Knight in Cowboy Boots: International Billionaires X: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  One of her favorite McDowell hotels stood on the corner of Dumaine and Royal Street in the French Quarter. She and her father always spent the month of February there to enjoy the Mardi Gras festivities. She knew most of the chefs in the city. “Who?”

  A low chuckle came from the phone. “I thought that might get your interest.”

  “Who?” she repeated, wishing his teasing audacity didn’t make her smile.

  “Only Luc Miró cooking our dinner.”

  Only Luc Miró was a blasphemy. Rather like saying Michaelangelo was only doodling in a coloring book. “I hope he’s not there listening in.”

  A bark of laughter made her smile turn to a grin. Although she tried her best to not fall for this man’s charm, it was awfully hard not to dip into the delicious habit of teasing and flirting. She’d never liked the habits before, certainly not with men. Except with Nick Townsend, she couldn’t help herself.

  “He’s not here in my suite or I’d likely have a broken jaw,” the charmer said. “However, he has sent up his signature crawfish étouffée for our enjoyment.”

  Before she could stop herself, she moaned.

  “So…I take it you’ve been to El Porras.”

  “Yes, more than once,” she admitted. The surly chef was easy on the eye, but hadn’t been much fun to talk with. Yet it didn’t matter when a woman tasted his food. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “Whoever accused me of playing fair?” Nick hummed again. “I’ll just have to let Chef know you declined to taste his specialty.”

  She couldn’t let that happen. If a woman was in the hotel business, she didn’t piss off famous chefs if she could help it. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Excellent.” His hum went to a purr. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Slamming the phone down, she turned to glare at her father.

  “What?” he said, as if he’d been strolling along Fremont Street when all this happened.

  “You’re both impossible.”

  “Yes.” He smiled with satisfaction. “That’s why I like him.”

  She made an irritated noise in her throat.

  “And that’s why, Jessica,” he smiled some more, “you like him, too.”

  Jess stomped out of the penthouse elevator and straight into paradise.

  Stopping short, she took in the view.

  She stood on the top of a broad staircase of alternating slats of pale wood and glass. The railing was made of copper, and it gleamed in the light like a beacon beckoning a woman to grab on. The two-story ceiling rose above her, made entirely of glass, letting in the starlight. The suite had large white columns rising up, but unlike the ones in her room, these were completely modern. Panels of ash lined one side of the living room, while on the other side was glass again. Fully grown palm trees planted in white, circular pots circled the corners, making her feel as if she’d wandered into a garden.

  An exotic garden in the sky.

  Nick Townsend strolled from under an arch. He was dressed in another suit, this time a dark-blue one. A gleaming white shirt was open at the collar, emphasizing the olive skin of his neck. “Finally. You’re here.”

  He smiled. That real smile.

  His eyes twinkled with delight and obvious pleasure. His teeth glistened a pure white against his lips. His black hair looked slightly tousled, as if he’d just run his hand through it.

  He was so beautiful.

  She was so not.

  The thought made her grumpy. “I’m not that late.”

  His lush brows rose at her surly tone. “Do you get testy when you’re hungry?”

  The question made her angrier. “I’m not a child.”

  “No, you’re not.” He strode to the bottom of the stairs and peered at her with intensity. “That dress makes the point abundantly clear.”

  His gaze drifted from her bare shoulders, down past the deep-red-silk bodice, to the glittering tulle edged with lace curving around her waist. Layers of silk and charmeuse floated to her feet, but subtle slices in the fabric showed her legs whenever she moved.

  The male perusal made her uncomfortable, as it always did. Yet, there was another feeling floating through the usual response. One of excitement and frenzied joy. “It’s stupid that we’re both dressed up. After all, it’s just us two.”

  “If you’d like to get more comfortable, I’m fine with that.” His smile came back, teeth flashing. “I can lend you a T-shirt and boxers.”

  The idea of her in his shirt and boxers, legs bare, and no bra, caused the inevitable blush to rise on her neck. That made her even more flustered. “I think I should go.”

  At her words, he dashed up the stairs to grab her hand. His long fingers laced through hers in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar, and he pulled her right into his orbit. “I don’t think so,” he said with a husky chuckle. “Not when I finally have you here.”

  He was too much. Too charming and beautiful and male. Her distrust about this whole situation washed back. Pinning him with a pointed look, she said, “Nick.”

  “You sound so serious,” he murmured. “Why so serious?”

  “Because whatever is happening here is serious, I can tell.”

  “Can you?” He shifted closer, bringing his spicy scent with him. “Why do you say that?”

  His accent, the slight j before the you, the curl of it seemed to circle around her, as well as his body. The slice of distrust billowed. “This isn’t real, what you’re trying to do here.”

  “What’s not real? Your hand is real in mine.”

  She tried to pull away, but he clung.

  “And you are real, right here beside me,” he continued. “And I am real, right by you.”

  The j again, before the you. It shivered through her once more, making her want to come closer, and yet, at the same time, she wanted to run. Before she could bolt, he ran his hand along the silk of her waist and nestled her into his arms.

  “Jessie,” he whispered.

  More than anything, more than all her illusions and wishes, she wanted this to be real. This man who wanted to hold her because she was Jessie, not Jessica McDowell. This emotion of being connected to another human being for more than money or family or duty. This dream she hadn’t even realized she held deep inside.

  To be loved. Truly loved by a man.

  It couldn’t be, though.

  Her heart might dream, but her brain was too logical to let her off the hook.

  This wasn’t real. There was something going on between this man and her father. Something to do with her beloved hotels. And she was tied into this. Neither of these men were telling her the truth.

  Yanking her hand from Nick’s, she stepped out of his grasp.

  The touch of a smile still edged his mouth. “Hungry?”

  She knew what he meant, and it had nothing to do with food. “No.”

  Her stomach went stupid and growled.

  The laugh he gave her wasn’t his sultry chuckle, or the bark she’d heard before. This laugh was boisterous and free, and when he looked at her, she saw surprise in his eyes.

  What was he surprised about?

  That she’d made him laugh without artifice? Was he not the type to do that? Unwillingly, her curiosity about him reared its head again.

  “Come on.” He ignored her attempt to sidestep, managing to grab her hand once more. “You need to be fed and there’s crawfish étouffée waiting.”

  With a strong reluctance, she let him tug her down the stairs and through the archway from where he’d appeared. The bright hallway was lined with a series of colorful, modern paintings. He led her into a wide, square room paneled in dark wood. A huge oak table encircled with cream padded chairs stood in the center. Behind the table and chairs, another glass wall looked out on a lap pool. “You have your own pool?”

  “I like to swim.” He shrugged his big shoulders, making his suit coat swing open to reveal a flat abdomen that testified to his statement. “And I don’t want to fight f
or space with the tourists.”

  Jess liked to swim, too. Every day she headed to their hotel’s pool, if she had the time. She actually didn’t mind swimming with their hotel guests. It allowed her to feel like she was part of a community. Sometimes she even let herself imagine being a part of one happy family or another.

  “Through here.” He drew her to another archway that opened into a serviceable, black-and-white kitchen. Compared to the rest of the place, it was small.

  “You don’t cook, do you?” she said, an immediate realization.

  “Nope. Not one bit.” Giving her a grin, he moved past the island block, heading toward double glass doors that led onto a terrace. “Why should I, when I have a world-renowned chef ready to make me his specialty? And when the great Luc Miró isn’t in my casino’s kitchen throwing his weight around and snarling at me whenever I appear, then I have other chefs on staff.”

  “Makes sense.” She sighed. Her dad had always said the exact same thing. Still, she’d yearned to have a chance to play in a kitchen. Not one of the big industrial kitchens the McDowell hotels had, but rather, an intimate family kitchen.

  Nick stopped short at her sigh. Turning, he tugged her close. “You want to cook, though, don’t you?”

  “Um.” She willed the threatening blush down. “Sort of.”

  “Just sort of.” His long fingers splayed on her back, a hot brand. Before she could voice any opposition, he’d drawn her into another embrace. “Tell me something, Ginger Snap.”

  “Oh, really. Don’t call me that.” She resisted the urge to snuggle.

  “It fits. Your bodyguard’s a smart man.”

  “It doesn’t fit me at all.”

  “No?” His hand drifted to her hip. “Isn’t ginger a term English blokes use for redheads?”

  She snorted, yet something warm and yearning stirred in the depths of her. Something that liked the tease in his voice and didn’t mind his hold on her.

  “And your brain is about as snappy as they come.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Forcing herself, she lifted her chin to look at him with an indignant glare.

  “Your tongue, too.” His gaze fell to her mouth. “Snappy.”

  The way he looked at her…it made her believe this was real. That he genuinely was attracted to her, and her red hair, and her snappy tongue. His eyes went half shut and his lips, those luscious lips, went slack, letting her see the wetness of his inner mouth.

  She hadn’t been kissed in two years.

  Sucking in a breath, she stepped away from him once more.

  A soft chuckle was his response. “Come out on the terrace. I have us set up to eat out there.”

  “Isn’t it a little cool to eat outside?” She glanced at her bare arms and shoulders. “You should have told me, and I could have dressed in a sweater and jeans.”

  “I have a feeling you dress in jeans and sweaters far too much.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  His only response was a quick grin before he strode to the double glass doors and threw them open. “I assure you, you’re not going to be cold out here with me.”

  Her gaze traveled over his long legs, his taut, muscled chest, his big shoulders. She couldn’t help the traveling look. She couldn’t help but guess he was right. When she met his twinkling eyes and watched as his mouth curved into a sexy, seductive grin, she knew it wasn’t a guess, it was the truth.

  Nick Townsend didn’t leave her cold. Not like all the other men who’d come through her life, intent on catching her.

  Nick made her hot.

  But her logical brain told her not to be fooled by the body and the smile and the charm. Not to be fooled by his interest, because he had to have another interest in her. He had to.

  “So, so careful,” he murmured. “About everything, Jessie?”

  “Yes.” She swung her hands behind her, so he wouldn’t catch her. “About everything.”

  “Well,” he said. “I aim to change that.”

  Chapter 9

  Again, she reminded him of a filly. But this time, instead of a wobbly newborn, fragile and afraid, she reminded him of when those young females started to feel their oats and got frisky.

  He really, really liked a frisky Jessie.

  “Don’t lie to me.” She twirled her fork in the crawfish and rice, her teasing smile replaced by a furrowed brow as she concentrated on his latest sidestep. “I don’t fool easily.”

  Sí. Correct. He’d figured that out on the tour today.

  A flash of tense foreboding went through him, as it had when he’d realized this fact earlier. He needed to make sure Clyde McDowell had their contract hidden somewhere his daughter would never find it. Because if she did, she wouldn’t forgive easily. He’d figured that out, too. She had a fierce pride much like her father. Much like Nick, himself. And she wouldn’t let him come near ever again.

  He desperately wanted to be near her. Not only sexually, but just be in her presence—listening to her talk and think and dream.

  Which stunned him.

  “What’s wrong?” Her expression turned serious.

  Shaking away his concern, he gave her a grin. “Nothing.”

  “You do that a lot, you know.”

  “What?” He kept the smile on his face.

  “Hide behind that fake smile.” She waved at him, as if she were dismissing him.

  No one had ever labeled his smiles as fake, other than his pa. The hard, ugly memories reared inside, and his temper, something he’d learned to control after years of work, flared. “What does that mean?”

  Those wispy brows of hers rose. Except unlike other people who’d shrunk from him when he threw fiery words their way, Jessica McDowell didn’t back down. “Something bothered you, and so you plastered on a smile.”

  “Nothing’s bothering me.” Sliding into charm mode, he pushed the instinctive anger aside. “Other than the fact there’s no more crawfish étouffée.”

  She snorted. “As if you couldn’t make a call and have another batch delivered.”

  “True.” He gave her a real grin this time.

  “That’s better.” Her keen gaze didn’t leave him.

  The inspection made his non-existent nerves tingle. Trying to distract her, he eased back in his chair. She took the bait, dropping her focus to his chest. This woman was good at keeping her scrutiny subtle, yet he’d caught her once or twice and was starting to learn her tricks.

  Side-eye.

  That was one way she reviewed a person or a process. Casual movements of her hand led a person to look away, exactly at the moment she zoomed in with fierce concentration on something they were trying to conceal. She also could talk and inspect at the same time. More than once during their tour of his casino, she’d kept up an earnest conversation with one of his employees while also taking inventory of their process, computers, and other equipment.

  So he’d caught her before, inspecting his chest.

  And he’d known she liked what she saw, because a soft blush would fill her cheeks.

  A stunned sort of pleasure washed through him. He wanted this woman who was destined to be his wife. He wanted her in his bed and in his life and work. For how long this fascination with her would last, he couldn’t say. Women had come in and out of his life for years. The excitement of the chase would invigorate him, but inevitably, it faded over time. He didn’t expect it to last this time, either. For now, though, it was pleasurable to think that he wanted his future wife.

  “What are you thinking?” she murmured, her intelligent gaze blazing to life once more.

  With a shock, he realized she’d switched her focus without his knowledge. Back on his face, back on his emotions. “Nothing much.”

  Curiousity filled her expression. “Do all these subterfuges work with most people?”

  “What are you talking about?” This time his easing back in the chair was more of a slouching retreat, than a play for her sexual attention.

  “The smil
es. The flashes of anger designed to distract.” She waved at him again like a queen rejecting an unruly servant. “The charm offensive.”

  “You don’t think I’m charming?” He kept himself still, something he’d learned in poker. If a man was upset or shook, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t give anything.

  “You’re very charming.” Dropping her fork on her empty plate, she glanced away from him.

  A soft breath escaped him.

  “As you well know,” she continued.

  He sucked in a slow breath, preparing for another Jessie onslaught. Because he could tell by the way she laid her curled hand on the table, she wasn’t done with him.

  “Tell me about this.” She waved one more time.

  Looking around the outdoor terrace, he tried to see it from her eyes. His plans for this evening had been pretty straightforward. Feed her, charm her, enjoy her. Maybe steal a kiss, if he got lucky. And since he always got lucky, he’d been looking forward to that.

  But as he looked around at what he’d created for his own pleasure, he realized he hadn’t thought this through.

  She noticed. Everything.

  “This?” Playing for time, he fiddled with his wine glass.

  What she saw here on this terrace was his heaven. A little slice of his past lives coming into the present.

  The wood floor was made of the same kind of cedar planks his pa had used on the ranch porch when he’d had it updated. The delicate white oak trellises hanging over them, filled with ivy and honeysuckle, were very much like his mamá’s balcony when he’d been a kid. A place she called petos de terrazas. A place where she’d hugged and kissed him when he came home from school. The circular, 19th-century table they’d eaten on was a piece he’d picked up in Boston. The intricate swirls of wood and wicker on the legs reminded him of the time he’d spent in Thailand, where he’d launched his second casino.

  There were other details, too. Hidden, he’d thought. Tucked away for only his pleasure. Not even Maggie had seen the treasures he’d so carefully placed in this home that was barely a home.