Knight in Tattooed Armor: International Billionaires XII: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

  Riq lifted himself off his motorcycle, taking care to shift most of his weight onto his good leg.

  “You can clean up when you want to.” Charlie inspected his ensemble with a practiced eye. “I thought you’d left that behind when you got out of the service. Surprise, surprise.”

  He supposed Woodstone had a right to his shock. His friend rarely saw him in anything other than T-shirt and shorts. Spending most of his nights trading or researching his next investment, he didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone with fancy duds. Once he’d ventured into angel investing, he’d made it a practice to make sure his clients judged him on his brain, rather than his hefty bulk or his Marine past. If they didn’t, if they judged him on his looks or his attitude…well, they didn’t become his clients.

  But tonight, he’d chosen to play the game because he wanted to surprise her. Not his friend.

  As a SEAL, he’d learned—surprise was often an advantage.

  Reaching over the bike, Riq slapped his friend on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Over with?” Blond brows arched. “What the hell does that mean?”

  It meant he wanted to teach the princesa her lesson and be on his way. Though he figured he was going to have to put up with another pitch from Migneault in the meantime. He could hear Chief Galtero in his head, yelling at him for not having a solid mission brief before entering the conflict.

  Chief was right.

  He was going in blind.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  “Welcome.” Maurice Migneault held his uneasy smile as they approached. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  His wife appeared as uneasy as her husband’s smile. But she held her position as well, her hair bobbing in the light wind coming off the ocean.

  The princesa stood between her parents, her scowl still in place. Yet, she blinded him with her prettiness. The way her skin gleamed from underneath the layer of makeup she’d applied. The dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the delectable tilt of her breasts. All flagrantly defined in a blazing-red armour of defiance.

  It struck him.

  She might very well use this armour like he used his. His tattoos and bulk, his often-surly attitude and brusque insolence. All designed to shift attention away from who he truly was.

  Stuffing the odd thought away, Riq followed Charlie up the steps. He let his friend do the charming, which was their usual pattern whenever they worked together. He no longer invested with him as often as he had at the start. He trusted his own instincts now. But Charles Woodstone could impress, and Enrique de Molina wasn’t a fool. A SEAL learned to use every advantage handed to him.

  “This is my wife, Candice.” Migneault waved one limp hand. “And this is my daughter, Maurisa.”

  Maurice. Maurisa.

  The incompetent king and his little princess.

  He smirked.

  Her eyes flamed with immediate affront. In their two previous encounters, he hadn’t caught the color of her eyes—once because of her weird sunglasses, and the other because he’d been too dazed by her kiss. Now, though, it was hard to miss. A deep, dark blue that reminded him of the Atlantic ocean lurking outside the aqua water of his Caribbean cove.

  He didn’t expect she’d acknowledge they’d met before and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “Come in, come in.” Her soon-to-be-bankrupt father waved once more, this time at his gaudy, glittery house. “We’re glad to have you here. Really glad.”

  The weak, whiny sound of his welcome was so pleading, Riq winced for him.

  A supplicant asking for a boon.

  From him.

  Enrique de Molina. Who’d been nothing other than a hostile juvenile delinquent before entering the Marines. And then, nothing more than a broken soldier with a small pot of savings seven years ago. It still sometimes amazed him how fast he’d changed his circumstances, while focusing on changing his SEAL buddies’ future lives.

  Migneault might have missed his wince, but the daughter didn’t. She straightened on her high heels, her determined scowl dropping away to be replaced with a practiced smile. Those blue eyes glittered as much as the house behind her.

  His entire being rebelled against that smile and those eyes. He’d much prefer her real response to him than this fake felicity.

  Even though those lips brought back memories of a pleasure he couldn’t suppress.

  “Glad to be here,” Charlie chimed in, giving him a glance of suppressed merriment at his sullen silence. “Can’t wait to see what’s for dinner.”

  The nudge was enough to bring the entire group into the house. Riq brought up the rear, as he’d learned to do in the Marines. He liked that position best, because he could easily keep track of any straggling buddies and also be in place if there were any lingering attacks from behind.

  In this case, he lagged back because he remembered her fantastic ass, and figured another look would do him no harm. Hell, he deserved the treat, since he expected the rest of the night to be filled with nothing other than blather about perfume, and endless business projections he didn’t believe.

  That was, until he got to deliver his lesson.

  Chief Galtero roared, what fucking lesson, asshat? What’s your plan?

  Shaking off the voice, he stepped into the house.

  The other guests were a group of wealthy nabobs and one lone guy he found faintly interesting, if for no other reason than the man didn’t hide his disdain. He liked people who didn’t care to wear an armour of phony enjoyment. Other kinds of armour were acceptable to him, but not fake happiness.

  “Dinner is going to be served in a few minutes,” Migneault’s wife stated, her expression showing a faint despair at the late arrival of their last guests. “Why don’t we go into the dining room?”

  He lagged behind again. Taking in the new white carpet and the expense of the leather couches, he calculated that if Migneault had the balls to tell his wife and daughter they needed to move to a cheaper residence and sell this fine furniture and glitzy house, he might have a chance of holding on to his company for a few more months.

  Shrugging, he stepped into the dining room.

  Like the room he’d left behind, the colors were black and white here, too. He didn’t mind the contrast. After all, he’d used the same color design on his place on Cendrillon Island. Except his home there made him feel at ease and filled with peace.

  These rooms gave him the exact opposite feeling.

  The black wallpaper was covered in a continuing pattern of silver fleur de lis, making him think he was in some French palace. A huge mirror, encircled with gold scrolling, hung on one wall, and he wondered how often the princesa preened in front of it. The long dining table was a heavy black piece of wood, and surrounding it were white padded chairs with striped backs that reminded him of prison garb.

  Not that he had any personal experience. Close, but not quite.

  “We’ve put you right by Maurice and Mr. Terriblier.” Mrs. Migneault smiled at him, reminding him of a plastic doll programmed to be a desperate housewife. “I’m sure you’ll find a lot to talk about.”

  He stifled a snort, because his yaya and mimi had taught him some manners. Charlie shot him a gleeful glance before easing into the chair next to the princess of the house. She shot him a glance, too. This one filled with malice, as if she knew he were here to teach her a lesson and was glad he’d been thwarted by her mother.

  Riq put on a bland look and strode down to the end of the table. Settling into his assigned chair, he glanced across the table to meet the keen eyes of the one man who’d interested him in this group. The disdainful guy.

  “This is Ivan Terriblier.” His host pinned on an earnest smile, waving at the guy. “He’s what we affectionately call the Nose.”

  When he’d gotten the investment tip about Migneault Perfumery, he’d done his due diligence before even approaching the owner. It still surprised him how much he enjoyed the actual research he di
d before thinking about advancing any funds. He’d been a wretched student in school, yet reading portfolios, and more important, financials, he found remarkably easy.

  Numbers spoke to him where text did not.

  Portfolios filled in the holes the numbers didn’t speak to, so he forced himself to concentrate until he got what he needed. Once he had the numbers down and filled in any holes, it was a simple process to evaluate the principals in the company and their relative strengths. In this area, his Marine experience stood him in good stead.

  So he knew what a nose was in the perfumery business. This was the guy who combined the fragrances Migneault sold.

  Or, didn’t sell, more accurately.

  He nodded at the man. “Nice to meet you.”

  Terriblier’s gaze narrowed.

  Riq prided himself on the shields he’d learned to employ to cover his real feelings. There was the shield of idiot he used with his brothers to cover what their continued contempt did to him. There was the playboy shield he wore when he was around women who knew about his money. In this case, there was the shield he’d put on as soon as he entered the house. A shield which conveyed minimal warmth and blank non-awareness that everyone around him was attempting to impress.

  The narrowed eyes across the table told him someone wasn’t fooled.

  He coughed in surprise.

  To his relief, two waiters appeared in the doorway, holding plates filled with the first course.

  Migneault let them serve before launching into his expected appeal. “I’ve thought about what you said to me last week when we met at my office.”

  “Did you?” Riq gave the cute waitress a smile while she poured him a glass of wine. She blushed in response, and his smile turned into a grin. Maybe after he completed his work here, he’d linger at the back door.

  His glance swerved and hit a snag.

  A female snag.

  The princesa stared at him from her place between Charlie and an older man, a look of derision on her face. As if she’d caught a peasant at her table fooling around with the help. The expression was exactly why he was here, he remembered. Not to listen to his host’s fruitless pitch.

  “I did.” Her father kept trailing along his futile path. “That’s why I invited Ivan tonight.”

  Switching his focus back on the man across from him, he arched his brows. “I’m not sure a perfumer is going to be able to address the lack of funds necessary to make the needed upgrades in your factory.”

  His blunt words fell across Migneault and his employee like a fog of doom. His host’s mustache quivered, and Terriblier’s disdainful gaze turned hard.

  Maybe that would be the end of the pitch. Hopefully.

  He concentrated on the grilled shrimp appetizer in front of him. The yellow and red tomato dressing was good, however, the shrimp wasn’t fresh. Since he’d become wealthy beyond his dreams, he expected the best. The best food, best accommodation, best of everything. But he’d never lost the ability to deal with the worst, too. Being a SEAL had taught him to handle whatever came his way.

  Including day-old shrimp.

  He bit into another one.

  The perfumer sniffed. “We have the best fragrances on the market.”

  “Yes, we do.” Migneault straightened in his chair, a light of hope flaring in his eyes. “Many of the combinations have been handed down from my father.”

  He grunted, not impressed. With the pitch nor the shrimp.

  Both men said nothing more. For which he was thankful.

  The second course came, not a moment too soon. The snapper was fresh, to his relief, though the sauce was too heavy. He dug in.

  Terriblier tried again. “We believe we can crack the European market with some help.”

  Meaning, his help. Or rather, his money. But he no longer invested in a company in trouble if he didn’t have a say. After the meeting with Migneault, it had been clear—the man wanted nothing except his money. Not his brain. He’d taken a look at Riq’s flip-flops, tattoos, and edgy attitude and… judged.

  And lost.

  His patience for his dinner companions, the poor food, and the conversation evaporated. Leaning in, blocking the rest of the chattering guests with his broad body, he seized both men’s gazes. “I was pleasant at the last meeting.”

  His host’s face paled. Riq couldn’t figure out if it was because Migneault was appalled at the assertion—okay, he’d been his usual blunt self the last time they’d met—or if he caught the edge of warning in his voice. Either way, he didn’t much care.

  “I won’t be now.” He gritted his teeth in an insincere smile in case anyone was watching. “You need a complete overhaul of your factory.”

  The perfumer frowned. “I know, but the fragrances—”

  “Which will cost millions.” He moved forward like a relentless soldier on a mission. “That’s not your biggest problem, though.”

  “It’s not?” His host squeaked.

  “No, it’s not.” His brain clicked through all the research he’d done and zeroed in on the issue he’d pinpointed with grim focus. “You manufacture synthetics.”

  “What?”

  The Nose wasn’t as stupid as his boss. “I realize that naturals—”

  “The industry has passed you by, Migneault.” Pushing back the plate with the last of the uneaten fish, he paused for effect. “And there’s no one in your company savvy enough to bring you into the future.”

  Chapter 7

  What were daddy and that caveman talking about?

  Well, she knew it was about investing. Though she still found it impossible to believe that guy had any kind of money at all.

  Could he?

  Risa eyed those broad shoulders. That was a custom suit coat. Had to be, because he wasn’t built for pulling off a tux from a rack. There was also that huge, flashy motorcycle. And he’d been in the Beachers, too. Her daddy looked eager, then despondent, and as she kept glancing toward the end of the table, he eventually looked—

  Scared.

  That man was scaring her daddy!

  Outrage billowed inside her, and if it weren’t for her ingrained manners, she would have risen from her chair to stomp down the length of the table and intervene.

  “He’s a good guy.” His companion, who’d insisted she call him Charlie, leaned in, cutting off her view. “Really.”

  That man was not a good guy. She knew it from personal experience. Yet, she was a lady, and this was her parents’ guest. “I’m sure he is.”

  “You don’t sound sure.” Green eyes twinkled at her, trying to get her attention. “What did he do to you in that closet?”

  The question could have been smarmy—to her relief, it only held amusement and a touch of curiosity.

  “He was a caveman.” She was a lady, but she also spoke the truth whenever she could.

  A chuckle escaped his friend. “Yeah, well, it’s the Marine in him.”

  “What?” Risa finally focused on Charlie instead of trying to catch another glance at the other end of the table. “A Marine?”

  Taking a slow sip of wine, he nodded. “Yep. For almost seven years.”

  A frown crossed her brow. She couldn’t imagine that tattooed, surly man as a proud member of the service. Weren’t they all supposed to be gentlemen and know the rules?

  “Then he got hurt, and had to leave the corps.” Her dinner companion chuckled again. “Much to my pocketbook’s delight.”

  “Does he work for you?” Since she was blocked from what the caveman was doing to her daddy, she might as well dig for information. Perhaps it would come in useful when she found out what he’d done to hurt her father.

  “Hell, no.” Charlie chortled into his wine. “Far from it.”

  “You work for him?”

  “Not that, either.” He swept a hand across his blond hair, pushing it off his forehead. “We’re what you’d call angel investors.”

  The caveman was no angel. Of that, she was sure. The memory of how he’d ha
ndled her in the Beachers closet came to her. How his rough hands had grabbed, maneuvering her close. How his big body had swamped her senses as his lush mouth had taken hers.

  Not an angel in any way.

  “We work together sometimes,” Charlie continued. “And sometimes not. Depends on the deal and what feels right.”

  “So that’s why you’re here tonight?” she quizzed. “To invest?”

  “Not me. Not this deal.” A whisper of compassion flitted through his green eyes. “I’m not sure about Riq.”

  The Migneaults were not in the habit of needing or wanting compassion. Her pride reared its head. “I’m sure my father doesn’t need any of his money.”

  “Maybe not.” The compassion disappeared, replaced with an impish tease. “Maybe he’s here to see you.”

  The suggestion was absurd. Risa wasn’t shy about acknowledging her beauty, although her confidence had taken a hit in the last few months with Spencer’s desertion. But she was positively sure the caveman wasn’t here to woo her. His smirk outside, his glaring gaze, his dismissive attitude—nope. He didn’t want her.

  The realization should have relieved her. Instead, it made her grumpy.

  Her half-eaten plate of snapper was efficiently replaced with a chocolate torte covered with fresh strawberries. Risa nodded her thanks to the waiter and plucked up a piece of fruit. Just as she sank her teeth into the treat, Charlie eased back in his chair and she met the caveman’s eyes.

  The mist of blue seared away, leaving only a penetrating heat.

  A flare of fire cascaded through her body at his look. What was that all about? She stiffened in her chair, swallowing the strawberry in a quick gulp.

  His friend chuckled beside her.

  With a determined focus, she kept herself occupied with dessert. There’d be time enough after dinner to identify what had scared her daddy and, if need be, confront the caveman and tell him off. After a few minutes, her mom stood, looking appropriately regal and polished. A quick flicker of affection and pride rippled through Risa. Whatever was happening with the perfumery, her parents were wonderful people, and she knew they’d find a way out of the mess.