by Caro LaFever
What was she doing?
Nina sensed this man she held in her hand was at the end of some kind of rope. The muscles of his arm were taut beneath her touch. His expression was bleak. His body arched away from her as if she were sick with the plague.
Why? What kind of rope was he struggling with?
And why did she still want to give him her gifts? Not just his favorite sandwich and not just the charm Lilith had chosen. She wanted to give him the gift of ease, of living in the moment, of being part of the whole. She wanted to pull him out of his anger and show him how wonderful happiness was.
“Luc,” she whispered.
Concern coursed through her, as she watched his face twist in evident agony.
“Let me help—”
Her offer got cut off by the swift wrench of his arm. But instead of pulling away from her touch as she expected, he jerked her straight into his grasp. “Here’s the thing, Miss Nina.”
She supposed he had a right to a nickname for her since she had hers for him. Amusement curled her toes. “Yes, saleau?”
He groaned, a feral, grinding sound that shivered through her like a roll of thunder. And suddenly, she got the sense of what the rope he struggled with was.
Desire.
Sexual desire.
His hips bumped against hers and she knew for sure. His hard erection couldn’t send a clearer signal. Excitement spiked inside. As well as the fear and unease she’d experienced before. “I don’t know—”
“Neither do I,” he said with a grimness that shook her. “But I know one thing.”
She was too afraid to ask what it was.
He told her anyway. “I want you.”
This kiss wasn’t sweet or tentative like his previous one. This kiss took. Took her breath and her brain and every beat of her heart. His touch didn’t hold her like she was precious now. He held her like she was his. Like he was making his claim and damn anyone who tried to argue.
Including herself.
Including her sensitive instinct about Fate. Tearing her mouth from his, she rasped, “I don’t think—”
“Correct,” he growled. “Let’s not know, or think, or do anything except feel.”
With one yank, he had her pinned to the kitchen wall, his body hot and hard on hers. He smelled of sweat, of animal. Yet, the musky scent of him made something deep inside her clench with absolute knowing.
This was right.
This was meant to be.
His kiss steamed with a driving passion, sweeping away the last of her doubts. All she wanted was to make this man happy. She wanted him to cry out with pleasure and find in her body everything he was missing.
“Take this off,” he gasped, his hands tugging her T-shirt over her head.
She’d only thrown the thing on when she’d heard him enter the house. Usually in the summer, she wore nothing to bed. Even with air conditioning, the temperature tended toward humid. So, with one flip of his hand, Luc Miró had her bare-assed naked.
Excitement zipped straight to frenzied anticipation.
Her body was something she honored with her lotions and soaps. Unlike some women, she never looked at her body as a weapon or a thing to despise. It was hers as much as her brain and her soul. But she’d never seen her body make someone else tremble. She’d never seen a desire in a man’s eyes as she did at this moment.
The hickory of his eyes turned to hot honey. “Beautiful baby.”
This nickname scraped her pride. “I’m not a baby.”
He froze, his expression changing from one of lust to bewildered confusion. As if he’d wandered into an enchanted forest and didn’t know how to find his way out.
The unease wheedled into her heart again, making her freeze, too.
With a guttural curse, he stumbled back, his face filling with horror. “What the fuck am I doing?”
That nicked her non-existent temper. “We were both doing. You’re not the only one participating in this.”
His head swung away. “Put the T-shirt on.”
“You’re the one who took it off.” Amusement coloring her irritation.
A huff of apparent self-disgust heaved through his chest. “Just do what I say.”
With a shrug, she swept the shirt from the floor and pulled it on. The man was such a contradiction. He’d been all in, all ready to go. He’d rushed past her niggle of fear with a decisive kiss and a hot body. And then, in a snap, he jerked back and went in an entirely different direction. The blend of unsatisfied lust and gratefulness that he’d withdrawn, churned inside her. The unease came once more. “I guess I’ll go to bed, since this apparently is over.”
“Yes, this is definitely over.” He marched around the counter, heading for the hallway and his bedroom.
Her amusement rose. The saleau was beside himself. So mixed up, he didn’t know if he were going forward or backward. He wanted her, yet he refused to acknowledge the fact.
He lusted, he desired, he needed.
Her. Her, the supposed baby.
“Luc.”
The line of his shoulders tensed and he stopped in his tracks. However, he didn’t turn around and confront the challenge in her one word.
He disappointed her.
A realization curled into her, a tightly coiled knot. This man was afraid. Afraid of his lust and afraid of her. Afraid of other things, too, if she had to guess.
Fate whispered its wisdom deep inside.
From the gossip on the street, she knew something horrible had happened to him several years ago. Something involving his dead wife and a car accident. But mon Dieu. That horrible event had occurred five years past, an eternity in her mind. What could possibly have been so awful he still held it in front of him like a shield of pain? From the gossip, it was possible he hadn’t been with a woman since.
That wasn’t natural.
Not for any man, especially not for this man standing with his broad back to her. This man oozed sexuality and carnality like no male she’d ever met. This man who should spend every night in bed making a woman happy.
Making Nina Blanchard happy.
“Luc,” she said again, keeping her voice gentle, as if she were coaxing a frightened animal. “It’s okay.”
His shoulders hunched in instant rejection.
Sighing, she paced to him, glad he didn’t skitter away to the safety of his bedroom. Surprised, too. When she laid her hand on the muscles of his back, every one of them tensed in another round of rejection. But she got the sense it wasn’t her he was rejecting, it was himself. “I’m twenty-five, and I knew what I was doing a few minutes ago.”
A huff came from him, another animal sound that told her clearly he disagreed.
“I want you.” She put it before him, a bold declaration even her unease couldn’t stifle. “That’s perfectly natural, and a good thing.”
“A good thing,” he murmured, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes closed.
The tumble of his damp curls brushed her hand. The strands were surprisingly glossy and soft, not the rough tangle she’d expected. In the dim light, his hair appeared totally black, but she remembered it in the sun, when the honey glimmered among the dark.
She ventured another foray into his pain. Pressing her lips and nose into him, she nestled, taking his musky sent in, the strength of his taut body, the heat of his want.
A harsh, male gasp came from him before he tore himself away from her. “No.”
“Luc—”
“No.” Again, he didn’t look at her. Again, he didn’t dare, or maybe he didn’t even care.
Nina stood in the cold moonlight and watched him, as he disappeared around the arch of the kitchen.
Spending all day batting off her sisters’ inquiries and ignoring Lilith’s warning stares made Nina eager to return to Luc’s house. In such a short time, she’d come to see this dark hole of a home as a refuge.
Amazing.
Letting herself into the terraced court, she clanged the iron gate be
hind her. The bottle tree’s blue and red colors glistened in the late afternoon sun. A lone tub of pink hibiscus flowers sat by her offering of the inquisitive gnome. Light dappled onto the old oak table where they’d eaten breakfast that first day.
A sense of peace drifted around her, trying to distract her from her determination.
Except she wasn’t going to let it go.
After last night’s confrontation, she’d spent all day thinking about Luc Miró. Not precisely in a sexual way, though that had crossed her mind a time or two. Rather, in a—I’m going to make him happy way—that both her parents and her sisters would recognize with familiar family horror.
So she hadn’t said a word to Heni and Jeanie. Lilith had given her more than one evil eye, but Nina had managed to avoid the old woman as well.
Tonight.
Tonight she was going to give him the charm gift and explain its meaning. Then, she was going to make the points she’d laid out in her head about how it was best for him to do the festival. She had a load of ammunition.
And finally, maybe, she’d coax him into her bed and body. Because the man needed her in that way too.
Although he’d probably fight her the hardest in that regard.
Shrugging, she headed for the back door. The bags she carried were getting heavy. She’d gone a little crazy at the farmer’s market, but she’d gotten excited and when that happened…
Mais, no matter.
He was going to get a good dose of Cajun cooking. Maybe Mr. Creole Man would chuckle. Maybe even laugh.
He’ll laugh you in.
Lilith’s statement flitted through her mind before fluttering away, overcome by her determination to stay focused on tonight.
Placing the bags on the granite counter, she took stock. During the last couple of days, she’d done some exploring in this room as well as the rest of the place, and, as she’d expected, it had every tool a cook would need. Oddly, though, none of them looked well used. Perhaps he just ate at his restaurant and rarely had time to use his home kitchen. That was a shame she was going to correct. Because of all the lessons her Maw-Maw had taught her as a child, one was more important than any other.
Home cooking was love cooking.
A person could go to a thousand five-star restaurants, and still there was nothing like someone cooking food for you who loved you.
Love.
Her hand paused before pulling out the paper-wrapped chicken. She didn’t love the saleau, not in the slightest. But she did like him. And she did lust for him. Fate had given him to her, and though she wasn’t exactly sure how this relationship was going to develop, she needed to listen to the instincts whispering inside.
So, tonight, she was going to cook for him.
She’d spoken to Lali by phone earlier this afternoon. No matter what the woman had to do, she’d been assured that Luc would come home straight away from the restaurant.
Hungry.
For food, mostly. For lust, maybe.
Lali had laughed. “Oui, mon ami. I can make sure he’s got too much on his hands tonight to take any time to eat.”
Lifting out her gifts and placing them on the counter, Nina went over the menu in her head. At the end of August, no sane New Orleanian spent much time in front of a hot fire or a grill. But Maw-Maw had her ways, and she’d taught her three granddaughters those ways.
Her grandmother’s fried chicken recipe was simple and Cajun and home cooking at its best. By the time she actually got out a skillet and turned on the stove, night would have fallen and along with it, the hot temperature. She could handle the ten minutes it would take to cook the chicken to a crisp. Some dirty rice, pan-fried cornbread, pickled okra, with fresh sea shrimp from the gulf to start—Chef Miró would have a feast in front of him.
Maw-Maw always said she softened up Paw-Paw with food so he’d do what she wanted.
Nina didn’t think there was a speck of wrong in that, and intended to do the same. Except, of course, she and Luc weren’t married. And she couldn’t envision getting married to him or any other man for years. She wasn’t a baby, but she wasn’t ready to settle down, either.
Still, softening him up was on the agenda, and she planned on being sneaky about it as her grandmother had years ago.
As she began to prepare the food, her mind wandered into her dreams. Nowadays, with the shop, she seldom had time to let her mind go free. But when she’d been a little girl, on the banks of the bayou, she’d swung in the hammock her grandfather had placed between two old bald cypress trees. Looking up into the blue sky, she’d dreamed her dreams of life and love.
Once the shop was successful, she planned on traveling the country to find better wares. Places like New York City and Miami and maybe even Europe at some point. She had several years to make their shop the best, before even contemplating settling down with one man, yet eventually, that was in her dreams, as well. Falling in love, finding a home, having a baby.
Love.
Her hands stopped once more, the milk and spices dripping from her fingers. There was that pesky word again, strumming into her mind like a long-lost song. Shaking her head, she dived back into the cooking. “Not now, girlfriend. And certainly not with the saleau.”
By the time midnight rolled around, the crispy chicken waited on the counter with a cloth over it to keep it warm and the bugs out. The shrimp and mayo-based sauce were in the fridge and the cornbread’s homey scent filled the kitchen. She’d taken a nap, had a long, cool shower, and dressed carefully in a casual jean skirt paired with a simple cotton shirt. Examining her stash of lingerie, she opted for a lacy white bra and matching panties. It never hurt for a girl to be prepared, though the sliver of unease slithering through her bloodstream told her she still hadn’t quite decided.
The thud of the kitchen door opening caught her interest and she chose to forget the makeup. She rarely wore any, and it might make him suspicious of her intent.
She was going to seduce him with the food and her talking, that’s what she wanted to focus on.
Sex?
Maybe.
The unease fluttered in her stomach and then, went quiet.
Racing down the stairs, she smiled when she cleared the arch leading into the kitchen.
He stood by the counter, frowning at the covered bowl and warming skillet with the cornbread filling it to the edge. As usual, he wore a crummy, old pair of jeans, a T-shirt older than God, and flip-flops. His scruffy hair and beard were typical, too.
A well of affection filled her, turning the smile to a grin. “Hi.”
Jerking his head, he switched the frown to her. “What’s this?”
“I figured you might be hungry.”
“It’s past midnight,” he grumbled. “You don’t need to be cooking for me at this late hour.”
“But you didn’t get a chance to eat at the restaurant, did you?”
His gaze turned keen and sharp. “So that’s what was going on.”
“Huh?” Trying to distract him, she sauntered to the fridge and pulled out the glass bowl filled with tender, fresh shrimp. “These are our appetizers.”
“Lali kept harassing me about stupid stuff all night.” He didn’t let go of his train of thought. “You talked to her.”
“Schemed with her, Creole Man,” Nina admitted with ease, her grin growing. “As only women can do.”
The hickory brown of his eyes went blank. As if he were stunned she admitted such a thing. But what was wrong with admitting a truth? Women tended to talk and plan for their men. Since it usually worked out well for the men, why should it be hidden if the man asked?
Her man.
The claim strummed into her, a gentle wave of knowing. She knew well enough to leave it alone and let it sink where it should—either her head or her heart, or perhaps both. Time would tell.
“Appetizers.” She held out the bowl like an offering, pushing her thoughts away. “I made my Maw-Maw’s famous mayo sauce to go with it.”
“It’s no
t famous if I’ve never heard of it.” His voice was rough, though his focus switched to the food and lit with interest. “And I haven’t heard of it.”
“Family secret.” Grabbing the white stone ramekin filled with the sauce, she nudged the door shut with her hip.
When she looked back at him, his gaze had fixated on that particular piece of her anatomy.
The hickory had turned honey hot.
Instant sweat coated her palms. She could blame the humidity, but Nina had never been the type of girl to blame something when she knew it wasn’t the cause.
Lust.
He lusted. She lusted.
“Um.” Unease melted into a puddle of sweet desire in the pit of her stomach. The man might be messy and grumpy, but mon Dieu, the carnality he exuded.
It was in the way he stood, with one hip angling out, highlighting the length of his legs and hard torso. The way his brown eyes steamed with heat, like the city surrounding them. His mouth drifted open, a slight give in his lips that made her want to drop the food and dash to his side.
“I thought we could eat on the porch,” she rushed into speech before she did something she wasn’t sure about doing. Yet. “I brought candles from the shop.”
His expression went surly. “Your crappy shop.”
The male move was a red herring, she spotted it from a mile down the road. “You’re not going to rile me. Not tonight.”
A scowl crossed his face. “What the hell does that mean?”
What did she mean? She supposed she meant she’d keep to her determined plan to win him over, first with her gift, and second with her words about the festival. The sexual lure he threw at her every time he entered a room was going to be consigned to the outer edges of her brain until she’d softened him up. “Come on. We can eat in your galerie again.”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s a small hole of a place. Hardly a fancy gallery.”
“I like it.” Walking past him, she tightened her grip on the shrimp so she wouldn’t be tempted to grab onto him, instead.
“I should take a shower.”
The image flashed into her mind like lightning. His naked body slick with water, steam rising around his hips. Those big muscles of his stretching and flexing while she stared at him from the bathroom doorway. She’d been battling that image, trying to return it to the recesses of her brain, for days. But with one sentence, he tugged it out of her, bringing lust and need with it, heating her skin with the memories.