by Caro LaFever
Filled with an essential decency that not even a scheming woman could destroy.
A tear trickled down her cheek. “He’d married her and he would have been faithful.”
“He gave her his trust and she broke it.”
The unspoken words echoed in her head. She’d broken his trust too. Yet unlike his dead wife, she’d make it up to him and never do it again.
“I’m sorry,” she said once more. “I’m going to find him and make it up to him.”
“His mother and father were most upset about the baby,” Lali groaned. “They’ve wanted grandchildren forever.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say it might not have been his, but she sucked the tidbit back. This wasn’t her knowledge to share. Thinking before talking was a habit she intended on cultivating. “I’m going to take care of that.”
A muffled laugh came. “Are you telling me you’re pregnant?”
“No, though I aim to be. I just have to find him and talk to him.”
“I wish I could tell you where he is, but Luc is usually so predictable. I can’t say where he’s gone. He’s never disappeared like this, cutting off all communication.”
“It’s only been one night. He’ll surface.” Her words held more confidence than she did.
“I hope you’re right, Nina.” Lali sighed again. “Because I do know that the longer he’s gone, the longer he has to stew.”
“And that’s not a good thing.”
“No, it’s not,” his best friend stated. “Stewing for him leads to stubborn judgments.”
“Shit.”
“Oui, or as he would say himself…”
“Mierda,” they both said together.
Chapter 30
Luc didn't mind humidity. Other than the time he’d lived in Paris, he’d spent his entire life breathing in damp air, letting the sweat roll off his body, and generally liking the way his hair curled and his skin didn’t turn dry. Right now, however, as he stood on the wide front porch of a classic bayou cottage, he hated it.
His T-shirt was soaked.
And yeah, he damn well was adhering to the cause being the humidity, not any kind of anxiety.
“Mierda,” he muttered under his breath before banging on the old-fashioned brass knocker once more.
Last night, as he lay in the hotel’s bed and stared at the ceiling, he’d made lots of decisions. Decisions he aimed to follow through on.
The first one was to get his street back.
It hadn’t taken him long to find the address on the internet. The two-hour trek down to the swamplands of southern Louisiana was filled with a silent rage and a couple of shitty tacos he’d picked up at a fast-food joint.
The faster he returned to his normal life, the better.
The door finally creaked open to reveal the Cajun conman who’d tricked his popa. The old man’s gaze narrowed.
“Mais,” he drawled. “Never thought to see you here.”
The grandee gave him the same damn look he’d given him the first time they’d met. Like he didn’t measure up. Like he wasn’t good enough for his granddaughter.
Which was a lie.
His granddaughter wasn’t good enough for a Miró because she couldn’t be trusted.
“We need to talk.” He gritted his teeth at him, trying to keep his anger in check.
Yet, the man brought back Nina, stoking Luc’s rage. Not in one particular thing, but in the whole. The line of the jaw and the way the brown hair flopped over the forehead. The strands might be laced with gray, still, the man reminded him far too much of the woman he wanted to forget. The spark of mischief in those eyes was just like hers. And the way the old body moved with leisurely grace, as if he had all the time in the world.
Like her.
Too much like her.
Unlike this old man, he didn’t have any time left. He’d run out of time when his secrets had been spilled by this man’s scheming descendent. The only thing he could do now was reconstruct the walls that had kept him safe for years.
The first step toward that was getting his street back and getting rid of her fetid shop.
“Want some sweet tea before we sit?” The old man waved a languid hand toward two old wooden rockers standing on the far end of the porch. “Or maybe a beer?”
“No, not thirsty.” He marched to one of the chairs and sat. “This won’t take much time, Mr. Blanchard.”
“Is that so?” With an unhurried, easy laziness, the other man moved, too, sitting with a sigh of contentment. “Nice evening, ain’t it?”
By the time Luc had awakened, after a fitful night of dozing, the sun had been high in the sky. Calling Lali, he’d cut her off by giving her the authority to run his restaurant any way she wanted to for the foreseeable future. Until he got his way with this old man and issued a termination of a certain lease, he didn’t want to be at El Porras.
He certainly didn’t want to ever enter Club Del Oso again.
After he’d hung up on Lali, he’d contacted his father. The conversation had been short and not very sweet.
“You’re okay.” A gust of relief had wafted into Luc’s ear. “Your mother was worried.”
“Mami is always worried.” Juggling the phone, he slapped on his worn wristwatch. He couldn’t believe it was past noon. “Tell her I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you tell her? Come over for dinner tonight.”
What a ghastly thought that was.
“And bring Nina. We should all talk together.”
What was a word beyond ghastly? Horrible? Appalling? Terrifying?
“Nina and I are over.”
His popa drew in a long, loud breath. “I thought that might be what you were thinking. I warned your mother.”
“I have to get the contract you signed with Blanchard.”
“Luc,” another gusty sigh, “perhaps you should cool down a bit before making—”
“I don’t need your permission, do I, though, Popa? I own the damn company and every one of our various properties.”
“You do.”
“Well, then.”
A sharp silence fell. He tried to ignore it by focusing on gathering his keys and yanking the hotel door open to an empty hallway.
“Son.”
“What?” Not bothering to soften his tone, he stomped toward the lobby and the hotel’s front door. He’d need to be sneaky in getting his truck. But the carriage house where he stored it was far enough away from the house. She likely wouldn’t hear him until it was too late.
Unless she parked herself in the front seat. Which he wouldn’t put past her.
Jesucristo. Beyond the desire to get her fetid shop off his street, he was going to have to find a way to extract her from his home.
“What’s the name of our lawyer?” he demanded.
“Why do you need to know? You’ve never cared about the intricacies of the business before.”
“I care now.” Pushing open the door to the heat of New Orleans, he paced toward his house. “Tell me.”
“Are you going to use a lawyer to get her out of your home?” his popa said with a mild voice. The same voice he’d used when Luc had been a boy having a temper tantrum.
He wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t having a tantrum.
Irritation turned to resentment. “That’s my decision.”
“It might be easier to just talk with her.”
Easier to let her smile at him while they talked? Easier to allow her near him to tempt him with her plummy scent? Easier?
“I’m coming into the office. Meet me there in an hour.”
“It’s Sunday. A day of rest.”
“Meet me after church, then. It’s on your way home.” Luc didn’t want to think about what a man was supposed to do when he entered St. Louis Cathedral. Things like confessing his sins of anger and rage. Things like forgiving people. Things like sitting in a pew and letting the hushed silence enter the soul and deliver peace.
“You want to see your mother now? S
he’ll be with me, if we’re coming from church.”
“Mierda.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” His popa coughed, faint amusement in the sound. “I’ll drive in before. See you soon.”
He’d half expected to confront his mami waiting with his popa. But to his relief, it had only been his father sitting there, behind the desk the family patriarch had sat behind for hundreds of years. He’d expected a lecture about manners or a talk about getting along with women.
His popa hadn’t said a word about either manners or women. He’d handed over the contract and their lawyer’s name without a comment. Luc should have been relieved, though he hadn’t been. As he walked away from the family offices, he’d felt a weird sort of guilt. Like he’d disappointed not only his popa but the long string of proud ancestors going before him.
The thought had made him growl.
By the time he’d arrived at his house, she’d left. Feeling like an idiot, he’d scouted out the courtyard and peered into the kitchen before slowly opening the rear door. Creeping around his own damn house, he’d been relieved at no Nina, yet angry she still had her things strewn all over his home. Cursing, he’d changed into fresh clothes and charged out to his truck.
Those fresh clothes were now stained with his sweat and his rage.
“Or maybe it ain’t such a great evening,” the old man sitting beside him butted into his thoughts. “Looks as if you’ve had a tough day, by the smell of you.”
The last comment made him seethe. He’d give the man credit, though, he didn’t miss a thing. He stank of sweat and fearful anger. “Been making some decisions.”
“Have you?” The wooden chair rocked back and forth. “Friendly decisions?”
If he’d been here on an amicable visit, he would have taken time to soak in the lovely stretch of lawn rolling toward the bayou. He would have enjoyed the slight breeze wafting the leaves of the pecan trees scattered along the edge of the property. Perhaps he would have let himself remember Nina’s fond memories of this man and this rebuilt cottage.
But he didn’t feel friendly.
He felt mean.
“I want to buy the property back my father sold you several years ago.”
“The property?” Another wave, this one dismissive.
His anger boiled inside, a stew of wounded hurt and churning rage. “You know what property, old man. Don’t play the fool.”
The waving hand went still. “Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“Call me Bade.”
“I’ve got papers and my checkbook in the truck.” His hands fisted on his tense thighs. “Just name your price and it’s yours.”
“Some things don’t have a price.”
Yeah, he knew that. Things like loyalty and honor and trust. Things this old man hadn’t taught his granddaughter. “I don’t have time to dicker.”
“No?” Dark brows rose, reminding him again of her. “Well, I have all the time in the world.”
The sweat rolled down his back, making him want to squirm in his chair. But he held himself rigid, training his blistering glare on the man sitting so impassively beside him. “She betrayed me.”
“Ah,” he said again. “Nina.”
“Yes, your Nina.”
“My Nina?” A slow smile crossed the lined face. “That girl was never mine. She was always of herself.”
Which made not a lick of sense. And why the hell had he blurted out the painful truth in front of this man? This man who’d taken one look at him in his restaurant and decided not to like him.
Not that he cared.
His emotions rolled in him like the sea during a hurricane. Thundering waves of misery mixed with endless regret. For five long years, he’d stuffed his sensitive nature and tender emotions into a hole, intent on keeping himself safe. Yet now, he felt like it had all been unleashed inside, readying to tear him apart.
He couldn’t find words.
The old man rocked, the chair creaking on the cypress-wood floor. A warbling trio of egrets filled the cooling air with their trembling voices. Peace tried to nudge into his heart, but he held firm. “The property has been in my family for a hundred years. I want it back.”
“I suppose you do.”
Another creak of the chair.
“I know what it’s worth, but I’m willing to double the price.”
“Not too smart, boy.” Humor filled the words, as if the man were watching a comedy. “Not the best business decision.”
“Some things aren’t business,” he snarled. “Some things are more about heart.”
A low hum came from the seat beside him. “Ain’t that so.”
The response flummoxed him, making him nervous for some reason. Like he’d stepped into a swamp where he had no idea where the ’gators were, waiting to eat, and where the next bog sat ready to suck a man in.
“Stay put.” With a surprisingly swift move, the old man rose from the rocker and strode across the porch. Skipping down the steps like a child, he paced toward the line of pecan trees dotting the edge of the property.
He did as he was told, feeling rather like a child himself and not appreciating it. Except if he wanted this man’s signature on the contract he’d brought, he had to play this game.
Whatever this game was.
Bade Blanchard stooped down and plucked something off the ground. Turning, he grinned, and again, the reminder of her flitted through Luc, bringing a bittersweet pain.
With a start, he straightened.
Because it hit him the pain he was in didn’t resemble what he’d felt when Genia and Ames had betrayed him. This pain didn’t make him want to howl in rage before slinking off. This pain struck right at the center of his soul, creating a hole in his heart, not in his outer life.
“Mierda,” he muttered, a sick brew of horror billowing in his gut.
Unlike losing Genia, losing Nina was worse.
Why? She wasn’t anything more than a spoiled baby. A girl who spoke before she thought, a girl who threw a man’s pride and heart down and stomped all over them. Why did the thought of her leaving his home make him sweat with fear?
Before he could gather himself, her grandfather appeared in front of him, his hand outstretched.
A lone pecan sat in the middle of his palm. “Take it.”
He glanced at the old man and then the nut again. “What’s your point?”
“Take it.”
Grunting with frustrated disgust, he snatched the nut from the gnarled hand. “Now what?”
“I’ve got some things to say.” Blanchard sank into his rocking chair, the slow move so like his granddaughter it made Luc want to cry.
Which made him angrier. “Let’s talk about the contract for the property.”
“You’re like that nut.”
“You’re calling me a nut, old man?” Every atom inside urged him to leave. To climb into his truck, call the lawyer, hide away until his life had returned to normal. But was that what he really wanted? To be alone again. To have no one waiting at home. To not make a café au lait, as well as his own espresso.
A dry chuckle came from Blanchard. “I didn’t like you much when I first met you.”
“Same here.”
Another chuckle rumbled from the man. “Still, I’ve never doubted Nina’s instincts. She might flutter from thing to thing, yet I knew she’d eventually land.”
“She damn well can flutter off to somewhere else.”
That comment, delivered in a biting snap, got him a narrowed gaze. “She said you were the one. Didn’t like it at first, but I’ve done some digging.”
“God help me.”
“I’ve respected your father for years. Good man. And the nut,” the old man gestured at the tawny, round object Luc held, “doesn’t fall far from the tree, I reckon.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, Blanchard. I’m only here to talk about one thing.” His hand fisted on the nut wanting to throw it away. Something indescri
bable stopped him. “The property on Del Bosque Street you own now and I’m going to own before I leave.”
“So with Nina’s thoughts and your papa on my mind, I dug into your past.”
His past. The past he’d thought he’d escaped just yesterday. Escaped into Nina’s arms and her love, only to be destroyed once more.
Before he could put the words together that would express his complete indifference to what this man thought of him, Blanchard went on. “I came to the conclusion that my granddaughter was right. You’re the man for her.”
“You fooled my popa into selling that property.” He tried to pull his brain away from this odd and yet, curiously compelling conversation. “I want it back.”
“I haven’t told Nina, but in my will, she gets that property free and clear when I go.”
Outrage streaked into him like lightning. Yanking around, he glared at the old grandee. “Damn you. Are you suggesting I marry her so I can get my hands on the property?”
A grin lit the man’s face. “Ah.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jerking out of the chair, his hands fisted, he scowled at this foolish fossil of a man. “I’m telling you one thing, Blanchard. The only reason I’d marry Nina is because I love her.”
His words rolled across the porch and lawn. The trio of egrets squawked, their wings flapping in the soft breeze. A chorus of tree frogs croaked from the bayou, as if singing a choir to his admission.
I love her.
A rumble of contentment came from the old man. “Yeah, I figured you’re a man of integrity, and you just proved it.”
“Goddamn you.” He shot his arm out, throwing the blasted pecan nut straight into the bayou’s muddy waters. Hell, he gave up. He’d get the lawyer on it starting tomorrow. Stalking off, his heart trembling, his legs weak with shock, he headed toward the truck.
“Luc.”
Not heeding the warning lacing through his name, he grabbed the vehicle door’s handle.
“Lucas Miró Porras.” Somehow, this old geezer who moved slower than molasses, was at his side. He held out another stupid pecan. “Take this.”
