At His Service: Flirting with the Boss. Rebecca Winters

enough hurts to last a lifetime. She’d do anything to protect him.

      As they drove along she noticed that all the eating establishments were filled, yet Remi managed to get a table on the sidewalk of the Taberna. After they were seated opposite each other at one of the charming bistro tables, a waiter handed them menus and took their wine order.

      She shook her head at Remi. “Not this early in the day for me. Especially when I couldn’t manage breakfast this morning. What I’d like is a tall glass of orange juice.”

      “I didn’t eat, either,” he confessed sotto voce as if they were conspirators. He looked at the waiter. “Make that two large orange juices and a tray of assorted tapas.”

      The other man nodded and disappeared inside the crowded restaurant. Jillian had a hunch Remi had decided against wine because of the drive ahead of them after lunch, but he always said and did the thing that would make her the most comfortable.

      She loved him for it. She loved him. It was a good thing her sunglasses were on. Eyes conveyed emotions like nothing else. She preferred to hide hers and look into his while he wasn’t aware of it. They were inky black, yet they could brood, darken in pain, lighten in amusement, blaze in fury or pierce to the quick. How did that work?

      “What have you decided?” His deep voice penetrated the sudden silence between them.

      Her cheeks went hot. He’d caught her staring after all. She had to think fast. “This is the first time I’ve had a chance to really look at you out of both eyes.”

      He sat back in the chair. With his black hair she found him devilishly striking dressed in a light gray summer suit. He’d toned it with a darker gray button-down shirt he’d left open at the neck. “Do I terrify you?”

      She smiled. Yes, he terrified her because of the desire he’d aroused in her. It interfered with her breathing. “I haven’t run away yet, have I?” she teased to cover this onslaught of emotions she was having difficulty keeping under control.

      While she waited for him to say something, the waiter chose that moment to serve them. It was just as well she didn’t hear Remi’s reply. Her gaze fastened on the dozen or so hors d’oeuvres arranged on an enormous platter. There was hardly room for their own plates. Next came the juice.

      “Que aproveche!” he bid them before moving to another table.

      “Try this first.” Remi used what looked like a cake server to put one on her plate. “This one’s called pil-pil.” An amusing name. The strong smell of garlic reached her nostrils. “It’s smoked cod cooked in its own sauce with olive oil.”

      Jillian dug in and couldn’t stop with just one. Next came smoked salmon, then herb-flavored shrimps called gambas followed by crabmeat cangrejos with potato tortillas.

      “It’s a good thing I’m not staying in Madrid for the next three weeks. In that amount of time I’d easily put on ten pounds eating here every day.” She’d never tasted anything so good. In fact it gave her an idea, but she didn’t have the temerity to share her thoughts with him just yet.

      “I can sense there’s something on your mind, Jillian. Like to tell me what it is?”

      He had the uncanny ability to read her mood and wouldn’t let go until he’d unearthed answers. She’d have to be very careful he couldn’t read her personal thoughts about him.

      “These tapas,” she began. “I bet Maria would know how to make all of them and teach me.”

      “Sí.” She had his full attention.

      “I’m thinking big now, but it’s just an idea so don’t be too upset with me.”

      “How big?”

      “Big. The whole time we’ve been eating lunch I’ve had this vision.”

      He rubbed his hard jaw with his palm. “I hear dollar signs. Is it going to break the bank?”

      She fidgeted with her purse. “Temporarily maybe.”

      “Maybe?” he asked silkily.

      “Probably, but it’s a fabulous idea. You have an authentic setting on your property for something so unique and incredible, I’ve got goose bumps.”

      “You’ve got the hair standing on the back of my neck. Go on.”

      “What if you made the mill house into a tapas bar that would be open to the public as well as the tour bus groups? It would become the most famous tapas bar in all Spain. You could call it Holy Toledo!”

      His dark head went back and deep laughter rumbled out of him, causing heads to turn.

      She laughed, too. “It’s an old expression Americans say when they’re stupefied by something extraordinary. Considering you live so close to Toledo, I think it fits.”

      Once he’d recovered, he asked in a deadpan voice, “Is there anything else you haven’t told me about this vision?”

      “Well, as a matter of fact I was thinking you could provide entertainment on the weekends. That floor in the barn was made for flamenco dancing and those who wanted could take a carriage ride.

      “What makes it so nice is that you could open up the old gate farther down the highway, the one you told me about that was closed off a long time ago. Using that entrance to the property would ensure people’s access to the bar without coming near your own private living quarters.”

      He didn’t interrupt her. It prompted her to rush on.

      “The olive press house could be a store to sell your fabulous product on demand. You could have little recipe books printed to tell how the tapas are made with Soleado Goyo olive oil. Yours would be the showplace of Castile-La Mancha.”

      He was quiet too long as she knew he would be. “Like I said, I was thinking big.” She put her napkin down. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

      His dark eyebrows lifted in query. “Am I to assume you don’t want dessert?”

      “After orange juice, I couldn’t.”

      “Maybe I can change your mind.” With that cryptic comment, he put some bills on the table. “Shall we go?”

      The female eyes fastened on him were legion, but he seemed oblivious. She liked the feeling of possession as he guided her through the tables to a crowded pastry shop near the end of the plaza.

      It was a mistake to go in. While she was salivating over everything in sight, he bought two fabulous-looking treats for them. His dark gaze found hers. “I know you have marzipan in the States, but you’ve never tasted it like they make it here.”

      “In that case let’s get enough for everyone at the casa. I’d like it to be my contribution.”

      He didn’t interfere as she opened her purse and pulled out enough euros to pay for six more.

      After thanking the saleswoman she turned to Remi, who was already eating his and insisted she try it. He put it to her lips. With her purse in one hand and the sack of pastries in the other, he’d left her no choice but to take a bite.

      His fingers brushed against her lips, making her light-headed with longing. “No more, Remi,” she cried, laughing and endeavoring to swallow at the same time. By his dashing grin, he was obviously enjoying himself. So was she. Too much.

      For the first time since the accident she was beginning to understand her brother’s concern. He wasn’t nearly as worried about Remi as he was Jillian’s willingness to be the guest of a man with the Senor’s importance and background.

      More than Remi’s motives, it was her heart Dave was worried about.

      My dear brother … if only you knew it was too late for warnings. Seven days too late.

      She started to follow Remi out the door, but he suddenly