The Harder They Fall (3 page)

Her smile did look happy then. He liked it. A lot.

“One pecan pie, coming up. More coffee?”

“No!”

She nodded, apparently accustomed to people screaming desperately at her. As she walked away, he admired the sway of her hips. Shaking his head, he turned back to the table. The busboy—Anthony he thought she’d called him—was just rising from where he’d been scrubbing the coal-gray carpet.

Michael pulled his wallet from his breast pocket and took out a twenty.
Slapping it into Anthony’s hand, he said, “You deserve this.”

Anthony grinned. “To tell you the truth, Darcy’s the best thing that ever happened to me. People slip me sympathy tips all the time.”

“Combat pay,” Michael murmured.

Anthony began to turn away, but abruptly turned back. “But she’s one of the sweetest people I know.”

Michael admired Anthony’s loyalty, and slapped him on the arm. Then he sat down and returned to his notes.
Have Welham’s start buying their desserts from Sweet Nothings,
he wrote.

He hesitated.
Fire Darcy Wellington,
he added underneath it.

“Why haven’t you fired her?”

Tom Murphy’s eyes darted around the room, as if he sought escape. “Why would I fire her? She’s reliable, she’s enthusiastic, she’s . . .”

“Lethal,” Michael supplied dryly.

Tom dropped into his chair. It groaned under his weight. “She’s a little clumsy, yes. But is that a reason to fire her?”

Michael laughed. “Do you know what she did today? She blew up the espresso machine.”

Wincing, Tom said, “I heard.”

“She averages one broken plate and two broken glasses per hour. What’s it costing you to replace all of that tableware?”

“We’re getting volume discounts, though!” Tom said brightly.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong with this picture. He’d been in D.C. a week. Long enough for even the biggest idiot to realize Darcy Wellington presented a health risk to employees and customers alike.

True, she was gorgeous. She was even disarmingly charming—to everyone but Michael. She didn’t spare an ounce of charm for him. He had the feeling she knew she’d get canned the moment the ink was dry on the takeover papers.

What really had Michael baffled, though, was Darcy’s popularity. The employees really liked her . . . from a distance. And her rueful smile usually made even the angriest customer forgive her. And for some reason he couldn’t fathom, Tom Murphy—touted as one of Welham’s best general managers—willingly let profits nosedive for the sake of Darcy’s employment.

One explanation cut through Michael’s mind. “Are you sleeping with her, Murphy?”

Jumping to his feet—gracefully for a man of his size—Tom nearly bellowed, “How dare you suggest such filth, you—”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said quickly. “That was out of line. I’m just trying to understand this.”

Tom Murphy’s outrage had been swift and strong enough to give Michael his answer. And for some reason, Michael felt relieved.

“She’s a kid!” Tom continued, obviously not mollified.

“She’s twenty-five years old. She’s a woman.” Michael felt his body go taut, just saying those words. Every sensory detail of Darcy in his arms was etched indelibly in his mind. She was a woman, all right.

Michael cursed himself silently for allowing his thoughts to turn sexual. Sex and business didn’t mix. Ever. He’d gotten as far as he had in his thirty-one years by remembering that at all costs.

He grabbed back control of his libido and put a lock on it. Moving to the door, he said, “Tom, I don’t know if you’ve just gone soft, but I promise you this. The moment D.I. takes over, Darcy Wellington is history.”

Darcy was furious.
Absolutely furious. She stormed to Tom’s office and flung open the door without knocking. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud. She thought she heard another muffled sound, but she was too angry to pay it any mind.

Glaring at Tom, she plunked her hands on her hips. “I’m going to shoot that no-good snake right between his baby blues!”

“Darcy—”

“Do you know what he’s doing?” she shrieked. “Do you? He’s
watching
me
.
Every move I make—”

“Darcy—”

“And as soon as I make one little mistake, he pulls out his damned notepad and
writes it down
!”

“Darcy—”

“I have half a mind to call my father and have him sell the damned restaurants on the condition that they fire Michael Davidson. Do you know what it’s like trying to pour a bowl of soup when that jerk is
staring
at
you, just waiting to catch you doing something wrong?”

“Darcy—”

“I hate him! I don’t care that everyone thinks he’s a hunk. I hate him and I hate having him here! Can’t you make him go away?”

“Darcy—”

“If he keeps it up—” Tom’s florid face finally registered. “What?”

Tom pointed over her right shoulder. Darcy turned, pretty certain of what she’d find.

At first, all she saw was the open door. Then it slowly swung shut, revealing Michael Davidson. A welt had started forming high on the right side of his forehead, and Darcy had the sinking feeling she knew how he’d gotten it.

“Uh-oh,” she muttered.

“Ms. Welham, I presume,” Davidson drawled.

O-o-oh, she hated his smug good looks. She hated his power suits. She hated his sensual lips. And most of all she hated his body. His tall, lean body that had started haunting her dreams, ever since the day he’d held her in his arms.

Her chin jerked. So, she was busted. Maybe it was just as well. At least the toad would know who was really in charge around here. Well, sort of in charge. Well, indirectly in
charge. “That’s right, Mr. Davidson. Darcy Lynn Welham. Future owner of this restaurant.”

She flung her arm wide to encompass her domain. Too late, she realized her hand was heading directly for his head. Good thing he had fast reflexes. He ducked just in time.

Darcy snatched her hand back, horrified she’d almost smacked him.

Michael Davidson straightened, glaring at her.

Going on the offensive, she glared right back. “So, you might as well pack up and slither back to whatever hole you call home, Mr. Davidson. Because you’re not getting your hands on my restaurants!”

He stepped forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “That’s where you’re wrong, Darcy. D.I.
is
buying the Welham’s restaurant chain.”

“Over my dead body!”

“You keep blowing up coffeemakers, that shouldn’t take long.”

“That machine was faulty!”

“Right,” he said, smirking.

Oh, she itched to wipe that smile off his face. Preferably with her palm.
You’re a nonviolent person, Darcy,
she reminded herself. She switched tactics. Smiling, she batted her eyelashes. “Can’t we be friends?” she asked sweetly.

He looked stunned for a moment. His eyes went wide, and his Adam’s apple slipped up and down his throat a couple of times.

Unfortunately, he recovered rather quickly. His smile was lethal. “Not on your life, sweetheart. You’ve just been upgraded from a walking menace to the enemy. And don’t you forget it.”

Darcy resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. She raised her nose in the air and sniffed loudly. “My shift’s over, Tom. I’m going home.”

As she started to march past the creep, she stepped on his foot.

“Ouch!” he yelped. “You did that on purpose!”

She hadn’t, but she decided not to admit it. She smiled, then kept right on walking.

“Darcy . . .” Davidson said, with an ominous ring to his voice.

“What?” she snapped without turning around.

“Remember this. This is war. You are the enemy. And I take no prisoners.”

Darcy did turn then, but she focused her attention on Tom. Smiling sweetly, she said, “Tom, did I tell you I spilled Mr. Davidson’s entrée on his lap last week?” She waved, her eyes beaming innocence. “It was an accident, of course. I tried to grab it, but I missed.” She nodded encouragement. “Ask me how I know I missed.”

“I don’t think—”

“Come on, Tom. Ask me.”

“How did you know you missed?” Tom asked in a reluctant croak.

“Because,” she said with a flourish, “he ordered tuna, not shrimp.”

Ignoring Davidson’s choked sputters, she whirled and left the office.

War, indeed.

Three days later, Darcy walked into the break room that doubled as the stockroom. Michael Davidson was hanging a colorful chart on the wall. The title across the top read: Sales Per Customer. Listed down the left side were the names of all of the waiters and waitresses. Horizontally he’d listed the dates for each week they’d worked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Darcy asked.

“Motivating the wait staff,” he answered, without looking at her.

“They’re not your staff to motivate.”

“They will be soon enough.” He turned, pinning her with his deep blue gaze. “And the sooner you get used to the idea, the better off they’ll all be.”

He bent and picked up another large sign, dismissing her.

Darcy fumed. The man was
such a
jerk. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about him, according to Tom. Not yet, at any rate. But soon, he’d get his.

She looked at the poster he was busy hanging. This wasn’t a chart, but a quote.

I Don’t Know What Your Destiny Will Be, But One Thing I Know: The Only Ones Among You Who Will Be Really Happy Are Those Who Will Have Sought And Found How To Serve.

—Dr. Albert Schweitzer.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You think hanging up posters of stupid platitudes is going to motivate people?’

He didn’t answer her until he’d finished. “The ones who understand them. Do you want an interpretation?”

“You—you—”

He sliced a hand through the air, cutting her off. “Listen, Princess. You might be quite proud of yourself for crooking your finger and bringing a buyout to a grinding halt, but I assure you, it’s temporary. The sooner you realize this takeover is best for everyone—including you, I might add—the better.”

Her retort, when she finally thought of one, was cut off by the entrance of Wendy Walker, another waitress.

“Oh, there you are!” Wendy chirped, sashaying over to Davidson. She tiptoed crimson nails up the sleeve of his banker gray suit coat. “You never answered my question, earlier. Do you want to come to Clyde’s with us tonight, or not?”

Darcy resisted the urge to throw up. Wendy was a very nice woman, when with other women. It was only when a man appeared that she turned into a cooing vamp. And men fell at her feet. Or more appropriately, drooled over her . . . endowments.

For some reason, Wendy’s flirtation with the creep bothered Darcy more than it had ever bothered her with any of the other men at Welham’s. Maybe because she hated validation that he was an extremely attractive man . . . when he kept his mouth shut.

Darcy jerked a glass of soda to her lips and glared at the oaf, waiting for him to return Wendy’s banter. When his eyes turned ice-blue, and he smoothly moved out of touching distance, she felt oddly relieved.

“Thanks, but no,” he replied coolly.

Wendy pouted. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

With that, he left the room.

Wendy watched him go, then turned to Darcy. “He’s gay.”

Darcy almost choked on her soda. “Michael Davidson?”

Nodding, Wendy said, “Has to be. Five of us have tried to get him out on the town, and he hasn’t accepted once. The man has to be gay.”

Gay? Darcy didn’t believe for a moment that Michael Davidson was gay. Fastidious, yes. A real, royal pain, yes. But definitely not gay.

She didn’t know how she knew this with such certainty. She had very little experience with men, and almost none with their desires. But something about the way he looked at her told Darcy that he was well aware she was a woman. And that he appreciated that fact thoroughly.

Of course, that could just be her imagination. Maybe she read a flare in his eyes that wasn’t really there. The rest of his face certainly didn’t approve of her. His lips were continuously pursed in a frown, his eyebrows inevitably raised up in mockery.

And the man
did
walk around the restaurant almost like a robot, ignoring all attempts at teasing by the bolder female employees. But on the occasions when Davidson trained all of his disgusting, unnerving attention on her, something burned in his cobalt eyes. Something that made her nerves flutter.