and I decide to have a comedy night at the restaurant, I will be sure to ask you to perform.” And then she softened, remembering what it was like to be young and feel that you had no say in anything that directly affected you. “I know we are asking a great deal of you. You have done a wonderful job here with the restaurant—”
Striking now was his only hope, Marcos thought. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I am sure you do and you will,” José told his nephew, an understanding tone weaving through his words. “A man as good as you are at your job will find a way to turn a social butterfly into a hardworking ant,” he said with confidence as he placed a compassionate hand on Marcos’s shoulder.
Marcos knew a snow job when he encountered one. “Only saints can perform miracles, Tío. And I am not a saint.”
María laughed. “We are well aware of that, my dear.”
María looked at him knowingly. She knew all about Marcos’s reputation, both on and off the job. He had an excellent work ethic, but he was also a man who made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed the company of beautiful women. Many beautiful women.
“You might recall,” she continued, “that your tío and I once took a chance on an untried, handsome young man who was more than just a little wild. We were told we should be prepared to be disappointed, but we decided to follow our instincts and not listen to the advice from well-meaning friends.” She gently ran her hand along Marcos’s cheek. “And, I’m happy to say, we have not been disappointed.”
“We would like you to give Wendy the same chance,” José told him.
How could he turn them down after that? They had played him.
But before he could say anything, the teeth-jarring sound of a tray meeting a tile floor on the far side of the empty dining area had all three pairs of eyes looking in that direction.
The young woman in the short black pencil skirt and four-inch heels flashed an apologetic smile in response. With the grace of a ballerina, she bent down to pick up the tray.
“Sorry,” Wendy called.
“She’s sorry?” Marcos said under his breath, shaking his head. His dark eyes darted from his aunt to his uncle. “She’s not even working here yet and she’s already knocking things over. Think of the damage she could do if your hire her.”
“We already have hired her,” José corrected him. His tone, although sympathetic, left no room for argument. “She begins work this afternoon.”
The tiny kernel of hope Marcos had been nurturing—that he could talk his aunt and uncle out of hiring the flighty heiress—died an ignoble death. Forcing himself to swallow the bitter pill, Marcos inclined his head, resigned.
María couldn’t say that she was encouraged by the look in her nephew’s eyes. “I thought Wendy could begin as a waitress.”
“A waitress,” Marcos echoed. Why don’t I just throw all the glasses and plates on the floor and break them now? “Of course,” he acquiesced in an amiable tone that fooled neither of the two older people. “It’s your restaurant.”
“It will work out, Marcos,” María promised the young man she had become so fond of. “It will just take a little patience, that is all.”
There was patience, and then there was patience, he thought. But he did care a great deal for his aunt and uncle and they had been good to him. So he did his best to keep from giving voice to his extreme displeasure. Who knew? Maybe he was wrong about this Wendy Fortune.
And, on that same note, maybe pigs would fly. By tonight.
Resigned to making the best of a bad situation, he looked across the room at his newly acquired albatross. His expression was restrained and though he tried, he couldn’t keep his displeasure from reaching his dark eyes.
Wendy Fortune stood reading the current menu posted behind the hostess desk. She shifted from foot to foot, waiting for this conference that rudely—in her opinion—excluded her to finally be over.
What was taking them so long? This was already supposed to have been settled.
She wasn’t accustomed to being kept out of things—at least, not deliberately and knowingly left out.
The fact that Channing Hurston had lied to her had left her incredibly shell-shocked. She was still trying, in her own way, to recover.
And to regain her ability to trust people. He’d robbed her of that, as well.
Prior to that miserable day, she had gone about her life, blissful in her ignorance that anything was wrong. She had just assumed that Channing, the blond, handsome, Ivy League young man whom she had known forever and had been her escort since before her debutant ball, would someday be her husband and the father of her children. It was just the way things were supposed to be.
Until the day he’d told her that he was marrying Cynthia Hayes.
What a surprise that had turned out to be, she thought bitterly. Cynthia Hayes. The unimaginative dolt couldn’t even pick a woman with initials that were different from his own.
She could just see it all now. Channing and Cynthia would have bland, bland children and a bland, bland existence, hobnobbing with equally bland people and calling it life.
Or some dull facsimile thereof.
It wasn’t that Channing had broken her heart with his sudden, unexpected about-face. She’d never been wildly in love with him. What she had been in love with, quite honestly, was the idea of living happily ever after with a Prince Charming type. And Channing Hurston, somewhat empty-headed though he was, had filled that bill. But she wasn’t devastated by this unforeseen turn of events.
What she was, she willingly admitted, if only to herself, was humiliated.
It was humiliating to be so publicly dumped. In the circles she traveled in, nothing was ever private, everything happened before some sort of an audience, no matter how small at the time. And word always spread—especially when it was embarrassing.
After suffering such a humiliation, she couldn’t seem to keep her mind on her studies—so she’d quit college. There seemed to be no point in getting a degree she never intended to use. Her parents, instead of being sympathetic and understanding, announced that they intended to ship her off, sending her from one set of relatives to another because they wanted her to “apply” herself.
They wanted her to “focus.”
Just what did they think she was, a digital camera?
The whole idea was absurd. She didn’t need focus—she was a Fortune. Which meant she had one. Well, okay, not exactly her own private fortune, but the family had money, which, in turn, meant that she had money.
And, since she did, why did she need to focus herself and work?
Wendy sighed, frustrated.
Still, she supposed she was better off here, in Red Rock, Texas, than back in Atlanta, where everyone would be talking about Channing and Cynthia’s upcoming wedding. And how Channing had dumped that poor little rich girl, Wendy Fortune.
There would be no escaping that kind of talk if she was back home right now.
Still, her parents could have let her go on that world cruise, or sent her off to spend a season in Europe. Paris, perhaps.
Yes, Paris, she decided, warming up to the idea. Paris, where she could buy the latest fashions and arrive back home just in time to attend the wedding. Dressed to the nines to let Channing—and the rest of their society crowd—see that he had settled for second best.
But instead of Paris, she was here, in Red Rock, for God’s sake. Who names their town after a colored stone?
Wendy set her mouth hard. Her parents were decent people who meant well, she supposed,