The Harder They Fall (2 page)

“You’re exaggerating. It was a small fire. And I warned you I couldn’t cook.”

Tom raked a hand through his carrot-red hair. “The stockroom—”

“That was an accident!”

“Darcy, everything with you is one big accident! Everything!” He threw out his arms. “I thought your father and I were friends.”

“Of course you’re friends!” Darcy protested. “That’s why he sent me here to D.C. Because he knew you’d take care of me.”

Tom dropped like deadweight into his chair. “Modeling,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Modeling. It would be the perfect career for you. You’re good-looking. You’re tall and slender. You’ve got great skin . . .”

Darcy wrinkled her nose. “How dull. Standing perfectly still
all day long
?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Tom murmured.

Darcy strolled over to Tom and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I’ve caused trouble, Tom. But you know why I have to do this.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your old man wants you to learn the business from the ground up.”

“Right. And, Tom, if I can’t prove to him that I can handle the small jobs, he’ll never let me run the company. He’ll,” her voice cracked, “sell to that damn corporation.”

Tom shook his head. “Darcy, honey, maybe it would be best if he sells. Do you realize how much money he stands to make? That we all stand to make? I hate to tell you, but most of the employees
want
this deal to go through. If any of the folks here caught wind of who you really are, they’d probably lynch you.”

“Why?”

“Honey, your dad was minutes away from signing the papers before you put a halt to it. All of the employees had already been told about the takeover. They were looking forward to it, with all the added benefits. It’s no secret that Ed Welham’s daughter was the one to stop the sale.”

“You don’t think anyone suspects I’m her . . . I mean, she’s me . . . I mean,
I’m
me, do you?”

Tom grunted. “What they suspect is that I’ve lost my marbles for not firing you right after the freezer incident.”

“How was I supposed to know the chef was doing inventory in there?”

“Let your dad sell, hon.”

“It’s my birthright, Tom,” Darcy said softly. “My mother and father started with one little diner in Spokane and worked their tails off to turn Welham’s into the largest chain of five-star restaurants in the country. My mother
died
making this company a success. I can’t give it up.”

“I know that, hon. I understand how you feel. If it weren’t for this dream of yours, your father would have sold out a long time ago. Can’t you see that you’re just not cut out for the restaurant business?”

“Not the day-to-day operations, maybe. But overall, I can run them as well as anyone. I have an MBA, Tom!” She looked down at the spreadsheets on Tom’s desk. Pointing to a row of numbers, she said, “That should be four thousand, three-eighty-six.”

Shaking his head, Tom erased the wrong figure and penciled in Darcy’s calculation. “Let him sell, Darcy. Then take the profits from your share of the company and do whatever floats your boat.”

“I can’t, Tom. I’d be betraying my mother’s memory.”

Tom clucked his tongue. “Okay, honey. But let me just warn you, your father is still talking seriously with Dining Incorporated. He seems to think this is just a lark, and you’ll get bored or frustrated or thrown in jail for involuntary manslaughter soon enough. In fact, he told me to give this Michael Davidson guy first-class treatment and access.”

“Who’s Michael Davidson?”

“One of the big shots at D.I. He’s going to be hanging around quite a bit for the next couple of weeks.”

Darcy hated the man, sight unseen. “When’s he arriving?”

Tom studied his nails. “He’s here.”

“In the restaurant? Now?”

Tom’s lips twitched. “That’s right, honey.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where?” she growled.

“A few minutes ago he was seated at 6B.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No!”

“That’s right, hon. You just nearly broke the man’s nose.”

Michael Davidson resisted the urge
to scoot as far away from the ditzy blonde as he could get when she came to pour him more coffee. This woman was a walking time bomb. How she managed to keep this job, he had no idea. The moment the papers were signed on the takeover agreement, his first order of business was going to be handing her her pink slip.

Darcy. Her name tag told him her name was Darcy.

Michael mentally added,
the Ditz.

“Thank God,” he mumbled, when she managed to pour the coffee without maiming him.

His nose still hurt, and his crotch still tingled where she’d grabbed him. His hair, for the most part, had dried, but he had the feeling it looked like hell.

He raked a hand through it, combing it with his fingers. Stirring cream into his coffee, he suddenly became aware that she hadn’t walked away. He glanced up, arching a brow quizzically.

“How’s the coffee?” Darcy the Ditz asked him.

Something jolted through his system as he stared into her glittering, jade-green eyes. He realized that perhaps “dumb blonde” was not an apt description for her. There was intelligence in those eyes. And something else. Something that looked suspiciously like animosity.

“Hot,” he said, then almost groaned. He hadn’t meant the coffee.

She smiled then, but the smile didn’t climb higher than her cheeks. It didn’t matter. That smile socked him in the gut. She looked like a young Grace Kelly, with pronounced cheekbones, full, inviting lips, and delicate brows above a pair of the most mesmerizing eyes he’d ever stared into.

He sort of regretted that her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. He’d love to see how long it was. He also cursed the uniform, white blouse under a black vest that managed to disguise her body.

Shaking his head to clear it, Michael looked away. “The coffee’s fine,” he said, glaring out the window. He felt uneasy guilt, looking into a pair of soulful eyes that would soon be surveying an unemployment line.

It wasn’t his problem. As soon as he acquired Welham’s, he’d move into the senior vice president’s office. This coup would make his career. He’d be too busy to worry about a beautiful, blond tornado.

Besides, Michael already had two too many women in his life to worry about. His heart lurched at the thought. God, he felt like he’d been worrying all of his life. The image of his mother—trying to remain cheerful while working herself into the ground to give her two children the best—lived with him. Haunted him. Drove him. He’d make it up to her. He
had
to make it up to her. He had to prove that those years of backbreaking work had paid off. And this promotion would go a long way toward achieving that goal.

Michael swallowed and turned his attention back to his list.

Still, his waitress lingered. He knew without even looking up. Her perfume scented the air around him, reminding him of flowers and spice all at once. A strange curiosity to know exactly what parts of her body she perfumed popped into his head. Did she spritz the back of her knees? The hollows of her hips? Between her breasts?

The tingling in his groin increased tenfold, and he shifted uncomfortably, determined to ignore her. Sipping his coffee, he went back to making notes.

“It’s our own special blend.”

“Excuse me?” he snapped.

“The coffee. We blend it here.”

Michael made a note.
Have Welham’s start buying their coffee from Columbia Bean Company.
Dining Incorporated owned Columbia Bean Company.

“Would you like some dessert?” she asked, her voice sounding strained.

“What?”

“Dessert!” she nearly shrieked. “Dessert! You know, the sweet stuff that comes after the main course?”

Michael looked at her, amazed at her impertinence. He started to reprimand her, but he noticed suddenly that she looked furious. Her cheeks were splotchy, her eyes blazed. And worse, the hand holding the coffeepot was shaking.

He pointed at it. “Put that thing down!”

“What?”

“The coffeepot! Put it down!” he barked like a drill sergeant.

She did. Almost completely on the table. But not quite enough. As if in slow motion, he watched it begin to teeter precariously toward her.

He didn’t know how he got out of his chair. He didn’t know anything except that one second he was watching the beginning of another catastrophe, the next he’d pushed her away from the table and shielded her with his body from the scalding liquid.

He knew it was scalding, because he felt it splash against the back of his slacks. Scalding, all right. Scalding his calves.

He closed his eyes and mouthed a foul word.

He slowly became aware that he was still holding her. The burning of his calves faded in his consciousness as he felt another kind of burn where her breasts were pressed to his chest. Even through the layers of clothing between them, he could feel their fullness, their tautness.

She really was slender. He almost felt he could wrap his arms around her twice. Her forehead was level with his aching nose, which meant she had to be close to five-ten or so. Tall. Tall and thin with really, really great breasts.

And her scent wrapped around him, fogging his usually orderly, precise mind. A rush of colors exploded in his head. The golden silk of her hair. The cream velvet of her complexion. The rosy blush of her lips. The moss green of her eyes. Her snapping eyes. Her angry eyes.

“You can let go of me now,” she demanded.

Michael released her abruptly. “You’re welcome.”

Her mouth popped open a little. “I’m welcome?” she growled . . . just like an angry kitten. “
I’m
welcome?”

“Lady, I just saved you from a few third-degree burns. The least you could do is appreciate it.”

“It wouldn’t have spilled if you hadn’t ordered me . . .
ordered
me
to put it down!”

She had a nasty habit of repeating herself. “Listen, Calamity Jane—”

“The name’s Darcy.” She leaned sideways and looked behind him. “Thank you, Anthony,” she said, with a genuine smile of gratitude. One, he felt, that should have been bestowed on him a few moments ago.

“Darcy, what?” he grilled. He was going to talk to Tom Murphy,
now.

“Wel—Wellington,” she barked back.

“Well, Darcy Wel-Wellington. You are a one-woman disaster zone.”

Her chin came up, but it trembled a little. That slight tremble was his undoing. His little sister’s chin did exactly that, right before she started to cry. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a crying woman. “Don’t you dare start bawling on me!” he ordered.

Her eyes misted.

Damn!

“I won’t! I don’t cry!”

He liked that in a woman. He released his breath, realizing he’d been holding it in anticipation of crocodile tears. “Listen, I’m sorry.” He massaged the back of his neck. “The coffee probably was my fault.”

She stared at him in surprise. Then she smiled a little. “Would you like some dessert? All of it is homemade, right here. We have apple-tomato pie and pecan-rhubarb pie and coconut cheesecake and strawberry tortes and brownie surprise and—”

“Pecan pie,” he interrupted, half-afraid the pie would land on his head, but also feeling a strange need to make her happy. “Please.”