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Jack glared at him. “I want to see you married. I want to see your child. I want to be assured that the Halstead fortune will not pass out of our bloodline.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t demand that I produce a child in three months, as well,” Jonas snapped.
“I’m not that demanding. That being said, if you marry, then there’s a good chance children will come from the union,” Jack said, stubbornness in every word he spoke. “Eventually. And I know you well enough to know that you’d hate, as much as I do, the idea of Halstead money, generations of effort and hard work, benefiting someone not of our bloodline.”
Bloodline? Jack sounded like a medieval lord talking about his estates. “This isn’t sixteenth century England, Jack. And I do not appreciate you meddling in my private life!”
“Pffft! Arranged marriages have worked for hundreds of years before love clouded the issue. It’s simple, Jonas. Marry and I will give you Halstead. Do not and deal with your father.”
Jonas muttered a low curse. Jack knew exactly what buttons to push; he knew Jonas would do anything to keep his father out of the company and that he wanted complete control of Halstead & Sons.
But there was a price to that freedom and the price was marriage. The one thing he’d planned to avoid for as long as possible.
But Jack had left him without a choice. It was Jack’s way or the highway.
Jonas pushed his chair back, tossed his linen napkin onto the table and leaned across to shake Preston’s hand. He ignored his grandfather, too angry with him to speak. He started to walk away but Jack’s voice followed him.
“Well, what are you going to do?” he demanded.
Jonas relished the note of uncertainty in his voice.
He slowly turned and eyed his elderly relative, his smile cold. “I’ll guess you’ll find out in three months. You can wait until then.”
* * *
Katrina Morrison slid her hand beneath her hair and, discreetly, pushed her finger under the seam of her dress, moving the still attached price tag in the hope that it would stop scratching her skin. How she wished she was in the position to yank the tag off and be done with it. But Tess, her best friend, who happened to be the manager of The Hanger—a downtown Santa Barbara boutique selling designer dresses—would slap her silly if she did that. Tess still had to sell the dresses Kat had “borrowed.”
God knew what Tess would do if she ripped the dress or spilled wine or food on it. Katrina would probably be tarred and feathered at dawn.
Or, worse, she’d have to pay for the dress. And she didn’t have a thousand-plus dollars to spare. Even if she did have that sort of cash lying around, Kat doubted she’d spend it on a mid-thigh, sleeveless, pleated dress that was so understated it screamed “expensive.” But appearances, especially when you were the host at El Acantilado, the award-winning and flagship restaurant owned by America’s favorite chef and entrepreneur, Harrison Marshall, were everything. El Acantilado’s patrons expected a unique and expensive dining experience. Kat was the first person to welcome them into the restaurant, and her first impression had to be favorable. Hence the designer dress, expertly applied makeup, glossy lips and black suede three-inch heels.
She was happiest in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, her nearly waist-length hair in a ponytail or a braid and her face makeup-free, but this job paid the bills. If dressing up like a fashion model was what was required, she’d do it.
Kat tapped her pen against her leather-bound reservations book and looked into the wood-and-steel restaurant to watch the waitstaff. The newest waiter, Fred, seemed stressed, his hand wobbling as he placed Harrison’s iconic roasted duck between the solid silver cutlery in front of Senator Cordell. Thank goodness he wasn’t serving Elana Marshall, Harrison’s daughter, who was sitting at the best table in the house with Jarrod Jones.
Hmm, Elana wasn’t dining with her long-term boyfriend Thom. Jarrod’s wife, the feted Irish actress Finola, was also missing.
God, Kat could make a fortune selling celebrity gossip to tabloid newspapers. They’d made her offers before, promised her anonymity, and she’d desperately needed the money.
Kat sighed. Selling gossip would be an easy solution to her financial woes. Damn her integrity and self-respect.
Kat smiled as Fred walked passed Elana’s table, his gaze sliding sideways. The waitstaff was expected to turn a blind eye, to not notice a damn thing, but Fred was young and a little starstruck. And, really, since Elana Marshall looked like the millions of bucks she was reputed to be worth in that barely there dress highlighting her cleavage, how could Fred not notice that impressive rack, that fabulous face and those pouty lips?
Hadn’t Kat, when she’d first started as a waitress years ago, been equally impressed by the star power that lit up the room? She’d stuttered when she’d first spoken to Angel Morales, the hottest and most talented celebrity around. She’d blushed when the younger Windsor brother had thanked her, very nicely, for a wonderful dining experience. She’d nearly fainted when a table of Oscar nominees had left her a two-thousand-dollar tip.
After serving so many wealthy and famous people, she was no longer easily impressed, and that was why she’d been promoted to the position of hostess a year or so ago. Harrison Marshall had personally promoted her, his decision based, he’d told her, on her popularity with his well-heeled clients. She was polite and personable, but she didn’t fawn or simper. His clients, Harrison had said, liked that. They, apparently, liked her.
Kat looked down at her book and then at her watch. The Henleys were late, but then, they always were. Jonas Halstead and guest would be arriving within five minutes, and he was always on time.
Kat idly wondered who Jonas would be with tonight. By her calculations, the blond pop sensation he’d been dating for the past three months had reached her sell-by date, and there would be another girl on his arm tonight. Jonas, the billionaire property developer specializing in hotels and casinos, was a repeat visitor to El Acantilado over the past year. He’d recently bought Cliff House and was renovating the iconic Santa Barbara hotel. Rumor had it that he’d out-negotiated Harrison Marshall for the property, which suggested that Halstead was a hell of a businessman...or a shark.
Kat sighed. Tough businessman or not, his was the world she wanted to be in. The one she’d been destined for. The one that still beckoned to her. But, at twenty-eight years old, she was still working here and the closest she’d come to the world of finance was to show billionaire businessmen like Jonas Halstead to his table.
God. How sad.
“Katrina.”
Kat’s head snapped up and she silently cursed when she realized Jonas was standing in front of her, impeccably dressed in a black designer suit worn over a rain-gray, open-necked shirt. Her eyes traveled up, across a broad chest and wide shoulders, along a tanned neck, to a strong jaw covered with two-day-old stubble and a mouth that was slow to smile but still sexy. He had a long, straight nose and deep green eyes under strong brows. Rich, successful and hot.
He had the reputation for being a bit of a bastard, in business and in bed. That fact only dropped his sexy factor by a quarter of a percent.
“Mr. Halstead, welcome back to El Acantilado,” Kat murmured, ignoring her jumping heart and squirrelly stomach. Yeah, he was built and so damn handsome, but geez, she wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old waitress anymore.
“Call me Jonas.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d made the offer, but Kat had no intention of accepting. It wasn’t professional to call him by his first name, and not doing so kept a very healthy distance between her and the Jonas Halsteads of the world. Like her ex-husband and like her father, rich guys in fancy suits were not to be trusted.
Then again, what man could be?
But it really annoyed Kat that Jonas did funny things to her stomach and made her heart jump.
Fast, furious sexual attraction had led to her falling in love with and marrying Wes, and since he’d ended up using her heart as a Ping-Pong ball, she didn’t trust her pheromones’ ability to pick men wisely.
But every time she saw Jonas, her libido loudly reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Jonas Halstead would be damn good at sex. He’d had, it was said, a lot of practice.
But tonight he was here alone. “Is your guest not joining you tonight?”
Jonas placed his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “Rowan will be joining me shortly.”
Kat widened her eyes in surprise. He was dating Rowan Greenly? The actress had just separated from her very volatile husband after a domestic abuse charge, and the hot-tempered rock star had threatened to kill anyone who made a move on his wife.
“You’re brave. I suggest you wear a bulletproof vest,” Kat couldn’t help murmuring, even though she knew she was being indiscreet. “Rock likes his guns.”
Jonas frowned, confused. Then his austere face softened as he released a low chuckle.
A thousand sparks danced on her skin as his smile turned his face from remote-but-still-hot to oh-my-God-I-want-to-rip-his-clothes-off. Kat placed her fist under her sternum and resisted the urge to scrunch her eyes shut.
No. God, no. She couldn’t have the screaming hots for Jonas Halstead. She’d married, and divorced, a ruthless and merciless man. A competitive and cutthroat billionaire should be the last person to interest her. She was avoiding the male species in general, and the hot and sexy ones in particular.
Jonas was not her type.
The front door to the restaurant pulled open and all six feet and five inches of the best basketball talent in the country stepped into the restaurant. Rowan Brady. God, of course it was.
Kat glanced at Jonas, who lifted one dark eyebrow. “My date.”
Rowan joined them, clasping Jonas’s shoulder as he did. “Joe, we’ve known each other since we were kids and I keep telling you you’re not my type.”
Kat heard the teasing note in Rowan’s deep voice and blushed as his dark eyes settled on her face. “And I’m curious as to why you’d want this gorgeous creature to think that I am.”
Jonas slid Rowan a droll look. “Katrina thought I was meeting Rowan Greenly.”
Rowan shuddered. “You have more sense than that. She’s hot but her husband is psycho.”
Jonas pulled his hands from his pockets and placed his forearms on her counter, the fabric of his suit bunching around impressive biceps. Kat lifted an eyebrow of her own, annoyed that she could easily imagine pushing that jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, ripping that shirt apart to find out whether his skin was as hot as she imagined.
She swallowed a moan. It was time to do her job. “Let me take you to your table, Mr. Halstead.”
“Since you felt comfortable enough to make assumptions about my love life, you should be comfortable enough to call me Jonas. Or Joe.”
Kat walked around the podium and gestured to the already full dining room. She deliberately ignored his provoking statement and his friend’s amused expression. “I’ve placed you by the window. It has the most wonderful view of the beach below. This way, gentlemen.” Kat started the familiar walk into the restaurant, forcing her expression into one of calm serenity.
Please don’t look at my ass, Kat thought as Jonas fell into step behind her. Or, if you do, please like it.
For God’s sake, Katrina! What is wrong with you?
“You have a—”
Thankful they were at his table, Kat turned and waited for his cocky comment.
But Jonas said nothing. He just moved to stand behind her, his height and width dwarfing her. He lifted his hand to her neck and Kat felt the tips of his fingers graze her skin. He barely made contact but suddenly her feet were glued to the floor and every cell in her body was set to vibrate. If he kissed her she’d spontaneously combust. She was sure of it.
Jonas twisted his hand and quickly snapped off the tag to her dress and held it up. “You obviously forgot to take it off. Here you go.”
Kat’s eyes bounced between the tag in his hand and his eyes, horror smothering the burning attraction she felt for the man.
Oh, crap, oh, crap, oh, crap. He’d ripped the tag when he pulled it off and she wouldn’t be able to reattach it.
Oh, God, Tess had made it very clear that the bar code had to remain intact, that it could not be reproduced. Kat wouldn’t be able to return the dress.
Her stomach climbed up her throat and lodged behind her tonsils. She was quite certain the air in the room was fast disappearing.
“Are you okay?” Jonas asked from a place far away. “Katrina?”
His voice pulled her back from the abyss, just a foot or so, enough for her to get some air into her lungs and oxygen to her brain.
You can’t faint. You can’t yell at him. You can’t even react.
You need this damn job.
But she couldn’t speak. She was unable to command her tongue to form even the smallest response. Intellectually she knew he thought he’d been doing her a favor, but his assumption had just piled another suitcase of stress onto the load she was already struggling to carry. Was this the straw that would break her back?
Kat suspected it might be. She snatched the tag from Jonas’s hand and spun on her heel, praying she made it to the staff restroom without throwing up.
She now owed more than a thousand dollars on a dress she couldn’t afford and it was Jonas Halstead’s fault.
God, sexy man or not, if he had been eating with Rowan Greenly, Kat would have called Rowan’s psycho husband and told him where to find Jonas.
And she would have suggested he bring his biggest gun.
Two (#ue8dff959-bbb1-5414-9fdf-7bd11d5d8930)
Kat, reaching her desk at the entrance of the restaurant and its adjoining bar, looked at the rows of liquor above the bartender’s head and wished she could order something long, strong and alcoholic. Her eyes danced across a group in the corner, a girl and four guys, all pierced and tattooed. They were drinking the Mariella, the world-famous cocktail named after Harrison’s wife. She could do with a Mariella, or three, right now. Actually she could really do with one of Mariella Santiago-Marshall’s limitless, solid black credit cards or access to her bank account.
Crap. What the hell was she going to do?
“Please, please tell me you’d left the tag on the dress as a mistake—that you weren’t planning on returning it in the morning.”
Kat spun around and blinked at the multicolored creature standing in front of her. Her dress was a slinky cocktail number with a plunging neck and spaghetti straps the color of lemon sorbet. It was the perfect foil for the ink on her body. Pulling her eyes up from the amazing artwork, Kat looked into an elfin face dominated by a pair of warm brown eyes. The woman had a series of piercings in her lower lip and along her eyebrow; she had a tiny butterfly tattoo on her temple.
“You look amazing,” Kat said. She sighed. It was obviously her night for allowing her mouth to run away with her.
“Thank you. But you didn’t answer my question. Were you returning the dress?”
Kat looked into the restaurant and scowled in Halstead’s direction. She never discussed one customer with another, but this woman would join her equally inked friends in the bar—birds of a feather—and she didn’t see the harm in answering her question. Kat could spot a trust-fund baby at sixty paces and this woman was not one of them.
She lowered her voice. “Yes, it’s borrowed. I was returning it in the morning. Now I’m going to have to pay for it, which was never the damned plan.” Not sure what it was about this painted fairy that had her spilling her secrets, Kat continued, “God, I could just kill him. I don’t have a thousand dollars to spend on a dress! I don’t have a thousand dollars, full stop!”
“Thirteen hundred.” The girl bit her lip. “It’s a Callisto. Thirteen ninety-five, including tax.”
Kat resisted the urge to bang her head against her desk. She swore, softly. “Dammit. I swear, I don’t care that he’s as sexy as sin and hotter than the sun, he’s a stupid, idiot man!”
Before the painted fairy could reply, Elana Marshall interrupted their conversation by placing a hand on Kat’s shoulder.
Kat spun around and smiled at the youngest Marshall and prayed that Elana hadn’t heard her last emphatic statement. “Hi, Elana, did you have a nice evening?”
The dimple in Elana’s cheek flashed. “I did. Thanks, Kat.”
Elana looked at Pixie Girl, her eyes bouncing from tat to tat, her mouth curving upward. “Love the angel on your arm.” Without waiting for a response, Elana turned her attention back to Kat. “So who is the idiot man?”
Kat wanted to scrunch her eyes shut in mortification. She and Elana were friends, sort of, in a “hey, how are you” sort of way. Elana was an heiress and Kat was Elana’s father’s employee. Kat’s eyes darted to Pixie Girl, silently begging her not to answer. She didn’t want Elana Marshall, who was the ultimate trust-fund baby, to know that her dress was on loan.
Pixie Girl smiled. “Aren’t they all, at one time or another?”
Elana nodded. “Pretty much. And here is one of mine.” Kat smiled at Elana’s date and thought that Elana could do a lot better than the married casting director. She could also do better than her fiancé, Thom, who was really nice but...not for Elana. She needed someone with a personality as strong as hers.
But Kat had bigger problems to worry about than her boss’s daughter’s complicated love life. She had a job to do...a job she needed now more than ever.
Kat said good-night to Elana and turned back to the vision standing in front of her. “I am so sorry, you’ve been standing here forever. Let me walk you to the bar.”
Pixie Girl grinned. “Actually, I’m joining Jonas Halstead’s table.”
Kat groaned and wondered if there was any way this night could get worse.
“Yeah,” said Pixie Girl. “I’m meeting my boss and his friend for dinner.”
“Please tell me that you work for Rowan Brady,” Kat begged her.
She smiled, giving Kat a flash of her tongue stud. “Nope. I’m Sian and I work for Jonas Halstead.”
