Read Online Liver Let Die by Liz Lipperman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liz Lipperman
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connection.
Jordan pulled around back at Longhorn Prime Rib, unwilling once again to fork out five bucks for the valet. From the looks of the parking lot, the place was rocking. Fortunately, her six-year-old Camry, a graduation gift from her parents, could squeeze into spots bigger cars dared not go.
By the time she reached the front door, she’d made a decision to use the valet the next time she came, no matter what the cost. The smile she flashed at the doorman faded when she saw the standing-room-only crowd. No surprise, she thought, noticing there were almost as many people waiting as were seated in the bustling room.
“Jordan McAllister,” she said, scanning the waiting area for an empty seat, anticipating at least an hour’s wait.
The maître d’ picked up a menu. “Your table’s ready, Ms. McAllister.”
Feeling the glare of every envious diner in the waiting area, Jordan was pleasantly surprised when he seated her at a table by the window with an awesome view of Lake Texoma. Even though the lake was several miles away, she could see the last bit of afternoon offering a stunning display of shimmering light across the calm water as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Apparently, her status had risen in the world, or more likely, the owner was pulling out all stops to get a better review this time.
“Will you have a cocktail or a glass of wine before dinner?”
“I’ll have a glass of that excellent Viognier you recommended the last time, please.”
In record time a young man appeared with the wine. “I’m Kenneth. I’ll be your waiter tonight.” Jordan recognized him from her last visit. He’d been laughing with J. T. by the bar. Assuming they were friends, maybe he could answer some questions.
Shooting a quick look around the restaurant, she wondered who all these people were. They didn’t look like Ranchero’s down-to-earth residents, who were too thrifty to spend their hard-earned cash on an overpriced meal. One lady two tables over was even wearing a sweater with what looked like a mink collar. Unless it was fake, she was definitely not a local.
Jordan moved on with her scan, locking eyes with a man sitting alone several tables over.
Ducky! She recognized him as the guy who always ordered foie gras, the one who had been rude to the bartender. She wondered if he’d read her review in Saturday’s paper. Probably not, or he wouldn’t be smiling at her right now.
She nodded then quickly looked away. Something about him creeped her out.
“Mr. Mason said I’m to treat you like a VIP,” Kenneth said. “Can I bring you an appetizer to start?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, Kenneth, but VIP has never been one of them,” Jordan said with a laugh. What was it about this place? This guy was almost as hot as J. T. Was Longhorn Prime Rib Ranchero’s version of a Hooters for women?
She caught a whiff of his musky cologne. “Did Mr. Mason mention the chef is preparing a special chicken dish for me?”
“Rattlesnake Pasta,” Kenneth replied. “I’m anxious to taste that myself.”
“It’s not really rattlesnake, right?” Jordan asked, needing reassurance her editor wasn’t pulling a fast one on her.
A smile turned up the waiter’s lips. “It could be,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “But that would add another twenty bucks to the price.” When her face dropped, he added, “Don’t worry. It’s actually spicy Cajun chicken.”
Jordan let out an audible sigh of relief. “Okay, then I’m ready when you are. And Kenneth, would you bring a Strawberry-Mandarin Salad, too?”
“Good choice.”
He left her briefly, returning with the salad and a basket of bread minutes later. Jordan reached for a slice as soon as he was gone, remembering how good it was. All she’d had for lunch was an order of fries, purposely saving her appetite for the free dinner.
Her skin crawled as if all eyes were on her. There was nothing more conspicuous than a
Jordan pulled around back at Longhorn Prime Rib, unwilling once again to fork out five bucks for the valet. From the looks of the parking lot, the place was rocking. Fortunately, her six-year-old Camry, a graduation gift from her parents, could squeeze into spots bigger cars dared not go.
By the time she reached the front door, she’d made a decision to use the valet the next time she came, no matter what the cost. The smile she flashed at the doorman faded when she saw the standing-room-only crowd. No surprise, she thought, noticing there were almost as many people waiting as were seated in the bustling room.
“Jordan McAllister,” she said, scanning the waiting area for an empty seat, anticipating at least an hour’s wait.
The maître d’ picked up a menu. “Your table’s ready, Ms. McAllister.”
Feeling the glare of every envious diner in the waiting area, Jordan was pleasantly surprised when he seated her at a table by the window with an awesome view of Lake Texoma. Even though the lake was several miles away, she could see the last bit of afternoon offering a stunning display of shimmering light across the calm water as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Apparently, her status had risen in the world, or more likely, the owner was pulling out all stops to get a better review this time.
“Will you have a cocktail or a glass of wine before dinner?”
“I’ll have a glass of that excellent Viognier you recommended the last time, please.”
In record time a young man appeared with the wine. “I’m Kenneth. I’ll be your waiter tonight.” Jordan recognized him from her last visit. He’d been laughing with J. T. by the bar. Assuming they were friends, maybe he could answer some questions.
Shooting a quick look around the restaurant, she wondered who all these people were. They didn’t look like Ranchero’s down-to-earth residents, who were too thrifty to spend their hard-earned cash on an overpriced meal. One lady two tables over was even wearing a sweater with what looked like a mink collar. Unless it was fake, she was definitely not a local.
Jordan moved on with her scan, locking eyes with a man sitting alone several tables over.
Ducky! She recognized him as the guy who always ordered foie gras, the one who had been rude to the bartender. She wondered if he’d read her review in Saturday’s paper. Probably not, or he wouldn’t be smiling at her right now.
She nodded then quickly looked away. Something about him creeped her out.
“Mr. Mason said I’m to treat you like a VIP,” Kenneth said. “Can I bring you an appetizer to start?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, Kenneth, but VIP has never been one of them,” Jordan said with a laugh. What was it about this place? This guy was almost as hot as J. T. Was Longhorn Prime Rib Ranchero’s version of a Hooters for women?
She caught a whiff of his musky cologne. “Did Mr. Mason mention the chef is preparing a special chicken dish for me?”
“Rattlesnake Pasta,” Kenneth replied. “I’m anxious to taste that myself.”
“It’s not really rattlesnake, right?” Jordan asked, needing reassurance her editor wasn’t pulling a fast one on her.
A smile turned up the waiter’s lips. “It could be,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “But that would add another twenty bucks to the price.” When her face dropped, he added, “Don’t worry. It’s actually spicy Cajun chicken.”
Jordan let out an audible sigh of relief. “Okay, then I’m ready when you are. And Kenneth, would you bring a Strawberry-Mandarin Salad, too?”
“Good choice.”
He left her briefly, returning with the salad and a basket of bread minutes later. Jordan reached for a slice as soon as he was gone, remembering how good it was. All she’d had for lunch was an order of fries, purposely saving her appetite for the free dinner.
Her skin crawled as if all eyes were on her. There was nothing more conspicuous than a
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