Part 1: The $100,000 Bet

“Get this woman away from my table.”

Richard Whitmore didn't whisper it.

He wanted Danielle Brooks to hear.

He wanted the businessmen sitting beside him to hear.

And judging by the way he leaned back in his chair with a smile, he wanted half the restaurant to hear too.

Danielle stopped with the wine bottle still in her hand.

Around them, Bellweather's Friday-night dinner service continued for perhaps three more seconds.

Then the room began to notice.

A woman at the next table lowered her fork.

The bartender glanced over.

A young busboy carrying water glasses slowed near the kitchen doors.

Danielle looked at Richard.

“Is there a problem with your service, sir?”

Richard gave a short laugh.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you're actually our waitress.”

Danielle glanced down at her white shirt, black vest, black apron, and order pad.

“I believe the uniform gives it away.”

One of the three Asian businessmen at the table almost smiled.

Richard didn't.

He was sixty-one, silver at the temples, broad through the shoulders, and dressed in the kind of charcoal suit that didn't need a visible label to announce what it cost.

His photograph appeared regularly in Seattle business publications.

His company had built hotels, apartment towers, office complexes, and luxury developments across the Pacific Northwest.

Tonight, however, Richard wasn't selling buildings.

He was selling himself.

Across the table sat three senior representatives of Tianyu Infrastructure Group.

The man in the center was Liang Chen.

Sixty-eight.

Quiet.

Silver-haired.

Almost completely expressionless.

Richard had spent six months trying to persuade Liang's company to invest $240 million in Harbor Point, a massive waterfront redevelopment Richard had called the crown jewel of his career.

Tonight was supposed to close the deal.

And Danielle Brooks was supposed to be invisible.

Bring the wine.

Clear the plates.

Smile.

Disappear.

Richard pointed toward Liang.

“My guests are international investors.”

Danielle waited.

“I specifically asked for someone who could communicate with them.”

“They've communicated their orders to me without any difficulty.”

“That isn't what I mean.”

Danielle already knew what he meant.

She had known for forty minutes.

Liang and the other two executives had been speaking Mandarin between courses.

Danielle understood almost every word.

She simply hadn't told them.

A server didn't insert herself into private conversations.

Richard tapped one finger against the table.

“I requested a Mandarin-speaking server.”

Danielle nodded.

“And you have one.”

Richard stared at her.

Then he laughed.

Not a chuckle.

A real laugh.

Loud enough that another table turned.

“You?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You speak Mandarin?”

“Fluently.”

Richard looked at Liang.

Then at the other executives.

He seemed to be waiting for them to appreciate the joke.

Nobody laughed.

That irritated him.

“Where did you learn it?”

Danielle reached for an empty wineglass.

“Would anyone care for dessert?”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I'm working.”

“So answer while you work.”

Danielle's hand stopped.

She had dealt with men like Richard before.

People who treated a restaurant bill as temporary ownership of everyone wearing an apron.

Usually she let it go.

She needed the money.

Her father's physical therapy wasn't completely covered by insurance.

Her rent had increased.