Knight in Black Leather: International Billionaires XI: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  “I’m sleeping in my shop.” Turning, she headed for the door, relieved to see the keys were still hanging from the lock. “Goodbye.”

  “Miss Nina.” He singsonged her name, making fun of the way the other shopkeepers on this street had come to call her. “You’re not staying here.”

  “I am.” Ignoring him was the best policy. She grabbed the old key and jiggled it in the stubborn lock. One of the many items on the list of things to fix.

  His warm grasp was light, yet there was steel behind the touch. “Here’s the thing, Ninette.”

  “I’m Nina.” She swiveled to give him a stern look, not liking his lilting way around this name, either. “Stop with the teasing.”

  A look of shock filled his expression, as if he didn’t realize what he’d been doing. As if he’d never teased anyone before. His hand dropped. Yet he still encircled her with his big body and bold presence.

  Odd. Unlike with Javier moments ago, she didn’t feel threatened by this man’s looming.

  “Here’s the thing,” she echoed him. “I’m fine. I just need to get out of this wet dress and go to sleep.”

  His gaze wandered down, from her face to her neck to her breasts. Again, a look of shock ricocheted across his face and he stepped back, jerking his focus away from her.

  What was his problem?

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t been aware of her breasts before. She’d felt his erection when he held her a minute ago. Men got erections around her with some frequency, especially if she were entirely wet and in their arms. She didn’t claim great beauty, but she had the usual womanly assets.

  “Have a nice evening.” It was a lame end to a weird meeting, but it was the best she could do at the moment. Although a New Orleans rainstorm in August was more like standing under a warm shower than enduring a cold blast, she had begun to shiver.

  He swung his gaze back to her, his expression pained. “I can’t leave you alone. He may come back after I’m gone.”

  Javier might. He had a lot to lose when she walked out. For the last two months, she’d been the one footing all their bills. But the couillon had stuck his tiny bibitte into another woman and been caught. No self-respecting Blanchard would put up with that betrayal. She pinned a brave smile on her face and opened the shop door. “I’ll lock this behind me.”

  “Sorry.” Her fierce protector’s hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the door, yanking it shut once more. “Lock it.”

  “Don’t order me around.” The shivers escalated, a line of goosebumps rising on her bare arms.

  He noticed. For such a saleau of a man, he was sharply aware. “Come on. My apartment is just two blocks from here.”

  “I’m staying at my shop.”

  “There’s a shower.” His rough voice went sultry with allure.

  Now it was her turn to be shocked. Never had she thought this man had it in him to sound like this.

  “A hot shower.” The leather hood shadowed his eyes, but not his mouth. His lips stayed slightly open after his words and she swore it was for effect.

  “I’m not interested in you or your shower.”

  That mouth tightened, all allure disappearing. “It’s that, or I call your sisters.”

  The last thing she needed to hear tonight was a litany of I told you sos. “You don’t have their numbers.”

  The mouth smirked. “Actually, I do. Lali programed all your phone numbers into my cell.”

  She had no doubt that had happened. The woman was on their side of the fight for the festival, and would use any way to get to this man. Even though she worked for him and clearly adored him. “You didn’t object?”

  “Time to stop talking.” With a light touch, he took her bare arm. But again, she noted the steel behind the move. “Time to get you indoors and dry.”

  Nina glanced at her dark shop once more. She really didn’t want to lie on the horsehair sofa, all damp and dreary. She supposed she could get a hotel room, but finances were so tight she didn’t want to contemplate the expense. She also didn’t want to confront her sisters tonight. And the hot shower did sound good.

  She let out a forlorn, little sigh.

  The saleau grunted, an acknowledgment of his win. How he knew he’d won, she had no idea. But he had and she was suddenly too tired to fight any longer.

  “Let’s go.” He guided her across the road and past his dark restaurant. The rain pounded on her aching head and cold shoulders. By the time he’d lead her down one quiet street and then another, she wanted only the heat of a shower and a bed.

  The thought made her stop.

  He glanced back at her, irritation twisting his lips. “We’re close.”

  “Tell me you have more than one bed.”

  “I have more than one bed and more than one bedroom.” Amusement flickered through his words. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  And she knew she didn’t. She knew with a deep, atavistic instinct, this man would never force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

  She trusted him in that.

  Astonishing.

  “Come on,” he said again.

  With passive acceptance, she followed him until he arrived at a black iron gate. Slipping a set of keys out of his pocket, he opened them and waved her in. “Welcome, Miss Nina.”

  Giving him an irritated look because of the nickname, she stepped past him and into a quintessential New Orleans courtyard. Even in the gloom of the storm, she spotted pots of flowers and a circular stone fountain. “This is lovely.”

  He grunted again, and again, she was struck by how much she’d come to know his sounds. The low roughness of his voice, the snarls and growls and grunts. This man communicated more by what he didn’t say then what he did.

  “This way.” He gestured at the far end of the courtyard and paced toward a set of wooden double doors. With the same efficiency as he’d opened the iron gates, he took care of this set as well.

  When he flicked on the lights, she sucked in a slow breath.

  The house was old New Orleans. She could tell by the exposed brick and rounded arches. But instead of rich, colorful details and warm, welcoming furniture, the entire place was done all in black.

  Black painted walls.

  Black furniture.

  Black shades.

  The only standout she could see from the front door was the white marble fireplace centered in the living room off the main hall.

  “You’ll want to get in the shower.” The saleau flipped his hood back, revealing wary brown eyes. “It’s this way.”

  Speechless at the mess he’d made of this vulnerable house, Nina followed him down the narrow hallway and into a Spartan-like bathroom. When he snapped on the overhead lights, she realized it, too, was done entirely in black. Well, to be fair, the granite floor had a faint thread of gray running through it, and the towels lining the heated rack where white, but everything else was more black.

  Nina shuddered.

  “You’re cold.” He waved an impatient hand at the black-tiled shower. “Get in, and I’ll get you some clothes you can wear.”

  He didn’t even have the courtesy to wait for her response. The door slammed shut, leaving her in this monastic cell.

  “Bon Dieu,” she muttered to the walls. “What is wrong with the man?”

  Not having an answer, she walked to the long granite counter and peered into the mirrored wall above it.

  A low, female curse echoed in the room.

  Javier the asshole had left his mark on her skin. If she were at the shop, she’d use the vinegar-honey ointment she’d had specially made, but as it was, she was going to have a nice bruise by morning. She highly doubted Luc Miró had any of her lotions in this sterile bathroom of his.

  The door jerked open a crack. “Here.”

  A black T-shirt and shorts were in his hand. Of course, they’d be black. Smiling in amusement, she strode over and grabbed the offering. “Thanks.”

  “Get in the shower.” His rough command was
followed by the slam of the door once more.

  The man might have the manners of a pig, but at heart, he was a good soul. She’d known it must be true, and now he’d reconfirmed her belief in most people.

  Expect for Javier. The piece of trash she’d let into her life.

  Her hands tightened on the borrowed clothes.

  How could she have missed the signs? Usually, she was excellent at picking boyfriends. From Andrew in high school to the variety of boys she’d dated at Tulane, she’d never fallen for such an idiot.

  “Couillon,” she spat.

  Brushing him out of her head, she inspected the shower. It might be dismal in the extreme, but it was state of the art. Two shower heads sputtered before splashing into full glory. Heated steam surrounded her, as she threw off the dripping dress and her squishy shoes. A low groan of pleasure escaped her when she ducked her head under the water.

  He had the worst and cheapest of shampoos, and no conditioner.

  And his soap.

  Ech!

  Lifting the solid bar off of its pedestal, she grimaced. Didn’t he know not to use antibacterial soap because of what it did to the environment and his own skin? Why, she had a gorgeous peppermint-and-lemon-balm soap at her shop, handmade for men. At the thought of suggesting her fetid soap to the saleau, she chuckled. He’d likely throw it back in her face.

  Sighing, she turned off the water and stepped out of the cubicle. At least he’d chosen plush towels. The soft, luxuriant cotton wrapped around her, comforting her with its richness.

  “Are you still alive?”

  His bark made her jump. Guilt swamped her. She had taken her time in the shower and he probably wanted to get in here himself. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  His typical grunt came, and then, she heard him stomp off down the hall.

  She supposed if she lived in an all-black cave and had no conditioner for her hair, she’d be grumpy, too.

  The gym shorts fit fine because of the tie around her waist, but the T-shirt hung down to her thighs and made her look like a five-year-old. She’d noticed he was a big man, but up until now, she hadn’t realized how big.

  Again, it struck her.

  She wasn’t scared he’d do anything.

  It wasn’t like she’d put herself in this kind of situation before. At Tulane, she’d been careful, and after graduating, she didn’t go home with men on the first date or even the third. At heart, she was looking for her happily-ever-after.

  Javier had definitely not been that.

  Though, for a time, she’d hoped so. Tomorrow morning, she’d have to make an assessment of what had gone wrong with her to make such a stupid mistake.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight she had to deal with the grumpy saleau and a strange bed.

  Without him in it.

  He’d been clear, and yet, the image rose in her mixed-up brain. Him. Naked. Broad chest…did he have hair on it? Muscled shoulders…did he work out? Lean hips and strong thighs and…

  Nina stopped.

  Don’t go there.

  Not with a man who didn’t like her, or her shop, or her ideas.

  She hung her wet clothes on the towel rack and headed for the mirror. Snorting at her image, she dug into her purse, found a comb and made herself look semi-respectable. She made a face at the bruise before heading for the door.

  “About time,” he growled from his stance at the end of the hallway.

  He still wore his leather jacket and the black pants of his uniform. Her guilt billowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t use all the hot water.”

  “But most.” Easing himself out of the slumping pose, he strode past her into the bowels of the house. “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” she rushed in, not wanting him to do anything more for her. “I’m still full from that delicious meal you cooked for us earlier.”

  He threw her a wry glance over a leather-clad shoulder, reminding her of the apology she needed to make to him. “Then you just want to go to bed?”

  Frowning, Nina gazed at him. What did that mean? Was he asking her to stay up and wait for him to finish his own shower? But he didn’t like her. Why would he want to spend any time with her at all?

  “Bed it is, then.” Abrupt and gruff, not surprising her, he waved at the black, cast iron circular stairs at the end of the hallway. “First room on the left is yours.”

  “Um. Okay.” Clutching her purse, she padded along the cool tile. The stairway surprised her. Unlike the sturdy iron gate on the outside of the house, nor the solid masculine furniture she’d noticed in the living room, the railings were like fine black lace, adding a touch of whimsy to the place.

  “I sleep in,” he snarled.

  Whimsy would not be the word she used for this man. Turning halfway up, she gave him a sincere smile because he’d helped her. Even though he hated doing it. “I’ll just let myself out, then.”

  “No, you won’t.” He planted himself at the bottom of the stairs and gave her a glare. “That asshole will be lurking—”

  “I can take care of him.”

  “Really?” His dark brows rose in clear disbelief and his gaze drifted to her bruise. “I think not.”

  Her hands tightened on her purse and she gave him her best dismissive look. “I can.”

  “Here’s the thing, Miss Nina.” One booted foot slammed onto the first step. “If you leave before I awake, I’m going to be mad.”

  “So?” She sniffed.

  “If I’m mad, then I won’t want to discuss your festival idea.”

  Excitement and shock raced through her. “You’re willing to talk about that?”

  “Yes,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But only if you stay put until I get up.”

  She thought through tomorrow’s timetable. Jeanie was scheduled to open the shop, which meant she didn’t have to arrive until after noon. Plus, she’d have to figure out where she was going to live, and how she was going to get her things without running into Javier.

  “Ah.” The saleau gave her a smug look. “You’ve come to why I don’t want you to leave without me.”

  “I can take care of the couillon.” She frowned in concentration. Didn’t the asshat have an art class tomorrow morning? She couldn’t remember.

  Luc Miró chuckled, a raspy sound, as if he hadn’t found anything entertaining in a long time. “We’ll go get your stuff after I get up.”

  Amazed at his generosity, she stared. “Why are you being so nice?”

  “Hell if I know.” Pushing himself off the stairs, he pivoted and headed for the bathroom.

  Apparently, he thought she’d agreed to his plan. How did he know she had?

  “I didn’t agree,” she cried after him.

  “Yeah, you did,” he drawled, not stopping. “You did when you agreed to come with me to my home.”

  The last thing she saw was him flipping his leather jacket off before slamming the bathroom door behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Luc opened his eyes to darkness.

  Which is how he always started his day. When Genia had died, he’d moved out of the light and airy house he’d bought her in the Garden district within one day. He’d taken little, some clothes, a book or two. Behind, he’d left his life of ten-plus years. A life he’d believed in and hoped for and dreamed of.

  He’d landed here, in this Creole townhouse some ancestor had acquired in the mid-1800s. It had stood empty for more than ten years, even though it was located in the heart of the French Quarter. His family wasn’t the type to rent their homes to strangers. His popa wasn’t the type to worry about money.

  And he’d turned into the type of man who needed a hole where he could escape from his memories.

  Sitting up, he remembered.

  Last night. The fight.

  That woman.

  He cocked his head and listened. The Quarter wasn’t known for being quiet, but this particular area was mostly residential. He’d become used to quiet when he got home. A faint hu
m drifted into his bedroom, and along with it came the soft rush of water. Now that he’d focused, he heard the tinkling sound of jazz.

  She’d gotten into his jazz collection?

  Irritation and bittersweet memories made him grit his teeth.

  Throwing off the one sheet he used in the summer, he climbed out of his bed and prowled to the walk-in closet. He supposed he could pounce on her naked, except he didn’t trust his own reactions. Luc flicked on the light, grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled them on.

  The hallway containing his bedroom, and the spare he’d assigned to her, still held the coolness of the night. He glanced at the circular window. Rain dripped down the panes, but he was a native and knew how to read the incline of dim light. It must be after nine.

  The hum drifted into his consciousness again, and he couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction.

  She’d stayed.

  Of course, she’d done what he ordered because she held onto the hope he’d agree to her crazy festival idea. He’d brought it up only when he’d seen by the stubborn slant of her mouth and the shadows in her eyes, she was determined to conquer that asshole on her own.

  Which wasn’t going to happen. Not while he had something to say about it.

  Luc stopped midway down the stairway and frowned.

  What the hell was he doing?

  It wasn’t his business what the woman did. She irritated him with her shadowy eyes and flyaway hair. The way she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin when challenged irked him. And that fetid shop…

  “Bonjour.” Her head popped out from around the arch into the kitchen, her hair in a topknot on the top of her head and her eyes sparkling with life. “The rain is going to stop, and it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  Her cheerfulness provoked him as well. “What are you doing messing in my kitchen?”

  Her brows rose. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  Stomping down the last of his stairs, he paced toward her. Any other person with a modicum of intelligence would have taken the hint and backed away. But the woman’s teasing smile didn’t wither and she didn’t retreat. “I’ve cooked breakfast for you.”