Fortune's Just Desserts. Marie Ferrarella

easily—especially not since she had the impression that the restaurant manager would back her up.

      “There’s no need to call in anyone else,” she told him cheerfully, her smile never wavering. “This is my station, I can take their order.”

      Marcos felt his temper flaring. He was not nearly as laid-back as he had to pretend to be when he was at Red. But exploding in front of a roomful of diners wasn’t something he wanted to do. Aside from it being bad for business, it was guaranteed to get back to his aunt and uncle within five minutes. He didn’t want them regretting having hired him.

      The way he grossly regretted that they had hired this Fortune woman, favor or no favor.

      “Then do it,” he instructed tersely. Before leaving, Marcos paused for a moment to issue her a silent warning that he didn’t want any more trouble from her or because of her.

      The moment Marcos was out of earshot, the man who had started the dust-up gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your boss.”

      Readying the electronic board she’d been given to note down the various orders, Wendy glanced over her shoulder at Marcos’s broad, disappearing back.

      “You didn’t.” She turned back to face the men at the table. “He’s had it in for me ever since I started working here.”

      “Anything we can do?” another one of the patrons at the table asked seriously.

      “Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “You can order. Now, what’ll it be, gentlemen?”

      This time, they gave her their orders without any further incident.

      Wendy Fortune was trouble.

      Marcos had known in his gut she would be. Knew it the very first time he laid eyes on her. The patrons, his uncle had pointed out after observing her on the floor the second day she was on duty, liked her.

      But that, Marcos thought, was part of the problem. Some of the male patrons seemed to like her too much.

      He supposed, if he were an impartial observer, he couldn’t exactly blame them. She had a supple figure that caught a man’s attention, even hidden beneath the wide, colorful skirt and white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that the female waitstaff wore. Couple that with her soft laugh and that Southern accent of hers and the men were drawn in like hapless fish in an overstocked lake.

      When word of mouth about the new “knockout of a waitress” spread, business at Red started booming even more than usual.

      He wouldn’t have minded what was happening if—

      If?

      What if?

      Was it because he was annoyed that business had picked up, not dropped off the way he’d feared when he’d predicted that the Fortune girl would be bad for Red?

      Or was there something else that was annoying him about her presence in his restaurant?

      Was it just that rich people in general annoyed him because he thought that they always acted as if they were better than everyone else?

      In Wendy’s defense—as if he had to defend her—he hadn’t noticed her behaving that way once she’d begun working here. There was no bored-to-tears heiress drama about her. She’d listened diligently while Eva showed her the ropes, instructing her where to find the flatware and dishes, how to serve people, how to pour beer into their glasses and a whole host of things he was sure Wendy hadn’t concerned herself with prior to coming here.

      According to Eva, she had been a good student, absorbing everything she was told the first time around. There was no need for repetition.

      Maybe it was just that he didn’t like his opinion being disregarded—and then proven wrong. Because, so far, the Fortune woman was working out rather well.

      After he’d allowed himself some time to calm down, he silently admitted that the incident at the table earlier hadn’t been her fault. After all, he couldn’t blame her for taking a man’s breath away merely by standing there.

      Marcos stood off to the side, watching as her table of six finally left. There were just too many maybes for him to waste his time contemplating. After all, he had a restaurant to run—all of it, not just one particular employee.

      “Did he hurt you?” Marcos wanted to know when she came back to the register with the table’s signed credit statement.

      The question—and his supposed concern—took her by surprise. Wendy braced herself for a lecture. Whenever Marcos spoke to her, there was always a lecture in the offing.

      “He gripped my wrist a little harder than I’m accustomed to, but no, he didn’t hurt me. And I think he felt bad about it.” She reached into her apron pocket and displayed a rather thick wad of bills. Unlike the payment for the meal, the men at table eight had left the tip in cash. “He got his friends to leave me a real substantial tip.”

      Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have said anything. Money didn’t matter to her. She’d always had more than enough. But tips meant that the patrons liked you and she wanted to prove to her handsome, thickheaded boss that the people who frequented Red didn’t find her lacking, the way he did.

      Marcos frowned as he watched her tuck the money she’d flaunted back into her pocket. It was just as he’d always heard. The rich were greedy. And the richer they were, the greedier they were.

      “What do you plan to do with your ‘tips’?” he asked sarcastically.

      Given his frame of mind, he wasn’t prepared for her answer.

      “I thought I’d give them to Eva.” Her words drew a scowl from him—why, she had no idea—so she added, “She’s pregnant, you know.” Wendy realized that she’d miscalculated when she saw the look of complete surprise that came over his face. “I guess you didn’t.” She pressed her lips together. Why was it she never said anything right around this man? He made her fumble around like some self-conscious schoolgirl. Wendy sighed. “Did I just get her in trouble?”

      “No,” he answered curtly, “you didn’t.”

      With that, he turned on his heel and made his way straight to Eva.

       Chapter Three

      “Eva, can I have a word with you?” Marcos requested as he passed by the attractive, raven-haired waitress. Without breaking stride or slowing down, he added, “In my office.”

      The smile on the young woman’s lips faded away. Her sunny face paled slightly. Taking off her apron, she hurried to follow Marcos into his office.

      When she crossed the threshold, Marcos closed the door. The sounds coming from the kitchen were muted. Without saying a word, he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

      Sitting down in the worn chair behind the scarred desk, Marcos leaned closer to the waitress before finally asking her, “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

      He heard Eva catch her breath, watched as she grew even paler. Was she afraid of him? Why? If anyone had asked him, he would have said that they had a good working relationship.

      Eva pressed her lips together and met his gaze nervously. “You know.”

      He could see that this wasn’t going to be easy. She was afraid of him, or at least afraid of something. That bothered him.

      “That would be obvious from my question. Why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated.

      Eva looked down at her hands, lacing her long, slender fingers tightly, as if that was all that was holding her together. “Because I was afraid,” she finally said.

      It was one thing to suspect that she was afraid of him, it was another to actually hear her say it. It stung more than he’d thought it would.

      “Afraid?”