Knight in Black Leather: International Billionaires XI: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  “Boo…”

  She knew what her sister was thinking. The family had this crazy idea that Nina jumped headlong into projects, plans, and promises before considering everything. She might be a tad impulsive with some things, but never with relationships. Friends and boyfriends were chosen with care because she hadn’t been able to choose one particular family member, and Papa had been the bane of her existence until she’d left home.

  “He’s a friend after last night,” she said. “And he needs me to make him happy.”

  “You know what Paw-Paw always says. The only person who can make you happy is yourself.”

  Nina jutted her jaw. “I can make him happy.”

  First, she’d decorate his home with bright colors. Then she’d draw him into the festival, and he’d have so much fun. Perhaps she’d also take him into her bed and body. But she needed to think about that a little more.

  Fate, she knew, couldn’t be trifled with.

  Jeanie sighed. “I know when I hear that tone in your voice, it’s useless to argue.”

  “We’re not arguing.” Pushing off the truck, she scrambled onto the rear guard and contemplated what items to bring into his house first. “You and Heni can cover for me today? I’ll open every day over the next weekend.”

  “Sure. Just…be careful, Nina. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  At the thought of hurt, she brushed her fingers across the bruise on her cheek. Luc Miró was not like Javier. He wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head. Instead, it was he who hurt, and she was determined to change that. “I won’t get hurt. He’s my knight in black leather.”

  Her sister’s voice changed from concerned to amused. “Go get him to agree to the festival.”

  And get him to agree to tell her what was wrong so she could fix it. “Yep. That’s the first step.”

  Of many.

  If he’d had a worse night at his restaurant, he couldn’t bring it to mind.

  “Luc,” his sous-chef’s voice rippled with exasperation. “You put the grouper on the wrong plate again.”

  He ignored her as he’d ignored his entire staff, other than barking orders at them. Lali would fix the plate, he knew. Plus, he didn’t want to open up a conversation with her. He might blurt out more than he wanted.

  A huff of irritation came from behind him before the plate rattled onto the pass. “Paulina, table six ready.”

  The rainstorm of last night had turned the city’s atmosphere into a steam bath. Although the restaurant had air conditioning, the humidity leeched into the kitchen, turning tempers hot and skin slick. Usually, it didn’t bother him, but flashes of that woman kept crossing his memory.

  Her lips puckering before he took them.

  The laughter in her eyes when she teased him.

  The way her soft cotton hoodie did nothing to conceal the bounce of her breasts.

  Did she wear a bra?

  “Luc, watch the roux.” Lali’s sharp command made him realize he’d been staring at the steam coming off the pot filled with boiling lobster, rather than doing his job.

  Jerking the pan off the burner, he managed to whisk it back from ruin.

  “What is going on?” She came right to his side near the stove, away from her usual stand by the computer where the orders spewed out. “What is the matter with you?”

  The matter with him was he’d done something incredibly stupid and disrupted his lifestyle. He liked his lifestyle. It was simple and quiet and predictable. There were no truckloads of womanly doodads to deal with, and no women looking at him with sex in their eyes.

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  Lali gave him another huff. This time one of disbelief. “Come on, talk to me.”

  He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to cook and forget. A habit he’d fallen into years ago, when the pain had been too great. He didn’t want to go back there. “Pay attention to the orders.”

  With a sigh, she left him to stew. Another hour went by, and the most he could do was focus on the next dish, while in the depths of his mind, he scrambled around, trying to escape his dilemma.

  Mierda. She’d be at his house, waiting for him when he got done with work.

  Or maybe he’d get lucky and she’d be asleep. He could hope.

  “Boss.” Alphonse appeared in the kitchen doorway. As usual, he wore one of his elegantly tailored suits with a bow tie. “Heads-up. There’s a reviewer on table four.”

  His host was gay.

  Something Luc never thought of or cared about.

  Are you gay?

  No, I’m not.

  A flush of remembered mortification heated his face. The question had come at him so fast, he’d acted like it was an accusation. Which it hadn’t been. The woman had only been curious because he’d rejected kissing. Kissing in general. Her kissing in particular.

  Alphonse eyed him. “Are you okay, Luc?”

  “Are you sick? Is that the problem tonight?” Lali joined in. “Your face is red.”

  “There’s a problem?” It was his host’s turn to look flustered. “But we have a reviewer from the Times-Picayune.”

  A worried hush fell over his kitchen staff. They weren’t used to Luc being anything except focused. Never sick, never scared, always scarred.

  “There is no problem and I’m not sick.” He returned to staring at the steaming pots and pans. “Everyone get to work.”

  By the time the last set was finished, he felt liked he’d gone through a monumental battle to keep himself together on the outside and keep the turmoil going on inside to a minimum.

  “Do you want to talk?” Lali hung back from the rest of the staff as they laughed and chatted themselves out the door leading onto the forgotten terrace. Likely they’d all head to Pepe’s, a late-night bar with cheap drinks. Before, years ago, his employees would have been satisfied to linger on the terrace or in the club, listening to jazz and drinking his liquor.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” He yanked off his apron, throwing it into the plastic bin by his office. “Go on. I’ll lock up.”

  “As if that were news,” she said, before gliding through the door and into the steamy night.

  Luc spent an hour going through the accounts, noting the prices and what he needed to add for the weekend rush. Then, he spent some time sharpening his knives. Then, he went around the dining room, jotting down repairs that had cropped up.

  He ended up staring out the restaurant’s new front windows at her fetid shop.

  There was no rain tonight, just a misty fog hanging over the cobblestones and old buildings. The faint light glowing from the black, cast-iron streetlamps shifted across his kingdom onto hers.

  Swinging around, he paced through the dining room into the kitchen and through the door leading to the terrace. Generally, he never came out here other than to supervise a delivery. He sat down on the brick wall encircling the fountain he’d had turned off five years ago. A black layer of soot and dirt lay at the bottom, and the little dancing stone boy looked depressed with his horn blowing nothing but dead air.

  Luc grunted at the silly thought and pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket.

  In the distance, the sounds of revelry, so typical of New Orleans, echoed. Before, when he’d been married, those sounds would have been happening right here.

  He finally glanced to the back of the terrace.

  Club Del Oso.

  The gold-and-red lettering had faded on the sign hanging across the old wooden front doors. Once, when he’d been foolish and free, he’d imagined his jazz club would be as important as his restaurant.

  A fool, definitely a fool.

  Before he could analyze his actions, he found himself prowling along the edge of the terrace, running his palms on the rough brick, fingering the lacy leaves of the wisteria clinging to the wall. The lemon scent of the two sturdy magnolia trees permeated the air, bringing back memories.

  Awful memories.

  But he kept going.

  He still had th
e keys to the club, though the lock fought him for a moment or two. Eventually, it sprung open to reveal the deep, black hole of his past.

  He’d chosen red walls and blue leather seats for the chairs. When renovated, the ceiling revealed itself to be a swirl of old mahogany, carved into crests and valleys. Cyrus and Miles and Shakey would take to the wooden stage almost every evening. Piano, double bass, drums. Occasionally, old Pops would come by with his trumpet.

  If Luc were fanciful or melancholy, he’d say he could hear those tunes ringing in the air.

  Gracias a Dios, he was neither.

  He stepped in and flicked on the lights.

  All the same. As if these five years hadn’t happened. The long oak bar on the left. The handful of small tables scattered across the floor. The upright piano on the abandoned stage. Closing the two doors behind him, he walked to the bar and slouched on a chair.

  The liquor bottles, half-filled, stared back, his reflection shining off the smudged mirror behind them.

  A weariness, one he was all too familiar with, washed over him. No matter how long he waited, it never faded. He’d been foolish to avoid this place because the memories crept out from the door behind the bar every night. Every hour.

  He straightened, frowning.

  Not the last few hours. Not the hours he’d cooked tonight in a fog of lust and denial. He hadn’t been thinking about anything other than one thing. One person.

  That woman.

  That kiss.

  He couldn’t decide which was worse, his memories or her. Both badgered him with demands and regrets. Both wanted more from him than he could give. Both made him feel like a loser. Then and now.

  Jerking up, he went through the open doors at almost a run, leaving them to wave in the dark night, like sad and long goodbyes.

  Chapter 9

  Luc woke.

  Not to darkness this time.

  Bright daylight streamed across the sheets of his bed, and he swore his ass twitched with the beginning of a sunburn.

  His bare-naked ass.

  The open shades.

  That woman.

  Flipping over, he grabbed the sheet and yanked it to his chin. His glare climbed from his bed to a new and odd painting on the black wall by the window. The gold and green and purple colors swam in a sea of paint he could make no sense of. Nausea swelled in his stomach.

  “Mierda.”

  He hadn’t noticed that last night. He hadn’t noticed much of anything since he’d found himself at Pepe’s slamming down shots of bourbon.

  Which wasn’t usual for him.

  What also wasn’t usual was the thing hanging from his plain, serviceable chandelier. He supposed most people wouldn’t think a chandelier was plain, but his was. They’d come with the old house and he liked them.

  He did not like the thing hanging from the light, however.

  “Follando mujer,” he muttered to the ceiling.

  His body stilled.

  It was probably not a good thing to put the word fuck together with that woman. It would only lead his brain in directions he didn’t want to go.

  Rising onto his feet on the bed, he plucked off the string of green beads woven around the iron arms of the chandelier. Unlike the ubiquitous plastic beads strewn across the Quarter during Mardi Gras, these were made of delicate glass. Hand blown, he’d guess.

  His bedroom door creaked open and her head popped in, a grin on her face. “Bonjour.”

  “Jesucristo.” Luc flopped down on the bed and grabbed for the sheet.

  “I’ve seen it all before.” The grin turned into a smug look. “Nothing surprising.”

  “Get out of my bedroom.” What he wanted to say was get out of my life, but he’d promised, so he was stuck with her. For now.

  “Don’t be crabby.” She romped into his room, her uniform of jeans and a hoodie doing nothing to distract him from the bounce of her breasts and the length of her legs.

  “Get out.” He clutched the beads in one hand and the sheet in the other.

  “You found the beads!” Her face lit with pure happiness. “Isn’t the green beautiful? The color means—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what it means.” Though being a native, he knew. Faith. Green meant faith.

  Fuck faith.

  Her face fell.

  And something deep and dark inside him reared up in response. Except he didn’t have time to worry about that, because his cock decided to do the same.

  She noticed, her gaze gliding along the tented sheet and her expression turning coy. “Hmm.”

  Sitting up, he put his hands in his lap and glared at her. “If you’re smart, you’ll get out of here.”

  “What if I don’t? What will happen then?” She lounged on the end post of his bed, her lips giving him a provocative pout, her smoky eyes gleaming with a tease.

  His head pounded along with the lust in his cock. He could jump from the bed buck naked and force her out into the hall, but he was leery of getting near the woman with a hard-on. Anything could happen. By the look in her eyes, she sensed his lusty need for her. Of course, he could ignore her and march into his bathroom to hide in the shower, letting the steam help his aching muscles.

  One particular aching muscle.

  The thought of following his morning routine, jerking off before washing his hair, while this woman stood in the hall or in his kitchen, made him even harder. “Dios.”

  His head. Mierda. His head.

  Both of them.

  His hands covered his face as he sunk into pain and pleasure.

  “Wait a minute.” She dared to come closer and sniff. “That’s alcohol I smell. You’ve got a hangover.”

  “Yes,” he gritted. “Which is why I want you to leave me alone.”

  “I know exactly how to cure that.” Her voice went low and gentle, a slurring sweep of solace. “Let me help you.”

  Luc’s imagination took flight. The woman climbing onto the bed and kissing his aching forehead. Then, massaging his back and sunburned ass. After that—

  “I’ll call Verti Marte and have them deliver.” Her voice went bouncy again. And loud. “They have a great headache powder that will do the trick.”

  All he could do was groan.

  “Go take a shower and you’ll feel better,” the irritating woman announced. “I’ll have everything ready when you get done.”

  His pride tried to come to life and object to her interference, but his brain was too fuzzy and his will too weak. When he looked up to see she’d left him alone, he stumbled from the bed, grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. The heat and steam did help until he noticed the black granite shelves in the stall were occupied by…

  Her.

  Bottles labeled oatmeal and shea butter. Jasmine and olive oil. Lavender. Almond. Orange.

  Goats milk? In shampoo?

  In vain, he scanned the dozen jars looking for his own shampoo. Nothing.

  “What the hell?” he roared.

  The bathroom door creaked open just as his bedroom one had moments ago. “I forgot to mention it.”

  His shower did not have doors—glass or otherwise. The design suited him, because he didn’t like banging his elbows or squeezing his big body into a small space. Right now, though, he regretted the decision with every ounce of his being.

  Her flyaway hair, stuck in the topknot, flopped as she turned her head and gazed straight at him.

  His cock came to attention once again.

  “Jesucristo.” He grabbed a washcloth and held it in front of him. “Can’t a man have some privacy?”

  “You roared, so I answered.” Irritation and amusement laced through her response. “Try the one with the oatmeal.”

  With that, she slammed the door behind her.

  Grumbling under his breath, he grudgingly used what she’d suggested. The shampoo didn’t hurt his eyes like he was used to, he had to admit. The bar of soap wasn’t his usual smooth, white block, yet he had to concede the lemon and peppermint sme
lls wafted comfort into the steam.

  Not that he’d tell her.

  His cock was still rigid when he wrenched off the water, but he wasn’t going to do anything with it. Not with her around.

  He winced as he zipped up his jeans.

  “You look better.” She threw him a smile when he paced into his kitchen. The woman didn’t appear fazed by his menacing presence or his scowl. She kept unpacking the large cardboard box on the counter.

  For the first time, he noticed the trill of jazz streaming from his speakers in an alluring call from the past. He flicked it off.

  She frowned. “You don’t like jazz? But you have a huge collection.”

  He ignored her and instead, focused on the pile of food she’d unpacked. The smells coming from the box beat her crappy oatmeal and lemon shampoos any day.

  He grunted with reluctant anticipation and headed for the espresso machine.

  “Café au lait, please.”

  He gave her another grunt.

  “I ordered my favorite breakfast po’ boy for you,” she chirped over the hiss of the coffee pouring into his cup. “I figured you’d want hearty.”

  His chef nose picked out the smells of mushroom and cheddar cheese and fresh French bread. His nausea continued to boil in his gut, but there was a faint interest brewing in his stomach.

  “Here.” A tall glass filled with what looked like tomato juice appeared by his elbow. “This was my Paw-Paw’s recipe for hangovers.”

  He sipped his espresso and eyed her offering. “I’m not a fan of tomato juice.”

  A puff of exasperation came from his side. “That’s not tomato juice. Or not just tomato juice. Try it.”

  Luc rarely tried anyone’s cooking, other than his own or cooks he knew. Still, he’d already eaten her coush-coush, so why not? Living adventurously seemed par for this course around this female. Pepper, onion, garlic, hot sauce. He easily detected all those ingredients, but he couldn’t define the extra kick at the end.

  “Red wine vinegar,” she supplied before he asked, as if she could read his mind. “And prayers.”

  He drained the glass before snorting at her last words.

  “The prayers are what does it.”

  The earnestness in her voice made him remember when he’d believed in prayers. As a kid, his parents had taken him to St. Louis Cathedral every Sunday. The memory of the hush in the vaulted chapel when the service began, the musky smell of the incense and candles, the feeling of reverence he’d felt—