On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [116]
A pause. Then, “I think you should come up to the restaurant.”
“I can think of few things I’d be less inclined to do,” she said, her heart squeezing at the thought. “I don’t want to see him yet, Grant. I don’t think I can handle it. Besides, I need to find Tucker. Did Devon bring him to the restaurant? Because that’s the only thing that could get me over there right now.”
There was a strange noise, kind of a choking sound, quickly covered, then Grant’s careful voice. “Hon. Trust me on this. You want to be at Market right now.”
Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird in her chest, battering at the cage of her ribs. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing I’m going to tell you about over the phone. So get here. Now.”
He hung up. Lilah stared at the phone, open-mouthed and faint.
For Grant to call and summon her, when he knew how hard she was taking all this stuff with Devon, something terrible must have happened. Terror squeezed her heart and gave Lilah a speed she never thought she’d possess. She was practically pushing people out of the way to get to the subway, flying down the street until she realized it might be faster to take a cab. So she waded out into traffic and threw her arm into the air with authority, the way she’d seen New Yorkers do, and sure enough, a cab swerved out of the flow of cars and stopped for her.
They made it up Tenth Avenue in record time with Lilah pressuring the poor cabbie every block of the way to go faster, find a better route, bypass the traffic snarls. He heaved a sigh of relief when they pulled up in front of Market.
Lilah shoved a couple of twenties at him and scrambled from the cab, her heart in her throat. She took the steps up to the door in one flying leap and pushed her way inside, afraid of what she’d find.
Brain unspooling image after image of Devon having cut off a finger, collapsed at the stove, the whole kitchen held hostage like the awful night Grant had described a few months before, Lilah stopped short just inside the door.
Everything looked normal. It took a moment to process what she was seeing, but so far, it looked like just a normal night of dinner service at Market. Maybe a little more full of customers than she was used to, and maybe they all looked happier, smilier, but that was it. No panic, no alarm, no cops or ambulance people milling around.
Lilah walked as sedately as she could toward the back of the dining room, looking around for Grant the whole time.
He wasn’t on the floor, but she caught the bartender’s eye, that handsome, country-looking Christian, and he tipped his head toward the kitchen.
Lilah nodded and quickened her pace.
As she got closer, she could see a slice of the kitchen through the open pass, and from the front of the house, it looked like things were moving smoothly, if quietly. When she got to the door and peeked inside, Devon was nowhere to be seen. Frankie was expediting orders with a grim, purposeful manner that made Lilah’s heart seize again.
Oh, dear Lord.
Closing the kitchen door firmly behind her, Lilah demanded in a voice shrill with fear, “What on earth is happening? Where’s Grant? Where’s Devon?”
Frankie wiped the rim of a plate with swift, economical movements and said, “Downstairs, Lilah. In the office. Table nine, away!”
Lilah wasted no time in pounding down the stairs. The fact that no one seemed to want to tell her what the heck was going on made her lightheaded with dread.
The scene in Adam’s office did nothing to alleviate that fear. Devon was slumped over the ancient, scarred metal desk, hanging onto a phone and scrubbing his hand over his face.
Grant was pacing, his cell phone out, too, and both of them were talking at once, although they paused when she came in.
It hurt to look at Devon, beyond a quick once-over to ascertain that, yes, he was still in possession of all his fingers, so she looked at Grant. Who looked at Devon. Who stood and said, “I’ll tell her.”
His voice sounded awful, like he’d shouted his throat raw.
“Somebody better tell me something