Not one wrinkle.
The second thing was his watch.
Gold.
Probably worth more than every possession Emma had ever owned.
The third thing was his expression.
Amusement.
Not kindness.
Not curiosity.
Amusement.
Richard was fifty-five.
Tall.
Silver at the temples.
His posture belonged to someone accustomed to rooms adjusting around him.
The host straightened.
“Mr. Blackstone.”
That told Emma enough.
Richard looked at her.
“What appears to be the problem?”
“No problem.”
Emma turned back toward the host.
“I was asking about work.”
Richard smiled.
“Work.”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
The word caused his smile to widen.
“What can you do?”
Emma felt the trap before she understood its shape.
“Restaurant work.”
“Anything specific?”
“I can clean.”
“Serve.”
“Wash dishes.”
“Whatever you need.”
Richard looked around at the elegant dining room.
White linen.
Crystal.
Silver.
Then back at Emma.
“Whatever we need.”
A couple at a nearby table had stopped talking.
The host said quietly:
“Mr. Blackstone, I can direct her to—”
Richard lifted one hand.
The host stopped.
Emma noticed.
Power.
Effortless.
Richard walked closer.
“Do you know what I dislike?”
Emma almost answered, people?
She did not.
Richard continued:
“People who arrive somewhere expecting opportunity simply because they ask for it.”
“I’m not expecting anything.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I’m asking whether you have work.”
“And if we don't?”
“I leave.”
Richard looked toward the other diners.
“Very practical.”
Then he looked at her jacket.
“How long have you been without a proper home?”
Emma’s entire body tightened.
The host looked horrified.
Emma said:
“That has nothing to do with whether I can work.”
“Interesting.”
Richard smiled.
“So you are.”
Emma wished she had lied.
Her pride had become one of the few things poverty had not successfully taken.
Richard gestured toward an empty table.
“Hungry?”
Emma said nothing.
Her stomach betrayed her with a small painful contraction.
Richard noticed the hesitation.
“That's a yes.”
He turned.
“Daniel.”
A waiter approached.
“Sir?”
“Bring a plate.”
The waiter froze.
Richard smiled.
“Something simple.”
Emma immediately said:
“I don't need—”
Richard looked at her.
“But you do.”
People were openly watching now.
Emma felt heat rise into her face.
She hated that her body wanted the food badly enough to make leaving difficult.
Richard noticed everything.
He enjoyed it.
The waiter returned with a plate.
Bread.
Chicken.
Vegetables.
Steam rose.