LITMIR.BIZ

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frowned. “Don’t be an idiot, Jer. Dad’s a one-woman man and he picked Lily. There’s no way he would have fathered another woman’s baby.”

      Jeremy inclined his head, conceding the point. But there was still a glaring question left. “So why did he disappear?”

      “Hell if I know.” Out of town now, he stepped down on the accelerator, picking up speed. “When he gets his memory back, we’ll ask him.”

      “If he gets him memory back,” Jeremy cautiously qualified.

      Trust Jeremy to ground him in reality. “Yeah, there’s that, too,” Drew conceded. “For Lily’s sake, I hope this guy does turn out to be Dad and that his memory loss is just temporary.”

      Amnesia was a tricky condition, and if William was in fact suffering from it, there was no knowing how long it would last—or if it would ever clear up.

      “Amen to that.”

      Drew gave him a long glance, surprised. “You turning religious on me, Jeremy?”

      Jeremy’s shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. “Everyone needs a little help every now and then,” he allowed. “In our family’s case, I think we could stand to use an extra dose of it.”

      This is more like it. Wendy wove her way around the tables, heading toward the ones that comprised her station. Working at Red had turned out to be a far better fit for her than she’d initially expected.

      Her parents had first sent her to work at the Fortune Foundation, located right here in Red Rock. It had taken her only a couple of weeks to discover that she was psychologically allergic to claustrophobic-size offices. She felt too confined, too hemmed in. She just didn’t belong in a nine-to-five job inside a building whose windows didn’t open.

      Granted, out here in the spacious dining area there weren’t any windows to speak of, either, but the windows in the front of the restaurant kept the space bright and airy as did the ones in Marcos’s office.

      That room was actually smaller than her office at the Foundation, but somehow, it still felt a lot more airy.

      That probably had something to do with the man in it.

      If the word gorgeous in the dictionary had a photo next to it, she had no doubts that it would be Marcos’s.

      Especially if he was smiling.

      She’d seen Marcos smiling—not at her, of course. For some reason, she only seemed to elicit frowns from the man whenever he turned his attention to her. But when he was mingling with Red’s patrons, he always had a wide, sexier-than-sin smile on his lips.

      Despite the hectic pace during business hours, she’d managed to observe him with the customers—in particular the female patrons—and Marcos was nothing if not charismatic. He even smiled at the kitchen help and some of the other staff.

      Smiled, she thought, at everyone but her.

      Boss or not, she was determined to find out what it was about her that seemed to coax those dour looks from him.

      Wendy wasn’t used to a man deliberately scowling at her instead of going out of his way to curry her favor and approval. All of her life she’d been the recipient of admiring looks, wide grins, broad winks and a great deal of fawning.

      A lot more fawning than she actually cared for. But that was predominantly because she was her father’s daughter and the fawning person usually thought that he could flatter her into getting an audience with the famous Fortune.

      As if, she thought with a toss of her head that managed to loosen her bound-up hair a little.

      Wendy paused and sighed. That was the part she didn’t care for. She liked having her hair loose, flowing. But those were the rules. Customers, Marcos had told her when he’d handed her a barrette, didn’t like finding hair in their meals.

      When she’d asked, “Even if it’s mine?” it had been meant as a joke, but Marcos had snapped no at her, and the look in his eyes told her that he thought she was genuinely a few cards short of an actual deck.

      Obviously when God had given the man an extra dose of sexiness, He had subtracted any and all fragments of humor. From their interactions, she’d come away with the feeling that Marcos Mendoza was born without a funny bone.

      Too bad, because, aside from that, the man was practically perfect in every way. But he fell short of the mark to ever have a serious chance at entering her daydreams.

      A man without a sense of humor was like a day without sunshine. Not really too pleasant.

      Reaching her station, Wendy smiled warmly at the people the hostess had just seated. After working here for a little more than a month, she was beginning to recognize familiar faces and learn their names.

      This particular table seated six and each chair was filled by a virile, rugged-looking wrangler who appeared as if he’d ridden up to the restaurant’s doors on a horse rather the extra-wide truck that was now parked in the front lot.

      Her brown eyes traveled from one member of the group to another, silently greeting them even before she said, “Hi, boys, what’ll it be?”

      The tallest of the men held his unopened menu before him, his eyes slowly drifting over the length of her torso. “Dunno about my friends, but I’m suddenly in the mood for a little Georgia peach,” he told her.

      Word must have gotten around that she was from Atlanta. Either that, she thought, or her accent gave her away. In any case, this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been hit on, although it was the first time she’d been hit on at Red.

      Unfazed, Wendy’s eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not on the menu.”

      “Wasn’t thinking of having it here,” the wrangler answered. His grin grew wider. “What are you doing later, after you get off?”

      “Not being with you,” Wendy answered, her smile just as wide, her tone just as friendly as it had been before. But there was no mistaking the fact that she had no intention of getting together with the insistent patron.

      “Looks like the little lady’s got your number, Dave,” one of his friends hooted, tickled. “She’s a feisty one, this one.” There was admiration in the other man’s voice.

      Dave, apparently, wasn’t quite ready to give up just yet.

      “You sure?” he asked, catching Wendy by the wrist to draw her attention away from the others at the table and back to him. “You really don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

      “Guess that’ll just have to be my loss,” Wendy replied, fisting her hand as she began to yank her wrist free.

      “C’mon, Dave, settle down,” another one of his tablemates urged.

      Before anyone else could chime in, Wendy suddenly found herself being physically moved aside and manually separated from the overzealous cowboy. To her surprise, Marcos had placed himself between them, facing the amorous customer. His rigid posture told her he was none too happy about this situation, even before she heard his voice.

      “Is there some kind of problem here?” Marcos asked the man, keeping his voice even and the edge of his anger visible but under wraps.

      “No, no problem,” the cowboy assured him, raising his hands up in the universal symbol indicating complete surrender.

      “Good,” Marcos replied with a quick nod. Turning to see who was in the immediate vicinity, he called out to the closest waitress. “Eva.”

      Recording an order, the woman looked up and raised a single quizzical eyebrow when she saw who had called her name.

      Marcos indicated the people at the table. “When you’re done over there, take this table’s orders, please.”

      Okay, hold it, Wendy thought,

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