“Or she might come back more focused than ever and blow away the younger students.”
“Dancing is like any other sport. It’s great when you’re young and athletic, but it’s not a career for a lifetime.”
“So what? I’m not very familiar with this field, but it seems to me she could teach, or choreograph productions, or—”
“Okay, sure.” He gazed out at the kaleidoscope that was Vegas. “But I think she’d be bored to tears living the life my mother had.”
Giselle stood there without saying anything for several seconds. Finally she spoke. “Okay, I get it.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What do you get, exactly?”
“You see your sister trying to follow in your mom’s footsteps without realizing she’s nothing like your mom, even though she looks like her. You think she’s liable to end up being miserable from the lack of mental stimulation.”
“Yes, exactly! So how do I—” The doorbell chimed. “We can talk about it later. Dinner’s here.” But elation filled him. Giselle finally understood why he was so determined to get Cynthia back on track. Although he’d met her only a couple hours earlier, he no longer felt alone in his quest.
Chapter 6
A portly gentleman with all the bearing of an English butler rolled a double-tiered cart through the living area and over to the linen-covered dining table by the west window. Giselle breathed in the aroma of grilled steak, roasted veggies, and . . . werewolf?
For one electric moment, her gaze met that of the formally dressed man in his sixties. No doubt about it—the butler was a werewolf. She was dying to know the story behind this bizarre situation but figured she wouldn’t be getting it soon.
“Greetings, Mr. Thatcher!” Luke seemed really happy to see him. “I’d like you to meet Giselle Landry from San Francisco. Giselle, Mr. Thatcher has been serving our family for . . . is it almost twenty years now?” He glanced at the butler.
“Almost, sir.” He bowed in Giselle’s direction. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Landry.”
“Same here, Mr. Thatcher.” The butler hadn’t reacted to her last name, and yet if he was Were, he would know the Landry pack was one of the most powerful in the Bay Area. He’d probably spent twenty years learning to keep his expression neutral and his mouth shut. She wondered how he fit into the Cartwright/Dalton history. “Are you originally from London?”
“Hertfordshire, madam.”
“You’ve brought us some heavenly smelling food.”
“I daresay you’ll enjoy it.” He started unloading the contents of the cart onto the table. “Our chef is the best in the state.”
“And he’s not happy because I order pizza half the time,” Luke said.
“He makes you a very good pizza, sir.” Mr. Thatcher finished arranging everything on the table and took a lighter out of his pocket. “But he was pleased to get this order tonight.” He lit the white tapers sitting in heavy silver candlesticks.
Luke winked at Giselle. “Guess I’ll have to make him happy more often. I’d hate to lose the guy because he was sick of making pizza.”
“After this meal, sir, you’ll give up on pizza for good.” With the kind of flourish that he’d probably perfected after years of service, Mr. Thatcher whisked the silver domes away, revealing two carefully arranged plates, each bearing a filet, grilled asparagus, and an artfully spooned serving of mashed root vegetables. A basket of bread, two pieces of chocolate mousse cake, and two glasses of ruby-colored wine completed the meal.
Giselle stifled a moan of pleasure. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. It was all she could do not to yank out a chair and sit down so they could get started.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Mr. Thatcher stood poised beside the cart, prepared to roll it out the door.
Luke glanced at her. “Giselle? Anything more you need to go with the meal?”
“Not a thing.” Except she’d love to know why a Were had served it to them, but she couldn’t very well ask that. “This is a feast.”
“Then I guess we’re all set, Mr. Thatcher. Thank you.”
“Have a great evening, sir. Just call when you’re finished and want me to clear.” With another slight bow, he rolled the cart into the foyer and let himself out.
“He’s fabulous,” Giselle said after he’d left. “So he’s been with your family for almost twenty years?”
“Guess so. I’ve lost track of it, but I’m sure my dad knew. Twenty years ago he was finally doing well enough to start hiring live-in servants. According to my dad, Harrison Cartwright recommended Mr. Thatcher for the job.”
“Now, that’s fascinating.” She had to say something to keep her jaw from dropping in amazement. Had Harrison Cartwright installed a spy in Angus Dalton’s household?
That made no sense, because twenty years ago Harrison and Angus had been the best of friends. Yet she could think of no other explanation. Normally werewolf live-in servants preferred to work for Weres. Working for humans didn’t give them enough privacy when they wanted to shift and get some wolf-style exercise.
She wondered if Mr. Thatcher had made do with trips to Howlin’ at the Moon and its underground forest. Now that would be closed to him, too. “Does he have a first name?”
Luke laughed and moved over to the table. “It’s Melvin. But I honestly didn’t know that until I started signing his paychecks in January. He’s always been Mr. Thatcher. Incredibly proper, but incredibly loyal. I was afraid my mother would ask him to go to France with her, but she didn’t, thank God. Ready to eat?”
“You know it.” Deciding to think about the werewolf/butler/spy thing later, she sat down and sighed in appreciation. “This really is terrific, Luke. I hope I won’t embarrass myself by attacking this food.”
“Please do.” He picked up his wineglass. “But first let’s toast.”
“What are we toasting?”
“I haven’t figured that out. My family is big into toasting, though, so it’s a habit with me.” His blue gaze warmed as he smiled at her. “I suppose a toast between the two of us could get complicated.”
“It could. Your toast might be something I can’t agree with.”
“Then . . . here’s to success.”
She chuckled. “That’s ambiguous enough, I guess. To success.” She touched her glass to his and drank. The wine was pleasantly dry, the perfect complement to a steak dinner. “Nice.”
“Glad it suits you. I just thought of another toast.”
“Okay.”
“To a cooperative effort as we work through our problems.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She touched her glass to his again and then took another sip. She met his gaze and felt a tug of sexual awareness. Not good. “I keep thinking about that picture of you with the Mickey Mouse ears.” She wasn’t really, but maybe if she could, it would squash her growing interest in him.
He rolled his eyes. “Please don’t.”
“If you really hate it that much, you could take it down, couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His expression softened. “Because my mom and dad loved that picture.”
“Oh.” And every time he looked at it, he remembered that. Her heart squeezed.
He cleared his throat. “Hey, let’s not let this get cold. Dig in.”
“You bet.” With a quick smile, she picked up her fork and steak knife. But he’d touched her with that comment about the picture. She’d have to watch herself. She didn’t believe in getting involved with any human male, and certainly not one whose name was anathema to Weres.