by Caro LaFever
Knight in Tattooed Armor
International Billionaires XII: The Latinos
Caro LaFever
ViVaPub
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Even miracles take a little time.
The Fairy Godmother
Chapter 1
Once upon a time, Maurisa Margot Migneault was the luckiest girl in the world.
She had the best parents ever. She had the best friends ever. And she had the bestest best boyfriend, soon to be her loving husband.
Until Spencer Talbot Dodge split with her the day after their college graduation.
Risa slumped into the finest office chair money could buy, or that’s what her daddy had told her, and stared at the framed photograph of the two of them, which stood on her desk. Spencer smiled at her from his towering height, his beautiful brown eyes gazing at her with devotion. She’d been wearing his favorite dress—the Chanel with the red and pink and purple flowers sprinkled across the entire length—and her Kate Spade sunglasses sparkling with white gems. If she did say so herself, she looked dazzling.
Except, apparently, not dazzling enough.
A sniff echoed in the large corner office.
When she’d arrived here for her first job ever, two months ago, she’d brought this photo because she was positive she’d get Spencer back. Along with the photo, she’d carried in the two ferns Grandma Olsen had given her on her birthday, a set of personalized pens her sorority sisters surprised her with at graduation, and her three favorite paintings of flowers by Cézanne, Renoir, and Monet.
The flowers and the ferns appeared to droop. Exactly like her spirits.
Spencer hadn’t come back.
In fact, quite the opposite.
She stared down at the West Palm Beach Daily Post sitting in her lap. Ever since meeting Spencer, she’d known this was the paper to be in. All the best parties and the best people appeared on its pages.
There was her boyfriend.
On the eighth page—the page highlighting the weekend’s charity gala held at the Dodge compound where she’d only been invited to once.
A second sniff echoed.
Spencer had his arm around another girl. A girl Risa had met when she’d attended the one family dinner. A girl his mother loved and gushed over the entire night. A recent graduate of Harvard. A great-great-granddaughter of one of West Palm Beach’s founders. A girl who belonged to the elite.
Missy Flagler.
The bitch.
She yanked on another tissue and dabbed it on her eyes, careful to not ruin her makeup. If her mascara got smudged, her daddy would notice and he’d worry. The parents were worried about her a lot lately, and she didn’t want to create any further concern.
Her hand tightened on the tissue.
There must be something she could do, something she could think of to let Spencer know she was the one. The emails hadn’t worked. Her Facebook messages had been ignored. Even the delightful video she’d sent him, starring her in a bathing suit, had received no response.
But there must be something she could do to gain his attention once more.
The double doors to her office inched open. Her father’s worried face poked around the edge. “Princess?”
Sticking the damp tissue under the steel and glass desk, she plastered on a smile. “Hi, Daddy.”
“What are you doing?” He eased into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thud.
Nothing. Like she’d been doing for the last two months. A bubble of irritation floated into her gut, something she never felt with her dad. Which surprised her.
Why?
It wasn’t as if she wanted to work here. She didn’t want to be sitting here at the Migneault Perfumery offices. She hadn’t planned on a job using her chemistry degree. Being Mrs. Spencer Talbot Dodge was going to be her job.
Risa kept her smile by clenching her teeth. “Oh, this and that.”
Maurice Migneault’s dark brows furrowed. “Now, Princess—”
She stood, teetering for a moment on her Christian Louboutin slingback pumps. “There’s nothing to worry—”
The newspaper fell from her lap to scatter in a whoosh on the cream carpet.
Her daddy glanced down.
Crouching, she shuffled the sheets together before stuffing them in the wicker wastebasket, along with the tissue. She took in a deep breath, before popping to her feet again to smile. “There. All cleaned up.”
“I saw the paper, too.” He grimaced, his hand smoothing across his mustache in a habitual gesture. “I know you’re hurting.”
“I’m not. Not in the least.” The grind of her teeth in her mouth made her think of dusty sand. “It’s been two months since we split.”
Her daddy paced to the pink leather couch her mother had given her when she started the new job. Sagging into the soft seat, he sighed. “I wonder if you’d enjoy taking a trip to Paris.”
She loved Paris. She loved France. The homeland of her grandparents on her father’s side, the narrow lanes of the City of Lights, and the rolling hills of Provence and Grasse, had been as much a part of her childhood as the sunny beaches of Star Island, and the humid, bustling streets of Miami.
“Your mother thought it might do the trick.” Her father gave her a tentative smile. “Shopping always makes you happy.”
A restlessness rustled inside, a feeling she’d never experienced and didn’t appreciate. “I do enjoy shopping.”
He clapped his hands together, his smile growing wide. “Then it’s settled. I’ll let your mother know.”
“But my job.” Her hand waved at the room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the courtyard that was the center of the Migneault perfume factory and office complex. “I just started, so I should probably—”
“No, no.” He gave her his own wave. One of casual indifference. “The job will keep.”
She knew why it would keep. Because she really had done nothing of consequence since she’d arrived. Nothing more than go through a few reports about the factory’s operations, and looking over the human-resource manual a time or two. Her daddy had been as surprised as she’d been about the breakup. The only reason this job and this corner office had appeared was to help recover her spirits. Doing actual work wasn’t something his princess needed to be concerned with. She only needed to wait until the next prince came around for her hand.
Except she didn’t want any old prince. She wanted Spencer.
Her father slid to a stand, his signature black silk shirt and linen pants as immaculate as ever. “I’ll book the flight for both of you.”
“Didn’t you have an important meeting to attend this afternoon?” Memory returned. Her dad fussing on the phone to his PA as they drove into work in their family limo. The care he’d taken to stop at the conference room and inspect it to make sure everything was ready. The whispers and murmurs of the staff about a bigwig coming to review a proposal.
Her daddy’s smile fell. His mustache sagged. “It ended early.”
And not well, obviously. She hadn’t spent much time on the job thinking about the company. There’d been too much to think about regarding her lost love and how she was going to get him back. But it hit her that perhaps she should be thinking about something more than herself.
For a change.
“Is there something wrong?” She tried for a compassionate, caring gaze.
“Not a thing you need to worry your little head about, Princess.” His smile returned, and he ran a hand over the mustache, as if trying to pr
op it up. “Just think about going to Paris and shopping with your mother.”
After her dad left, Risa drifted to the window to stare at the typical sunshiny day. Even in the rainy season, Florida couldn’t help bringing on the sun for most of the day. The bright light made her gloom grow darker. Since she’d never experienced anything other than happy and wonderful, she didn’t know what to do about this depression.
Depressed.
She was depressed.
How horrible, and not fair.
Clunking her forehead on the warm glass, she closed her eyes to the light. Her daddy was right. All she needed was a spot of Paris shopping, and some time with her mom. She’d find the perfect outfit and perfect shoes and perfect lingerie, and find a way to win Spencer back when she returned. She opened her eyes and stared down at the Migneault courtyard. Several workers were repairing the walled garden in the center, their hard hats glinting in the sunlight. One worker didn’t wear anything on his head, and his dark hair waved in the soft breeze.
Risa frowned.
Weren’t there rules about construction? She didn’t care about this job. However, she did care about her daddy’s company. If that guy got hurt, he could file a lawsuit. Another worker approached, a hard hat in hand. With a laugh, the disobedient construction guy took it and slapped it on his head.
He was tall. Taller than the others.
And instead of wearing the uniform of a yellow-and-orange vest, jeans, and heavy boots, he had on a simple T-shirt, gym shorts, and flip-flops.
Still, he had the hat on, and that’s what counted. Giving the guy one last scowl, she turned and surveyed her empty desk. Her dad had some function he needed to go to in town this evening, so she might as well leave for home. Mommy would be there, and they could start to plan their trip.
Calling the limo, she picked up her empty briefcase—another present from her parents to honor her new job—and left her office.
The clack clack of computer keys coming from the cubicles lining one wall mixed with the whirr of the espresso machine and chatter from the break room. Migneault Perfumery had stood on this spot of Florida coast since her grandfather landed here in his twenties. At the time, the outskirts of Miami hadn’t been developed, and Marcel Migneault had gotten an excellent deal. A deal he’d parlayed into a thriving perfume business that survived his death.
“Ms. Migneault.” A stiff smile accompanied the nod from her father’s chief financial officer. She knew his position, yet couldn’t recall his name. “Have a good night.”
A trickle of guilt centered somewhere in the middle of her chest. It was only a little after three, and the rest of the staff had another two hours or more of work. What was the point though? It wasn’t like her daddy had given her anything to do.
Her jaw tightened, but she kept heading toward the bank of elevators.
Another employee came toward her. This one’s name she remembered. Only because it was ridiculous. She’d called her best sorority buddies, Tina and Sissie, and laughed with them at the absurdity.
“Ms. Migneault.” Ivan Terriblier looked down his nose at her. “Leaving so soon?”
Sissie and Tina and she had taken Russian history together, and if she had to cast a modern man into a Russian ruler’s role, this guy would be it. Except he wasn’t Russian. He was French. A true Frenchman, hired by her daddy to fulfill the role every perfume company needed. The nose.
“Are you sick?” said the Nose.
“Yes, I am.” Why not? In truth, she was sick. Sick of not having Spencer. Sick of this non-existent job. Sick of her life in general.
Good grief. How depressing she was.
She sucked in a breath. Going to Paris sounded better and better.
The elevator doors opened. A string of employees, some she barely knew, some she remembered with a vague nod, streamed out.
“After you.” The Nose waved an imperious hand.
Risa stomped in.
All right. She knew what everyone thought of her. She was the spoiled princess who’d snagged a coveted corner office and didn’t do much. For the first month she’d been on the job, she hadn’t cared, because she was sure Spencer would ride in and save the day. During the second month, she hadn’t cared, because she hadn’t cared about much of anything.
Ivan the Terrible stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. His bald head glistened like he’d oiled it, making her head hurt. His stiff posture informed her of his opinion of her dereliction of duty. His grim gaze landed on her again.
She ignored him, instead, focusing on Paris.
They rode the ten flights down in complete silence.
“Have fun,” he muttered as she paced out of the elevator.
“I will,” she muttered back, not caring that he didn’t hear her retort.
As she strode through the plate-glass front door, into the courtyard, she promised herself. When she returned from Paris, she was getting away from this job as soon as possible.
Paris. Then, Spencer.
Those were her goals.
His drive outside of downtown wasn’t a complete waste.
“If you aren’t careful, amigo, you’re going to have a sore foot.” Miguel, a long-time friend of his grandmother’s, grinned. “Watch yourself.”
Hefting a cinder block on his shoulder, Enrique de Molina gave the man a finger. “You’re lucky I came along.”
The crew of three chuckled around them before responding with catcalls.
“Are you saying we couldn’t do this ourselves?”
“Such a big man, eh, Riq?”
“Only a job for a SEAL, chico?”
Giving them all another finger, he headed for the wall being repaired. After the worthless meeting with Migneault, it had been a relief to walk out and find a way to work off his disappointment. He’d hoped for a new project, since the last investment he’d put together had been completed more than a month ago. Perfume sounded intriguing, or so he’d thought until he’d listened to the presentation, and watched the eyes of the owner and his senior staff. Sì, he was an angel investor, yet that didn’t make him a crazed devotee of any scheme presented to him. Quite the opposite.
“Make sure the block is lined up correctly, Riq.” Miguel’s amused voice followed him across the courtyard. “You might be a big guy now, but I remember having to help you all the time when you were younger.”
That got the man another finger.
Still, in this case, he was correct. At sixteen, Riq had been mean, stupid, and careless. Also skinny and short. Only his grandmother’s influence had convinced Miguel to take him on for the summer. Once he’d caught on, though, he’d become one of the best workers on the crew. The experience had prepared him for the most important years of his life. Years that were over.
He missed physical labor.
He missed putting his body to work and making things happen.
Laying the block on the top of the wall, he stopped to yank off the stupid hard hat Miguel had given him as a tease. Why the hell would a guy need to protect his head when doing such a simple job? He’d worn less on numerous SEAL assignments, which were a whole lot more dangerous.
He shook his hair out, stringing his fingers through the sweaty strands.
“You really need to keep your hat on.”
The female voice came from right behind him, a scolding tone in it that reminded him of his yaya. Riq suppressed a grin, something he did often with his grandmother, and turned.
She was petite.
His gaze dropped. And also stacked.
An irritated, female huff drew his attention back up.
She wore sunglasses, covered with what appeared to be weird symbols. The same shapes and patterns he’d seen when he and several SEAL buddies went to New Orleans last year on a lark and he’d poked his head into a voodoo shop. Those lark trips were the only time he felt like he belonged anymore and he made sure to schedule at least two a year. He paid the bills for all the guys and, in return, got the
feeling of being part of the team once more. If only for a few short days.
Her lips tightened at his continued silence. They were painted so they glimmered in the sunlight, as if asking to be kissed clean. Her blonde hair was natural, he took that in with one glance, and her skin, although covered in the gook women tended to like, was fresh and young.
He didn’t glance farther down again, because he’d rather not have to deal with another huff. When Yaya Tibby started huffing it usually led to nagging. He’d learned a lot about women from his grandmother.
“Put the hat back on.”
He arched his brow at the dictatorial edge in her voice. On a bet, he’d guess her age to be around ten years younger than him, and he rarely listened to anyone’s directions, much less a youngster’s, no matter how stacked they were. “Who says?”
“I’ve read the HR manual and I know the work codes.” She gave him a sniff from her diminutive, upturned nose. “You’re out of compliance.”
“Am I?” Reluctant amusement bloomed. “Sorry.”
“You need to wear the hat at all times.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” He lounged on the wall, twirling the hat on one finger.
With another huff, she threw the leather strap of her oh-so-important briefcase over a delicate shoulder. “Fine. Be that way.”
She flounced off.
Now that she wasn’t looking, he could finish his surveillance. She wore a black pencil skirt he figured she thought made her appear important, and classy high heels that made her legs look long. Above, she wore a wispy white cotton shirt that destroyed any attempt at professionalism, since it didn’t conceal the camisole beneath.
She had a great ass.
Riq grunted in male appreciation.
“Not for you, amigo.” Manuel shuffled to his side, his grin still wide. “That’s prime property.”
Before joining the Marines and turning his life around, he would have taken extreme offense to the suggestion that he wasn’t worthy of something. Anything. Anyone.