ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9346-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-9347-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9347-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/Iriana Shiyan; The Killion Group, Inc. (hotdamnstock.com)
Dedication
This one’s for you, Chris. And your molten chocolate cake.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
Connor forced himself not to panic as he made his way through the crowded Lucky Belle Casino, twisting his body to slide between two elderly ladies who were discussing which machine was more likely to have a bigger payout.
They’re all rigged, ladies. You came to the wrong place if you’re thinking to grow your kids’ inheritance.
He didn’t say this out loud, of course. Instead, he offered a tense, fleeting smile and continued toward the exit. He needed to get the hell out of this place—fast.
And inconspicuously, he reminded himself as he sucked in a breath through his nose and focused on slowly putting one foot in front of the other. He glanced at the ceiling, noting the dark bubbles sticking out every few feet. He knew they contained cameras that could see every damn inch of this place. If that weren’t enough, a few dozen big, burly men dressed in suits were standing around, presumably keeping the peace. And another dozen got to dress in Bermuda shorts and sandals with black socks so they blended with the players.
Connor Rikeland knew far too much about the inner workings of this place. It was time to cut his losses and part ways.
He turned his head away from the view of Big Brother and slammed into another body. The guy was about six inches shorter than Connor, with mousy-brown hair and a weasel-like face. On impact, he wrapped his arms around Connor’s waist, as if giving him a hug.
“Shit, I’m sorry, man.” The guy released him and backed away, raising one hand as if in surrender.
“Yeah, no problem,” Connor replied, his gaze already focused on the door less than 50 feet away. Fifty feet to freedom. “My fault. Good luck in there.” He stepped around the man and continued toward the exit.
It wasn’t until he was in the cab of the truck he’d rented for the weekend that he realized the collision hadn’t been an accident at all.
“Son of a bitch, that guy stole my wallet!”
He banged on the steering wheel, his frustration level at an all-time high. Ten years as a sous-chef in the kitchen of one of Detroit’s top restaurants had certainly provided plenty of irritations in his life, and even that didn’t compare to what he felt at that moment.
Of course, it was that same restaurant that had gotten him into this predicament, but who was he to split hairs? Not now, at any rate.
“How the hell am I supposed to get home?” he asked out loud, even though he was alone in the truck. He glanced at the side mirror and noticed two suits walking through the parking garage, heading his way. He recognized both of them. He’d been made.
“Time to hightail it out of Dodge.” Connor cranked the engine and tore out of the garage. With any luck, he’d get pulled over and get tossed into jail for driving without a license. Except he’d heard rumors about shady politics in Louisiana, so maybe that part behind bars wasn’t his best option.
The casinos in this town were actually riverboats, docked permanently on the shores of the Red River, with elaborate pavilions and gorgeous hotels attached, complete with fabulous restaurants and cool entertainment facilities. Practically every feasible vice one could imagine, all wrapped into one pretty package. For a price, of course.
Connor had only been in town since Tuesday evening, and he hadn’t once left the casino until now, so he wasn’t familiar with the area. Instead of merging onto I-20 like he intended, he ended up on a bridge, heading across the river. Which would have been okay, except the suits obviously knew the area better than he did, and they were fast catching up to him. He pressed the gas and zigzagged around the other vehicles on the two-lane road. Southerners drove a hell of a lot slower than midwesterners. These people would be eaten alive if they ever drove on the Lodge, also affectionately known by Detroiters as The Autobahn.
Somehow, he ended up heading out of town, which he hadn’t really meant to do, but at least this way he could drive faster than he could while trying to maneuver the local streets. Problem was, he had half a tank of gas and no wallet, and only a vague concept of where he was in the world. Not to mention the tail he’d thought he lost was still cruising along behind him.
“My life is going to end in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere in north Louisiana.” He really needed to stop talking to himself.
He passed through a swampy area with water lapping at both sides of the road, and then the road split, and Connor abruptly twisted the wheel and took the left fork. He spotted a sign for a boat launch and turned left again. He had no idea why the boat launch sign compelled him, but he was going with his gut at this point. He had nothing else on which to rely.
By the time he turned into the parking lot, he had—at least temporarily—lost the Caddy that had been following him. It was a warm, sunny Thursday afternoon. May in Louisiana was like July up in Detroit—hot and sticky. The parking lot was reasonably busy, with trucks and boat trailers filling many of the spaces and clusters of people milling here and there. An idea formed in his head. Good thing he didn’t have many scruples.
Connor parked his rental vehicle between a bright orange monster truck and a twenty-year-old, rusted out SUV. Hopping out of the cab, he made his way toward the lake, keeping an eye out for the sleek, black Caddy from behind his sunglasses. Feeling safe for the moment, he focused instead on the various boats that were either getting launched into the lake or being pulled out.
He noticed a guy standing in a streamlined red fishing boat, arguing with an attractive brunette who stood on the dock. After a few moments, she threw something at him and stalked away, down the dock, heading in Connor’s direction. He didn’t miss the way she eyed his person as she passed. He considered changing his game plan but ... Nah, his first idea was safer. He had no doubt the black Caddy would cruise by the boat ramp at some point, and he wanted to be long gone before then. So he ignored the girl and headed for the dock.
The guy the woman had been arguing with stood in his boat, clinging to the dock with one hand and holding something small and sparkling in the other. A ring. Oh shit, that argument was worse than Connor figured. Which, frankly, would probably work perfectly for his hastily pulled together plan.
“Hey, man, was that your woman who just took off with that puny guy driving the big orange truck that’s clearly compensating for something?”
The guy’s head jerked up and his gaze shifted to the parking lot. “Are you fucking kidding me? One goddamned drunken night and she’s going to do this shit? Son of a bitch.” He climbed out of the boat and then paused, clearly torn.
“I got it, man,” Connor offered. “Go ahead, save your relationship.”
“Thanks, dude,” the guy said, clearly relieved, and then he took off at a jog. Connor hopped into the boat, untied the ropes, pushed off from the dock, and motored away while the owner stood in the parking lot, beggi
ng his fiancée to come back to him.
• • •
Three hours later, Connor was reasonably certain he’d lost his pursuers, but he was equally certain he was utterly and completely lost himself. He had no idea how to get back to the boat ramp, which was probably just as well, since he had no doubt the cops would be there waiting for him. Not to mention the suits from the casino.
But what the hell was he supposed to do now? He took a moment to consider the stupidity of not thinking through this particular plan. He’d been cruising through a bunch of narrow canals—they were called bayous down here in the Deep South—and someone ought to bitchslap the fool who determined this body of water was actually a lake.
Some of the canals were rugged and natural, where he had only the egrets, turtles, and, he suspected, alligators to keep him company. Others were populated with people and houses—houses built on stilts. Far cry from the houses on the lakes in Michigan. But then again, lakes up north didn’t usually get hit by flood-inducing hurricanes.
He’d been naive enough to believe that north Louisiana wasn’t prone to hurricanes, but the locals had quickly divested him of that notion. They were happy to tell him all about Hurricane Ike, which saw Category 1 force winds as far north as St. Louis and caused days of flooding, downed power lines, and general Mother Nature-induced chaos.
And he had considered moving to this Godforsaken place? He really was desperate. Or crazy. Probably both.
Damn it, five hours ago, it had been a hell of a lot more than what was waiting for him back home, which was absolutely nothing. Okay, there were his sister and his mom and a few other extended family members he saw at the obligatory wedding or funeral. But other than that, nothing.
For ten years, he had worked at world-renowned, award-winning Oliver’s Restaurant. For the first two years, he worked his ass off to get promoted to sous-chef. Then he’d remained sous-chef through six executive chefs, and each time he asked for the promotion, the owner told him he wasn’t quite good enough yet.
The last executive chef had been the final straw. The man had been a terrible cook and, as a result, had barely lasted four months. Connor had finally decided to seize the opportunity. He’d even taken extra steps to seal the deal. The owner’s niece, Jasmine Carmichael, was the hostess at the restaurant and had been hitting on Connor for years, but he’d always blown her off, not really interested in mixing business with pleasure. Out of desperation, he’d finally given in to her hinting and taken her to bed—after she whispered in his ear that she had the power over her uncle to convince him to make Connor’s dreams come true.
Except she hadn’t, or she hadn’t cared. Either way, while Connor had been busy banging a woman he didn’t even like, her uncle had been busy hiring an executive chef from New York. Connor wasn’t even asked to interview.
He walked out and vowed never to go back. Since the restaurant business was small and incestuous, Connor’s move blacklisted himself in the Detroit area. When he’d inquired at a few restaurants in Chicago, then Milwaukee, and down to Cincinnati and had met with solidly closed doors, he’d learned just how far-reaching Oliver Yosman’s clout was.
Hence the interview at the Lucky Belle Casino in North Louisiana.
It wasn’t exactly being his own boss, but it was a giant step up from where he’d been. Except now, he didn’t even have that option.
His stomach rumbled, reminding Connor that he hadn’t eaten in far too many hours. He glanced down at the speedometer of the boat he’d sort of borrowed from the boat launch on the far end of the lake—it was almost out of gas as well. Time for a new plan.
He slowed the boat, checking out the scenery as stilted house after stilted house drifted past his line of vision. As strange as these dwellings were, there was something utterly fascinating about them as well. What would it be like to live in one of these houses?
He spotted a banner, a canvas sign tied between two giant cypress trees. Louisiana Kitchen, the banner proclaimed. Succulent Cajun Cuisine. If there was one thing he liked about this strange, fascinating place, it was the food. When he’d set up the interview with the Lucky Belle Casino, he’d been looking forward to learning how to cook like a Cajun.
Deciding—again—that desperate times called for desperate measures, he guided the boat toward the row of docks jutting into the water next to the banner, quickly tied it up, and leaped onto a shaky wooden dock.
• • •
“Pierre, you can’t quit. Not right now. I have a restaurant full of people out there. It’s Thursday evening. You know how busy Thursdays are.”
“I don’t have a choice, cher. Shelby’s jealous of this restaurant. I can’t lose her.”
“Shelby needs to get a life,” Emily Kate scoffed. “And even if that’s the case, why now? Why this minute?”
The chef glanced at the thick, brown leather watch with a wide, metal-rimmed face strapped on his wrist. He wore red chef’s pants with crawfish drawn all over them and a white chef’s coat splattered with any number of sauces and condiments.
“We’re flying out to Vegas. Tonight. We’re getting married!” His face betrayed his excitement.
Emily Kate, on the other hand, was anything but. “Tonight? You’re getting married tonight?”
“Well, no,” Pierre said, looking sheepish. “But our flight is tonight. If I don’t go, I’ll lose her, Emily Kate. Tell me you understand.”
She grabbed the towel that was perpetually carried somewhere on her person—there were inevitably a lot of spills in a restaurant setting—and twisted it in her hands. “Pierre, please ...”
Pierre gave her a sympathetic look and pulled the black paper chef’s hat off his head, holding it out before him, inviting her to take it. “Someday, you will understand, cher. When you find true love, you will do anything and everything to make it work. Trust me on this.”
He impulsively pulled her into a hug. “You’ll be fine. Everyone knows your restaurant. You’ll have lots of chefs vying to take over where I left off.”
“What do I do tonight?” Hope that she could talk him into staying had switched to listlessness.
“Just serve jambalaya.” Pierre gave her a reassuring smile and rushed through the backdoor and out of her life.
She watched him go. Just serve jambalaya. Right. She was a restaurant owner, and jambalaya was the only dish she knew how to create with any sort of decent skill. Even though her papaw had been a great cook, God rest his soul, the only dish she’d ever been able to master had been his jambalaya. And since going into the restaurant business had not exactly been her goal in life, she hadn’t bothered to learn anything more.
Three hours after Pierre’s abrupt and inconvenient departure, Emily Kate stood in the kitchen, fighting tears of frustration. She’d made her jambalaya, but it wasn’t enough for tonight’s patrons. Her sous-chef could barely handle the basics on the menu. Only Pierre had been able to perfect the shrimp étouffée or the crawfish stew or the sweet potato and pecan muffins that were the restaurant’s signature item.
She’d instructed her crew to tell diners that most of the items on the menu were out of stock today, so server after server came back to the kitchen, telling tales of patrons’ annoyance. Some walked out without ordering. Some settled for ordering something basic, like a po-boy or fried catfish, but even that was about to run out, because Pierre made the batter from a recipe he’d kept in his head, and she had no idea how to concoct her own.
But just as many stayed and grumbled.
“Fine,” she said, tugging off the chef’s apron and wiping sweat from her forehead as she pushed errant blond curls out of her face. Her mass of hair was pulled back into a hair clip, but in the humidity and the heat in the kitchen, the mop had a mind of its own, and curl after curl kept springing free.
“I’ll go out and try to do damage control. Andre, Pedro, keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll make it through. And tomorrow, I’ll head over to the casinos, scout the restaurants, and see if I can’
t steal someone from there. They always have really cool out-of-town chefs.”
“Out-of-town chefs won’t know how to do Cajun,” Andre, the sous-chef, pointed out. “Unless they’re from South Louisiana.”
“Maybe I’ll call my brother then,” she muttered. “He’s a frigging FBI agent. He’s got to have connections, right?”
“In the restaurant business?”
She ignored Pedro’s question, took a deep breath, and pushed through the swinging door separating the restaurant proper from the kitchen.
Even after twenty-seven years, stepping into the main part of the restaurant gave her goose bumps. She’d grown up coming to this place, every time her family made a trip north to visit her grandparents. And those visits sure seemed to happen a lot, even though her parents had moved to New Orleans before her older brother was born. But family was important to her clan.
There had been times throughout her life when her papaw would shut down the entire restaurant just so they could have family functions there. Graduation parties, baby showers, even birthday parties. Papaw loved to pull the family together, and the restaurant was his favorite gathering place.
She hadn’t changed the décor when she took it over, even though Papaw hadn’t changed the place for thirty years previous. The idea of a full makeover hadn’t felt right to her. The restaurant had a following, and she didn’t want to upset the regulars. Besides, what else would she have chosen other than the water- and Cajun-themed décor, like the giant wire crawfish and painted Mardi Gras-themed pictures that had adorned the walls since before she was born? All she’d done was add a few pieces of her own artwork to the mix.
She nodded and smiled and strolled through an area that was more a giant indoor picnic than a restaurant. She focused on the regulars first, acknowledging them and apologizing and explaining that Pierre had run off to marry Shelby and she would have a new chef lickety-split, so please don’t hold this evening against her. As she soothed her customers, she began to relax. It would be okay.
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