. It was far less than her stomach wanted, but it would have to do for now.

“And red wines?”

“Reds are complicated. First, there are the blushes. The shy palate prefers a blush because she knows what she’s getting, but she really wants to experiment. She just doesn’t know how. She who desires a merlot possesses sophisticated taste, but is very clear on what she won’t try. And Burgundies…” the faux waiter sighed, dragging the word out until the breath caught in her throat. “Burgundies are for those hungry for something they’ve never had before.”

“And you can tell all of that by what wine a person orders?” Her heart thudded against her ribs with a curious thrill of anticipation. If he was the example, this restaurant would be a smashing success.

“Yes, ma’am. Which wine would you prefer?”

“Can you tell what wine a person will order by looking at them?”
Good Lord, I’m flirting with him. Please be the date just playing a game
. Her gaze flicked to the empty seat across the table and back to him. It was a subtle hint, but the man seriously seemed to notice everything. His blue eyes were amazing, but he didn’t seem to take the hint.

All the noise and chaos behind him faded as he leaned in with a secretive smile. “Sometimes.”

“Surprise me.” She nibbled her lower lip, probably scraping what was left of her lipstick off, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at her mouth. Correction, the waiter wasn’t looking just at her mouth. Instead, he seemed to take in her whole body and she straightened, almost self-conscious of the appraisal.

“I’ll do that.” He circled the table to retrieve a napkin and snapped it out to lay over her lap. The move was so at odds with the location and yet utterly charming nonetheless. “My name is Damon and it will be my pleasure to serve you tonight.”

He winked and pivoted neatly to disappear behind the swinging doors. She exhaled sharply, her skin tingling all over. Her pulse raced like a wild hummingbird. Heat uncoiled in her belly.

He had to be Madame Eve’s date. She wasn’t sure why he wanted to pretend to be the waiter, but he was really cute at it. She told herself that the flutters in her belly and the stuttering of her heart had nothing to do with her decision to continue to play along.

He marched through the swinging doors, bracing one open for the line of waitresses carrying full trays out. “John-John, did we get in those sides of beef we ordered?”

“Yes, sir.” The chef gave him a squinty-eyed look from behind the silver racks in front of him. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Damon?”

Letting go of the door as the last waitress passed, he considered the whole of the kitchen. Every pair of hands was engaged in some activity, every dish in some stage of preparation. “Filet cuts, two butterfly cut and two half-inch thick. burgundy red, and au jus for the butterfly, on a bed of ice-chilled lettuce with a crumble of the cornbread. Coffee-rub the half-inch thick filets with chicory and the sweet Columbian, slow cook to medium with the ends done to medium well.”

“Not bloody.”

He shook his head slowly. “She’s a little skittish for bloody. Sweet potato soup, add some of the cubed Idahos to it, pinch of salt, dash of paprika. Quarter up the vegetables and steam them over the gumbo and grilled shrimp as a garnish.”

“You got it.”

Damon left him to it and circled through the kitchen to the wine vault, itself a work of art—hand carved shelves, temperature controlled, no humidity and a level of low lighting that let him read the labels without harming the wine. He trailed his fingers along the bottlenecks, tugging out one or two with a thought for the leggy beauty.

She thinks I’m the waiter
.

A grin tugged his lips. He probably should have outted himself, but the unease in her expression relaxed during their conversation. A spark of amusement had flooded her dark eyes and he wanted to see more of that.

It would be no problem to serve her. If the night went well, she would need all the calories he could give her.

He paused and contemplated a label. Satisfied, he pulled out a bottle.
Perfect
.

Shutting down the lights, he stepped back into the coordinated chaos of his kitchen, letting the laughter and the camaraderie wash over him.

“Demi, you got time to put together a selection of bread and cheese, skip the crackers, use the thinner slices of the pumpkin, nine grain, cornbread with the
bleu
, the gouda and that creamy Swiss we picked up?”

His bakery chef grinned and gestured to the tray of fresh beignets. “Do I need to kiss those, too?”

“Air kisses are good.” Winking at her, he twisted the corkscrew into the bottle top, popping it open to breathe. He watched her movements with a critical eye, approving or disapproving of Demi’s selection until she set up the rectangle trencher, five thin slices of bread, each boasting a bit of cheese. She added a raisin to the bleu cheese, a dab of peach jam to the side of the Swiss and sliver of apple to the gouda.

“Perfect.” Lifting the rectangle, he pushed through the doors to carry the wine and cheese platter to his date. She was staring at a smartphone in her palm, finger tapping away. He navigated through the crowd and the velvet rope to their private little nook apart from the noise. In one smooth move, he slid the cheese platter onto the table and plucked the phone from her hand.

“Hey!” Her smooth forehead knitted together. She lifted her chin, a spark of outrage flushing her pale cheeks with color. He highly approved of the glow warming her face and pressed his thumb to the power button without looking at the screen.

“No cell, smart or mobile phones allowed, ma’am.” Southern apology drifted under the words, not that he experienced an ounce of remorse. It might be controversial and elitist in some parts of the country, but he believed work disturbed a meal. His customers came to
Lagniappe’s
for the experience and the sign added to that ambience. Typically, he didn’t enforce it, but he wanted her attention focused on the meal and on him. “They’re bad for digestion.”

“And if I was sending a text message to my daughter?”

Damon paused, considering her pinched expression. “Were you, ma’am?”

She sighed. “No, I was answering a message from my assistant.”

“Then it can wait until after your meal.” He slipped the phone into his pocket, ensuring that she would stick around for the rest of his plans rather than get irritated and leave.

She stared at his pocket, but didn’t protest.

He presented the bottle of wine with a smile. “May I present your wine choice for this evening, a 1972
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
? Made from thirteen types of grapes, it is spicy, with a combination of black and red raspberries and soft on the palate. It is both sweet and dry.” Cradling her wine glass between his fingers, he poured a small sample and watched her frown melt away at its rich ruby color.

“You chose a burgundy for me.”

“A grenache, but close to burgundy.” He appreciated her delight and held the glass out, enjoying the way her cool fingers brushed his to take it.

Setting the bottle down, he shuttled aside her coffee cup. “What we have here is a selection of cheeses, some smoky, some sweet. Each comes served on a thin bed of bread. Bread is better than crackers because each flavor will spark another. I would suggest that you begin with this pumpkin slice, with bleu cheese and the raisin. They are cut so that you eat each one whole, allowing the flavors to dance on your tongue.”

She rolled the wine in the glass, her expression rapt as he explained, her attention dipping to the plate and back again. Hesitation made her smile hitch. “I’ve never been a fan of bleu cheese.”

Damon crouched next to her chair. “It’s not about like or dislike. It’s about teasing your palate, allowing you to experience the flavors. The pumpkin and the raisin bring out different aspects of the aged cheese, each allowing the other to tell you a different story. The pumpkin is autumn fresh, new and brazen. The aged cheese is like the wine, it takes on elements of experience while the raisin is both sweet and tart, giving the bleu a new lease on life.”

Her white teeth pulled on her lower lip and he wanted to run his tongue over her pouty, pink mouth, tug it with his own teeth and then feed her. But it was best to go one step at a time. Like the cheese and the wine, she needed to acclimate, to sample and let the food bring out new layers.