Proud to Serve Her (1 Night Stand Series) by Heather Long Page A

waiter, paused at his side, an empty tray dangling from one hand. All of his employees were inactive Marines or related to a Marine. Jones fell in the latter category.
    “Soon. Any word?”
    “Nope. Javier’s checking the line periodically, making sure she doesn’t get hung up waiting. But nothing.”
    Her tardiness annoyed the Marine in him. The schedule called for her to arrive at six-thirty. He took pride in promptness. “Well, I’ll change when she gets here. Table seven needs coffee, grab some of the beignets for table fourteen, and bring out two bottles of white for the Captain’s table.”
    “On it.” Jones vanished into the kitchens. A wave of oohs and aahs rose from the bar. Matt demonstrated flair with a pair of bottles dancing up in the air. The press of feminine bodies coupled with laughter and applause amused Damon. McCall had come a long way since trashing his car six weeks before. He’d even made plans to spend Thanksgiving with his family.
    A big step.
    Damon had offered to travel with him, but the man declined. He still received counseling from James regularly, and between the psychologist’s support and the rest of the unit, Matt was getting it together.
    “Yo, boss….” The call tugged his attention back toward the kitchen, but a tingle on the back of his neck warned him to wait. Threading through the line at the door was a long-legged brunette, her short dark hair angling around the smooth, alabaster skin of her face. A modicum of makeup—he supposed it was makeup—highlighted fine cheekbones, delicate eyes and a direct, no-nonsense stare that shot a sizzling jolt to his cock.
    Oh, please let that be Helena Blake ….
    Willowy didn’t begin to describe the slender woman. A white scarf hung around her neck and dangled between her small, pert breasts. The gray sleeveless top and smart black skirt seemed too sedate for the sensuality in her plump lips and dark eyes. His gaze roamed down her body, pausing only when the crowd surged between them then parted again. The press of people annoyed him, he wanted more than peek-a-boo glimpses.
    He watched Javier guide her past the velvet ropes to the private dining area set up just off the main room. Close enough to be public, but private enough to indulge in good conversation.
    Hell. Yeah .
    Whirling from the door, he darted past the servers to check the white chili with fresh chicken and shrimp bubbling in a separate pot. “Whatcha need John-John….”
     
    ***
     
    Helena eased around the restaurant’s overflowing tables. She hated to be late. The maître d’ cut a path through, but she had to hurry to keep up or risk the press of bodies refilling the empty space. The overwhelming noise level rattled her after relaxing to Tchaikovsky on the drive. She’d hardly believed the email when it arrived two days ago. Had it really been a year since she’d signed up for Madame Eve’s exclusive 1Night Stand service? Had it taken the woman that long to find a possible match?
    Skepticism chased the frustration cramping her stomach. Smells assaulted her—first the tang of a fish broil overlaid with the roasting smell of meat, then the sweet pastry aroma of a bakery—all layered together. Her stomach roiled in a vociferous growl. She latched onto each new scent like a drowning man desperate for driftwood. Not eating since the rushed yogurt and protein bar before court had been a mistake.
    The rich, piquant scent of gumbo served to the table on her left distracted her, and she bumped into the young man lurching up from the table on the right. She swayed dangerously on her four-inch heels. A firm hand latched onto her arm, steadying her. The maître d’ pulled the kid out of her path.
    “Thank you.”
    “Not a problem.” But the hard look he gave the poor boy earned her a fast, mumbled apology and an open path through the crowded restaurant to a table segregated by red velvet ropes and carefully placed dividers.
    Her escort pulled out a chair for her