Knight in Black Leather: International Billionaires XI: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  It was a very good thing she had her back to him.

  “Be quick,” she said, keeping her tone light. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 15

  I’ll be waiting.

  Mierda. He’d been set up. By his best friend.

  Luc stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t appreciate being schemed at. There’d been enough of that behavior with Genia. Years when he hadn’t realized his naïveté. Years when she’d manipulated him. He didn’t like to think of how stupid he’d been.

  But this brought it all back.

  This going behind his back and making plans for him without his consent.

  He scowled at Miss Nina’s bottles of lotions before turning the water on. The heat initially softened his muscles and then, he switched it to cool, letting the stream wash away some of his irritation.

  Cooking for him.

  Dios le guarde.

  Of course, God hadn’t saved him five years ago. Why would he think He’d save him now?

  “Hurry up!”

  Her call from behind the bathroom door made him grunt with disgust. At her and at himself. Because he knew, he was going to go out there and eat her food and listen to whatever she was going to pitch him.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  Although, he knew now. He knew what women’s scheming was all about. Hopefully, he could eat her food and go to bed before she took something from him he wasn’t willing to give.

  Go to bed. Alone.

  Wrenching off the water, he strode out of the shower and grabbed a white towel. When he’d hobbled together this abode, when he’d run from the house he’d bought Genia, he hadn’t cared about much. The kitchen got its required gear because it would have embarrassed his chef reputation to have anything less. His bedroom got a new mattress because he couldn’t abide thinking about who had slept in the old one with his wife. The furniture littering the rest of the house had either been left here from a previous tenant, or was something his mami had carted over from the family home, tut-tutting at his lack of concern.

  The only thing he’d taken time to choose was the bath and bed linens. While his wife had exalted in Paris fashion when they’d lived in the city, the only fanciful French item he’d fallen in love with were the meticulous cotton towels he’d found in kitchen after kitchen. When he’d traced the source, he’d discovered bedding and bath linens he’d come to depend on after a long day at Le Cordon Bleu.

  Luc wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned over the sink to stare at himself. He’d washed off the sweat and grit of a night spent cooking, and he supposed he should take a stab at combing his hair. Maybe even pull out his beard trimmer, something he hadn’t taken the time to use in several months.

  For a second, surprise rippled through him.

  Why would he think about doing it now, of all times?

  “The shrimp is going to be warm if you don’t get out here.”

  Throwing a sneer at the bathroom door and her words, he shrugged off the impulse to make himself pretty for Miss Nina. She was in his house at his pleasure, and he didn’t need to do anything for her other than listen to her talk as he ate her food.

  He jerked the door open to find her lounging on the wall across the hallway. Her gaze slid from his sneer to his throat, down past his tightening nipples to rest on the edge of the towel around his waist.

  Mierda.

  That one glance, just one lazy slide of a female look, took him from relaxation to heated hardness in a snap.

  She noticed. As she noticed seemingly everything. A glint of cagey awareness flickered in her eyes. “I’ll be in the galerie.”

  With that, she took off at a fast pace, unlike her usual slow glide. Luc told himself he was glad as he stomped up the cast iron stairs and into his bedroom. Pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he growled at himself and stopped. He yanked open the top drawer of the mahogany dresser his mami had delivered here and chose one of his old cotton boxers.

  Going commando—like he usually did when he was at home—with that woman downstairs was asking for disaster.

  “There you are,” she cooed at him when he paced into the small hole of a porch that used to be his alone. “Come here and taste.”

  The slow, lethal drawl of hers slid across the old oak panels of the floor and straight up the leg of his jeans. It wrapped around his cock, not caring in the slightest about the cotton boxers he’d donned as a shield.

  This time, Gracias a Dios, she didn’t notice his erection.

  “Sit, sit.” She waved at a chair he found eerily familiar and also, not a chair he owned. It sat across from the gray sofa he used to lay on by himself. The one she’d forced him from when they ate here before. Forced him to sit on the hard-backed chair his popa had used in his home office.

  “Where’d that come from?” he snarled.

  She appeared unperturbed by his attitude. “I noticed.”

  That was what he hated. She noticed everything. “What are you talking about?”

  “I noticed you didn’t like the old chair that was here before. When we ate breakfast.” She smiled, an easy, sweet smile designed to lull him into complacency. “So your mami—”

  “My mother?” He straightened to a rigid stance.

  “I talked to her, and she said this was your favorite chair in your parents’ house.”

  Not only was this woman scheming with Lali, she’d gone behind his back to talk to his mother. Talk her into persuading his poor popa to relinquish his favorite chair. “My father will want it back.”

  “No, he won’t. I talked to him myself.

  Jesucristo. The woman was taking over his life.

  His silent scowl didn’t appear to faze her. “Come on and sit.”

  He couldn’t believe his popa agreed to give up this particular chair. This was the chair his father sat in after dinner. The chair where he’d read to Luc when he’d had been a little boy. An old wing-backed chair with sturdy wooden legs and a simple cream twill slipcover that was cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

  “The shrimp is marvelous.” Leaning over, she plucked one up and dipped it into the sauce. “Fresh from the gulf this morning, the vendor told me.”

  Sweeping away his confusion and frustration, he sat down on his popa’s chair. The arms seemed to ease around him like an old, lost friend, and the back conformed to his in a perfect fit. “What vendor?”

  “Farmer’s market on Peter’s Street.” She popped the seafood into her mouth and hummed.

  The low, stirring sound traveled across the table like another tentacle of allure.

  He leaned back on his popa’s chair.

  Her eyes closed and she gave him another hum. Another lure. His cock pressed in painful pressure on the zipper of his jeans.

  “Fabulous,” she drawled. “Simply fabulous.”

  Her eyes opened and she zeroed in on him with a frank stare. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  Because he didn’t want to eat mere food. He didn’t want her cornbread and the fried chicken his chef’s nose had ferreted out as soon as he stepped into his kitchen.

  He didn’t want to eat anything other than her.

  Thankfully, she didn’t know, because she waved at a line of candles that were new as well, her face serene. “I thought those would lend a nice touch.”

  The distinct smells of clove and vanilla wafted into his chef’s nose. “I suppose the candles are from your shop.”

  “I told you they were before. And no nasty names about my shop.” She chuckled before eating another piece of shrimp. “We’re making progress.”

  The haze of lust finally cleared enough that he took in what she wore. A simple T-shirt, bright-red with no logos, and a jean skirt. The usual uniform, except with the deadly addition of her legs. Luc didn’t consider himself a leg man. Actually, he hadn’t considered himself much of a man at all during the last few years. But when he had been interested, he’d liked tits.

&
nbsp; Miss Nina’s tits weren’t anything to talk about. He took note of that fact for the hundredth time, and tried to talk sense to the bubbling lust inside.

  She wasn’t that great.

  She wasn’t that pretty.

  She was a baby.

  She glanced at him, her smoky eyes twinkling with schemes and dreams. “Are you going to have some?”

  No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to have any of her or any of her schemes or dreams. Fresh shrimp, however, he would have. Plucking one up, he tried her family sauce. It was typical Cajun, homey and fragrant. The mayo mixed well with the hot spice, adding a nice note to the seafood.

  He grunted.

  “I’m going to assume that noise means you like it.”

  Ignoring her tease, he ate another one.

  “Wait until you taste my Maw-Maw’s chicken,” she said, the smoke of her eyes turning to mist. “It’s wonderful.”

  The emotion in her eyes, a touch of wistful, a whiff of bittersweet, made his throat clutch. He wasn’t used to emotion anymore—other than anger. His kitchen staff mainly stayed out of his way, other than an occasional poke from Lali. And his parents had never managed to penetrate the fog of numbness surrounding him. He’d appreciated that fact.

  But this woman, just with her eyes, ran through the fog with one simple gaze.

  “You cooked the chicken,” he barked, trying to break free from her emotion. “So it’s yours, not your grandmother’s.”

  “She died when I was fifteen.” Her hands drifted into the air and then landed on the table as if defeated. “I miss her still.”

  “She taught you to cook.” He fiddled with another shrimp, so he wouldn’t have to confront what flitted across her face.

  “Yes, and many other things, as well.”

  It struck him that she was like him. Being taught by a grandmother to honor the food traditions passed down in the family. The knowledge sank into him like a sweltering heat storm.

  A sniff came from across the table.

  “My gra-mère taught me to cook, too.” His gruff words caught her attention. Her hand relaxed on the table. Venturing a look, he was relieved to see his comment had banished her threatening tears.

  “Did she?” She smiled, a tentative reach for connection. “You loved her.”

  “Yeah.” Fiddling with another shrimp, he felt as if he had to give a bit more. “My father called her une forteresse charmant.”

  “A fort?” Her flyaway hair flipped onto her shoulder as she canted her head. “A charming fort?”

  The memory of his short, stout grandmother drifted into his heart. The way she’d guided his hands as he grilled his first rack of lamb. The touch of her gnarled hands when she swept away the flour from his face. The smell of her—part sugar, part past, part joy. “I suppose you’d say it meant sweet fort or something like that.”

  “How lovely.” Reaching across the table, Nina slid her palm along his arm.

  The touch wasn’t anything like his grandmother’s, yet his reaction of lust mixed with the memories of joy in spite of his desire to keep her at a distance. He couldn’t help leaning into the connection because it had been so long since he’d felt alive.

  “Was she your father’s mother?”

  “No.” He wanted to close his eyes and relish the touch of another person. Not just any other person, too. This woman, this girl, who’d come into his life and taken him before he knew it. Taken more than he’d bargained for and more than he’d realized until this moment. “My mami’s.”

  “Does your mother cook as well?”

  The innocent question boomed into his brain, making him withdraw with a jerk. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his mami, he did. Except she’d never come close to being the ally his gra-mère had been for him. Never come close to understanding the essence of him, the soul deep inside. And this woman across from him was more like his mother than his grandmother. More of a challenge than a support. “No, she doesn’t cook at all.”

  His flat words fell between them with a thud.

  “Well, I guess if I had a professional chef as a son, I wouldn’t cook, either.”

  Her comment confirmed his suspicions. Nina was like his mother and his dead wife. After Genia, he’d realized he didn’t want a woman who knew the score, who knew how to get what she wanted. He didn’t want a scheming woman again. Loving his mami didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of how much a woman like her could hurt him again.

  A short silence enveloped the small room.

  Nina stared at him, a puzzled look on her face. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  Another silence fell.

  With a shrug of her shoulders, she flung him a grin. “My grandfather still lives. He rebuilt after Katrina tried to drive him out of the bayou.”

  “Your Paw-Paw.” He narrowed his eyes at her, remembering his anger with relief. “The Cajun thief who talked my popa into selling a piece of family property to him.”

  “Thief?” Instead of being offended like any reasonable person would, her eyes took up a dance. “Is that what you think happened, saleau?”

  That nickname was beginning to bother him. He was clean, for God’s sakes. There’d been a shower in his recent past. Sure, he hadn’t bothered to comb his hair or shave, but this was his house and his place and she had no right to judge.

  “I’m clean,” he told her for a second time, his voice a touch harder than before.

  She cocked her head, her grin growing. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” he bit at her. “Didn’t you just see me get out of the shower?”

  “Your hair, though. It’s uncombed.” She waved at his head while shaking hers. “And your whiskers need to be trimmed.”

  “I’m in the privacy of my own home. I can appear anyway I want.”

  Her expression deflated at his tough tone. “Ah, oui. Your home and your privacy.”

  “What?” Irritation laced through his immediate worry that he’d upset her. Which he shouldn’t be worried about, yet he was.

  “I have many gifts for you.” Her ponytail bopped as she nodded. “One of them will be to find a new apartment, pronto. And I don’t need any help from your illustrious family holdings, either.”

  He grunted again, part of him wanting that with every fiber of his being, and another part worried about what that apartment would entail.

  “I mean it.” She jumped up and grabbed the last of the shrimp and sauce. “But first, I have some other gifts to give you.”

  “Gifts.” He snorted. “And scheming.”

  “I don’t plan on giving you scheming.” Her low chuckle lingered in the room as she left.

  Luc hunched in his popa’s chair and glumly waited. He should just go to bed, but for some reason he couldn’t define, he didn’t. Maybe it was the casual curiosity about the way her family cooked chicken.

  He snorted at himself this time.

  There was nothing casual about his interest in anything Nina Blanchard did, although he needed to keep reminding himself of her essential unsuitability.

  “Here we are,” she crowed as she sailed back into the room. “You’ll love this.”

  “Will I?”

  But the food did look delicious, and the smells emanating from the plate broadcasted a future of excellent eating.

  “You will,” she said with a decisive snap, like she was getting a tad irritated at him. “I promise.”

  I promise.

  So many promises in his life that had never come true. So many promises he’d come to realize were a self-defeating mess waiting to suck him under.

  “Don’t promise anything.” If he gave her anything, he hoped he’d teach her this lesson. She might be a baby, still, even babies needed to learn the hard realities of life.

  Irritation furrowed her brows, but her eyes grew keen once more. “What’s the matter with promises, Creole Man?”

  “You can call me Luc, dammit. No more nicknames.”

  The furrowed brows arched. “Yo
u are in a mood, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up and sit down.” He focused on the food instead of her face, with its thousands of expressions which could flit past in a moment, confusing him. “Let’s eat.”

  Sighing, she plopped down across from him with her own plate. Thankfully, she kept quiet as he dug into her offering.

  The chicken was again, typical Cajun. Crisp and spicy on the outside, tender and tasty on the inside. The pan-fried cornbread was the right consistency, and the dirty rice was good as well. Nothing as excellent as what he produced in his restaurant, but the food passed his chef’s test of acceptable.

  “Mais?” she finally said into the deep silence filling the night and the place where they sat. “It’s good, right?”

  The touch of concern made him lift his head to stare at her across the table. It struck him again how young she was. For all her womanly moves and gazes, right at this moment, she looked like a little girl eager for approval.

  “It’s good,” he said grudgingly.

  “More than good.” Her lips curved up. “Come on, tell me it’s more than good.”

  “It’s good, but not as good as my food.”

  That didn’t faze her in the slightest. “Of course not. Remember, I’ve tasted it. Your food is amazing.”

  The compliment washed across him again. Just like her previous compliment, it was said with complete sincerity, nothing held back. “Thank you.”

  Pleasure, not a lustful kind or a conniving kind, suffused her face, making it glow. “You’re welcome.”

  Not knowing what to say, he went back to the food.

  “I have another gift.” Her hand pushed a familiar box across the table. “The one I tried to give you last night.”

  Last night when he lost himself in her. Lost his will and his way and everything in between.

  His hand tightened on the fork. “No need.”

  “Go on. Open it.”

  The package was small. He spotted her shop’s logo on the top of the box and forced himself to sneer. “I don’t think I want anything from your fetid shop.”