Page 3 of Made in Malice

“Thanks,” I tell him sincerely. It’s on the tip of my tongue to add more and give him an explanation about why I didn’t take him up on the drink offer, but Emily, the hostess, steps to the side, allowing me to see the spiffy lawyer dude behind her. “Crap.”

“What’s wrong?” Elijah pivots to look in the same direction I am. “That’s him. You know him,” he surmises from my reaction.

“Not really,” I tell him truthfully without divulging more information.

“Sure looks like you do,” he says under his breath while walking away.

Emily leads him to my only empty table. Joey just got done bussing it a few seconds ago, so it’s still damp. I watch as Virgil looks down at the scarred wood top with utter disdain curling his lip. Maybe the loafers aren’t fake and he really is as snooty as he seems.

He blots at the table with the napkins he must have asked Emily for as he angles himself into the chair. Normally, I would head straight over and offer to dry the table for him, but I can’t seem to get my feet moving. I wasn’t expecting him to show up here. How did he even know I worked here? Did he follow me?

I wait for Emily to leave the table, then meet her at the hostess station after walking the long way around. “Hey,” she chirps with a smile.

I get straight to the point. “Hey, that guy asked to be in my section?”

Her smile slips into a frown. “Yeah.”

“What did he say?” I keep my voice down so the waiting patrons can’t hear me.

“He just asked to be seated with you. He waited a while for a table too. Is he a creeper or something? I’m sorry.” She looks over her shoulder as if she’s trying to get a glimpse of him again.

“It’s fine,” I reply dismissively. There’s no way she could have known I’d prefer he wasn’t here at all, let alone at one of my tables.

I make a point of stopping at a few other tables before finally heading over to Virgil, though I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, or maybe it just feels like that, because when I do decide to head over, his face is behind a menu, and he’s not watching me at all.

“Mr. Haynsworth,” I greet coldly, or at least I try.

“Miss Devlin.” He does icy much better.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“You may.” He raises his brow as if to reprimand me for the way I asked. “Bottled water if you have it, a scotch, neat, if you do not.”

“Why are you here?” I question as soon as he’s done speaking.

“I’m a busy man, Miss Devlin. I don’t have time to wait for you to come to your senses and agree to meet with me.”

“So you can tell me here” —I make a point of looking around at all the full tables and loud crowd— “what you couldn’t tell me in my empty hall?”

“If you’re willing to accompany me to my vehicle, yes. Otherwise, I’m here to convince you to speak with me at your earliest convenience.” There’s a sardonic smile smeared across his face, as if even asking me to speak with him is below him and he’s indulging me by doing so.

“You thought showing up here would do that?” I take the plastic menu he’s offering.

“I’m prepared to make it worth your while.”

My spine goes ramrod straight. There are a few things a man can say that will stick in a girl’s craw, and implying she can be easily bought is one of them. “How’s that, Mr. Haynsworth?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“I will give you five thousand dollars to speak with me.” He meets my eyes, and I get the feeling he’s dead serious.

Well, I suppose that’s not easily bought. “I’m not signing nothing.”

“Anything, I’m not signing anything,” he corrects, seeming to grow more and more aggravated by the moment.

I narrow my eyes, giving him a glare, and use my best low-class slang. “What’da want ta eat?”

His lips purse into a constipated scowl. “I’ll have the ribeye, rare, baked potato, no butter, with broccoli, and light on the salt.” His eyes rake over me again as if I’m a heathen and eating here is the last thing he wants to do. I’m not sure what crawled up his butt and died since he left my apartment, but he is in a sour mood.

I walk away without another word and submit his order correctly, even though I’m tempted to enter extra butter, then ask Nico for a scotch neat, because we don’t have bottled water.

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