The Cost of Silence. Kathleen O'Brien

Allison’s best waitress friend, Sue, paused with a set of silverware half-rolled in a napkin and inhaled sharply. “Look! There he is.”

      Allison, who was really too busy to care, glanced toward the door, which had jingled its incoming-customer melody of joy. But it was lunchtime on a sunny spring Saturday, and at least a dozen people crowded around Moira’s hostess station. Allison couldn’t make them all out clearly.

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know his name. Look. Can’t you see him? Tall, dark and handsome from yesterday. The one with the mangled Mercedes.”

      Oh. Allison felt her own breath swoop in, and she nearly dropped the order of coconut prawns she needed to deliver to table eleven, which would have been a shame, since they were regulars and big tippers.

      But Sue was right. There he was. Redmond Malone. Yeah, she didn’t kid herself—she remembered his name. Even here in this upscale tourist town, she didn’t see many guys that sexy. A couple of inches taller than tall. Dark, wavy hair. Blue eyes so intense they looked Photoshopped.

      Loose jeans and a black T-shirt that resembled the ones she bought at the superstore but probably cost more than she’d made in tips all week. Definitely an understated style. No obvious come-ons—nothing form-fitting to show off assets, either God-given or gym-acquired. No gold trinkets, no hair gel, no Armani. Actually, he looked as if the thrill of being a stud might have worn off somewhere between twenty and thirty, and he was tired of having to bat females away like flies.

      Still, he had an industrial-strength level of self-confidence, and was in love with his boy-toy car. Definitely not her type.

      Not that she had a type anymore. Except maybe the type that wore diapers.

      Still, she wondered what he was doing here. She hoped it didn’t mean more trouble for Bill. Ordinarily, Bill would have been at table eleven, with his friends. They called themselves the Old Coots Club, and they rarely missed a Saturday. But Bill was at home, pouting about yesterday’s accident.

      “He’s looking at you,” Sue said with a low growl. “Damn it. Why aren’t the sexy ones ever looking at me?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” Allison grabbed the Ultimate Club that Sven slid onto the shelf, added it to her tray with the coconut prawns, and headed over to eleven. She tried to give Moira the dark eye, warning her not to put Mr. Mercedes in her section. But Moira just shrugged. She really didn’t have much choice. Flip, the owner, ran The Peacock Café like a military operation, and it was Allison’s turn to get a table.

      Oh, well. The closing on the new restaurant property had gone smoothly this morning, and nothing was going to spoil her good mood. Not even this Redmond Malone guy, who had insisted on reporting Bill’s accident.

      Bill already had acquired so many points that another ticket might tip the balance. They might take his license away. And though all Bill’s friends worked hard to keep him from getting behind the wheel, they knew losing the license would badly damage his self-esteem. His wife’s death last Christmas had hit him hard, and he desperately needed to pretend he was still completely independent.

      But what was done was done. She couldn’t undo it by being rude to Redmond Malone. Yesterday, he’d been the problem. Today, he was merely another customer.

      As she approached eleven, Sarge Barker was returning from the restroom, whistling. She’d heard him announce earlier that he’d won the Fantasy Five last night. A whopping six bucks, but money didn’t mean much to a millionaire. He simply liked winning.

      She had barely set the tray down when the old man scooped her into his arms and danced her around the table.

      “Sarge!” she protested, laughing, but he was almost as burly now as when he’d been in the army fifty years ago, a fact he broadcasted proudly while he loosened his belt after every meal. She couldn’t pull away without making a scene. “You’re going to get me fired.”

      “So, what? You’re too good for this place.” Sarge tried to get a quickstep going, but he had two left feet and it ended up a terrible galumphing mess. They barely avoided crashing into the chairs. “Marry me, and we’ll dance into the sunset together.”

      “Sarge…”

      But the rest of the Old Coot Club were clapping now, egging him on. Damn it. It had probably gone on only fifteen seconds, but that was an eternity for something this inappropriate. She was going to have to get tough.

      Hoping she didn’t throw off Sarge, who had an impressive spare tire that clearly redistributed his center of gravity, she suddenly ducked under his arms and moved backward fast to free herself.

      He must have thought she was falling, because he reached out and tried to grab her shoulder. His hand caught her left breast instead. He yanked it back as if he’d touched a hot stove, and immediately lost his footing, plopping onto the table, scarcely missing the tines of a fork.

      Equally startled, she took two more awkward steps backward, tangling her feet. Her rear end hit the small folding table on which she’d rested the tray, and before she could even think about righting herself, everything toppled over with a crash.

      She landed in the prawns, with a broken glass of iced tea pooling in her lap, freezing her thighs. Sarge cried out, and, in a very stupid move, decided to rush over to help. He slipped on something, maybe a piece of bread slathered in mayonnaise, and landed in a heap at her feet.

      Well, of course. Nothing by half measures.

      Though her tailbone hurt, her hand was stinging, her dress was soaked and she was downright mortified, she suddenly had the strangest urge to laugh. Apparently, if you went far enough beyond awful, you reached ridiculous.

      “Are you all right?”

      She looked up. Redmond Malone squatted beside her, looking her over with an expression she couldn’t quite interpret. She wondered whether he, too, might be trying not to laugh.

      “I’m fine,” she said, hoping she didn’t have any parsley in her hair. She plucked ice off her skirt and plunked it into one of the unbroken glasses. “We’ve almost got it, don’t you think? Next stop…Dancing with the Stars.”

      “Well.” He gathered the largest chunks of glass and set them on the tray carefully. “You might want to work on the dismount.”

      “Allie! I’m so sorry, honey.” The others had helped Sarge to his feet, and he held out a hand to help Allison up. Unfortunately, it was covered in mayonnaise. “Bring Flip out here. I’ll explain that it wasn’t your fault.”

      She didn’t want to hurt the old guy’s feelings, but if she took Sarge’s slippery hand, she’d end up right back on her rear end. She glanced around for something more stable to hold on to.

      Redmond, who still squatted only inches away, didn’t waste any time. He placed the last shard of glass in a safe place, then turned to her and held out both his hands. She glanced at those shoulders, then down at the lean, strong thighs. He could definitely support her. She put her hands in his.

      She didn’t even have to use her own strength. In one fluid motion she was on her feet, tilting ever so slightly toward that soft black T-shirt. She got close enough to tell that he didn’t wear cologne and smelled only of fresh cotton and soap and something they ought to bottle and call Raw Sex Appeal.

      Then, because she had a highly evolved sense of self-preservation, she held her breath and angled her head away from him. What the hell was she doing smelling this stranger’s T-shirt?

      For that matter, why was she standing here at all, staring into his electric blue eyes, like a deer frozen before an oncoming car? She had things to do. She had to get a redo on that order into the kitchen, stat. She had to get the floor cleaned up, new drinks delivered.

      She glanced down, and to her horror she realized she was still holding the man’s hands, as if she still hadn’t quite found her equilibrium. She pulled her fingers free and rubbed them