by Caro LaFever
That elicited a growl from him. No one touched this kitchen at his home. He might be forced to trust his staff at the restaurant, since he had little choice. Here, however, he did. “This is my kitchen.”
“Yes, it is.” She nodded and ducked into the room, heading for the steaming skillet. “I wanted to pay you back for what you did last night.”
“There’s no need,” he grumbled as he followed her, shutting off the jazz as he passed the speaker.
“There is.” Her smile turned from teasing to gentle. “You were wonderful.”
The compliment washed over him like a warm wave. He was complimented often. By his patrons, reviewers, fans. Compliments about his food were as common as a New Orleans rainstorm. But he rarely got a compliment that didn’t involve his work in a kitchen. Not for years and years.
Not since the devastation.
It was a good thing he remembered his past at the moment, because the woman still wore his T-shirt and gym shorts, offering him a wealth of things to look at.
If he wanted to.
“I’m not wonderful,” he shot at her, wanting her to stop.
The woman chuckled. That low, alluring sound she made in the depths of her throat did the same thing to him it had done in his kingdom at the restaurant.
His cock perked to attention.
Anger followed. “I’m not.”
“True,” she readily agreed. “Usually you are merely a surly saleau.”
He straightened from his lounge on the kitchen arch. “What did you call—?”
“Last night, though, you were my knight, my champion.”
My knight.
My champion.
The words rang in his head, making him dizzy. Before he could gather his anger and disinterest, she lifted the cover off the skillet and leaned in. The move drew his gaze to her butt. When he’d been young, when he’d fallen in love, he’d thought of himself as a man who loved an armful of a woman. Genia had been everything his dreams had conjured. Lush, sensual, and knowing.
This woman’s butt was not big. Neither were her breasts. His clothes hung on her, giving him little to imagine, thank goodness. He’d grant she was nicely put together, but nothing special.
His cock rose in disagreement.
His anger grew as well.
The warm, comforting smells of cornmeal and buttermilk gave him a good idea what she’d cooked. “Cajun crap.”
Swinging around, she laughed. “No, no, mon ami. Don’t try the whole Creole vs. Cajun thing on me.”
“I’m not your friend.” Feeling like he needed to do something with his hands before he grabbed her, he moved to his espresso machine. His brain tried to decide what he’d do if he did grab her—strangle her neck or kiss her lips?
The realization of how close he was to either, made him twist his own lips in instant rejection. He’d been alone now for years, and he liked it that way. Going another way with a woman would expose him to too much risk. There wasn’t much left of him, but what there was, he wanted to keep.
“Would you make me a café au lait?” She segued around him and his words, apparently not willing to tackle his claim of non-friendship. “I couldn’t figure out how to run the thing.”
He grunted.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Amusement laced her voice.
His life did not consist of people making fun of him, or laughing at him. Lali had her moments, yet she knew the line. Instinctively, he understood this woman had no clue about lines, drawn or otherwise. “Go dish up your coush-coush. It’s done.”
“Says the great chef.” She nudged his hip with hers before dancing off to the steaming skillet. “And if you know what I’m cooking, then you’ve had Cajun food before and enjoyed it.”
He preferred the elegance of Creole food. Perhaps it was the two years in Paris, or maybe it was the long line of ancestors who would have turned their noses up at country folks’ food. But he couldn’t deny the appeal of gumbo and jambalaya, and had to admit several Cajun specialties had found their way into his recipes. Except, he didn’t want to let go of this difference between them. It was a shield. One of many he needed to keep. “Creole is better.”
The low sound came from her throat again and, in what he’d begun to realize was his predictable response, his body hummed to life. Focusing on his espresso and her café au lait gave him only limited relief.
“Why don’t we sit at the table overlooking the courtyard?” She peered through the kitchen’s terrace door and pouted. “Too bad it’s still raining, I’d love to eat outside.”
Swinging around, clutching the two cups of coffee, he glared. “Made yourself at home, huh?”
“I did explore.” The admission didn’t sound guilty. “I’m an early riser, and there wasn’t much to do.”
“I sleep in.”
“I know.” Her lips curled in smug look, as if the fact she rose early and he rose late was a point in her favor. “You told me last night.”
“Dish your crap up, and let’s go.” He strode off, through the arch of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the circular stairs. Turning right before he hit the steps, he ducked his head. The low oak beams had been placed in the ceiling of this room years before men regularly grew to over six feet. Luc figured this area of the house must be the oldest. It was part porch, part haven, and he often sat here late at night. Smoking a cigar, drinking a whiskey, trying to stop his memories.
It was a shock when she came through the door. A shock to have another person in his cave. A person with bouncing breasts and a cheerful smile.
He frowned.
“You must be hungry, if you’re making a face like that.” She plopped two bowls on the table, before sliding onto the comfortable gray sofa he’d planted here for his comfort. “Oh, wait. Let me go get the syrup.”
She jumped up again, her breasts bouncing once more.
“You found the syrup?” He kept his kitchen sparse and simple here, leaving most of the complicated ingredients in the pantry. A pantry that was hard to spot.
“I told you. I had time to explore.” She swiveled in an agile move he was coming to know as her usual, and disappeared around the bend. “I’ll be right back.”
“I just want milk.” Luc slid the coffee next to the bowls and took the other side of the table. The wire chairs on this side weren’t as comfortable as his sofa. He grumbled under his breath. That woman was disturbing everything.
Before he could settle himself, she appeared once more. With a jug of syrup, no milk.
“I said milk.”
Shaking her head at him, she ambled to the table. “Now I’m the Cajun around here and you’re just the Creole Man.”
“Creole Man.” He couldn’t help the snort of amusement.
“Yep.” The woman twisted off the top and drizzled an amber stream onto his breakfast. “A dish of coush-coush demands syrup. And I must say, Mr. Miró, you are a connoisseur of maple syrup.”
He was a connoisseur of anything to do with food. So he couldn’t make any disparaging remarks about the porridge he dug into. The crust had been swirled into the warm cornmeal, and provided just the right amount of crunch. The Vermont pure maple syrup he had specially delivered to his home and his restaurant was the perfect topping.
“Good, huh?”
He eyed her pleased face. “Some bacon would have been better with this.”
Her lips gave him a moue, not as a sign of apology, but in another of her teases. “I’m afraid my exploration of your refrigerator resulted in very little.”
He grunted, because he knew she was right. He usually had little in his fridge. Most of the time, he ate at the restaurant or picked something up on his way home. Cooking was his life. However, when there was no one except himself, he couldn’t generate enough enthusiasm.
“Only buttermilk and beer,” she said, certain curiosity ringing in her tone. “An odd combination.”
“I’m alone.” The words echoed in the room, reminding him of his truth. “I a
lso own a restaurant with more food than I could ever hope to eat.”
“That is where you work, mon ami. Not where you live.”
Her statement was so untrue it was almost laughable. But he didn’t feel like laughing. He felt accused. “Drink your coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” Her answer was clipped, yet the ever-present amusement ran through it.
Instead of arguing with her, Luc decided to focus on the food. By the time he’d finished his bowl, she’d finished hers. She gazed at him the entire time, he was pretty sure, though he didn’t glance up.
“I have something I need to say,” she announced, when he finally dropped his spoon.
“Mierda. Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear. I’m sure about that.”
Ignoring him, she sipped her coffee, her expression turning serious. The change in her made something in him pause. Something deep inside that still believed in hope and dreams. This was not a woman who should be serious or stern. This was a woman who should laugh and chuckle, dance and delight.
The knowledge leapt in him like a newfound bird. A delicate thing demanding his attention.
She looked at him, her blue-gray eyes welling with regret.
“You don’t have to say—”
“Last night,” she overrode him, though her words were slow.
“I chased the asshole off. So what?”
“Not then.” She gazed at him, her expression filled with sincerity. “At your restaurant.”
I’m amazed a man like you can cook like this.
He hadn’t really understood what she meant, other than it was an insult. There’d been too much going on in his head at the time—her lively face, her flyaway hair, her glowing skin. He’d scarcely taken in the other people in the party. Just her.
Which had upset him.
“What I said was unpardonable.” She stuck herself into his existence once more. “It was an awful thing to say.”
He managed a shrug. “I’ve heard worse about me before.”
“Not about your cooking, I bet.”
Perhaps when he was a foolish boy at his gra-mère’s side, he’d heard worse. But that had been a long time ago, and since his life revolved entirely around his cooking now, there was no avenue a critic could take.
“So anyway,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
In his experience, women didn’t apologize. His mami never did, because she never thought she did anything wrong. Genia hadn’t, pointing out it was always his fault. Even Lali had a way of shifting sideways before admitting regret.
He was speechless.
“Do you forgive me?” Her topknot flipped to the side when she tilted her head.
The apology had been sincere. He could tell by the clearness of her eyes and the steadiness of her gaze. She also had placed herself directly in his bullseye. It would be so easy to deny her what she wanted and end this farce of a connection.
Nothing came to him. No words at least. Only a jumble of emotions he couldn’t sift through.
Not fast enough for her, obviously. “No? How about if I say pretty please?”
Her tone was amused again, filling him with further agitation. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her gaze followed him as he jerked to a stand, and grabbed his empty bowl and cup. “What if I do?”
“Too bad.” He marched off, barely remembering to duck as he almost ran out of the old room toward the kitchen. Anger billowed inside. This was his cave, a place where he shouldn’t be badgered by anyone, much less this woman.
“I’ve upset you,” she said from behind him.
Luc flicked on the water, filling his bowl. “No, you haven’t.”
A soft sigh came from her, much like the one she’d given him last night, when she’d agreed without words to his suggestion.
To come here.
He’d been the fool to invite her in. There was no reason he should take it out on her. But the darkness inside rustled into the billow of anger, making him tighten himself in rejection. What he needed to do was get rid of her. What he needed to do was go back to his familiar routine of being alone.
“So would you mind if I take you up on last night’s offer?”
What offer? Luc tried to cudgel his brain into working order. What more had he offered her, in a foolish fit of gallantry?
“Will you go with me, when I get my stuff from the apartment?” Her words were tentative, as if she realized the turmoil going on inside him. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Mierda.
Another promise. Although he didn’t make many promises anymore, when he did, he stuck to them. Slamming the bowl into the sink, he turned to meet her anxious gaze. “Let’s go and get this done.”
Her smile lit her face.
And something he’d thought dead rose to life in his heart.
Chapter 7
Javier the couillon was nowhere to be seen.
Thank the stars.
Nina didn’t want to think about what this big man beside her would do if he had a chance with her ex-boyfriend. She’d noticed the fire of fight in his eyes last night. Best that he didn’t get a chance to confront. The last thing she needed was to have Luc Miró thrown into jail because of her.
She’d have another apology to give him, another one she’d have to stuff down his craw.
“Is this it?” he muttered, holding two bulging suitcases in one hand and a big box of her books and doodads in another. He hadn’t shaved, and he hadn’t combed his hair, either. He wore a simple T-shirt with a tear on one sleeve and jeans so old, she’d bet he’d worn them for a decade.
He was adorable standing in the apartment’s open doorway, a scowl on his face.
“No, I’m afraid not.” With a cautious look, she met his suspicious gaze. “There’s a lot more.”
He stared at the items in his arms. His brows rose in astonishment. “More?”
For him, she supposed, her suitcase and those boxes were more than enough. After all, this was the man who took austere to new dimensions. “Yes, more.”
Grumbling, he marched down the hallway to the stairs. To her surprise, he’d produced a giant truck—black, of course—when she’d emerged from the bedroom, her ruined dress and pink heels on.
Ready to tackle a new phase of her life.
Driving along Terry Parkway toward Terrytown, with a silent man steering and leaving her time to think, she’d let the anger and distress from last night go. Her Paw-Paw had taught her to never linger on bad events or people. Through his patient teaching, she’d learned to forgive others as well as herself. Moving on meant moving forward to better. Since she’d watched her grandparents live this way for her entire life, she didn’t find it hard to copy the behavior.
Javier was a couillon. So what?
Even without her grandparents’ example, she wasn’t the type to cry over spilled milk or mistakes. There were plenty of apartments in New Orleans, and plenty of men too. She peered at the stoic guy sitting beside her on the long leather seat, driving this big old truck like he was driving them into hell.
Not this man, obviously.
A bit more finesse and charm were essential to appeal to her. He’d been a hero last night, but he was still a saleau.
Yet sharp. He’d noticed her perusal and arched a brow. “Yeah?”
Turning with a jerk, she’d stared through the window. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings if he were interested. Because although he kept telling her about how crappy her shop was and how much he despised her, there’d still been that erection last night.
In typical fashion, to her relief, he grunted and left her alone.
When they drove up to the rundown apartment complex, he eyed the place with distaste.
“It’s cheap,” she rebutted his unsaid rejection.
“There’s that.”
Ignoring him, she tumbled out of the truck’s cab, landing on her heels and wincing. Time to get something else to wear. Thankfully, just as she predicted, the rain had
stopped and the sun was attempting a comeback. Once she got some dry clothes on, she’d be well on the way to being happy once more.
“Stop,” he barked from behind her. “Let me go first.”
He was worried about her. A glow of pleasure rippled inside. She swiveled around and gave him a smile. “You first, then.”
By the time he’d inspected her apartment and noted no couillon inhabited the residence, Nina couldn’t wait to shed the ruined dress and get comfortable. A fresh pair of jeans and a hoodie made her feel like herself again.
When she came out of the bedroom, he hadn’t even looked at her. He’d been too busy inspecting the flimsy lock on the door. “This is unacceptable.”
She’d laughed before pulling three suitcases from the front closet. “Thank goodness I don’t live here anymore, right?”
Another grunt was all she’d gotten.
Nina pulled herself away from the lingering feeling of being cared about by a saleau and focused on the present. The man would return any second. He moved fast when he wanted to, she’d noticed. Bustling over to the plain wooden bookcase, she started stowing her collection of china dolls into another box.
Two hours later, all her stuff was carefully packed into the bed of Luc Miró’s truck.
“You’re sure?” His sarcasm had grown as the minutes sped by. “There isn’t anything more?”
“I don’t want any of the furniture. It’s all Javier’s, or things we picked up at a second-hand store.”
“Really?” He leaned on the side of the truck, tucking his hands into his armpits, a grimace of disgust crossing his face. “Are you sure there aren’t any gems you want to keep? Like that sterling example of a couch?”
The couch had been pretty rough. Though, she had brightened it with a red throw. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Oh, believe me,” he said, his expression turning wry. “It is that bad.”
Frowning, she took stock, tapping her fingers on her arm. “We could come back for the bed. I bought it with my own money.”
“No.” He straightened. “It sags.”
“But it’s mine.”
“I wouldn’t claim that thing if I were you.” Marching to the passenger seat door, he opened it and waved her in. “Come on, let’s go.”