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pink flush spread across her cheeks, across her nose. Rupert wasn’t the one having this effect on her.
    The waiter was.

7

    RUPERT HAD TO TWIST in his chair to get a view of the waiter. The man’s muscular arms burst from his short-sleeved T-shirt, hiding half of a circular tattoo. His skin was several shades darker than Rupert’s, the guy’s black hair several inches longer. Rupert wanted to size the guy’s guts by locking eyes with him, but he was absorbed in eyeing up Madison.
    Back off.
    “You work here?” Madison’s voice and lips trembled. Waiter Guy answered with a nod. A shy smile broke across her face.
    They’ve already met.
    “Hi, mate. I’m Ollie. You two know each other?”
    Thanks, Oliver.
    “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you, Ollie.”
    American. A Southerner. Maybe an acquaintance from Yale or Louisiana.
    Madison’s flush had subsided, and she twirled a wisp of hair around her index finger.
    “So how did you meet Sam here?”
    Rupert repeated Ollie’s question but addressed Madison only. He extended his legs and relaxed against the back of his chair. His laid-back pose contrasted with the tightness of his clenched fists. He didn’t miss the exchange of glances ping-ponging between Sam and his own girlfriend. The smell rising from his plate didn’t tempt his appetite. Instead of indulging in his favorite meal, his stare drilled into Madison.
    She let go of the strand of hair and straightened her spine. “Sam helped me find my bag the other day.” The subtext was clear: Stop acting like a cuckolded husband. I just happen to know the guy.
    Sam’s mouth twisted into the quip of a smile, as if he knew more or better. He slid his hands into the pocket of his tight jeans. Rupert was now staring directly at him. If Geronimo was counting on his English reserve to save his cocky ass, he was going to taste disappointment.
    “You guys enjoy your dinner.” Sam waved and retreated. Only three steps away, he spun around. “If you ever feel homesick, Pumpkin, I have a well-aged bourbon here. You know where to find me.” He tipped his head in the direction of the bar.
    Rupert leaned forward and grasped his glass of water. If anyone needed to knock back several glasses of bourbon, it was he. He had to shut up. Going all caveman on Madison wasn’t an option.
    Ollie cleared his throat. He raised his eyebrows at Madison as a request for a further explanation. A shrug was her answer. She took a bite of her dinner, chewed and swallowed. Only then did she gratify them with an answer.
    “Sam grew up in New Orleans.”
    If the whole New Orleans male population was schmoozing Madison like that jackass, she was never setting foot in Louisiana again. At least, if Rupert had any say in the matter.
     
    Between Ollie’s I’ve-drowned-in-my-beer silence and Rupert’s brooding, tonight was the second worst dinner Madison had had at the Turf, right behind the time her boyfriend had almost gotten into a fight with his ex, Harriet. Her last mouthful of bangers and mash taken care of, she savored a sip of the Chardonnay Rupert had bought for her. She had asked for a small glass, and he had indulged in a tall one for himself. After his encounter with Sam, he looked as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine, and his teetotal resolution had obviously gone down the pan. But if she told Rupert about the mugging and her rescue by Batman, it would probably warrant another Turf drama.
    Rupert slid his hand through his hair, and it gave him the out-of-bed-look she saw on him the few mornings they had awakened next to each other. She swallowed more Chardonnay, hoping to wash away the wave of desire.
    “So you’ll ask your aunt if she’s free for Sunday lunch?”
    Madison welcomed the shift of focus to Louise with another sip of wine. “I’ll ask her. She’s settling in at the moment, so it might be better for her to wait another week or two.” Madison didn’t want her aunt to share her concerns about Rupert. The truth? Madison