Page 3 of Price of Angels

Holly set her tray down propped against the booth and slid onto the seat across from him, elbows braced on the table, eyes filling with the warm overhead lamplight as they landed on his now-familiar face. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” she asked, quietly, intimately, a voice just for the two of them. Men liked that – being treated like they were special. And she wanted him to think that he was special to her. Men, in her experience, needed a few standard inducements, and feeling like they mattered was one of them.

A single finger tapped at the page and he sucked at one corner of his lower lip as he decided, exhaling through his nose in an audible little rush.

All part of the nightly routine. Normal so far.

“Salisbury steak,” he said, gaze finally lifting. His eyes were dark, but not brown. A sort of amber-streaked hazel. Pretty. Animal eyes. They’d frightened Holly, the first time they’d attached to her face like this, the utter focus of them. But then she’d realized that focus was exactly what she needed in a hired gun. They were intense, those eyes, the kind that you didn’t want watching you all the time, just in fits and snatches.

“Seasoned fries,” Michael continued. “And a slice of key lime pie, if you’ve got it.” He had one of those low voices that carried. Even, modulated.

“We have it,” Holly said, nodding. “You want me to put the order in? Or do you want to read for a bit?”

“Put it in. I can’t stay long.” And his eyes flicked back down to his book in dismissal.

It would have been a rude gesture coming from someone else. But from Michael, it seemed natural. There wasn’t anything polite or personable about him.

Her knees were a little bit shaky as she slid back out of the booth; they always were, after he’d put his eyes on her. A side effect she didn’t know how to classify or handle.

She put the order in and then it was time to check on her other customers. “One more o’ these, darlin’,” from the man in the trucker cap. “Smell this. Does this smell like it usually does, honey?” from the man with the double bourbon who wanted to look down her shirt as she leaned over the table. “There, that’s just for you,” and a wink from the man old enough to be her grandfather in the front booth. He patted her ass as she turned away.

The Lécuyers were deep in a close-leaning discussion that seemed to involve Ava’s laptop. Ava looked nervous, and Mercy was grinning at her over the rim of his glass, and they gave off the air of husband encouraging wife toward something. Ava was a writer – Holly had learned that in tidbits. Probably had something to do with some project she was working on.

Holly left their refills on the edge of the table as she passed. Ginger ale, she thought. Ava must be pregnant.

“Order up,” Hollis shouted from the kitchen, and the bell went off.

The Salisbury steak was from the freezer, heated up on the grill and slathered with heated-up gravy and onions. It didn’t smell like anything to write home about, but it was hot, and it was meat. Holly had eaten it herself a time or two, and had been too excited over the idea of it to much care that it wasn’t fresh and made from scratch.

Steam curled from the plate as she lifted it, toting it over her shoulder back to Michael’s table. He took one last hard glance at the page before him, nodded to himself, then closed the book and slid it aside as Holly set the plate before him.

“And the pie,” she said, placing the small dessert plate in her left hand alongside his drink. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

She resumed her seat across from him. Watched him unroll his silverware and cut into his steak with precise movements. He always ate slowly, with table manners she’d never expected from an outlaw biker.

With his eyes on his plate, she could study his face. In the past four months, she’d made his face the topic of countless mental research papers. Carly thought he was “nothing special to look at,” but Holly didn’t agree. In her eyes, there was something beautiful about the straight lines and exact angles of his features. His eyes were large, though he narrowed them purposefully. And his dark hair was thick, and lustrous, clipped close to his head, shining in the dim lamplight. Not a cruel face – she knew what those looked like – but a serious one. A man without laughter in the lines around his mouth.

“What are you reading this time?” she asked, folding her arms on the table, getting comfortable. His unshakeable calm was soothing to her.

His eyes darted to the book, then to her face, briefly. “Dostoyevsky.Demons.”

“That sounds…”

His brows flicked upward.

“Like something I don’t want to read,” she finished with a laugh.

One corner of his mouth twitched in what she’d finally realized, after months of observation, was a hint of a smile. “He’s not for everybody.”

“You’re always reading somebody who’s not for everybody,” she teased.

He shrugged.

Thus far, it hadn’t worked, but she felt that she had to keep using the old tricks, the moves men didn’t ever seem able to resist. She leaned forward, propped her elbows up on the table, plumped her breasts together, inclined her head toward him, so a shiny sheet of hair slid over her shoulder.

Michael continued to methodically cut and eat his steak.

She dropped her voice a fraction, put a little purring sound in it. “So why can’t you stay as long tonight?”

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