Knight in Black Leather: International Billionaires XI: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  He counted himself very lucky for having his gra-mère in his life. If not for her, he’d have ended up in one of his father’s offices, counting the family money.

  His popa eyed the hovering waiter. “I’ll have whatever my son suggests.”

  “Start them with the oysters,” Luc said. “And then follow with the sautéed snapper with Creole sauce.”

  The waiter grabbed the menus and left.

  Left him with his determined mami. “Tell me all about her.”

  That woman.

  He glared across the table at his stupid father, who’d started this whole mess. “Did you think having a voodoo stall on our street would be a good idea? It’s what happens when you lease to a backward Cajun asshole.”

  Having heard this before, Mitch Miró merely grunted.

  “There’s far more than just dolls in there.”

  Swinging his head, he stared at his mother. “Don’t tell me you went in there.”

  “Of course, I did.” She waved away his own angry glare. “It’s only neighborly.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Another brisk wave. “Perhaps today.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “I wanted to see her.”

  “See who?” But Luc knew who. His sous-chef was in for a storm of his temper.

  “She’s lovely.” His mami beamed, her brown eyes glowing. “So sweet and kind.”

  That woman was sweet like over-baked crème brûlée. A gooey mess waiting for a blast torch.

  “She’s perfect for you, Lucas Jean.” His mami cocked her head in as if she were already dreaming of grandchildren, her blonde-streaked hair not moving an iota. “Just perfect.”

  His popa grunted. Whether in approval, agreement or a combination of the two, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that woman had managed to bewitch his best friend and his mother. Bewitch them into believing in a fantasy. A fantasy where Lucas Jean Miró Porras could ever again trust.

  Trust in love.

  Trust in hope.

  Trust himself.

  “Mami,” he growled. “It’s not going to happen.”

  Smiling, she leaned in and patted his cheek like she had when he’d been a boy. “Mi hijo, it already is.”

  Chapter 3

  In a matter of days, Luc felt besieged.

  Mrs. Tate who owned the vintage-clothing store on Del Bosque Street took it upon herself to walk down to his restaurant in the cool of the day to announce she was in support of Miss Nina’s festival. “There’s nothing like new traffic,” she’d said, her straw hat bobbing in the hot, humid August wind, the wrinkles of her face spreading as she smiled. “Nothing at all.”

  George Delhomme, who’d shined, resoled, and repaired shoes in his store for the last twenty years, managed to insert his opinion of the festival when Luc walked by, minding his own business. “Good idea that gal has,” George rumbled from his doorway. “Mighty good idea.”

  It was bad enough to be accosted on his street, but even worse, he was assailed in his own restaurant. By his own staff.

  “Could use a few more tips, Boss,” Ines, his head waitress, stated, hand on hip. “My children need some new school clothes.”

  “The terrace could be opened, Luc.” Alphonse eyed the doors leading out onto the brick deck. “Miss Nina wants to hold the festival in late September, so the weather will have cooled off.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what Miss Nina wants,” he growled, before stomping into his kitchen. There, he’d be left in peace.

  Or not.

  “Mon lami,” Lali cooed, as she efficiently sorted the fresh peppers that had just been delivered. “It appears everyone agrees about the festival.”

  “Except me.” Grabbing his white chef jacket off the wire rack, he wrenched it on. “And I’m the one who counts.”

  His best friend hummed, an irritating jangle on his nerves.

  “I don’t want another word about that stupid festival and that woman.”

  Another low hum.

  “We’re not participating in any damn festival, and if she tries to get a permit, I’ll block her.”

  Lali brushed a spiral curl off her forehead before frowning at him. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Watch me.” He buttoned the last button with a flick. Staring at her, his gaze narrowed. “Don’t tell me she’s already applied for one.”

  “Très bien. I won’t tell you.”

  With another growl, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

  For once, Lali’s voice turned quite sharp. “Stop.”

  “I can call Miguel Cormier in the permit office and get it turned down. He owes me one for last year’s Mardi Gras mishap.” He focused on the cell’s screen, not wanting to see her reaction. Something slithered around in his gut, making him feel slightly nauseous.

  “You can, but you shouldn’t. There is such a thing as karma.”

  His head jerked up, the nausea turning bitter. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d known Lali for going on eight years. She’d arrived on his restaurant’s doorstep when he was still dishing out po’ boys and lemon ice—street food instead of fine dining. Except she hadn’t seemed to be put off, even though she’d earned a shiny new degree from Le Cordon Bleu in Chicago. She’d dug right in, and earned her way into the position she held now. For the entire time he’d known her, though, she’d talked about things like angels and good luck and other rubbish. Before his disaster, he’d found it amusing. Since the disaster, he’d ignored it.

  Now, however, now it was tied to that woman. Which irritated him out of his ignoring. “Karma,” he spat. “More crap.”

  Dark brows rose and anger flashed in her eyes.

  The anger stunned him.

  Lali didn’t do anger. He was the one who did anger.

  Look what that woman was doing. She wasn’t merely messing with his head and stirring up trouble in his body. She was stirring up his neighbors, and now messing with his relationship with his best friend.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Merci.” The anger faded, and her body relaxed into a lazy pose as usual. “Put away the phone, mon lami.”

  “I don’t want the festival to happen.”

  “Perhaps you can let things happen as they are meant to happen.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, along with the phone. “That isn’t how I operate.”

  Her brows rose once more. This time with amusement rather than anger. “No?”

  “No.” Frowning at her, he tried to understand why she would say such a thing. He wasn’t the type to let things go. He was the type to make things go the way he wanted them to. Growing up an only child, he’d learned to navigate the churning waters between his mami and popa by taking control. Making his needs known. Inserting his presence into a situation so he would be heard. The habit had continued until this day.

  Hadn’t it?

  Lali finished sorting the peppers into their appropriate bins before glancing at him. She seemed to find his stillness amusing as well. “Are you going to work today?”

  “Yes,” he snapped. What the hell was wrong with him? He never questioned anything now. That only led to pain and bitterness. Striding to his walk-in cooler, he let the cold air slap him into shape. By the time he’d inspected the new delivery of fish, he’d calmed down.

  So what if that woman had applied for a permit? So what if she got permission for her crappy festival? He would hunker down, cook, go back to his apartment on Orleans Avenue, and ignore the whole thing. It wasn’t worth getting upset about.

  The first seating went well, and he settled into his rhythm, one that was as familiar to him as eating or sleeping. His hands danced across the pans, his arms swung in time with the inner music riding his blood, his body moved in a cadence he’d memorized during thousands of hours of cooking. He was a big man for such a small area, yet he’d learned to fit himself into every kitchen he’d worked in.

  “Luc.” Alphonse filled the swinging doors
leading into the dining room. “There are special guests on table thirteen asking for you.”

  Frowning, he glanced over. His host rarely bothered him in the kitchen. Only if there was an emergency, a visit from his parents, or a reviewer Al had sniffed out. “What reviewer?”

  “No, no.” Alphonse beamed. “Les trois sœurs are here.”

  The three sisters. He stiffened. “When did they make a reservation, and why wasn’t I told?”

  His host frowned. “You are never interested in the reservations.”

  True. He didn’t care who ate his food, he only cared about their satisfaction. For all it mattered to him, he could be feeding the line of beggars who populated the quarter and the wharf. As his restaurant had changed from serving po’ boys and lemon ice to beignets and wood-fired oysters, he’d been happy at the money and his rising reputation, because that meant Genia had been happy. at heart, though, he hadn’t cared about anything except the food, and still didn’t.

  “Tell them to leave,” he growled.

  “Again, with the animal noises.” Lali frowned at him. “I understand you don’t like them, but this isn’t like you. This is vindictive.”

  Something had happened to him when that woman had descended on his kingdom. She’d cursed him in some way he couldn’t define. So yes, he was not himself any longer. “I don’t want to feed them.”

  Alphonse shifted away from the door to let a waiter through, his expression turning to alarm. “I’ve already seated them. What will I say to get them to leave?”

  “They are not leaving,” his sous-chef said. “Go and do your job, and leave Chef to me.”

  The door swung shut behind a relieved host.

  Luc slammed a pan on his stove. The sound ricocheted through the kitchen, and an unfamiliar silence fell. “When did you take charge around here, Eulalie?”

  A further hush simmered. He used her first name, and he only did that when his temper reached epic proportions. Every one of his employees knew that. Knew that when this happened, he had turned into what the neighbors called him all the time.

  Alarmante el oso.

  The alarming bear.

  He knew what was said about him. He didn’t care. He used it to his advantage. Like now. “Well?”

  His sous-chef draped herself on the steel counter, letting her hands fall in supplication. But her gaze was shrewd and her mouth didn’t stop spouting nonsense. “They are just three women, mon lami. What is the issue?”

  “The issue is I don’t want to feed them.”

  “Then let me and the others prepare their food,” she said in a lazy tone. “I won’t even force you to go and say hello.”

  As if that would happen. His temper still boiled, yet his brain had come back online. What did it matter if they ate in his restaurant? What did it matter if they enjoyed his food? He didn’t want to march into his restaurant and throw them out, and it appeared this was the only way it would happen. Apparently, these women had charmed his staff. “Joder que todo el infierno.”

  Lali tutted. “If your mother heard you.”

  If his mother heard him spout off all the Spanish swearwords he’d learned at her father’s knee, she’d faint. He’d become very good at hiding his true nature from her during these last few years.

  “All right, they can stay,” he grumbled. “But you cook whatever they order.”

  Instinct told him he shouldn’t cook any food for that woman. His gut told him that way lead to madness.

  The tension in his kingdom slowly drifted away to be replaced by the usual nighttime frenzy. Luc kept his focus on the steaming pans and pots on his stove, and tried to ignore the order from table thirteen when it flashed onto the computer screen next to Lali’s station.

  Tried to.

  “Nina is sitting on seat four, and she’s ordered your oysters Rockefeller, Luc.” His sous-chef arched her dark brows. “And then, your Crawfish Étouffée.”

  “No one does the Étouffée except me.”

  She looked at him with a wry gaze because he’d stated the obvious. “I can handle the oysters. Shall I tell Ines we don’t have any more crawfish?”

  “No.” His pride bulked. He shouldn’t let a woman dictate anything that went on in his kingdom. “I’ll do it.”

  “You said—”

  “Leave it.”

  And so it was he who sifted the flour into the oil, and watched as the roux bubbled. It was he who added the peppers and celery and garlic. Then, the crawfish. Many restaurants prepared this dish beforehand and merely heated it for each order. But his gra-mère had told him over and over that good food should be prepared when a person sat down at your table hungry and ready to eat. Inspiration came when you cooked while an eager lover of food waited.

  Lover.

  Mierda.

  “Here.” He slid the bubbling pan off the stove and toward Lali. “You finish it.”

  “It looks marvelous.” she hummed in approval. “I know she will love it.”

  There was that word again. Twisting around, he stared at his whistling pots and pans. Like an orchestra, they waited for him to lift his baton and start the music. Except his mind twisted and turned around the words echoing in his gut.

  Love. Lover.

  “Ines, table thirteen is ready,” Lali said behind him.

  The clatter of the plates being covered was a dim clank in the periphery of his brain.

  “Luc?” A warm, familiar female hand landed on the center of his back. As always, his sous-chef had his back. “Do you need help?”

  Yes, he did. He’d done what he instinctively knew he shouldn’t have. He’d cooked for that woman, and now he had an undeniable urge to go and see what she thought. A desire so strong and pure he couldn’t shake it away or ignore it.

  “I’m going out there,” he muttered, already pulling off his apron. “Take over.”

  Lali’s gentle laugh followed him into his madness.

  Chapter 4

  Nina knew good food. After all, she’d practically grown up under her Maw-Maw’s apron strings. So she’d learned to appreciate fresh fish and complex sauces. Her grandmother’s boudin balls and black-eyed peas still lived on as a fond memory.

  But she’d never experienced anything like this. The oysters had been beyond delicious, and the crawfish magnifique.

  “Taste.” Heni grinned, leaning over the white linen tablecloth, her fork held out. “This is to die for.”

  Taking the shrimp into her mouth, she moaned as the pecan crust mixed with tangy seafood rolled across her tongue.

  The man may be a saleau, yet he did know how to cook.

  “We need to get Paw-Paw here,” Jeanie said, as she carefully pried an oyster out of its shell. “He’ll think his beloved wife is alive again.”

  Her grandmother had been an skilled cook. She’d been capable of taking one chicken and feeding the entire clan who’d gather around her table every chance they got. But even Nina had to admit, Maw-Maw wouldn’t have been able to compete with this.

  “The gumbo is excellent, as well.” Jacques, her sister’s husband, grinned. “Jeanie should try this at home.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to get close to this kind of cooking.” Her sister sipped the oyster into her mouth and closed her eyes in obvious bliss.

  Heni’s date, Sam, one of a long string of men who never seemed to satisfy, grabbed an oyster from the appetizer tray lying in the center of the linen-covered table. He wiggled his brows at her sister. “You know what they say about oysters.”

  “I’ve lived in Louisiana my entire life.” Heni smirked. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t know about oysters.”

  Sam gave her a laugh.

  Nina glanced at her date. His sullen mood hadn’t changed since they’d left their apartment—thick brows furrowed, dark eyes glowering, mouth pouting. Dressed in skintight black pants and his ubiquitous green-plaid coat, he’d insisted on wearing one of his scarves, although humid heat smothered the city. None of his designer clothes could
cover his simmering temper tantrum.

  She glanced back at her food because it was better to focus on the good rather than the bad.

  She’d ordered Crawfish Étouffée, because she thought of the saleau that way. Hard coat of armor with snapping claws, ready to cut off a woman’s plea. Except he’d turned the tables on her, and instead of blasting her with spicy garlic, he gave her a delicate balance of steamy rice and sweetly delicious celery and peppers and fish.

  “Give me some of yours, Ninette.” Javier slouched in the chair next to hers, his expression petulant.

  He hadn’t wanted to come to this old-fashioned restaurant. The party his fellow art students were throwing at a local hot spot offered much more excitement. Generally, she let him have his way. It was easier, and she didn’t enjoy fighting. But getting this reservation at the last minute had been a chance she couldn’t pass by. Plan B was turning into a roaring success. Her campaign to convert the shop owners along Del Bosque Street was going better than expected.

  She’d even made headway with the El Porras staff.

  The tip about the open reservation had actually come straight from Alphonse, the host and her new best friend. Between them all, she figured Chef Miró had to have been approached a time or two about the street festival. Sensing an opportunity, she wanted to see if she could meet him again and make another pitch.

  “Here.” She gamely smiled as she shifted her plate toward her beau. “It’s amazing.”

  He groused before sticking his spoon into the dish. Her two sisters pointedly ignored him as they usually did. Neither Jeanie nor Heni were great admirers of Javier. However, Nina didn’t quit on people or projects. They might be going through a rough patch, but that wasn’t a reason to give up.

  “It’s too bland,” her rude boyfriend announced, pushing the dish back at her.