The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3 Read Free Page B

Tristan suddenly understood Kris’s ire. No one seemed to understand that the ambiance of dining was as important as the food, and that meant a beautiful room with well-appointed tables, candlelight and the aroma of fine wine, truffles and fresh herbs—not the stench of chips and meaty stew.
    “Give that to me.” At his order, Kris handed over the pub menu, a laminated sheet of uninspired—though delicious, because if Tristan had to serve fish and chips, it was the best fish and chips ever cooked—pub fare.
    Tristan stormed out of the kitchen into the restaurant. He took only a moment to appreciate the crystal chandeliers, cozy private areas created by half-walls and high-backed chairs, and headed for the darkest corner, a lost space where Kris seated those who wanted the utmost privacy or who weren’t dressed nicely.
    Tristan’s brows rose in surprise when he saw who was seated there. A pretty blonde woman no older than thirty sat with her head bent over a castle map. She wore a tunic embroidered with geometric shapes in bold earth tones over a simple white turtleneck. A heavy brass medallion hung from a cord around her neck, and she toyed with it as she read. Her hair was straight, falling to just above her shoulder. She was lightly tanned, and when she looked up her eyes were a beautiful hazel rather than the blue he was so used to seeing.
    She studied him, her gaze lingering on his face, but he could tell it wasn’t sexual—it was almost clinical.
    “Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. You’re…” She did a second once-over. “…either the head chef or the poissonnier .” She was English and well-educated, from the sound of her accent.
    Tristan stopped, taken by surprise. “I am the chef de cuisine .” He used the proper name for head chef.
    “And you’re French. That explains the western European Caucasian bone structure but Mediterranean coloring.”
    Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?’
    “A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”
    “And you are here for the bones.”
    “So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”
    “I am not staff. I am the chef.”
    “Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”
    “And that is how you know poissonnier .” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.
    “The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”
    Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”
    “No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”
    Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”
    “I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”
    “Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”
    “But I’m hungry.”
    “Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.  
    “I want to eat here.”
    “And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”
    She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”
    “ Oui .”
    She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.
    Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the derrière that he got