The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (28 page)

"I know that," he said simply, as if that were common knowledge.

Timothy swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in a nervous twitch. "Then what do you want?"

"I want you to stay away from Cassie."

Timothy paused, trying to comprehend the unexpected request. "What?"

The man stared at his cigarette. "You don't live in this building, do you?"

"No, but that's—"

The man met his gaze. "Then there's no reason for you to be here."

Who the hell was this guy, anyway? "Listen, you can't tell me what to do."

His gaze didn't waver. "I can and I have."

Timothy began to grin. "You think you can fight me? She used to be my wife. I've had her in ways you'll never know, never comprehend. You're one of many, but I was her husband. She belonged to me." He held up his hands in mock surrender and chuckled, shaking his head. "Now if you want to fight over my leftovers that's up to you. Just remember I—"

The man cut off his windpipe. His large hand fastened around his neck like a noose. "Let me try again," he said slowly, "since I don't seem to be making myself clear." His hand tightened a fraction. "Stay away from Cassie."

Timothy made a gurgling sound in response and the man let him go. Gasping and wheezing, Timothy glared at the stranger's dispassionate expression. "It's up to her who she wants," he panted. "She's the one who has to make a choice."

The man opened the door to the stairwell. "Not if I make the choice for her."

Timothy sent him a dirty look, then left. He stormed down the stairwell and opened the door to the ground level, halting for the second time when he saw another large man standing by the front doors. Sharp dark eyes and a hard mouth greeted him. He held up his hands in ready submission, then let them fall when he recognized him. "She's all yours. You don't have to worry about me anymore. She doesn't know what she's lost."

The man said nothing, but his expression said,
Not much.

Timothy smoothed down his hair. "You never liked me but now you've got some other guy to deal with and he's not as friendly as I am."

He shrugged.

"She's not worth the trouble."

The man didn't blink. Timothy cleared his throat and headed for the exit, feeling the man's gaze.

* * *

Drake shut the door behind Timothy and sighed, wondering what damage Timothy had done to Cassie's self-image and how much injury he would have to undo. He knew she needed space, but he had just wanted to see her. He was glad he'd come. He'd been curious to see the ghost that kept them apart—a scrawny, egotistical playboy. Drake had been a little sorry when he'd spotted Timothy, he had hoped to have a more worthy adversary.

He heard the familiar creak of Mr. Gianolo's door. "Get rid of him, did you?"

"For now."

"He's wrong. Cassie is a good girl. She doesn't have a lot of men coming and going."

"I know."

"Have you asked her yet?" he demanded.

"No, not yet. You'll be the first to know."

"Don't wait too long. I'm not as young as I look." He closed the door.

Drake knocked briskly on the door, running over in his mind the excuse as to why he was here. Then he remembered the box in his jacket and concluded that was reason enough.

When Cassie opened the door, he was surprised to see that she was okay. Instead of the red eyes, droopy mouth, and wary expression he had expected, she looked rumpled and frustrated like a kid whose Lego castle refused to stay up.

"Why are you grinning like that?" she asked.

"I'm happy to see you."
And happy to see that your ex no longer affects you.
Their relationship had reached a new level.

Cassie impatiently drummed her fingers on the door. If she didn't get rid of him soon he'd become a pleasant diversion and then she would never get anything done. "It's nice to see you too, but I'm really busy."

"Of course." He handed her a plastic container.

Cassie groaned. "Tell me it's not something sinful."

"Food can't be sinful."

She shot him a glance. "Spoken like a true nonbeliever."

He took the container and opened it. "Go ahead and try one."

She tugged on her sweatshirt. "Do you see this shirt? Do you want my body to resemble this shirt?"

He ignored the question, holding out a pecan praline.

She should be furious with him. She used to hate when Timothy gave her food, knowing that eventually he would tease her about it. But since she knew that for Drake giving food was the highest honor, it didn't annoy her. It wasn't like Timothy's gift or her father's absent-minded treats. It was a well-thought-out present that always made her feel special and cared for.

Resigned, she took a bite, letting the crunchy, sweet taste fill her mouth. She met his eyes, which reflected warmth and the pleasure that he could make her happy. "Delicious."

He nodded. "What's this?" he asked, picking up a shiny, silver card.

"Another invitation from Kevin. Would you like to go?"

His glare was eloquent enough.

"He's not as bad as you think."

Drake folded his arms.

"Very well. I'll say no." She pushed him toward the door. "Now leave. I have to get some writing done."

He spun around her and went to the couch. "Your book's not going well?"

"It's not going, period." She sat down next to him, facing defeat.

"Let me see what you have." He took a praline. "Perhaps I can help you."

"That's a joke, right? Mr. Unromantic wants to help me write about keeping love alive."

"I'm not unromantic," he said, offended. "My entire job is about creating environments where romance can flourish. Remember your broth dinner?"

She handed him her outline. "Fine. Try."

Drake quickly scanned it, then tapped the paper. "I can already see your trouble."

She leaned over his shoulder. "What?"

"You're not focused. In order to keep your book together you need to have one underlining theory on how to keep romance alive."

"But there are plenty of ways."

"Let other books discuss them. What could you focus on?" He munched on another praline, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Food."

"Is that all you can ever think of?"

"Just listen. Don't they say that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach?"

"And the way to a woman's heart is through his wallet. What's your point?"

"You could have recipes and blend them with narrative ideas about why certain foods are considered an aphrodisiac. Or what they mean in some myths or love stories. For couples who are married with kids, you could use recipes families can do together. You could call it
Ingredients for Love, A Taste of Ecstasy,
or
Recipes for Romance."

Cassie chewed her lip, reluctantly impressed. "Damn, that's a good idea. Why didn't I think of it?"

"Because you're not a Henson yet."

She made a face.

They brainstormed for two hours, went to a movie as a break, then brainstormed some more. When Cassie thought she had enough information, she banished Drake from her place until the book was done.

* * *

The air was too humid. He hated summer, especially in the city. Give him the icy breath of winter, the chill of autumn. Why the hell did Cassie have to choose DC? He ran his fingers over the selection of flowers the little shop had to offer. He hadn't expected Henson to last so long. It made him wonder if Cassie was getting serious.

He had underestimated him, and that had been a mistake. Henson was cunning and could be charming even if his coarse edges showed most of the time. Plus he had a temper. The thought made him smile. It might come in handy.

He picked up a yellow rose and smelled it. Henson wouldn't get rid of him. He stroked the petal of the rose, then broke it off, crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. First, he had to do something about these.

* * *

It had only been a few days and Drake was feeling restless. When would Cassie call him? How long would it take to type up the book? He opened the door of the Blue Mango just as Pamela stormed out with the energy of a woman on a mission. He grabbed her arm as she passed him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"That bastard left me a three-dollar tip!" She pointed to a well-dressed man stepping into a Mustang.

He tugged her inside the door. "Come on."

"No. I want to have a word with him. He's some hotshot lawyer who demanded everything, but did I complain? No. I was the most pleasant I've ever been and he spent a hundred and fifty dollars and gave me this lousy tip." She waved the money.

"Follow me." She wisely recognized the tone and followed without protest. He led her to the back office.

"Just ignore me," Eric said when they entered the room. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Drake didn't spare him a glance. He pointed to a chair and Pamela sat. He took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't ever do that again."

Her mouth fell open at his anger. "But I—"

"I know why you did it, that's why I'll give you another chance. But don't let me see you doing it again. Image is important and I can't have my staff chasing after customers that upset them."

"But he—"

"Gave you a lousy tip." Drake shrugged. "So what? Perhaps he's not a nice guy. You can't expect to be loved by everyone." He turned away. "Now get back to work."

Pamela pushed herself out of the chair, still shaking from an indignation she was trying to control. Drake watched her head for the door and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Pamela, sit a minute."

She opened her mouth, then shut it and sat.

He took a deep breath and stared out the window. He wasn't used to explaining himself. He drummed his fingers on his leg and turned to her. "I'm impressed with your work."

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

"I'm not flattering you," he added quickly. "I'm just stating a fact. You're punctual, diligent, and smart. An excellent asset to the staff. That's why I can't allow you to make the mistake you did today. Rude customers are part of our business. Trust me, I've had my share, but you must understand the power of networking." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "That lawyer is a bastard, but he knows a lot of other people who are great tippers and recommends this place highly. So we have to tolerate him. Do you understand?"

Pamela could only nod, stunned that he had complimented her let alone spoken to her at length.

Drake grew uncomfortable under her awed gaze. "Get to work," he said with a dismissive gesture.

She jumped to her feet "Thank you so much, Mr. Henson. You won't regret giving me another chance. I just love working here and I—"

"Good-bye, Pamela."

She smiled happily and darted out the door.

* * *

"What are you grinning about?" Cedric asked her as she made her way through the kitchen.

"Mr. Henson gave me a compliment."

He sprayed a dish. "So what?"

"It made me happy."

She was the only person he knew who could continuously be in a good mood. She always had a smile or a friendly word for him as she headed to her duties, leaving the sweet smell of her perfume as a reminder. "You're always happy," he grumbled.

"And you're always a sourpuss."

Cedric set the plate down. "Sourpuss? I didn't know normal people used words like that."

"See what you learn when you crawl out of the gutter?"

Instead of taking offense, he grinned. "I didn't crawl, baby, I leaped."

Pamela straightened his collar. She had an odd habit of doing that; he didn't mind. "Yeah, I know." She laughed as she pushed through the doors and Cedric found himself whistling.

Later that day, Drake and Eric went to the Red Hut. When Drake saw his manager, Patrick, he knew the day would not go smoothly. Patrick had that look in his eyes.

"This is my best idea yet," he announced, eagerly approaching them.

Drake silently groaned.

Patrick took his silence as a cue to begin. "Because Tuesdays are our slow days, why don't we close the kitchen and restaurant and advertise dancing to Motown hits?"

"No."

Patrick's face fell. "Why not? We could have different groups come and perform."

"You're forgetting about our Tuesday night dinner patrons. They are our most loyal group and it would be foolish to lose them. We need to be consistent. If people want to dance they can go to a club."

"We could become a supper club."

Drake glanced around the room, ready to end the discussion. "No."

"You're always shooting down my ideas," he said bitterly. "You didn't want me to hire Lesage when we both know he is one of the best chefs around. He's been on TV, in movies and magazines."

Drake looked at him, fighting a battle with his patience. "I explained to you that I didn't want a prima donna with knives cooking in my kitchen."

Patrick tapped a pen against his palm. "You know the owner of Martin's likes my work and my ideas. He asked me if I'd like to work for him."

"I see." Drake nodded. It was to be expected. "Well, I can't make up your mind for you."

Patrick turned. "I think it's already been made up."

Drake sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "However, I'd hate to see you go."

He glanced over his shoulder, unconvinced.

"You're a strong manager, you keep up staff morale, you're creative and full of ideas."

"Ideas that you constantly reject," he said with resentment.

Drake rubbed the back of his neck, trying to choose his words carefully. "Because they don't fit the place doesn't mean they're not good. You just need to focus. Think about what would make the Red Hut more successful by building on what initially made it a success. If you had a house, you don't need to knock it down and start all over again. You think of changes. You see its strong points and build from there. I think you're on the right track by focusing on our slow Tuesday night. How would you improve that without losing our loyal customers?"

Patrick thought a moment. "What about a dinner club?"