Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal

A drought settled in his throat.

It took a will of iron to drag his gaze upward from that enticing glimpse of skin. A frown drew the delicate line of her eyebrows together and settled into a somber line across her mouth. Her hair flowed like a black river down her shoulders. The sun glinted off the dark strands.

For a split second, he didn’t even know where he was.

He blinked hard, watched her fold the piece of paper and shove it into a black tote bag as she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

He argued with himself, lost, waited a full twenty seconds, then followed her.

The mouth-watering scent of grilling hamburgers drew Kiera toward the coffee shop on the corner. The exterior of the restaurant, shiny chrome, sleek lines and wraparound windows reminded her of the ‘57 Chevy that Mr. Mackelroy, her high school principal, used to drive. Even the color was the same, she thought. Sorbet-blue.

When she stepped inside, life-size cardboard cut-outs of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe greeted her with a sign that said Welcome To Pappa Pete’s. Kiera closed the door behind her, barely heard the jangling of the bells over the drumming of a Beach Boys song playing on an overhead speaker and the lively conversations from the lunch crowd. Locals, Kiera thought, noting the mix of families, town workers and ranch hands.

A tall, thick-boned, platinum blonde carrying four plates of burgers on one arm and two plates of French fries on the other bustled by Kiera. “Set yerself down anywhere you like, honey. Something to drink?”

Kiera smiled. “Lemonade, please.”

“Hey, Madge, what about me?” A slumped-back cowboy sitting at a counter stool held up his coffee cup. “I’m still waiting for a refill.”

“You’re still waitin’ for brains, too,” Madge shot back. “Everyone knows you were in the basement when they got handed out.”

“Yeah, well, everyone knows you were at the front door when tongues got handed out,” the cowboy quipped, which brought a round of laughter from the patrons.

“Least I got something in my skull that works.” Madge plunked the fries down on a table. “If your thinker was a mattress, an ant’s feet would stick off the sides.”

“That’s not all I heard was ant size,” someone in the front hollered, setting off a fresh round of laughter and a volley of replies. Red-faced, the cowboy got up, snatched a coffeepot from behind the counter and served himself.

While the wisecracks continued to fly, Kiera sat down at a Formica-topped table next to a window in the back. A teenage boy who hadn’t quite grown into his long legs and arms set a glass of pink lemonade in front of her. She smiled and thanked the busboy, who turned beet-red, then turned and stumbled over his own big feet. One of the ranchers teased the boy, which set in motion a new volley of quips.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in her own hometown, sitting in the Bronco Cafe, adding her own two cents to the banter and good-natured fun. Even the smell was the same. Burgers, grease and pressed wood paneling. A good smell, she thought. Familiar. Comfortable. Since graduating college, then working her fanny off at restaurants across the country, she could probably count on one hand the times she’d even been back to the Bronco in the past six years.

Living in a small town could be difficult, she knew. The gossip, the politics, certainly the lack of privacy, all of it was a major pain in the butt. The closest city with a mall had been three hours away, the only theater showed movies two months old and the few dates she had been on had felt more like going out with a best friend or a brother.

But the camaraderie, knowing that there were always people who would pull together and help if you needed them, people who really gave a damn, was worth not only the isolation she’d often felt at Stone Ridge Ranch, but the aggravation of everyone knowing her family’s business.

And now the question was, did everyone know?

She certainly hadn’t.

With a sigh, she pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and spread it on the table in front of her, stared at the obituary, felt every word etch into her brain like acid.

William Blackhawk … local rancher, businessman and community leader … died in a small plane crash … survived by his son, Dillon Blackhawk … services to be held Thursday at Wolf River Community Church …

That was two years ago.

Two years.

She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of pain coursing through her. If she’d known then what she knew now, what would she have done?

She honestly didn’t know.

“Mind if I join you?”

Jolted out of her thoughts by the question, the terse “yes” on the edge of her tongue nearly slipped out. Her pulse jumped when she looked up.

Sam.

She prayed her hands weren’t visibly shaking as she folded the piece of paper and slipped it back into her bag. Despite the fact that she would have preferred to be alone at the moment, she couldn’t very well tell her boss to take a hike.

And since he had already slid into the booth across from her, he really hadn’t given her much of a choice, anyway.

When she glanced around the room, several curious eyes quickly looked away. Terrific. No one in the diner knew who she was, but everyone in the place surely knew who Sam Prescott was. Before the day was over, Kiera had no doubt that rumors of the Four Winds general manager having an afternoon rendezvous with an unknown woman would be burning up the phone lines.

Sam followed her gaze. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” She looked back at him, took in the street clothes he wore. She’d thought him handsome in a suit. Confident. Absolutely unwavering and completely sure of himself. But it had nothing to do with clothes, she realized, taking in the stretch of black T-shirt across his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Apparently, the rumors she’d heard about him working out in the gym every morning were true. “I was just running errands and stopped in for something to eat.”

“You picked the right place.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Best hamburger in town, though if you tell anyone I said so, I’ll deny it.”

The smile on his mouth disarmed her, had her whispering back, “I think I can manage to keep a secret.”

“Yeah.” He studied her for a moment. “I think you can.”

She stilled at his comment, arched an eyebrow and settled back in her chair. “You sure you aren’t here for fish, Mr. Prescott?”

Smiling, he settled back in his chair, as well.

An unseen cook in the kitchen dinged three times on a bell to signal an order was up.

Round one, Kiera thought absently.

“So how’s it going?” Sam asked.

“I assume you’re referring to my job.”

“Of course.”

She picked up her lemonade, sipped. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay.” He folded his hands on the table and straightened his shoulders. “Your ratio of tables to gross and time are in the ninetieth percentile and an initial review of customer comments is exceptional.”

In spite of the deep, official tone of his voice, Kiera saw the glint of a rogue in Sam’s eyes. “Sounds like I should ask for a raise.”

“I’m afraid that request would be denied. You’ve had two complaints filed against you.”

“What!” Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and ran down the front of her tank top; a sliver of ice slid under the cotton neckline and into her bra. Frowning, she grabbed a napkin.

He signaled for the busboy. “Tyler says you’re difficult to work with.”

Tyler’s an ass, she nearly said, but managed to bite her tongue. She’d worked with jerks like him before. He was a good waiter, but he kissed up to the manager and chef, patronized the rest of the staff and gossiped worse than a tabloid columnist.

She had nothing to gain by defending herself or acknowledging the waiter’s complaint had even the tiniest bit of merit. Nor did she have anything to gain by retaliating. Sooner or later, Tyler would have to face retribution.

Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see it.

“Hey, Mr. Prescott.” The busboy appeared beside the table. “You want coffee or—”

Sam watched the dazed expression fall over the teenager’s face when his eyes dropped to the front of Kiera’s damp tank top. The boy’s jaw went slack.

“Eddie,” Sam prompted.

No response.

Sam sighed. It wasn’t that he blamed the kid for staring. Hell, it was all he could do not to stare himself. Kiera was too busy dabbing at her chest to notice that she’d attracted the attention of most of the men in the restaurant.

“Eddie,” Sam repeated.

“Huh?” The busboy blinked and looked at Sam.

“The towel?”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie grabbed the towel from the waistband of his apron and reached out as if to wipe the front of Kiera’s chest.

Sam moved quicker than the boy and grabbed the towel away. Realizing what he’d almost done, Eddie blushed deeply.

“I think we can manage now, thanks.” Sam handed the towel to Kiera. “How ‘bout you just bring me that cup of coffee?”

“Sure, Mr. Prescott.” Eddie glanced at Kiera and swallowed hard. “You, ah, need anything, miss?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Kiera managed a smile. “I just spilled some lemonade, that’s all.”

“I—I’ll get you some more,” he stammered. “You need some water, too? ‘Cause I could go get that, case that might stain or something, or maybe you want some club soda—”

“Edward Morrison!” Madge stormed up behind the boy. “Stop drooling over that girl and go get Sam here some coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eddie cast one last, puppy-dog look at Kiera.

“Sometime before Christmas?” Madge barked, then shook her head when the boy shuffled off. “What do you think, Sam? You’re the big business expert here. Should I fire him?”

“Absolutely.”

Kiera’s mouth dropped open.

“I’ll give him the boot after he brings your coffee.” Madge grabbed the pencil she’d stuck over her ear. “The boy’s a pain-in-the-butt, anyway. So what’ll you have today? The usual?”

“We both will,” Sam replied. “Extra cheese.”

“Wait—”

“You got it.” Madge scribbled on her order pad, then stuck her pencil behind her ear and snatched up the menu on the table.

Kiera called after the waitress again, but Madge was too busy hollering the order to the cook to hear.

“How could you do such a thing?” Kiera said through clenched teeth. “He’s just a kid, a sweet kid, who was just trying to be helpful.”

The “sweet” kid reappeared with a mug in one hand and pot of coffee in the other. If he’d been looking at the mug instead of Kiera when he poured, Eddie might have even managed to get some of the coffee in the cup. He jumped when he realized he’d missed, reached for his towel, only to remember he’d given it to Kiera.

“Sorry, Mr. Prescott,” Eddie apologized. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ve got it.” Kiera was already wiping the spill up. “It was just a drop.”

“I’ll get another towel,” Eddie said and hurried—well, for Eddie it was hurried—off. Sam stared at his empty coffee cup, the mess on the table, then looked back up at Kiera. He gave her an I-told-you-so look.

“Don’t you dare get that boy fired.” She put her hands on the table and leaned forward. Outrage sparked in her blue eyes and flushed her cheeks pink. “You call the owner back here right now and tell her you were just kidding or so help me I’ll—”

Kiera stopped suddenly, pressed her mouth into a thin line.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ll what?”

He could almost hear Kiera doing battle in her brain.

Her need to defend a slow, clumsy busboy warring with her need to tell her boss off.

“You’ll what?” he asked again, lowering his voice. He was dying to know.

“Please.” Her fury dissipated like smoke in a breeze. “Please, don’t.”

He might have strung her along another minute or two, but the desperate look in her eyes, the soft, pleading tone in her voice, took all the fun out of it. “Kiera, Eddie is Madge’s son. She fires him at least once a day. Sometimes twice.”

“Madge’s son?” Kiera glanced at the busboy, who’d already forgotten about bringing a towel and was busy posturing for a cute teenage girl who’d just walked in the front door.

Sam nodded. “The youngest of six boys.”

Kiera’s eyes widened. “She has six boys?”

“Yep.” He watched Madge come up behind her son and grab his earlobe, then drag him into the kitchen, lecturing him the whole way. “And she can say whatever she likes about any one of them, but if she hears someone else say anything close to criticism … well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be within ten yards. When her temper’s up, the woman moves a lot quicker than you’d think.”

“I believe you,” Kiera said, then met his gaze. “I … I’m sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”

It struck him how incredibly beautiful she’d looked a moment ago—her face animated with anger, her chin lifted with indignation—and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what all that intensity of emotion and energy would be like in bed.

His bed.

The image of Kiera naked, underneath him, her body arching upward into his—

Madge slid a mug of steaming coffee in front of Sam and frowned. “What is it about teenage boys and hormones that makes them dumb as a post?”

And then she was off again, shaking her head as she walked back to the kitchen, obviously not looking for an answer.

Teenage boys have nothing on us big boys, Sam thought, thankful to have his mind diverted from his fantasy of Kiera. When he glanced at her, he could see she was smiling while she sipped on her lemonade.

He couldn’t figure her out. The day she’d dropped the tray of drinks, she wouldn’t say one word to defend herself, but today, when she thought that a busboy was going to get the axe, she’d wanted to reach across the table and rip out his liver.

The woman absolutely fascinated him.

“So are you going to tell me?” she asked.

“Tell you?”

“You said there were two complaints.”

“Oh, right.” In spite of her cool tone, he could see the tension in the rigid line of her shoulders. “Chef Phillipe said you questioned his authority.”

“Did he?” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did you?”

She shrugged. “I simply suggested he might have put too much thyme in his chicken kiev.”

Sam wasn’t certain he’d heard her right. In the two months the replacement chef had been with Adagio’s, no one on staff in the restaurant had ever questioned him. They wouldn’t dare. When it came to his kitchen, the man was a tyrant. “You told Chef Phillipe that he put too much thyme in his chicken?”

“I’m sure it was a mistake,” Kiera said.

“You bet it was a mistake.”

She frowned. “I meant the chef’s mistake.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “How do you know he used too much thyme?”

She hesitated, took a long sip of her lemonade. “I could smell it.”

“You smelled it?” He was amazed that the chef hadn’t stuffed Kiera in the pantry and put a double padlock on the door.

“I have an extraordinary sense of smell and taste.”

She definitely had an extraordinary smell, Sam thought. From the first moment she’d stepped into the elevator, he’d been captivated by her scent. And her taste … his gaze dropped to her mouth. Right now she’d taste like pink lemonade, and dammit if he didn’t want to lick that tart sweetness off those enticing lips. He tried his best not to think about the path the spilled lemonade had taken under her tank top. Tried not to wonder what it would feel like to taste that lemonade on her skin, her breasts …

He tossed back a gulp of coffee, though what he really needed was a tall glass of iced water—poured directly below his belt.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, carefully setting her glass on the table. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Chef Phillipe. I was out of place. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

Her contrite tone bothered him much more than anything else she’d said or done. He’d caught a glimpse of the fire simmering just under her surface, an intensity that she clearly kept tamped down.

He wanted to know why, dammit. Wanted to know what it was she was so obviously running away from. Why she needed to keep herself so controlled and distant.

It might not be today, he mused.

But he intended to find out.

Four

“Mrs. Carver is just finishing up a phone call, Miss Daniels. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Kiera managed a smile at the middle-aged brunette receptionist, then sat stiffly on the tan leather sofa. Afraid that her knees might start knocking, she gripped her thighs and held them tightly.

She was about to meet Clair Carver.

Clair Blackhawk.

A knot the size of a trucker’s fist twisted in her stomach.

She’d been setting up her lunch station not even ten minutes ago when the restaurant manager, Christine, gave her the message to report to Clair’s office. Kiera’s first thought was that there’d been more complaints filed against her. Tyler had lightened up a little, but Chef Phillipe had been storming about the kitchen since she’d called him on his faux pas. She’d done her best to keep her opinions to herself, be polite and stay out of the chef’s way, but if he wasn’t barking orders at her, he was muttering under his breath about mindless, insipid waitresses.

Obviously, the man held a grudge.

Still, Kiera seriously doubted that Clair would handle a problem between a chef and a waitress. Normally, owners didn’t get involved in the day-to-day operations of a larger hotel. They had staff for that.

Which led to her second, and definitely more frightening, thought.

Clair knows who I am.

The fist in her stomach twisted tighter.

But how could she?

Sam?

As careful as she’d been to cover her tracks, if he’d been curious enough, if he’d dug deep enough and made the right phone calls, it was possible he might have learned who she was. Maybe even why she was here. But it was doubtful. And he certainly hadn’t seemed curious. Or even interested, for that matter. In fact, for the past four days, since they’d had lunch together at Pappa Pete’s, he’d barely even looked at her. She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed.

Both, she decided.

There was no question she was attracted to the man. Butterflies-in-the-stomach attracted. Can’t-stop-thinking-about-him attracted.

Fantasy attracted.

When she least expected it, they’d sneak up on her. Those insidious little erotic daydreams. Bare, hot skin against bare, hot skin. Arms and legs intertwined. Busy hands, rushing lips. Sometimes her fantasy involved a bed, sometimes an elevator. In his office—on his desk—was her personal favorite. Sizzling, no-holds-barred sex. Wild. Frantic. Spontaneous. He was as mad for her as she was for him, reaching, gasping …

“Miss Daniels?”

She jumped at the receptionist’s voice, blinked quickly. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” A frown wrinkled the woman’s brow. “You look a little flushed.”

Darn it! Kiera touched a hand to her cheek, felt the warmth there grow warmer still. “Do I?”

The receptionist nodded. “I heard there might be something going around.”

Knowing the effect Sam had on women, Kiera didn’t doubt there was a lot of what she had going around. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.”

“Miss Daniels, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

Kiera froze at the sound of the feminine voice behind her. It was one thing to imagine meeting Clair, quite another to actually do it.

Breath held, heart pounding, Kiera slowly turned.

Thick, dark brown hair skimmed the shoulders of her lime-colored jacket, framed her high cheekbones and wide mouth. Her skin had the barest kiss of bronze, suggesting her obvious Native American heritage wasn’t full-blooded. And her eyes—Kiera stared at Clair’s smiling gaze—they were blue. Deep blue.

“Thank you for coming.” Clair moved into the room. “I’m Clair Carver.”

Kiera watched the woman close the distance between them and felt a moment of panic. Trey was right. I never should have come here. No good could possibly come of it. She rose too quickly, awkwardly accepted the hand Clair offered.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carver.”

“Mrs. Carver,” Clair repeated dreamily, her lips curving wider. “Even after six weeks of marriage, I haven’t quite gotten used to the sound of it. But please, call me Clair.”

Kiera managed a weak smile and nodded. “Kiera.”

“Mary—” Clair glanced at the slender gold watch on her wrist “—why don’t you take your lunch now? I can handle things by myself here for a little while.”

“Mr. Carver told me not to—”

“Never mind what Jacob told you.” Softly scolding, Clair tilted her head. “I’m feeling fine now and you both need to stop worrying about me.”

Shaking her head in defeat, the receptionist slid her glasses off and picked up her purse. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“You’ll be back in one hour, not one minute before, or I’ll tell Albert in Shipping that you have a crush on him.”

“I most certainly do not!” Mary puffed up like an agitated hen, then lowered her brow with worry. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

“One hour,” Clair said firmly, then smiled at Kiera. “After you.”

The spacious inner office, a mix of contemporary and Western decor, was warm and welcoming. Native American–themed watercolors and bronze statues decorated the walls and shelves. A smooth granite fountain bubbled softly in one corner, and two ficus trees flanked the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the pool and courtyard.

“Please, sit.” Clair waved a hand toward one of the tan leather armchairs in front of a glass-topped cherry-wood desk. “Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee or water? I have some tea, if you like chamomile.”

Kiera took the chair closest to the door. “No, thank you.”

“I’m sorry I pulled you away from your shift.” Clair sat at her desk. “I know how busy the restaurant gets at lunch.”

If she’s going to lecture or fire me, Kiera thought, she certainly is being polite about it. “Not for another half hour.”

“Normally, I would have come down and introduced myself to you right away, but I’ve been a little under the weather for the past few days.”

She did look a little tired, Kiera thought, and her cheeks were slightly pale. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“I seem to be over the worst of it now.” Leaning back in her chair, Clair narrowed her eyes. “Have we met before?”

Kiera tensed, but managed to keep her tone calm. “Have you ever been to Rainville?”

“Rainville? I don’t think so.” Clair shook her head thoughtfully. “You look so … familiar, though I’m not sure why.”

“I probably just look like someone else.”

“Maybe.” There was still doubt in Clair’s voice, but she shrugged it off. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you, so I should get to the point. I received a phone call regarding you this morning.”

Oh, God, she does know, Kiera thought. But with her throat closing up on her, she couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“Apparently,” Clair said, “you’ve impressed my sister-in-law.”

“Your sister-in-law?”

“One of them.” Clair smiled. “Grace is married to Rand. She comes here for lunch quite often. You’ve waited on her a couple of times this past week. She couldn’t stop talking about how terrific you are. I decided I wanted to meet you myself.”

That’s why Clair had called her here? Because her sister-in-law had said something nice about her? Kiera felt a bubble of hysterical laughter threaten to rise, but she quickly swallowed it back down. “I—I appreciate that. But really, I’m just doing my job.”