Her eyes met his. “Does this mean my stepfather was involved in…?” She let the question hang.
“Probably not,” Patrick said. He’d looked into Constantine DeStefano. The guy was no choir boy, but he was also basically an insignificant cog in a very large, complex organization.
“Probably not,” she echoed. “Did you send this information to the US Deputy Marshal you told me about?”
“Yes. If there is a connection there, the federal inquiry will uncover it.”
She thought about that for a few seconds, then nodded. “Good.”
Their server arrived with a selection of amuse-bouche. Patrick reclaimed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The business portion of the evening was officially complete.
The snacks, like the seared scallops that succeeded them, were excellent. His favorite part by far was spearing a scallop on a fork and holding it to Morgan’s lips. The act was intimate and oh-so-satisfying. He now understood why his father did it. The primitive instinct to feed his woman was powerful.
They were awaiting the arrival of the main course when Morgan’s eyes widened. Patrick turned his gaze to see a familiar figure making her way across the dining room in chef’s whites. The gleaming jacket was for the diners’ benefit only, because his mother lorded over the kitchen in jeans, soft T-shirts, and Chuck Taylors.
“Patrick,” Morgan whispered. “I think that’s the chef.”
The atmosphere shifted in the way it always shifted when Lexi Callaghan entered the room. He set his fork down quietly.
He gave her credit. His mother was at least trying to look casual about it as she greeted people on her way over to their table.
“Hi. I’m Lexi,” his mother said, extending her hand to Morgan. “You must be Morgan. My husband Ian speaks very highly of you.”
Morgan blinked. Looked at his mother. Looked at him. Looked back at his mother. Looked back at him. While he had his father’s hair and eyes, he definitely shared some of his mother’s features as well.
Morgan shook her hand. Turned to look at Patrick with an expression that was somewhere betweenI can’t believe youdidn’t tell me your mother is the executive chef of the Celtic GoddessandHoly shit your mother is the executive chef of the Celtic Goddess.
She turned back to his mother with the professional courtesy of a woman who had been managing her reactions her entire life. “I’m honored to meet you, Mrs. Callaghan. I can honestly say this is the best meal I’ve ever had.”
His mother beamed. “I’ve got a great staff.”
“Did you teach Patrick how to make Chicken Marsala, by any chance?”
“I did. Did you like it?”
“Very much so.”
“I’m so glad. Well, I’ll let you two get back to it. I just wanted to come out and say hello.”
Lexi made her way out the same way she’d come in—with a genuine smile and a down-to-earth friendliness that people instantly responded to.
“Your mother,” Morgan said as soon as Lexi was out of earshot, “is the head chef of the Celtic Goddess.”
“Yes,” Patrick admitted.
“You failed to mention that.”
“Did I?”
“Patrick.” She said with a little growl he wanted to hear more of. A lot more. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Maybe.”
“Exactly. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Well, now the chef quality kitchen in your parents’ house makes a lot more sense.”