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“Alls I can say is, as long as Declan, Rogue, Janey, or Alex don’t yell at me. ”
Brogan wasn’t worried about Declan for sure.
Declan Mackay, formerly Faisal Mackay, the Afghani whom Natches Mackay had adopted more than five years before, was the floor manager of the restaurant.
“Just tell them whose truck it is; they’ll be fine with it,” Brogan promised as he turned and entered the restaurant.
He strode past the well-dressed customers waiting for a table, knowing damned good and well that he was far from the dress code in his biker boots and khaki shirt tucked into his jeans.
He’d been riding for more than six hours. The bandanna skullcap was still tied around his head, and Brogan didn’t give a damn.
Striding past the sputtering hostess, he looked around quickly, caught sight of Eve, and strode toward her.
Damn, she sure looked pretty, too, he thought.
She wasn’t dressed in her customary jeans and snug cami. Tonight she wore a sundress with thin straps at her shoulders. The bodice cupped and loved her breasts. It skimmed to her hips and fell to her knees in shimmering chiffon.
The soft blue color brought out the green of her eyes and made her look like a tempting little sorceress.
A sorceress he was set and ready to claim.
* * *
Eve could feel her heart racing, pounding in her chest as she watched Brogan stalk across the room.
It was obvious he’d just returned from the ride. She had understood, based on listening to other members of the touring club, that the riders wouldn’t be arriving back until late into the night.
He looked hot, though: rough, tough, dangerous, and so damned sexy she almost caught her breath in excitement.
Jeans, a road dust–stained khaki shirt, rider’s boots, and a dark blue bandanna skullcap wasn’t exactly adhering to the restaurant’s dress code, though.
She was aware of the other diners watching curiously. She could almost feel them waiting to see what Brogan Campbell would do with his woman, who was obviously enjoying an evening with another man. Eve just wished there had actually been enjoyment.
Chatham Bromleah Doogan was a player, and he didn’t try to hide it. He was nice about it. He was damned charming about it. But Chatham was unapologetically a playboy.
Brogan was unapologetically all man. Wild, tough, dangerous. He was willing to be tame, but only under his own conditions, and only at those times that he chose to be.
He wasn’t willing to be tamed at this moment, though.
His gaze locked on hers, the blue-gray depths a sliver of color behind the lashes of his narrowed gaze, he came to a stop at the table, glowering down at her.
Chatham never lifted his gaze from the dessert menu.
“Ah, the maître d’,” Chatham murmured dismissively. “Isn’t it about time?”
Eve almost groaned in rising trepidation.
This could get ugly fast.
Brogan lifted a red-gold brow mockingly as he stared down at her. The arch conveyed such deliberate intent that she could feel her knees almost trembling.
How the hell was she supposed to handle this?
Chatham lifted his head then, gazing up at Brogan arrogantly.
“He’s not the maître d’,” she commented as Brogan completely ignored him.
“Really?” Chatham drawled in amusement. “My dear, I would have never guessed. Friend of yours?”
