Knight in Black Leather: International Billionaires XI: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  “How?” her sister said, her shoulders slumping. “He’s got more money than God—”

  “While we have none,” Heni, her other sister, shot in with a grimace. Flouncing behind the desk, her dyed-black hair bouncing, she glared at the financial projections proclaiming certain doom if something didn’t change.

  “He isn’t interested in women, so we can’t tempt him that way,” Jeanie continued. “It’s common knowledge he hasn’t dated since his wife died.”

  “Who would want to date such a saleau?” Her temper bloomed again at the memory of his instant rejection of her powdered face and pretty dress. “He is a mess of a man.”

  “You might have good old Javier panting around you,” Heni said, her chin rising, a clear sign she intended to provoke. “But you can’t claim Luc Miró doesn’t draw your eyes. I’ve seen you looking.”

  “The only reason I look at the damn, fucking man is that he never says hi or acknowledges anyone on this street. The only thing he cares about is his restaurant.”

  Both of her sisters stared at her, their mouths open. Maybe she usually didn’t talk about people in that way, and she never swore. This was different, though. This had become personal the moment he’d thrown lewd and profane at her.

  Her dream, this shop, was not lewd and certainly not profane. Dammit. “He’s a couyon. A capon. A crapeau.”

  “He really did get to you, didn’t he?” Jeanie stared at her in astonishment, brown eyes wide. “Calling him an ignorant coward and a—”

  Her other sister broke in with a peal of laughter, before grabbing the financials and sauntering toward the office doorway. “And a booger! If Mama heard you, she’d wash your mouth out with soap.”

  Jeanie giggled. “If Mama heard our little sister right now, she wouldn’t believe her ears.”

  “What Mama doesn’t know, doesn’t worry her.” Walking behind the desk, Nina plopped into the old armchair covered in horsehair she’d found at a second-hand store. Basically, all their furniture had come from the odds and ends they’d collected from their grandparents’ home and thrift shops. Their poor Mama could not possibly part with any of her house’s gems, even though the rooms were crowded with her constant purchases—purchases she couldn’t afford.

  “What Mama is going to do is go ballistic when this store fails,” Jeanie moaned. “I don’t want to think about Papa’s reaction.”

  Her papa was the reason they were in this mess in the first place. If she’d had her way, she’d have opened this shop down in bayou country, where people knew her grandfather and their family. Where people still believed and didn’t think their lotions and candles were only amusing. Eventually, she planned on conquering New Orleans and teaching the city folk what they were missing. But her papa’s debts and reputation in the bayou combined with Paw-Paw’s offer of this lease, had forced her to open it here, where she couldn’t find a foothold.

  Where people didn’t believe, and instead, called it lewd and profane.

  “We’re not failing.” She fisted her hands and glared at the plans for the festival. “We need to draw a crowd to this street so they can discover our shop. That’s the first step towards success.”

  “We can do it on our own,” Heni exclaimed, her hands waving in a characteristic gesture. “We can get a permit without his Highness’ approval.”

  “The festival would be much better with him, though.” Jeanie’s heart-shaped face grew glum. “His involvement would make it special.”

  “True.” Her other sister slouched on the doorsill, the financials crackling as she tightened her hands on them. “To have the premier restauranteur in New Orleans part of the party would gain us quite a bit of publicity.”

  “And we need as much publicity as we can get.” Nina surveyed the plans she’d laid across the desk. She’d imagined a long line of food vendors in the middle of the street—po’ boys and fried chicken and muffulettas.

  All leading to the saleau’s restaurant.

  The man only opened his palace in the evening, but there was so much potential he wasn’t tapping. The dining room was attached to a beautiful back terrace. The stupid porro only rented it out, instead of using it every day. Why didn’t he think of serving lunch there every day, under the line of willow trees? She’d hoped she could convince him to open his restaurant early for the party, and maybe even sneak in the suggestion.

  Now, she had to plot a Plan B. Which she totally could do. “The porro will concede. If I have to cast a spell on him, he will fall.”

  “Calling him a wart isn’t the best first step.” Heni smirked.

  “Also, Paw-Paw wouldn’t like you using the skills he taught us to force this man to agree.” Jeanie frowned. “That could come back on you, Boo.”

  Her grandfather came from a long line of traiteurs. In the bayou, they were revered as faith healers and prayer warriors. Everything from shingles to earaches to bleeding were treated. Paw-Paw hadn’t bothered with passing on the knowledge to his son. Their father had pooh-poohed the practice for as long as Nina could remember. But with his three granddaughters, he’d found fertile ground.

  “Paw-Paw did teach us how to cure warts, so maybe Nina is onto something.” Heni smirked again. “She can cure this particular wart.”

  The two older sisters laughed, yet she did not. Along with the training in healing, her grandfather had also taught his girls to believe in Fate. Fate with a capital F. She might have her health and wellness degree from Tulane, but she never lost the sense of wonder their grandfather had bestowed on them.

  “This is Fate,” she announced.

  Her sisters quieted. No one mentioned Fate lightly in this family. Even Papa went silent when the subject was brought up.

  “Are you sure?” Her older sister said, a cautious look on her face. “You have to be sure.”

  “And you tend to be sure of everything, Boo,” Heni chimed in, her expression filled with caution as well. “This is too important to get wrong.”

  Surety laced through her brain and down into her veins, sliding solidly into her gut. Her grandfather had taught her to listen well when that happened. “You know I didn’t want the shop here, although Paw-Paw gave us a good lease.”

  “A lease that is good for him, too.” Heni’s tone turned wry. “He knew we’d take care of this place like no other tenant would.”

  “Plus, it isn’t as if he didn’t make us sign a contract, to make sure we’re obliged for the money.” Jeanie folded her arms in front of her, brows furrowing. “Quite a bit of money.”

  “This is the middle of the French Quarter,” Nina countered. “He had to set the rent at a reasonable rate.”

  “He didn’t have to.”

  “It’s astronomical!”

  She ignored her sisters’ objections, because it was useless to argue. Her grandfather not only healed, he fought. Fought the ‘gaters who’d threatened his homestead. Fought the prejudice against his old-fashioned ways. Fought hard to give her papa an education.

  What Paw-Paw had done was set all three of his granddaughters up…to fight.

  So she would.

  “It is Fate that has brought us here to fight.” The words sang in her soul. “And we’re going to win.”

  “Lay off.” Luc flicked the grouper over in the steaming pan, eyeing the bubbling creole sauce beside it. “I’m done with the topic.”

  “Being a part of a street festival is a great idea.” As usual, Lali didn’t take the hint. He might rule this kitchen, but when it came to his non-existent social life, this woman didn’t pay any attention to his instructions. “You could use the publicity.”

  He snorted. “I have reservations six months out. I don’t need the publicity.”

  “There’s more you could do,” she said. “For example, lunch on the terrace—”

  “No.” More meals meant more staff. It also meant he wouldn’t be able to supervise every last thing. He’d have to trust someone else to run his kingdom some of the time. That wasn’t acceptab
le. Not anymore. “No, again and again and again.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever you say, bon lami.”

  Knowing her, he scowled. “I mean it.”

  With an expertise he’d taught her, she dribbled the persillade sauce on a plate of chilled oysters, and slid it onto the pass where a waiter grabbed it. “I know you do.”

  Luc threw her a growl of disgust. Because he knew he’d never hear the end of it. He flipped the grouper on the plate, pushing it toward Jules, his expeditor. “When did you become friends with that woman?”

  “That woman?” Lali arched her dark brows. “Why does this fom bother you so much?”

  “She doesn’t.” Slapping a piece of salmon on the grill, he tried to focus on the controlled chaos happening around him. His three waiters bustled in and out of the kitchen, balancing trays of covered plates on their shoulders. Vinny, his pastry chef, tongue-lashed his new assistant while he dotted the crème brûlée dishes with whipped cream. Steam rose from the line of pots and pans crisscrossing his stove and grill, the hiss of the water combining with the cacophony of voices.

  This was his place, the only place he felt whole. As if the huge piece of his soul that had been dug out of him five years ago wasn’t still missing. Breathing in the scents, the mix of cream and salt, spice and fish, he tried to center himself. Ever since that woman had invaded his kitchen two days ago, though, he couldn’t keep her banished from his mind. She kept popping up in her pink heels to steal his peace.

  “Is that so?” His sous-chef’s mouth curled in a knowing smile. “Which is why you are treating the salmon like a punching bag. As you always do.”

  As he always didn’t. Lucas Miró Porras was known for his gentle touch. Not with women, not anymore, but rather with his gentle use of spices, his gentle introduction of new sensations for his guests’ mouths and noses. He didn’t believe in slapping someone with a loud blast of color or taste. Two years in Paris had taught him how to elegantly seduce in the area of food. He’d never been able to transfer that skill to women. There’d been no need, since he’d married young to a woman who knew more than he. And after the disaster, there’d been no need, either.

  In a flash, the memory of his physical reaction to that woman crossed his mind.

  With a clumsy shove, he caught the salmon in a wire spatula and slapped it over.

  “Mon lami,” Lali cooed, amusement layering the affectionate nickname. “Perhaps you should take the rest of the night off.”

  An absurd suggestion. Luc didn’t take days off. Why would he? His life was here, and he lived for the evening when he could dive into his passion. What the hell would he do if he walked out of his kitchen to a night free?

  He’d be lost.

  Grunting, he shook a pan of roux. A splatter of heated butter jumped from the pan to his hand, burning like fire. “Mierda.”

  Lali hummed by his side in sweet aggression, all the while her quick fingers plating another row of oysters onto an appetizer dish.

  He knew what she was thinking. The echo of her words during the last year thrummed under his burnt skin. “I don’t need to go out.”

  “Did I say so?” Her fingers kept moving.

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Another knowing hum.

  The sound was very like the noise his mami made under her breath when she visited him here. Since he rarely went to the house on Prytania Street where he’d grown up, she came to him when she needed to talk or scold.

  “Luc.” His host, Alphonse, burst through the doors. “Your mother and father have arrived.”

  Typical. Almost anytime he thought about his parents, they appeared like they had ESP. Or his mami, more likely. She had no compunction about arriving without announcement, and without a reservation. This was happening with increasing frequency, now that he thought about it. When he’d first opened this restaurant ten years ago, his parents were proud and happy for him, yet kept away for the most part because there’d been Genia in his life at that time. His parents and wife had never got along. Except lately…

  “Where should I put them?” Alphonse barged into his memories.

  Wretched memories. Wariness encircled them now as well. The sour feeling he’d been lugging around for two days surged. “Tell them we’re full.”

  Astonishment crossed the host’s face, but he straightened his shoulders, his expression going stoic. “Okay.”

  “Luc.” Lali stepped past the steel counter into the hot line to put a hand on Alphonse’s arm. “You can’t turn your parents away.”

  No, he couldn’t. He loved his popa and mami. It was just that woman who was fouling up his brain. And his body. A crazy frustration coursed through him.

  His sous-chef stared at him, before turning to the host. “Seat them at table ten, Alphonse. We’ll shift the reservations around to make it work.”

  Nodding, he exited the kitchen.

  “I know.” Luc raised his hand in defeat. “I lost it for a minute. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Don’t you?” Her black brows rose once more. “If you only spend a moment thinking, I believe you’ll find your answer.”

  There’d been years of thinking, and he’d never found any answers. Frustrated once more, he slapped the salmon onto a plate.

  “I haven’t finished putting the cream on that plate.” She slipped behind the counter again. “Why don’t you go and say hello to your parents? Maybe that will calm you. We can handle this while you’re gone.”

  What was left unsaid was he was screwing things up, and it was best he vacated his post. He never screwed things up. Not in years. The realization made the wretched hole inside swell, threatening to destroy him like it almost had once before.

  “All right.” Slamming his spatula on the counter, he grimaced at his friend. “I’ll go say hello.”

  Though doing that would throw him from the frying pan into the fire. Because his parents were not here to merely say hello and have a fine meal cooked by their famous son. They were here to make a point of some kind.

  Wait a minute.

  He frowned at Lali, suspicion rising. “Did you call my mami?”

  “Me?” Innocence shined from her dark eyes. “Why would I do that?”

  She had. It was written all over her face. He might be dimwitted about women, but he wasn’t a fool when lied to. Not anymore. “What did you say?”

  A wry smile flickered across her face as an acknowledgment of her guilt. She twirled a wooden spoon in the bubbling roux. “I merely told her about the fom’s visit and her idea for a street festival.”

  That woman. That festival.

  Neither of which he was interested in. He pulled off his dirty apron with disgust, while throwing her a growl.

  Lali tutted. “You sound like an animal again.”

  “Don’t start.” Marching to the door leading into the dining room, he threw her a last glare. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “Take all the time you need.”

  He didn’t need any time at all to know what his mami was going to say. After Genia’s death, she’d held her tongue for a year. But then she started making noises about his isolation and his not getting younger and needing to move past his grief. He’d ignored her. Though these last few months, it had gotten worse. More insistent, even pulling the grandmother card and talking about wanting grandchildren.

  Bondje. As if he’d ever go there.

  Luc stepped into the small foyer leading into the main dining area. When he’d decided on this building for his kingdom, it had been used for wine storage, a second-hand clothing shop, and various other stores in the hundred-plus years of its existence. He’d kept the rough brick walls and old oak timbers, interspersing the elegance of French chandeliers and white linen into the mix. Over the years, he’d added touches of New Orleans. An old jazz trombone perched on the fireplace mantel, a line of Tennessee Williams’ first editions nearby. A string of pearls his mami had discarded wound around one
stone pillar while a decorative mahogany Fleur-de-Lis stood solid by table ten.

  Table ten where his parents sat, staring at the menu like it was written in Greek. Which it was not. They must be arguing again. The way his father hunched his shoulders and kept sliding his fingers through his graying hair. The way his mother perched on her seat, her spine straight like a steel cable, her hands tight in her lap.

  Sighing, he plastered a smile on his face and made his way through the twisting lanes of tables. Acknowledging one party who came often with a wave, he shook hands with another patron, then another. By the time he came to his parents’ table, his temper was already frayed.

  Not a good way to start with his mami and popa.

  He used to love interacting with his guests. He used to love being with his parents in their stately home. He used to love people in general. Now, all he wanted to focus on was the food.

  “Mi hijo.” His mami grasped his hand, a tight smile on her painted lips. “Sit, sit.”

  Definitely fighting.

  “Popa.” He nodded to the older man.

  Unlike his mother, his father didn’t pretend. He grimaced at his son. “She insisted until she drove me mad.”

  His mami had a way of doing that.

  “It’s fine.” He kept his smile on. “We’re not busy.”

  His popa glanced around at the buzzing restaurant and huffed out his disbelief. Yet there was a light of pride in his narrowed eyes that soothed Luc’s mood.

  His mother pulled on his hand until he landed on the chair next to hers. “Tell me about this festival.”

  “There’s no festival.”

  His short, sharp response didn’t dent her excitement. “But there will be.”

  “No, there won’t.” Tugging his hand from hers, he motioned at the menus. “The grouper is excellent tonight.”

  “I don’t want to talk about food.” His mami bristled, her brown eyes turning to a glare.

  She never had wanted to talk about food. Unlike her mother, his sainted gra-mère, Blanche Miró Porras had no interest in kitchens and cooking. Never saying it, but always implying it, she felt it beneath her. If she’d had her way, gra-mère would never have introduced her precious son to steam and sweat and the sweet lure of creating brilliance using such mundane ingredients as tomatoes, onions, and fish.