| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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The disadvantages of waitress service are dealing with complex or demanding customers, loud-mouthed, hypercritical individuals, who talked over everyone, complained about napkins and silverware, room temperature—too hot, too cold—and harmless music—too loud, too quiet. Then, overstepping boundaries in drunken insensibility, for example, inappropriate comments about my breasts or placing a palm on the back of my thigh whilst assessing the leather-bound menu for an unnecessarily long time. Insert silver-haired cologne-infused millionaire businessman in a royal blue three-piece suit whose disrobing eyes and wandering hands overemphasised the definition of shameless pervertedness.
"Such a wide selection." He lowered the menu marginally to look up at me, his gaze a turbulent blend of red-brimmed perversion and aroused covetousness. "Are you the head sommelier?"
No, I am not a trained wine expert. I prepared tables, linen, silverware and glasses. I have the responsibility of welcoming guests, taking orders and communicating with the kitchen. Sure, I can pour a glass of wine and uncork a bottle, but if he is looking for someone to recommend flavours and varieties, I am not the right woman for the job.
"Menu five," he placed an order, and I clicked the top of a pen, bored and idle. "Advice on pairings?"
"Well, I know beef is accompanied by red and something light like chardonnay compliments scallops," I told him with very little knowledge or experience. My rap sheet consists of green juice, carrot juice, prune juice—a dose of whatever-the-fuck-you-fancy juice. "You selected the traditional tasting menu: beef, pork and fish. I suppose you could drink either or both."
His entourage, a party of suavely besuited males and fascinatingly glamorous females, awaited his response before they reeled off demands.
"Very well." He gave me the most revolting bedroom eyes as his tongue smoothed out his bow-shaped upper lip. "Then, I shall order Ruchottes Chambertin, Domaine Roumier, Burgundy, France." The Englishman accented a Frenchman. "Corton-Charlemagne, Maison Louis Latour, Burgundy, France."
His purred, flirtatiousness had the opposite effect.
I found him most disgusting.
"Great." I smiled with the same politeness of a churlish child, scribbling down the order. "Anything else?"
"Perhaps." His expression, crude and lascivious, sent a cold, stomach-churning shiver down my back. "Feel free to take their order, then return to me."
Feel free? Of course, Sir. I am neither shy nor hesitant to do my job, as it is, in fact, my job to wait on people for minimum wage, but thank you for permission.
Damn it. I wanted to stab the pen into my sockets, gauge my eyes out and expunge such nauseating sleaziness from vision.
Or better yet, swat the wayward hand at the back of my knee in a final warning. I mean, what is he doing with the pointer finger? Every three seconds, jab, jab, jab, flick, prod, poke. Is it supposed to be suggestive? A turn-on? What is going through his head right now? He might have a knee fetish. Is there such a thing as a knee fetish?
