Dreaming of the Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #8)(2)

A waitress, dressed in a Victorian gown and apron similar to the hostess’s, hurried over with a menu and a glass of water. She was just as friendly and just as unabashedly bold about giving him the once-over. But he was sure it had more to do with feminine interest than with a bigger tip since he was the only male around the age of thirty who was seated alone in the establishment. Then again, maybe she was sizing him up to see if he fit the usual clientele—rich resort visitor—or if he was an off-season ski bum who had mistakenly found his way into this place.

He’d dressed up a little more than usual because he would be meeting with the art gallery owner, although he probably could have worn anything and the gallery staff wouldn’t have cared. Artists were artists, after all.

But he wore a vest with his stonewashed jeans and a pin-striped dress shirt, although he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and left a couple of the buttons down the front of the shirt undone. And he hadn’t bothered to shave for a couple of days, giving him more of a rugged appearance. Dressy just didn’t suit him much.

Light fluffy music played overhead, while the aroma of coffee brewing and steak sizzling on a grill wafted through the air. His stomach rumbled in anticipation as he considered the menu, narrowed his eyes to study the prices, and nearly had a stroke.

“Highway robbery,” he muttered under his breath. He would have walked out, but he still wanted to see the woman again and learn what she was up to. Then he waved to the waitress, told himself he only lived once—if paying exorbitant prices meant he was living—and placed his order.

When the waitress left, Jake saw her—the woman who’d caught his eye outside the restaurant—now sitting at a booth across from his. His heartbeat quickened, and he sat up a little taller. She was observing a man in his mid-fifties who was seated at a nearby table and wearing a fitted dark-gray suit. He was swarthy, fat faced, and fat lipped, with a bulbous nose, receding black hair, and dark cold eyes. Something about the man warned Jake that he was a threat, not someone to anger. Not just a man having an affair on his wife.

The fact she was watching the man bothered Jake. He saw it as a case of her flaunting danger. She was maybe five-five in stocking feet with a small build and tendrils of curls spilling from her upswept hair to tickle the back of her neck. She was not nearly big enough or mean-looking enough to take on whomever the man was and win the confrontation. Now Jake could see her eyes—the color of rich chocolate, just like her hair. Her eyes were narrowed a hint and her brows knit into a small frown.

She pursed her full glossy lips, a shimmering shade of peach, as she wrote something on a notepad. Her gaze returned to the man. Her lips garnered another look as she worried the bottom one a little, and Jake had the urge to coax her mouth into a smile with his, to take away the frown, to give her something positive to think about. Like him.

She glanced toward the door as a man walked into the restaurant. Wearing an expensive black suit, he was similar in build to the first: stocky and dark-haired, swarthy and all business as he glanced around the place with a wolf’s wary manner. The woman quickly averted her eyes.

Surveillance. Jake bet she was working some kind of surveillance. But who were the men she was watching? And who did she work for?

The waitress returned to the table, delivered his steak and eggs, and asked, “Is there anything else you’d like?” She favored him again with a way too intimate pass, the connotation in her sugar-coated voice suggesting she could be on the menu if he was the least bit interested.

With a quick smile to indicate he’d gotten her message, but just as quick a shake of his head to show he wasn’t interested, he said, “No, thanks. I have everything I need, right here.” He glanced back at the woman in the suit as if emphasizing he meant that included the woman who continued to be the object of his fascination.

The waitress’s smile quickly faded. “Oh, you’re interested in her.” She paused, as if she was thinking of saying something more about the woman. But then she shook her head and said, “I’ll check back with you in a bit, then.” She gave the woman in the suit a derisive look, but before the waitress could hurry off, Jake seized her scrawny wrist.

When she stopped and turned to face him, her pale hazel eyes wide, he released her wrist and asked, “Do you know the woman?”

She gave a soft snort. “Oh, yeah, she and her mother have been coming here for years. Skiing, ice skating, hiking, you name it.” Then the waitress leaned down lower and said conspiratorially, “She’s mixed up with some bad types, and nobody but nobody wants to associate with them—or her. Let’s just say it can lead to a dead end.” She gave a little shrug.

“Bad types?”

The waitress rolled her eyes. “Mob ties.”

“She’s in with the Mob?” Jake asked, sounding incredulous. The guys she was observing looked like they might have connections, but…

“Her mother was dating one of them.”

That put a totally new spin on the situation. “And the daughter?”

The waitress’s lips curved up in a menacing grin. “Sure, like mother, like daughter. She gave up an honest-to-goodness decent sort to consort with a bunch of criminals.”

He had the sneaking suspicion the daughter wasn’t seeing someone like that. If anything, she was watching the two men in a way that made him think of a police sting operation, not as though she was friends with them. If she had been, she would have joined them.