immediately finding the reserved table 6. It was in a prime loc

ny room he entered. His gaze swept across the diners, never

back was to him, but the line of her spine and the curve of her wa

ly two hundred pounds. He had spent a year searching for that body type. This woman was nothing like it. And ye

t. A foolish illusion.

ck to the puzzle that had plagued him for a year-a

detail he remembered from that chaotic n

polished metal number "6" g

, carrying a tray. Swerving to a

y clipped the base

nd fell over. When it came to rest, the open curve of t

fied. "I'm so sorry, sir

mber make? He would sit, endure the tedious conversation his grandmother had forced upon him, and leave. The sooner he could escape

nted a reprieve

had unknowingl

e real table 9, Chloe was en

his hands together, his desire undisguised. "If you alw

k of pained reluctance. "Mr. Tucker, actually... I cam

" Rick said, leaning forw

her clutch and pushed it across the table.

e page. Several lines concerning infectious dis

course, a masterpie

ror. He recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted, t

voice a choked whisper. He looked at C

of a heartbroken, helpless woman. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hide

nd!" Rick shot to his feet, knockin

estaurant tu

razy bitch! Are you trying to kill me?" He spat the words and then fled,

d her head, the helplessness in her eyes vanishing,

moved with practiced precision, folding the fake report

each the Sinclair table-a

oved from table to table, finally landing on t

s day, was a metal si

cation she had passed earlier, the one that had been set for two with a single rose in a crystal vase. The on

had tilted the board in her favor. Brenda told me table 9. She had com

sion into a smile that was both friendly an