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Chapter 4
Tuesday
As Julia drove out of the compound, Nico Elliot studied her face. She stared at the road in front of her, fingers white on the steering wheel. She was clearly uncomfortable with his presence in the car. When they’d been introduced, the first words out of her mouth had been, “I don’t think I need a bodyguard.”
Nico disagreed. He’d spent more than an hour talking to Mel and Devlin, and everything about the facts screamed that Julia was in trouble. Someone was determined to hurt her, both personally and professionally. Possibly even kill her.
He didn’t have enough facts to determine who it could be, or even the motive. But she clearly needed close protection while they figured it out. Because if her stalker was successful in eliminating her, it wouldn’t matter why she was dead.
“I’m not going to disrupt your life,” he finally said. “Not completely, anyway.”
She shot him a quick glance, irritation simmering in her emerald green eyes. “Of course you are.” She shook her head, frustration making her honey-blond hair swing over her shoulders. “You’re going to be with me both at home and at work. What am I supposed to tell my employees?”
He lifted one shoulder. “You could find a job for me at your restaurant. One where I could keep an eye on you and check out the rest of your employees. Pay attention to your customers. Watch for any signs of trouble.”
She shot him a quick glance. “Have you ever worked in a restaurant?”
He nodded. “In high school, and in the summers during college. It was a long time ago, but my grandparents owned a restaurant. I bussed tables. Worked in the kitchen. Tended bar. Was a server. Did pretty much all the jobs when I had to.” He studied her as he said, “Enough to hold my own at your place.”
“I don’t run a diner,” she said, and he could practically hear her teeth grind together. “We don’t sling hash.”
His lips twitched. “Nonno and Nonna didn’t, either. It was an Italian place. Family restaurant. Pizzas and spaghetti.”
“High school kids can’t tend bar,” she said, and he knew she was grasping at straws.
“I wasn’t technically tending bar,” he said with a tiny smile. “My great-grandfather, Nonno bis, was the bartender, but he was pretty arthritic. I delivered drinks when his hips and knee were bothering him. Poured them when his hands were stiff.”
“So Nico is an Italian name?”
“Yeah. Short for Nicola. My Nono bis’s name.” He shifted to glance at her. “He’s the only one who called me Nicola.”
“Got it. No girly names for you.”
A smile flirted with her mouth, and he wanted to reach over and touch it. Instead he pressed his fingers to his thighs. “Not since Nonno bis passed away.”
Why had he shared that personal information with her? He glanced at her, then looked away. This job was about her. Not him.
After a long moment, she said, “Okay. You worked a restaurant. I’ll figure out something for you to do. Or I’ll let you figure out what would work the best for your strategy. Do you want to stay in the kitchen? In the dining area? Go between them? You can let me know what would work the best for you.”
“Good,” he said, pleased with her compromise. “I’ll take a look at your set-up and figure out the most secure option. I’m assuming you spend most of your time in the kitchen?”
“Mostly,” she said with a sigh, and he realized she was conceding. “But I go into the dining room a few times a night to talk to my customers.”
“You spend a lot of time there?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Depends on the night. Sometimes the customers are talkative. Sometimes they’re not.”
“So it varies?”
“A lot.” She blew out a breath. “Some customers would talk forever if I let them. They’re the kind of people who like to tell their friends about their conversations with the chef at Madeline’s. Some just tell me how much they love their meals. Some say everything’s good and mostly ignore me. And sometimes they complain about something.”
“What do you do about the complaints?” he asked.
She glanced at him as if he was incredibly stupid. “Make it right, of course.”
“Tell me about your restaurant,” he said. “It sounds like a fancy place.”
She snorted. “Depends on your definition of fancy. I make good food that’s not pretentious or snooty or two little dabs of something undefinable on a plate. Upscale American is how I’d describe it.”
