by Caro LaFever
Deciding the old bed wasn’t worth the fight, she clambered into the cab.
He slid next to her and gunned the engine. “Where to?”
That’s when it struck her. The dilemma. Where to, indeed.
Jeanie and Jacques would gladly take her into their shotgun home on the outer edge of the city. Except they’d started a renovation last month to the bathroom and kitchen. Plus, they had Jack Jr. who occupied the only other bedroom. She wasn’t about to put her nephew out of his beloved bed, with its racecar wheels. And she didn’t really want to sleep in a racecar bed.
There was her mama and papa’s house in Metairie where she’d grown up. Heni still lived there, and she could bunk with her for a day or two. But she’d promised herself when she’d left for Tulane, she’d never move back. Papa would start to criticize, and she’d be hard-pressed not to answer, now that she’d grown into a confident woman. She shied away from confronting something she’d lived with all her life. Why stir up trouble when it had been washed down the river of her childhood long ago?
Nope. Moving in with Papa wasn’t an option either.
“Well?” The saleau stared at her, his frown telling her he might be picking up on her dilemma. “Tell me where we’re going.”
“To the shop.” It was her only option, for now. She’d have to stow her stuff in the nooks and crannies of the old building, however, it wouldn’t be for long. Within a few days, she’d find another place.
“I told you no last night,” he growled, his expression growing fierce. “That bastard could return.”
“And I told you last night, I can handle him.” Nina didn’t think Javier would come around. He wasn’t the type of guy to make a nuisance of himself—not when his pride was on the line. Last night, being driven off by another man, must have stung. Stung enough for him to stay away.
“The lock on your crappy store is as feeble as the one on that apartment.” The saleau waved an impatient hand at the brick building behind them.
His insult burned, lighting her temper once more. “Don’t call my store crappy.”
“You miss my point.” Leaning closer, he snarled into her face. “It isn’t safe.”
“It’s safe enough for today.” She folded her arms in front of her and glared back. “My sisters will be there with me.”
“Your sisters.” With a snort, he retreated, but his expression didn’t change to acceptance. “And what about tonight?”
“By tonight, I’ll have a new place.”
He snorted again. “Right.”
“I will.” It might be a wild boast, since the city lacked cheap accommodations. Still, she was an optimist.
Yet, it had been hard to find any place to live when she’d decided to come to New Orleans from the bayou and set up her shop here. That had been one of the main reasons she’d agreed to move in with Javier. The apartment had been only fifteen minutes away from the shop, and shared expenses meant her pocketbook got some relief.
Look at how that had worked out during the last month. She grimaced at herself.
“You don’t believe that, either.” Like the sharp man he was, he picked up on her worry. “You’re not staying at your shop overnight.”
Noting he hadn’t labeled her shop crappy this time, she gave him a slight smile. “I guess I can stay with my sister, Jeanie, for one night.”
A flicker of relief flashed in his brown eyes. “Great. Tell me the address.”
“But she doesn’t have any room.” Her arms tightened around her, as she thought about her nephew sleeping on the couch, and trying to get all her stuff into that tiny house with the construction going on.
“Okay,” he drawled. His hands dropping from the wheel. “What about your other sister?”
“She lives with my parents.”
“That’s an option.”
His voice held so much desperate hope, she finally capitulated to the inevitable of moving in with her parents for now. The last thing she wanted to do was put this man out any further. She still had to convince him about the festival. “I guess.”
Instead of jumping on her reluctant agreement, he glanced her way, a wry twist on his lips. “I guess not.”
She sighed. Since leaving for college, she never once spent time thinking about her wretched relationship with Papa. Why waste the effort? Her grandparents had counseled all three girls about their son, letting them know they weren’t at fault for the things he accused them of.
Something’s always been wrong with my boy, her Paw-Paw had admitted more than once. Can’t find satisfaction in nothing, and there’s nothing any of us can do for him.
“Miss Nina?” Dark brows lifting over brown eyes brought her back to her dilemma.
“It’s just…”
“Just…?” he said after a long moment.
“It’s just that my papa and I don’t get along.”
A grunt was her answer.
“But it’s okay. I can stand it for a day or so.”
“A day or so.”
She threw him a confident grin. “Until I find another apartment.”
“In the middle of New Orleans.”
It would have to be, because she currently didn’t have a car. All extra money had been poured into the new business, and she didn’t mind taking buses and streetcars. She supposed she could try to find something in the outer suburbs, but that meant a long commute, often after eleven p.m. when she closed the shop. So that wasn’t going to work. “I’ll find something.”
“Something like that.” He gave the apartment another disgusted wave.
“Yes, it’s fine.”
A sour snort was his response. His long fingers drummed on the wheel, and for the first time, she noticed how clean and neat his nails were.
The saleau? Clean and neat?
She almost snorted, herself.
With a jerk, he jammed the gear shift down, and the truck shot out of the parking lot.
“My parents live in old Metairie,” she said. “It’ll only take about a half hour to get there, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
At her cheery words, one of his hands ripped through that hair, leaving the curls in even more disarray than before.
Only a half-hour more with this man. Which meant she needed to use this time to talk about the festival. Although, by his expression, she wished there was a different time. But there wasn’t. He might well disappear into his restaurant, and he seemed rather territorial about the place.
“Let’s talk about the festival,” she plowed in, determined.
“Let’s not.”
“You agreed to talk about it last night. You promised.”
You promised.
Once upon a time, when he’d been young and foolish, he’d made promises right and left. He’d promised his new wife to love and cherish her for the rest of his life. He’d promised his parents they’d have grandchildren. He’d promised his staff at the jazz club they’d always have jobs.
Promises, he’d come to understand, were pits of guilt just waiting to suck a man into blackness.
Luc focused on the traffic.
The woman didn’t take the hint.
“You did, you know.”
Her insistence would have irritated him, if it weren’t for the soft, slow, sultry way she rolled her ds. It was different than the drawling accent of his Creole parents, and many of his native New Orleans staff. He’d known a ton of Cajuns, the mix of cultures was an integral part of the city he loved. But he couldn’t recollect anyone who played with vowels and consonants like this woman did.
He’d noticed it before, and dismissed it immediately as something to avoid.
Now, he let it sink into him.
“Doing a festival would be fun,” she insisted. “Come on, saleau.”
There was that nickname again. He had to admit, he’d never heard that particular word. “What did you call me?”
She husked him a chuckle, low and long.
And just like usual, his body perked
to attention.
“What does it mean?” he snarled, flicking the truck signal on and turning toward his home.
He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he was. Taking her back to his place until she got on her feet. Part of the reason was—he couldn’t shake the image of that asshat slapping her. It still rankled. The other reason was the way she’d said…
My papa and I don’t get along.
The wistful tinge, the weary way she said the words had clutched something in his chest. Luc understood not getting along with your popa. He and his father had come to an understanding years ago. Still, the fights and accusations from their past lingered in the air between them whenever they met.
He understood.
So, he was stuck with her.
“Where are you going?” Ignoring his question, she straightened on the seat and her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the way to Metairie.”
“You can stay with me.” She and all her cargo. The amount of crap she owned astounded him. Dishes and dolls and Christmas ornaments. A hand-painted lamp inherited from her godmother, she’d said. At least a dozen boxes of books. Mounds of jeans and hoodies. A thousand-some-odd shoes, hardly any of them heels that would appeal to a man.
But there’d been one thing that appealed. One thing he’d spotted in the hurried packing she’d done.
Lingerie. The woman had a ton of lingerie.
The images of that one drawer made him shift on his seat in discomfort. “Only until you find your own place.”
“Stay with you?” A look of astonishment crossed her face. “You’re kidding me.”
There was that lazy roll of her ds again. Between her low hums and her lazy rolls, he was quickly becoming addicted to listening to her.
Mierda.
“I’m not kidding.” Though he wished he were. “There’s the extra bedroom, and you’ll be close to your crappy shop.”
Her brows rose at his shot. His intentional shot, so she’d sit back and shut up. “Mais,” she murmured.
“Well, what?” He clicked on the automatic opener with a hard slap.
“You can’t cover up your essential goodness, mon ami.” She smiled at him, her blue-gray eyes glowing beneath her hoodie. “Not for long.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Jerking the wheel around, he drove into the carriage house he’d had converted into a garage when he’d bought the truck two years ago. “We can store your crap in here.”
“My crap and my crappy shop.” A gurgle of amusement came from her throat. “Oh, saleau, you hide yourself well. But now I have your number.”
Luc wrenched the door open, and stepped onto the hard concrete. “There’s space on the back shelves.”
She bounced from her seat and swerved around the vehicle to stand right in front of him. “Hey.”
Frowning at her joy-filled face, he attempted to maneuver around her, except the woman sidled closer, effectively pinning him to the side of the truck. “Hey,” she said again.
Before he could figure out whether to push her away or make a run for it, her hands grabbed his sides and she mashed her body to his.
His cock came to immediate attention.
“Stop,” he croaked. “Let go.”
The woman made her low, crooning sound once more and ignored his command. Instead, she went on her toes and kissed him right on his lips.
Shock rumbled through him like a thunderstorm filled with hot lightning. Behind the shock swept passion. Lust. Need. Wants and desires he hadn’t had to deal with in years.
Luc froze.
She plopped back on her heels and smiled as if the world hadn’t rocked off its axis.
“Thanks so much,” she gushed. “I owe you.”
That had been a friendly kiss, not a kiss a woman gave a man she wanted.
Friends.
She wanted to be friends, damn her.
“Yes, you do,” he growled, yanking her back into his embrace.
His kiss made it plain he wasn’t interested in friendship. He wasn’t interested in lust, either, but right at the moment, he couldn’t stop his body from taking what it desperately wanted.
A woman in his arms.
This woman.
A kaleidoscope of impressions jolted through him, one after another. The soft weight of her breasts on his chest. The press of her heat on his belly and thighs. The way she wrapped her cotton-covered arms around his sweating neck and dived into the kiss as if she’d been waiting for him.
Waiting for him?
With a feral instinct, he yanked her arms off him and pushed her back. “Enough.”
“Why?” Her hood had fallen away, uncovering the flouncy topknot. Her brown, flyaway hair curled around it and her face, making her look like a dazed fairy girl who’d wandered into a magical garden. With him in it. Waiting.
Dazed by his kiss. Waiting for him.
He’d never been able to daze any woman with his kiss. Or his charms. Or his bedroom skills. Genia had made sure to let him know that last night they’d been together.
You were never a good lover.
And he didn’t want any woman waiting for him because he had nothing to offer. Nothing inside that wasn’t rotted out by pain and bitterness. “No kissing.”
She cocked her head, the ponytail flopping. “Are you gay?”
Immediate male pride reared. He might never have satisfied a woman, but that didn’t mean he was gay. “No, I’m not.”
“Mais,” she stepped closer again, “that’s good.”
Good? The way she said the words, low and alluring, the way her eyes slanted, as if thinking sultry thoughts, the way her warm, womanly body eased near his…not good.
“I have to go to work.” He slunk along the side of the truck, keeping well away from the woman. “Put your crap away while I’m gone.”
“Crap.” Her tone turned from bemused to amused. “You are a puzzle, mon ami.”
My friend.
Luc slammed out of the garage and hightailed it down the street. He might know little about women, yet he did know one thing.
He couldn’t be friends with that woman.
And he’d never chance being her lover, either.
Chapter 8
The saleau could kiss.
Who knew?
Nina smirked at his broad back as he nearly ran down the street. She could be offended, except his panic was so adorable and she owed him so much, it wasn’t in the cards.
Why the panic, though?
Shaking her head, she stepped onto the truck’s rear guard and peered at her things. The man clearly wanted her to store everything away in this dark garage, except she didn’t agree. Some of this was cherished pieces of her life. Like the antique china dolls, and her small jewelry box. If she was going to drag in some of this stuff, she might as well…
A fanciful, fun thought danced across her brain. All that dismal black of his house just asking for color. All those dreary surfaces filled with nothing, begging for her stuff.
Decision made, she pulled out her phone. “Jeanie.”
“Where are you?” her sister’s voice held a wealth of anxiety. “It’s way past noon. I called before, but you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry, I had to move.”
“What?!”
Within a couple of minutes, Nina had described the sordid story of last night and the surprising conclusion.
“A knight in black leather,” Jeanie chuckled. “I like that.”
“He’s a nice guy.”
Her sister’s chuckle turned to a laugh at the sound of obvious astonishment echoing in the statement. “Is he? Mais, Boo. You’ve got him right where you want him.”
No, that wasn’t exactly true. After that kiss, she was having second thoughts about what she wanted from him.
Maybe not only the festival.
Maybe something more?
But she’d start with the festival. “You’re right. I can talk with him about the festival until I convince him.”
&nbs
p; “And then the shop will be saved and we’ll all be happy.”
She leaned on the truck and frowned. The saleau was not happy. He might be a hero, but he didn’t think so, and his whole life seemed to center exclusively on his restaurant. Now that she knew him better, she could see this was true and the fact did not make him happy.
He’d been happy when they were kissing. So why did he run?
Their first kiss had been merely a friendly gesture on her part. Yet the second kiss had been all him and far too short and sweet to her liking. However, she’d caught enough of him to understand there was more lurking behind his gruff voice and rough looks.
Although he’d been the aggressor, his lips had pleaded with a soft sip, a blend of tough and tentative. The taste of him still lay on her tongue—salty, spicy, filled with male desire. His hands, those clean hands of his, had held her as if she were a precious prize he couldn’t believe in.
If he wasn’t gay, why had he abruptly withdrawn and then run?
“Nina?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Brushing aside her thoughts, she focused on the immediate future. “I’m going to move in this afternoon.”
“I thought you said you were going to find a new place.”
“I am. Just not right now.” The man needed a friend. And a woman. His cock had pressed on her belly in a clear signal. He was interested.
Poo-yi, she was interested, too. Not totally convinced yet, but interested.
For a second, the thought she might be rushing into something too quickly, flashed across her conscience. After all, she’d only gotten rid of Javier last night. This wasn’t rebound, though. She knew it instinctively. This was Fate. Her Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw and always taught her that nothing was more important than Fate. Not her reputation. Not other people’s gossip. Not a man’s obstinate refusal to live life to the full.
Fate had brought her Luc Miró Porras, and it expected her to do something for him.
So she would.
“When will you get another apartment?” Jeanie’s question came slow, as if she sensed the swirls of fate coming into the picture.
“He needs me right now.”
Her frank words pulsed through the line.
