Shadow's Edge by J. T. Geissinger Read Free Book Online

flitted back to tease her. The hands and lips and tongue.
    “It’s
him
.”
    “Him who?”
    “I know that man. I’ve seen him before,” she murmured to Becky, trying to speak without moving her lips. She had the uncanny feeling he would be able to read them.
    “In the restaurant?” Becky replied, surprised. “I don’t remember him.” She ran a hand over her unruly red hair, then smoothed it down the curve of her waist, flattening the wrinkled black apron. “I’d
definitely
remember him.”
    “
Shhh
!” Jenna scowled down at the granite bar top. “He’ll hear you!”
    Becky finally lifted the wineglass above her head and slid it into the hanging wire rack. “Please. He’s all the way across the restaurant, Jenna. He’s not going to
hear
me.”
    Jenna shifted her weight from left foot to right and began shredding a paper cocktail napkin to pieces. She became acutely aware of her body, her bare legs, the warm air on her skin. In spite of the simple black cocktail dress she wore, she suddenly felt
very
naked.
    Her pulse had doubled in the space of thirty seconds.
    “How do you know him?” Becky asked. She turned to mix a martini for one of the waiters.
    Jenna didn’t dare lift her eyes to the mirror. The heat that flooded her cheeks had begun to pulse throughout her body. The same throbbing burn she had felt in the grocery store.
    This was not good. What the hell was the matter with her?
    She inhaled a long, steadying breath, squeezing her hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake, and counted to ten before answering.
    “I saw him before, I was at the store—”
    “Uh-oh,” Becky interrupted, her voice turning sour. “Batten down the hatches, here comes Napoleon.”
    Before Jenna could ask, a voice hissed into her right ear.
    “Earl McLoughlin is requesting the sommelier’s assistance with his wine selection—
let’s not
keep him waiting
!” The reek of garlic and dried sweat stung her nose.
    Jenna ground her teeth together and exchanged glances with Becky. “I thought we weren’t using the first names of the clientele, Geoffrey? Because you think it’s ‘
très gauche
’?”
    Next to Jenna’s elbow, Geoffrey practically vibrated with smothered apoplexy.
    “Earl is not his
name
, you twit, it’s his
title
!” he spat. “The concierge from the Four Seasons called in the reservation! He’s an
aristocrat, for God’s sake
!”
    Before she could catch herself, Jenna’s gaze flew up to the mirror. Across the restaurant, the earl was studying the wine list—brows stern, face neutral—but she sensed the stifled laughter yearning to break free from his full lips, which were pressed together with firm intent.
    “You may refer to him as Your Grace or Your Majesty, but either way, be professional, be smiling, and be
gone
!”
    He flapped his hands at her and made shooing noises, as if she were a pigeon begging for crumbs on a park bench.
    Jenna didn’t budge.
    “One does not refer to an earl as Your Grace, Geoffrey, nor does one call him Your Majesty. Those titles are reservedfor a duke and a king, respectively,” she said coolly, looking down on his balding head.
    Geoffrey’s mouth formed a startled, moist O, but he didn’t reply. He did begin to blink quite rapidly, however. Becky coughed into her hand to hide her laugh and turned away.
    In addition to the enjoyment of fine wine, Mrs. Colfax had taught Jenna a few other things about high society.
    “I will call him Lord McLoughlin or sir, as is proper etiquette, unless he asks me to call him by his first name, whatever that may be, as it would be ‘
très gauche
’ to continue on with the ridiculous business of titles after that.”
    Jenna enjoyed the mottled shade of crimson that stained Geoffrey’s cheeks. She turned on her heel and walked without hurry across the restaurant and over to the table that housed Lord McLoughlin, trying all the while to force the blood back out of her own cheeks and keep her breathing even.
    The earl