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She did, but with an attitude. Blane shut the door and rounded the car to slide behind the wheel. The engine purred to life and he shot down the street.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Blane glanced to the side and saw her arms crossed over her chest. His gaze lingered. She had the kind of curves that Blane liked. Not too thin. The women who obsessed over their weight until a stiff wind could blow them over also looked as if he’d break them if he took them to bed. Not an attractive quality.
“I’m hungry. Still haven’t had lunch, remember?”
“You can drop me off at the next Metro station.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Why does it matter?”
“You can save me from having to eat alone.”
“In this town, no senator will eat alone unless it’s by choice.”
Her wry cynicism made Blane smile.
“Well, today I choose to eat with you.”
“Do I get a choice?”
Blane eased the car to a stop at a red light and met her gaze. “You always have a choice. Anne, would you please join me for lunch?”
Her lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “That would be lovely, senator.”
“Call me Blane,” he reminded her.
Anne felt butterflies take flight in her stomach. The way he was looking at her…the timbre of his voice… She took a breath, relenting.
“I’d be delighted, Blane.” She was out of her mind. He was a smooth politician and she had no time for fly-by-night affairs or men who thought poor waitresses were easy pickings.
The light turned and he gunned it through the intersection. The car was as smooth as silk, the engine a barely felt purr through the soles of her feet.
This was a foreign situation for her. All her previous dates were carefully screened for pedigree and lineage before being allowed to take her out. She’d not bothered to try to date since moving out of her parents’ home. She’d been too busy making ends meet, just the same as so many millions of everyday American people.
Now a man had essentially blackmailed her into coming with him. And not just any man. A powerful politician. An American senator. One who had the background of a warrior, and the looks of a movie star. Anne couldn’t fathom why he was still single. He had to be a serial womanizer. That was the only explanation. A Lothario, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em type. Nowthat, she could see.
Her fingers twisted the edge of her waist apron…she’d forgotten she was even wearing the damn thing. She tugged the strings of the tie and pulled it off. It was bad enough she felt like the proverbial Help. She didn’t need the additional accoutrements of the role.
“You like barbeque?” he asked.
“Um, yeah, sure.” She’d never had barbeque in her life. Her mother didn’t approve of food you ate with your hands.
A few minutes later, they were parking outside what looked like a shack with little more than a placard to display the restaurant’s (she was being generous) name:Johnny’s BBQ.
Okay, then.
Senator Kirk…Blane…took her hand as they walked up the curb to the entrance. Her palm felt too damp, too small, in his grip. She wanted to pull away, but that would give away her weakness. And she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wanted to let go. For some reason, his grip conveyed security, assurance, and safety, which was ridiculous. Men did not equate safety. Especially men like him. She had no doubt that if it came down to it, he’d save himself first over everyone else.
They entered the restaurant without fanfare and found a less than half-filled room with patrons intent on their lunch…not on the newcomers…who were scattered on rough wooden benches surrounding tables made smooth by years of use. There was a low hum of conversation and the thick aroma of smoked meat in the air. The room itself wasn’t large and couldn’t have been more than fifty by fifty feet, if that. Noise came from the kitchen in the back—plates clattering and the sizzle of fat frying. The faint strains of country western music on a radio played somewhere.
A man the size of linebacker emerged from the back, a stained white apron covering his ample chest, wiping his hands on a worn towel. His gaze landed on Blane and his eyes lit up, a smile spread across his face, made nearly blinding against the coal of his skin.
“Well, lookey who we got heah,” he cackled, heading toward us. “Been a while since I seen you. Thought mebbe you’d forgot all about ol’ Johnny.” His accent was eighty percent Louisiana backwoods, and the rest circa 1963.
“Never,” Blane said, a genuine smile on his face now. He turned. “Johnny makes the best barbecue this side of the Mason Dixon line.”
