Cattleman's Choice. Diana Palmer

tables, Mandelyn could see them, and she knew what was going on. She touched Carson’s arm and whispered, “Give him a tip.”

      “A tip?” Carson growled, glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that threatened to fry him to a crisp. “A tip, hell! I want a table. And I’d better get one fast, sonny, or you and your phony French accent are going right out that front door together.” He grinned as he said it, and Mandelyn hid her face in her hands.

      “A table for two, monsieur?” the maître d’ said with a shaky smile and a quick wave of his hand. “Mais oui! Just follow me, s’il vous plait!”

      “Tip him, hell,” Carson scoffed. “You just have to know the right words to say.”

      She didn’t answer. All around the exclusive dining room, people were staring at them. She tried to follow some distance behind him; maybe she could look as if she were alone.

      “Don’t hang back there, for God’s sake, I’ll lose you,” Carson said, gripping her arm to half drag her to the table the maître d’ was indicating. “Here. Sit down.”

      He plopped her into a chair and jerked out one for himself, “How about a menu?”